“They are…?”
“SS… Did you see the two out on the patio? In the black uniforms?”
“Yes.”
“They were originally Hitler’s guard detail. Now they’re another private army. Mostly they wear black but some of the uniforms are gray. The Gestapo is the secret police force, plainclothes. They’re small in number but very dangerous. Their jurisdiction is political crimes mostly. But in Germany now anything can be a political crime. You spit on the sidewalk, it’s an offense to the honor of the Leader so off you go to Moabit Prison or a concentration camp.”
The Pschorr beers and food arrived and Paul drank down half of the brew at once. It was earthy and rich. “Now, that’s good.”
“You like it? After I got here I realized I could never drink American beer again. To be able to brew beer, it takes years of learning. It’s as respected as a university degree. Berlin is the brewing capital of Europe but they make the best in Munich, down in Bavaria.”
Paul ate hungrily. But beer and food were not the first things on his mind. “We have to move fast,” he whispered. In his profession every hour you were near the site of the touch-off increased the risk of getting caught. “I need information and I need a weapon.”
Morgan nodded. “My contact should be here any minute. He has details about… the man you’re here to visit. Then this afternoon we’ll go to a pawnshop. The owner has a good rifle for you.”
“Rifle?” Paul frowned.
Morgan was troubled. “You can’t shoot a rifle?”
“Yes, I can shoot one. I was infantry. But I always work up close.”
“Close? That’s easier for you?”
“It’s not a question of easy. It’s more efficient.”
“Well, believe me, Paul, it may be possible, though very difficult, to get close enough to your target to kill him with a pistol. But there are so many Brownshirts and SS and Gestapo hovering about that you’d without doubt be caught. And I guarantee that your death would be lengthy and unpleasant. But there’s another reason to use a rifle – he has to be killed in public.”
“Why?” Paul asked.
“The Senator said that everybody in the German government and the Party knows how crucial Ernst is to rearming. It’s important to make certain that whoever replaces him knows they’ll be in danger too if they take up where he left off. If Ernst dies in private, Hitler would cover it up, claim he’d been killed in an accident or died of some illness.”
“Then I’ll do it in public,” Paul said. “With a rifle. But I’ll need to sight-in the gun, get a feel for it, find a good killing field, examine it ahead of time, see what the breezes are like, the light, the routes to and from the place.”
“Of course. You’re the expert. Whatever you want.”
Paul finished his meal. “After what happened in the alley, I need to go to ground. I want to get my things from the Olympic Village and move to the boardinghouse as soon as possible. Is the room ready now?”
Morgan told him that it was.
Paul sipped more beer then pulled Hitler’s book toward him, rested it in his lap, flipped through it, found the passport, money and address. He took out the slip of paper on which was jotted the information on the boardinghouse. Dropping the book in his briefcase, he memorized the address and directions, casually wiped the note in beer spilled on the table and kneaded it in his strong hands until it was a wad of pulp. He slipped this into his pocket with the cigarette butts for later disposal.
Morgan lifted an eyebrow.
They told me you were good.
Paul nodded toward his satchel, whispering, “ My Struggle. Hitler’s book. What exactly is it?”
“Somebody called it a collection of 160,000 grammatical errors. It’s supposedly Hitler’s philosophy but basically it’s impenetrable nonsense. But you might want to keep it.” Morgan smiled. “Berlin is a city of shortages and at the moment toilet tissue is hard to find.”
A brief laugh. Then Paul asked, “This man we’re about to meet… why can we trust him?”
“In Germany now trust is a curious thing. The risk is so grave and so prevalent that it’s not enough to trust someone just because they believe in your cause. In my contact’s case, his brother was a union organizer murdered by Stormtroopers, so he sympathizes with us. But I am not willing to risk my life on that alone. So I have paid him a great deal of money. There is an expression here: ‘Whose bread I eat is whose song I sing.’ Well, Max eats a great deal of my bread. And he’s in the precarious position of having already sold me some very helpful and, for him, compromising material. This is a perfect example of how trust works here: You must either bribe someone or threaten him, and I prefer to do both simultaneously.”
The door opened and Morgan squinted in recognition. “Ah, that’s he,” he whispered. A thin man in worker’s coveralls entered the restaurant, a small rucksack slung over his shoulder. He looked around, blinking to acclimate his vision to the dimness. Morgan waved his hand and the man joined them. He was clearly nervous, eyes darting from Paul to the other patrons to the waiters to the shadows in the corridors that led to the lavatory and the kitchen, then back to Paul.
“They” is everybody in Germany now…
He sat at the table, first with his back to the door, then switched seats so that he could see the rest of the restaurant.
“Good afternoon,” Morgan said.
“Hail Hitler.”
“Hail,” Paul replied.
“My friend here has asked that he be called Max. He has done work for the man you’ve come to see. Around his house. He delivers goods there and knows the housekeeper and gardener. He lives in the same town, Charlottenburg, west of here.”
Max declined food or beer and had only coffee, into which he poured sugar that left a dusty scum on the surface. He stirred vigorously.
“I need to know everything you can tell me about him,” Paul whispered.
“Yes, yes, I will.” But he fell silent and looked around again. He wore his suspicion like the lotion that plastered down his thinning hair. Paul found the uneasiness irritating, not to mention dangerous. Max opened the rucksack and offered a dark green folder to Paul. Sitting back so no one could see the contents, he opened it and found himself looking at a half dozen wrinkled photographs. They depicted a man in a business suit, which was tailored, the clothing of a meticulous, conscientious man. He was in his fifties and had a round head and short gray or white hair. He wore wire-rimmed glasses.
Paul asked, “These are definitely of him? What about doubles?”
“He doesn’t use doubles.” The man took a sip of coffee with shaking hands and looked around the restaurant again.
Paul finished studying them. He was going to tell Max to keep the photos and destroy them when he got home but the man seemed too nervous and the American imagined him panicking and leaving them on the tram or subway. He slipped the folder into his satchel, next to Hitler’s book; he’d dispose of them later.
“Now,” Paul said, leaning forward, “tell me about him. Everything you know.”
Max relayed what he knew about Reinhard Ernst: The colonel retained the discipline and air of a military man though he’d been out of the service for some years. He would rise early and work long, long hours, six or seven days a week. He exercised regularly and was an expert shot. He often carried a small automatic pistol. His office was on Wilhelm Street, in the Chancellory building, and he drove himself to and from the office, rarely accompanied by a guard. His car was an open-air Mercedes.
Paul was considering what the man had said. “This Chancellory? He’s there every day?”
“Usually, yes. Though sometimes he travels to shipyards or, recently, to Krupp’s works.”
“Who’s Krupp?”
“His companies make munitions and armor.”
“At the Chancellory, where would he park?”