The Hunt

represented a deep, personal hurt to Hitler. He had brought his friend from the Beer Hall Putsch days back from South America and made him head of the brownshirts, one of the most powerful posts in Germany, giving him carte blanche to deal with the Reds and the Jews. But Rohm wanted more. Now he was actually challenging Hitler’s authority and talking about running for president of Germany, a traitorous affront to his mentor.

“The problem is Vierhaus began.

“The problem is, the SA has six hundred thousand members!” Hitler roared, his voice rising to a near scream. He snapped his head angrily, took a deep breath, and began pacing. When he spoke again his voice was almost a whisper.

“The only way I can deal with this problem is with my own personal guards, Willie, but it will be another year before the Schutzstaffel has the proper strength for that.” He waved his hand again. “I know, I know. Another year and he grows that much stronger.” He stopped pacing and leaned toward Vierhaus, his eyes narrowing. “We cannot destroy the SA until my SS is stronger than they are. And that is the only way to deal with Rohm and his bullies. Destroy them.”

“Yes, mein Fuhrer.”

“But thank you for telling me. I must keep up with his

his perversions.” His expression changed radically again, becoming more relaxed. He had said what he had to say about the SA.

“So,” he said pleasantly. “I understand it was your man in the American Embassy who turned in Reinhardt.”

“Yes, mein Fuhrer. A porter. A Judenhascher, actually, but very reliable.”

“Heinrich is a little put out,” Hitler said, strolling around his desk, his hands clasped behind his back. “He would like to take credit for the whole affair. It annoys him that you have these Judenhaschers and special agents working For you.”

“Did he complain, mein Fuhrer?”

“No, no, no, no, of course not,” Hitler answered, waving off the suggestion. “Heinrich is no fool. He knows it was my idea to set up your little unit.”

Actually Vierhaus had come to Hitler with the idea for an elite unit within the SS but all of Hitler’s close associates were accustomed to having the Fuhrer take credit for good ideas. Hitler had treated the suggestion as a joke at first but finally he had given Vierhaus a small budget and permission to train five men. Vierhaus had managed, by conscripting stool pigeons and menial workers, to expand his unit to twenty-five or thirty.

He had begun the practice of using Germans of mixed blood, usually an eighth or sixteenth Jewish, as agents, promising them freedom from persecution as long as they were effective. Known as Judenhascher, Jewhunters, they were frequently used to gather information on other Jews, often spending weeks poring over family records, looking for a great-grandmother or second cousin who might have a trace of Jewish blood. Vierhaus turned the reports over to Himmler’s SS and the files of information grew thicker every day, waiting for Himmler to put them to whatever dark use his mind might contrive.

Hitler laughed and slapped his hand on the table.

“You know what I like about you, Willie? You are a practical man. So, tell me more. Were you there when they interrogated Reinhardt?”

Vierhaus nodded.

“What did he tell us? What about the Black Lily?”

“He claimed he never heard of it.”

The phone rang and Hitler whirled and snatched it off the hook. “No, no, no!” he yelled and slammed it back down. He spun back toward Vierhaus.

“He’s a liar!” Hitler bellowed, his face turning red. His fist slammed down on the table. “Of course he knows about it! He helped start it!” He composed himself, taking a deep breath, then he began tapping his cheek with his forefinger. “It is important to crush these organizations quickly, Willie. These fanatics. Fanaticism is contagious. I want that to be your first priority. Break them. Break the Black Lily.”

“Isn’t that the job of the Gestapo, mein Fuhrer?”

Hitler waved his hand frenetically in front of his face, shaking his head as he spoke. “Goring has other things to worry about. Do not concern yourself with politics.”

“Yes, mein Fuhrer. Reinhardt also told me something else interesting. The American I told you about, Keegan?”

“The Ire?”

“Irish-American. Apparently the deputy ambassador, Wallingford, tried to borrow Keegan’s plane for Reinhardt’s escape and Keegan refused.”

“Ah, perhaps your instincts about him are correct.”

“I made it my business to have a talk with Keegan early this morning. He is quite the cynic and I get the definite feeling that he is unhappy with things in America. He particularly distrusts bankers and businessmen, says they were the only winners in the war.”

“True, quite true,” Hitler said, his head bobbing in agreement. “What did you have in mind for Keegan?”

“I am not sure. He is very rich and quite independent.

Knows everybody—in the embassies, the military, government people, most of the royal families here and in England. A man like that, if he is sympathetic with your vision, mein Fuhrer, could have many uses. He knows court secrets—who might be vulnerable to blackmail: homosexuals, bankrupts, influential people whose taste exceeds their bank account.”