“I’ll have the gas by five o’clock tomorrow,” he said as he put the Uzis, .38 Chiefs Special, Colt Commander, and silencers in a box labeled BIRTHDAY PARTY FAVORS, which had probably contained paper hats or noisemakers for the restaurant. He slipped the lid on the box and indicated that Laura was to carry it upstairs; among other things, Fat Jack did not believe in chivalry.
Back in Fat Jack’s office, when Chris opened the door to the hall for his mother, Laura was pleased by the squealing of the children in the pizza parlor. That sound was the first normal, sane thing she had heard in more than half an hour.
“Listen to the little cretins,” Fat Jack said. “They’re not children; they’re shaved baboons trying to pass for children.” He slammed his soundproofed office door behind Chris and Laura.
In the car on the way back to the motel, Chris said, “When this is all over . . . what’re you going to do about Fat Jack?”
“Turn his butt into the cops,” Laura said. “Anonymously.”
“Good. He’s a nut.”
“He’s worse than a nut, honey. He’s a fanatic.”
“What’s a fanatic exactly?”
She thought for a moment, then said, “A fanatic is a nut who has something to believe in.”
Lieutenant Erich Klietmann, SS, watched the second hand on the programming-board clock, and when it neared the twelve, he turned and looked at the gate. Inside that twelve-foot-long, gloom-filled tube, something shimmered, a fuzzy gray-black patch that resolved into the silhouette of a man—then three more men, one behind the other. The research team came out of the gate, into the room, and were met by the three scientists who had been monitoring the programming board.
They had returned from February 1989, and were smiling, which made Klietmann’s heart pound because they would not be smiling if they had not located Stefan Krieger, the woman, and the boy. The first two assassination squads that had been sent into the future—the one that had attacked the house near Big Bear and the one in San Bernardino—had been composed of Gestapo officers. Their failures had led der Furhrer to insist the third team be Schutzstaffel, and now Erich judged the researchers’ smiles to mean that his squad was going to have a chance to prove the SS was filled with better men than the Gestapo.
The failures of the two previous squads were not the only black marks on the Gestapo’s record in this affair. Heinrich Kokoschka, the head of the institute’s security, had been a Gestapo officer, as well, and he had apparently turned traitor. Available evidence seemed to support the theory that two days ago, on March 16, he had defected to the future with five other members of the institute’s staff.
On the evening of March 16, Kokoschka had jaunted alone to the San Bernardino Mountains with the claimed intention of killing Stefan Krieger there in the future before Krieger returned to 1944 and killed Penlovski, thereby undoing the deaths of the project’s best men. But Kokoschka never came back. Some argued that Kokoschka had been killed up there in 1988, that Krieger had won the confrontation—but that did not explain what had happened to the five other men in the institute that evening: the two Gestapo agents waiting for Kokoschka’s return and the three scientists monitoring the gate’s programming board. All vanished, and five homing belts were missing; so the evidence pointed to a group of traitors within the institute who had become convinced that Hitler would lose the war even with the advantage of exotic weapons brought back from the future, and who had defected to another age rather than stay in a doomed Berlin.
But Berlin was not doomed. Klietmann would not entertain that possibility. Berlin was the new Rome; the Third Reich would last a thousand years. Now that the SS was being given the chance to find and kill Krieger, der Furhrer’s dream would be protected and fulfilled. Once they had eliminated Krieger, who was the main threat to the gate and whose execution was the most urgent task before them, they would then focus on finding Kokoschka and the other traitors. Wherever those swine had gone, in whatever distant year and place they had taken refuge, Klietmann and his SS brethren would exterminate them with extreme prejudice and great pleasure.