What happened to Schumann was irrelevant, whether he died now, which would be cleaner and more convenient, or was caught and tortured. In the latter case, Schumann would eventually talk… and tell an unlikely tale of being hired by the American Office of Naval Intelligence to kill Ernst, which the Germans would instantly dismiss since it was Taggert and the Americans who turned him in. And if he turned out to be a German-American gangster and not a Russian? Ah, well, he must’ve been recruited by the Russians.

A simple plan.

But there had been setbacks from the beginning. He’d planned to kill Morgan several days ago and impersonate him at the first meeting with Schumann yesterday. But Morgan had been a very cautious man and talented at leading a covert life. Taggert had had no chance to murder him before Dresden Alley. And how tense that had been…

Reggie Morgan had had only the old pass phrase – not the lines about the tram to Alexanderplatz – so when he’d met Schumann in the alley, they’d each believed the other was an enemy. Taggert had managed to kill Morgan just in time and convince Schumann that he was in fact the American agent – thanks to the right pass phrase, the forged passport, and the accurate description of the Senator. Taggert had also made sure he was the first to go through the dead man’s pockets. He’d pretended to find proof that Morgan was a Stormtrooper, though the document he’d showed Schumann was, in fact, simply a card attesting that the bearer had donated a sum to a War veterans’ relief fund. Half the people in Berlin had such cards since the Brownshirts were very adept at soliciting “contributions.”

Schumann himself had also proved to be a source of concern. Oh, the man was smart, far smarter than the thug whom Taggert had expected. He had a suspicious nature and didn’t tip off what he was really thinking. Taggert had had to watch what he said and did, constantly remind himself to be Reginald Morgan, the dogged, nondescript civil servant. When Schumann, for instance, had insisted they check Morgan’s body for tattoos, Taggert was horrified. The most likely tattoo they’d find would have said “U.S. Navy.” Or maybe the name of the ship he’d served on in the War. But fate had smiled; the man had never been under the needle.

Now, Taggert and the black-uniformed troops arrived at the shed. He could just see the barrel of the Mauser protruding, as Paul Schumann searched for his target. The men deployed quietly, the senior SS officer directing his soldiers with hand signals. Taggert was as impressed as ever with the brilliance of German tactical skills.

Closer now, closer.

Schumann was preoccupied, continuing to scan the balcony behind the press box. He would be wondering what had happened. Why the delay in getting Ernst outside? Had the phone call from Webber gone through properly?

As the SS men circled the shed, cutting off any chance of Schumann’s escape, Taggert reminded himself that after he was finished here, he would have to return to Berlin and find Otto Webber and kill him. Käthe Richter too.

When the young soldiers were in position around the shed, Taggert whispered, “I will go speak to him in Russian and get him to surrender.” The SS commander nodded. The American took his pistol from his pocket. He was in no danger, of course, because of the Mauser’s plugged barrel. Still, he moved slowly, pretending to be cautious and uneasy.

“Keep back,” he whispered. “I’ll go in first.”

The SS nodded, eyebrows raised, impressed at the American’s courage.

Taggert lifted his pistol and stepped toward the doorway. The rifle muzzle still eased back and forth. Schumann’s frustration at not finding a target was palpable.

In a swift motion, Taggert flung one of the doors open and lifted his pistol, applying pressure on the trigger.

He stepped inside.

Robert Taggert gasped. A chill ran through him.

The Mauser continued its scan of the stadium, moving back and forth slowly. The deadly rifle, though, was gripped not by a would-be assassin’s hands but by lengths of twine torn from packing cartons and tethered to a roof beam.

Paul Schumann was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Running.

Not his favorite form of exercise by any means, though Paul often ran laps or jogged in place, to get the legs in shape and to work the tobacco and beer and corn whisky out of his system. And now he was running like Jesse Owens.

Running for his life.

Unlike poor Max, gunned down in the street as he sprinted away from the SS guards, Paul attracted little notice; he was wearing gymnasium clothes and shoes he’d stolen from the locker room of the Olympic stadium’s swimming complex and he looked like any one of the thousands of athletes in and around Charlottenburg, in training for the Games. He was about three miles east of the stadium now, heading back to Berlin, pumping hard, putting distance between himself and the betrayal, which he had yet to figure out.

He was surprised that Reggie Morgan – if it was Morgan – had made a careless mistake after going to such elaborate efforts to set him up. There were certainly button men who didn’t look over their tools every time they were going on a job. But that was nuts. When you were up against ruthless men, always armed, you made sure that your own weapons were in perfect shape, that nothing was out of kilter.

In the baking-hot shed Paul had mounted the telescopic sight and made sure the calibrations were set to the same numbers as at the pawnshop shooting range. Then, as a final check he’d slipped the bolt out of the Mauser and sighted up the bore. It was blocked. He thought at first this was some dirt or creosote from the fiberboard carrying case. But Paul had found a length of wire and dug inside. He looked closely at what he scraped off. Somebody had poured molten lead down the muzzle. If he’d fired, the barrel might have exploded or the bolt shot backward through Paul’s cheek.

The gun had been in Morgan’s possession overnight and was the same weapon; Paul had noted a unique configuration in the grain when he was sighting it in yesterday. So Morgan, or whoever he might be, had clearly sabotaged the gun.

Moving fast, he’d ripped twine from the cartons in the shed and hung the rifle from the ceiling to make it appear he was still there then slipped outside, joining a group of other troopers walking north. He’d split off from them at the swimming complex, found a change of clothing and shoes, thrown away the SS uniform and torn up and flushed the Russian passport down a toilet.

Now, a half hour from the stadium, running, running…

Sweating fiercely through the thick cloth, Paul turned off the highway and trotted into a small village center. He found a fountain made from an old horse trough and bent to the spigot, drinking a quart of the hot, rusty water. Then he bathed his face.

How far from the city was he? Probably four miles or so, he guessed. He saw two officers in green uniforms and tall green-and-black hats stopping a large man, demanding his papers.

He turned casually away from them and walked down side streets, deciding it was too risky to continue into Berlin on foot. He noticed a parking lot – rows of cars around a train station. Paul found an open-air DKW and, making sure he was out of sight, used a rock and a broken branch to knock the key lock into the dashboard. He fished underneath for the wires. Using his teeth, he cut through the cloth insulation and twined the copper strands together. He pushed the starter button. The engine ground for a moment but didn’t catch. Grimacing, he realized he’d forgotten to set the choke. He adjusted it to rich and tried again. The engine fired to life and sputtered and he adjusted the knob until it was running smoothly. It took a moment to figure out the gears but soon he was easing east through the narrow streets of the town, wondering who’d sold him out.