The Hunt

“I agree. Just be careful dealing with him,” said Hitler. “Never trust Americans. Too idealistic.”

“Yes, mein Fuhrer.’

“What of Siebenundzwanzig?”

“His training goes very well. Ludwig reports that he is an excellent student. He learns quickly. Incidentally, I am trying something—it is a bit devious.”

“Of course,” Hitler leered. “What else would I expect from you?”

“I have introduced another student in the training course with Swan. Swan is not aware of this, of course, but the man will be his replacement if there should be an accident or if he gets caught. Swan thinks the new man is training for a totally different assignment. It is a good opportunity to compare them.”

“I needn’t tell you to be cautious in dealing with Twenty- seven,” Hitler said, his face hardening into stern lines again. “He is a great catch but we could lose him if he becomes disillusioned—or if he thinks we do not have complete faith in him.”

“I will keep that in mind, mein Fuhrer. I am going down to visit the camp in person.”

“Very good. I will be anxious to hear your report. Have you worked out the details of the operation?”

“I’ll be ready when he is.”

“Excellent. I’m proud of you, Willie.”

“Thank you, mein Fuhrer.”

“And, Willie, don’t forget,” He held up a single finger. “The Black Lily.”

“Yes, mein Fuhrer. Hell Hitler.”

“Heil Hitler.

Swan plunged down the steep side of the mountain, the wind thundering in his ears. He was in total control of his downward pitch, his course so steep it was almost like leaping off a cliff. He ignored the danger of the drop run just as he ignored the beauty of the Alps surrounding him and the pain of the effort in calf, thigh and shoulder. He was totally concentrated, his eyes focused one hundred feet in front of him, scanning back and forth to check for boulders, small trees or other obstructions hidden by the deep snow. If he perceived any threat he altered his course as little as necessary to avoid it, never sacrificing speed as his skis skimmed the snow beneath him. He was racing against the stopwatch in his mind.

A mile away, near the base of the mountain, a tall, muscular man in white snow camouflage stood shin-deep in the snow, sweeping the side of Hummel Peak with his binoculars. He was nearly six-five and in excellent physical shape, deeply tanned from hours on the slopes. He was bald as a mountaintop with a long, triangular face and pale, analytical eyes. His only insignia was the silver SS eagle on his cap. Suddenly he stopped and backtracked an inch or two. The skier was a mere speck streaking down the side of the mountain.

“There he is,” he said. “About halfway down. Good God, he must be doing seventy miles an hour.”

Vierhaus watched the speck as it plunged down the steep, clean side of the tall Dolomite peak, then raised his binoculars. Through the glasses, he watched the black-clad sportsman as he sped down the slope without veering, snow showering in his wake.

“I hope he does not injure himself,” Vierhaus said.

“That will not happen,” the tall SS officer said. “Swan will never injure himself. Swan will never have an accident. He would not permit it.”

“You don’t like him, do you, Ludwig?” Vierhaus said.

“There is not much to like or dislike, actually,” Ludwig answered. “He is very much a loner, never joins us for a beer at night. He’s civil to his teachers and the other students but that is as far as he goes. He is totally dedicated to perfection.”

Ludwig lowered his glasses for a moment.

“On the other hand, he is quite the actor. He actually outwitted the entire staff three or four times by disguising himself.”

“Is that so?” Vierhaus said.

Ludwig raised the glasses again.

“He can even be quite charming when he is not himself,” Ludwig added.

Confident, unswerving, the skier reached the bottom of the steep slope and disappeared into the trees at the base.

“I must say, you have picked the perfect spot for this training facility. Why did you pick the Dolomites?”

“Mostly for the snow. The mountains are capped year- round. And it is isolated. Nobody blunders onto this camp. The people in Millstadt think we are a border station. Italy is only twenty or thirty kilometers from here.”

“It seems a pleasant village.”

“Very friendly and totally isolated.”

“Tell me more about Swan,” Vierhaus said.

“Best student I ever had,” the tall SS trainer said. “A very smart man. You tell him a thing once and he has learned it. He has already mastered everything my five instructors and I have taught him.”