The Master Sniper (31 page)

“That’s Gestapo.”

“Gestapo?” said Leets.

“Under the RSHA. Central Security Department. Eichmann, huh?”

“You know him?”

“No. But we’re beginning to see how RSHA was set up.”

“Well, where would he be? I mean, if you had him. Where would we look for him?”

“Long way off. A castle. Sorry, classified location.” Leets felt his mouth drop open in stupefaction. “Is it access you want?” the major continued. “Oh, sure. It can be arranged. Get OSS upstairs to write a fancy letter to Seventh Army CIC. It’ll reach me in a week or two with twenty-six different qualifications attached from the brass and then—”

“Major,” Leets interrupted. “We need to see this guy tonight. Tomorrow might be too late.”

“Look, fellows, if I could help, believe me I would. But I’m powerless. Look.” He held up his hands from underneath his desk, wrists joined in a pantomime of bondage. He smiled weakly and said, “They’re tied. See, those officers are an intelligence source of the first magnitude. We’ve got ’em at an interrogation center, a castle, like I said. Later, there’s some talk of establishing a Joint Services interrogation center. But for now, we’ve got ’em. See, a lot of them operated against the Russians. Look, let’s face it, this war’s over and the next one’s about to begin. And those guys fought its first battle. They’ve got all kinds of dope on the Russians, on Communist cells in Europe in Resistance groups, on hundreds of intelligence operations. They’re a treasure. They’re worth their weight in gold. I mean, they are—”

“Major,” Leets spoke very quietly, “there’s a German operation that’s still hot. So hot it smokes. Now. Today. There’s an officer named Repp, Waffen SS, top man with a rifle. He’s going to put a bullet into someone. Someone important. This is the last will and testament of the Third Reich. He’s the executor.”

“So who?”

“That’s the hard part. We don’t know. But we believe this Eichmann must, for we found his name on a crucial file down at the Dachau admin center.”

“I’m sorry. I’d like to help. I just can’t. There are channels. It’d be my ass. You just have to go through channels.”

“Look, Major, we may not have time to go through channels. Someone could be on the fucking bull’s-eye while we’re filling out forms.”

“Captain Leets. There’s just no—”

“Okay, look. Let me give you the real reason you ought to give this guy to us: he’s simply ours. We bought him. You didn’t. You stumbled onto him and don’t even know if you’ve got him. But we bought him with lives. Thirty-four paratroopers checked out on this thing in the Black Forest, twice as many again wounded. And eleven guys in the Forty-fifth Division got nailed back in April. Then there were twenty-five KZ inmates this Repp used up for practice. And finally, an operative of mine, another KZ survivor. He’s at Dachau, in a pit full of stiffs and lime, lovely spot. He deserved better, but that’s what he got. So when I say this Eichmann is mine, because he’s going to give me Repp, then that’s what I mean.”

“It’s not a question of deaths. Men die in this war all
the time, Captain”—but not your sort, Leets thought—“but still we’ve got to stick to our procedures. I can’t just … there’s just no way … it’s ridiculous. But—” And then he stopped.

“Oh, hell,” he finally said. He looked away and seemed to breathe deeply. “How old are you?” he finally said to Roger.

“Nineteen, sir,” said Roger.

“A paratrooper. I can see by the boots.”

“Uh, yes, sir,” said Roger.

“Any combat jumps?”

“Six,” Roger lied.

“Young and crazy. Crazy-reckless. Everybody tried to talk you out of it, I bet.”

“Yes, sir,” said Roger.

“But you went anyway, had to show ’em how tough you were, huh?”

“Something like that, sir,” said Roger. “Sicily, the Boot. Into Normandy. The big Holland screw-up. A nasty spell in Bastogne, the Bulge. Some Christmas. Finally the Rhine drop. Varsity, they called it. March.”

That’s only
five
, Roger, Leets thought. Nobody jumped at Bastogne.

“Oh, and the drop, uh, Captain Leets and Major Outhwaithe mentioned, um, sir, you know, the one—”

“That’s quite a record. Nineteen and six combat drops. What’s it like?”

“Oh, well, um, scary, sir. Real scary. Normandy was the bad one. We came down way off the zone, half the guys in my stick went into water, Germans, see, had flooded the place, pictures didn’t, um, show it, and they drowned. Anyway, I was one of the lucky ones that hit
on high ground. Then: confusion. Lots of light, flares, tracers. Big stuff going off. Like the Fourth of July, only prettier, but more dangerous—”

Jesus Christ, thought Leets.

“—but then we got formed up and moved out. First Germans we saw were so close you could smell them. I mean, there they were, right on top of us. I had one of those M-threes, you know, sir, the grease gun they call ’em, and
BADDDADDDADDAAADDDAAA!
Just knocked ’em down, never knew what hit ’em.”

“You know,” the major said, leaning back in his chair, staring absently off into space, “sometimes I don’t feel I’ve actually been in the war at all, the real war. I suppose I should be grateful. And yet in ten years, twenty years, people will talk about it, ask questions, and I won’t have the faintest idea what to say. I don’t think I ever even saw any Germans, except for the prisoners, and they just look like people or something. I saw some ruins. Once I did take a look through somebody’s binoculars at the Ruhr pocket. Real enemy territory. But mainly it’s been a job or something, paper work, details, administration, just normal life, except there are no women, the food’s lousy and everybody’s dressed the same.”

“Major—” started Leets.

“I know, I know. What’s your name, Sergeant?”

“Roger Evans.”

“Roger. Well, Roger, you’ve packed a lot into your nineteen years, I salute you. Anyway, Captain Leets, this is my war. I can see you have no respect for it. Fine, but still somebody’s got to do the paper business. So while you won’t understand and won’t respect it, nevertheless
let me tell you I’m about to do a very courageous thing. Fact is, the CIC brass hates you OSS types. Don’t ask me why. So when I tell you where the officers are, I want you to understand how brave I’m being. No, it’s not a combat jump, but it’s a big risk in its own right. Name of the place is Pommersfelden Castle, outside Bamberg, another sixty or so clicks on up the road. Schloss Pommersfelden, in German. A very ornate place, on Route Three, south of the city. I’ll call them and tell them you’ve got approval. If you leave in the morning, you should get there by late afternoon. The roads are terrible, tanks, men, just a mess. Columns of prisoners. Terrible.”

“Thank you, sir. Would that mean—”

“Yes, of course. Eichmann. We picked him up in Austria last week. If you can get anything out of him, fine, swell. We tried and came up with nothing except the remarkable fact he was following orders. Now, please. Get out of here. Don’t hang around. Okay? God help me if they ever find out about this.”

The drive the next morning was murder. The tanks were bad enough, and the convoys even worse, interminable lines of deuce-and-a-halfs, sometimes two abreast, struggling southward to keep up with the rapidly advancing front; but worst of all were the Wehrmacht prisoners. There were thousands of them, men in Chinese numbers, marching—rather, meandering sluggishly—to the rear in battalion-sized formations, usually guarded by one or two MP’s at either end in a Jeep. The Germans were surprisingly rude, considering their position, insolent, sullen crowds who milled in the road like
sheep, stunting progress. Roger again and again had to slow the Jeep to a crawl, honking and cursing, while Leets stood in the back shouting
“Raus, raus,”
and waving madly, and still they refused to part except at the nudge of a fender. At one point, Leets pulled his Thompson submachine gun from the scabbard mounted slantwise off the front seat, and made a dramatic gangster’s gesture out of tossing the bolt; they moved for
that
, all right.

Finally, beyond Feuchtwangen, the prisoners seemed to thin, and Roger really belted the Jeep along. Yet Leets was not at all happy. He had the terrible sensation of heading in the wrong direction, for if, as they had speculated, Repp’s target had to be to the south, beyond the reach of the Americans, here they were slugging their way north, putting themselves farther and farther out of the picture.

“I hope this is right,” Leets said anxiously to Tony.

Tony, morose lately, only grunted.

“We don’t really have a choice, do we?” Leets wanted reassurance.

“Not a bit of it,” Tony said, and continued to stare blackly ahead.

They had to swing in a wide arc around the ruined city of Nuremberg and that ate up more time. It lay in the distance under a pall of smoke, though it had not been bombed in months. Ruins were not so remarkable, yet the scope here was awesome. But Leets paid no attention; he used these hours to meditate on Repp.

“You’re talking to yourself,” said Tony.

“Huh? Oh. Bad habit.”

“You were saying Repp, Repp, Repp over and over again.”

At that moment a fighter plane, a P-51, screamed low and suddenly over them, a hundred or so feet up, almost blowing them off the road, Roger letting the Jeep slew a bit before regaining control. The plane rolled over in a lazy corkscrew turn at 380 miles an hour, star white, flaps trim, bubble sparkly with sunlight, whooping kid-like in the pale German sky.

“Jesus, crazy bastard,” yelled Leets.

“He almost strafed us,” yelled Roger.

“Bastard, ought to be reported, I just may report him, flying like that,” Leets muttered in heated righteousness.

“Hey: we’re
here,”
Roger announced.

“On a wing and prayer,” said Tony.

They pulled into the grounds of Schloss Pommersfelden.

At the end of a long road through the trees sat the castle. Even the American military vehicles parked around it, dingy green with peeling, muddy stars, could not detract from its eighteenth-century purity.

“Willya look at that,” Roger suggested, dumb-founded.

Leets preferred not to, though the thing was impressive: a fantasy, an elegant stone pastry, foolish, insanely overelaborate, but proud in its mad grandeur.

Leets and Outhwaithe hurried into the place after Roger stopped, and found themselves in a theatrical stairwell four stories tall, embellished with arcaded galleries, stone nude boys holding lanterns, wide steps of
marble that could have led to heaven, all under a painted ceiling.

Their boots crunched dryly across the tile toward a PFC orderly. MP’s with automatic weapons stood at each of the many doors leading off this area.

“Leets. Office of Strategic Services.” He fished for some ID. “This is Major Outhwaithe, SOE. A Major Miller of Seventh Army CIC said he’d call down and set up a chat with a guest you’ve got here.”

“Yes, sir. The Eichmann thing.”

“That’s it.”

A phone call was placed; a captain, in Class A’s, appeared. He looked them over.

“Eichmann, eh?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know why. Doesn’t know a thing. Most of them are talking like canaries. Trying out for new jobs. This guy’s the sphinx.”

“He’ll talk for me,” Leets said.

The captain took them up to the second level and down a hall. Tapestries and portraits of men and women three hundred years dead in outlandish outfits with fat glossy German faces hung on the walls. Finally, they reached doors at the end of the hall and stepped through. The room except for table and three chairs was empty.

“He’s in the detention wing. He’ll be here soon. Look, Miller’s a buddy of mine, I know this thing’s kind of unofficial. Glad to help out, no problem, no sweat. But we don’t go for any rough stuff, you know. I mean, Leets, it bothered me what you just said.”

“I won’t harm a hair on his head,” Leets said. “Neither will the major.”

“We British are quite gentle, hadn’t you heard?” Tony asked.

A roar rose suddenly; the windows rattled as it mounted.

After it died, the captain said, “That’s the fifth one in the last half an hour. Those guys are really feeling their oats today. There’s an airfield at Nuremberg, not too far. Mosquito squadron there too, Major, not just our boys going goofy.”

“Glad to hear it,” Tony said. “We try and do our bit.”

The door opened. Two MP’s with grease guns and helmet liners brought a third man in between them. Leets was immediately impressed at how unimpressed he was: a wormy little squirt, pale, watery eyes, thinning hair, late thirties. Glasses askew, lips thin and dry. Scrawny body lost in huge American prison fatigues.

“Gentlemen,” said the captain, “I give you Obersturmbannführer Karl Adolf Eichmann, late of Amt Four-B-four, Gestapo, Number One Sixteen, Kurfürstenstrasse, Berlin. Herr Eichmann”—the captain switched to perfect brilliant German—“these fellows need a few moments of your time.”

The Man of Oak sat down across from them. He looked straight ahead and smelled faintly unpleasant.

“Cigarette, Herr Obersturmbannführer?” Leets asked.

The German shook his head almost imperceptibly, clasped his hands before him on the table. Leets noted he had big hands, and that the backs of them were spotted with freckles.

Leets lit up.

“I understand, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” he said, speaking in his slow German, “you’ve been uncooperative with our people.”

“My duties were routine. I followed them explicitly. I did nothing except my job. That is all I have to say,” the German said.

Leets reached into his pocket, and removed something. With a flick of his fingers, he set the
draydel
to spinning across the surface of the table. Impelled by its own momentum, it described a lazy progress over the wood. Leets watched the man’s eyes follow it.

“Your colleague Herr Repp left that for me at Anlage Elf. Now, dear friend, you are going to tell me about Operation Nibelungen. When it started, where it’s headed, who its target is. You’re going to tell me the last secret. Or I’ll find it out myself, and I’ll find Repp. And when I find Repp, I’ll tell him only a little fib: I’ll say, Eichmann betrayed you, and let him go. Then, Herr Obersturmbannführer, as well you know, you are a very dead man from that second on. Herr Repp guarantees it.”