Maybe it did, but the color was also conspicuous, especially since his shooting blind at Waltham College would be an open field or forest, as Webber had described the landscape there. The uniform was also close-fitting, bulky and hot. It would get him close to the school but he took another set of more practical clothing as well, dungarees, a dark shirt and a pair of boots, to wear for the touch-off itself.

One of Webber’s business associates had access to a motor pool of government trucks and, with the assurance that Webber would return the vehicle within one day (and not try to sell it back to the government when he did so), the key was handed over, in exchange for some Cuban cigars that had been made in Romania.

Now they needed only the rifle.

Paul had considered the pawnbroker near November 1923 Square, the one who’d supplied the Mauser. But he couldn’t be sure whether the man had been part of Taggert’s deceit or, even if not, whether the Kripo or Gestapo had traced the gun back to the shop and arrested him.

But Webber told him there were often rifles stored in a small warehouse on the Spree River, where he sometimes made deliveries of military supplies.

They drove north and, just after crossing the river at Wullenweber Street, turned west and headed through an area of low manufacturing and commercial buildings. Webber tapped Paul’s arm and he pointed to a dark building to their left.

“That’s it, my friend.”

The place appeared deserted, which they’d expected, today being Sunday. (“Even godless dung-shirts insist on a day of rest,” Webber explained.) But unfortunately the warehouse was set back behind a tall barbed-wire fence and had a spacious, now empty parking area in the front, which made it very visible from the well-traveled street.

“How do we-?”

“Relax, Mr. John Dillinger,” Webber said. “I know what I’m doing. There’s a waterside entrance for boats and barges. It’s impossible to see from the street and you can’t tell it’s a National Socialist warehouse from that side – no eagles or hooked crosses on the dock – so no one will think twice about our visit.”

They parked a half block past the warehouse and Webber led him through an alley, south, toward the water. The men stepped out onto a stone wall above the brown river, where the air was pungent with the scent of rotten fish. They walked down old stairs, carved into stone, and onto a concrete wharf. Several rowboats were tied up and Webber climbed into one. Paul joined him.

They cast off and in a few minutes had rowed their way to a similar dock beneath the back of the military warehouse.

Webber tied the boat up and climbed carefully onto the stone, slick with bird droppings. Paul followed. Looking around, he could see boats on the river, mostly pleasure craft, but Webber was right; no one was paying them any attention. They climbed a few steps to the back door and Paul took a fast look through the window. No lights were on inside and only dim sunlight filtered through several opaque skylights, but the large room appeared deserted. Webber extracted a key ring from his pocket and tried several skeleton keys until he found one that worked. Paul heard a soft click. Webber glanced at him and nodded. Paul pushed the door open.

They walked into the hot, musty room, filled with the eye-burning fumes of creosote. Paul looked around and noticed hundreds of crates. Against the wall were racks of rifles. The army or SS was using this place as an assembly station – taking the guns from the crates, ripping off the oil-paper wrapping and cleaning off the creosote, which had been smeared on to prevent rusting. They were Mausers, similar to the one that Taggert had arranged for him, though with longer barrels, which was good. This meant they were more accurate and, at Waltham, he might be quite far from Ernst. No telescopic sights. But Paul Schumann hadn’t had one on his Springfield at St. Mihiel and Argonne Woods and his marksmanship there had been deadly accurate.

He walked to the rack, picked up one, looked it over and tried the bolt. It worked smoothly, giving the satisfying click of finely machined metal. He aimed and dry-fired it a few times, getting a feel for the trigger. They located crates labeled 7.92 mm , the caliber of ammunition for the Mauser. Inside were gray cardboard boxes, printed with swastikas and eagles. He opened one, took out five bullets, loaded the gun then chambered and ejected a round to make absolutely certain the bullets were right.

“Good, let’s get out of here,” he said, putting two boxes of the shells into his pocket. “Can we-”

His words were interrupted as the front door opened, casting a beam of fierce sunlight on them. They turned, squinting. Before Paul could lift the rifle, the young man in the doorway, wearing a black SS uniform, was pointing a pistol toward them. “You! Put that down at once. Hands up!”

Paul crouched, set the Mauser on the floor and slowly rose.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Otto Webber said gruffly, “What are you doing? We are from the Krupp Munitions Works. We were sent to make certain that the correct ammunition-”

“Quiet.”

The young guard looked around nervously to see if anyone else was here.

“There was a problem with a delivery. We got a call from-”

“It’s Sunday. Why are you working on Sunday?”

Webber laughed. “My young friend, when we deliver the wrong shipment to the SS, we will correct our error no matter what the day or the hour. My supervisor-”

“Quiet!” The young soldier spotted a telephone on a dusty workstation and moved toward it, keeping the pistol pointed toward them. When he was nearly to the table Webber lowered his hands and started walking in his direction.

“Ach, this is absurd.” He was exasperated. “I have identification.”

“You will stop right there!” He thrust the gun forward.

“I will show you the paperwork from my supervisor.” Webber kept walking.

The SS guard pulled the trigger. A short metallic bang shook the walls.

Unsure if Webber was hit or not, Paul scooped the Mauser up from the floor and rolled behind a high stack of rifle crates, chambering a round.

The young trooper lunged for the phone and pulled the receiver off the cradle, then ducked back. “Please, listen,” he cried into the handset. Paul rose fast. He had no view of the soldier but he fired a bullet into the phone unit, which exploded into a dozen Bakelite shards. The trooper cried out.

Paul slipped back behind cover. But not before he caught a glimpse of Otto Webber lying on the floor, writhing slowly as he gripped his belly, which was stained with blood.

No…

“You Jew!” the young trooper raged. “You will throw down your gun at once. There will soon be a hundred men here.”

Paul made his way to the front of the building, where he could cover both the front and back doors. He glanced quickly out the window and saw a lone motorcycle parked in front. He knew the young man was merely making a routine check of the warehouse and there would be no others coming. But someone might have heard the shot. And the SS man could simply stay where he was, keeping Paul pinned down, until his superior realized he hadn’t reported back and sent more troops to the warehouse.

He looked out from his end of the stack of crates. He had no idea where the soldier was. He -

Another gunshot echoed. Glass splintered the front window, nowhere near Paul.

The SS guard had fired through the glass to draw attention; he’d shot directly into the street, not caring if he hit anyone.

“You Jew pig!” the man raged. “Stand up and raise your hands or you’ll die screaming in Columbia House!” The voice came from a different place this time, closer to the front of the warehouse. He’d crawled forward to put more crates between himself and his enemy.