For a long moment the dictator did not speak.
From far above, the shockwaves of the night bombardment passed through the earth, through twenty-foot-thick steel and concrete walls, and filled the bunker with a continuous, low, ominous sound. Each time that a blockbuster hit nearby, the three paintings—removed from the Louvre following the conquest of France—rattled against the walls, and on der Furhrer’?, desk a hollow, vibrant sound rose from a tall copper pot filled with pencils.
“Get up, Stefan,” Hitler said. “Sit there.” He indicated a maroon leather armchair, one of only five pieces of furniture in the cramped, windowless study. He put the Luger on his desk—but within easy reach. “Not just for your honor but for your father’s honor and that of the SS, as well, I hope you’re as innocent as you claim.”
Stefan spoke forcefully because he knew Hitler greatly admired forcefulness. But at all times he also spoke with feigned reverence, as if he truly believed he was in the presence of the man in whom the very spirit of the German people, past and present and future, was embodied. Even more than forcefulness, Hitler was pleased by the awe in which certain of his subordinates held him. It was a thin line to tread, but this was not Stefan’s first encounter with the man; he’d had some practice ingratiating himself with this megalomaniac, this viper cloaked in a human disguise.
“Mein Furhrer, it was not I who killed Vladimir Penlovski, Januskaya, and Volkaw. It was Kokoschka. He was a traitor to the Reich, and I caught him in the documents room at the institute just after he had shot Januskaya and Volkaw. He shot me there, as well.” Stefan put his right hand against the upper left side of his chest. “I can show you the wound if you wish. Shot, I fled from him to the main lab. I was stunned, not sure how many in the institute were involved in his subversion. I didn’t know to whom I could safely turn, so there was only one way to save myself—I fled through the gate to the future before Kokoschka could catch me and finish me off.”
“Colonel Kokoschka’s report tells a quite different story. He said that he shot you as you fled through the gate, after you had killed Penlovski and the others.”
“If that were so, Mein Furhrer, would I have returned here to attempt to clear my name? If I were a traitor with more faith in the future than I have in you, would I not have stayed in that future, where I was safe, rather than return to you?”
“But were you safe there, Stefan?” Hitler said, and smiled slyly. “As I understand, two Gestapo squads and later an SS squad were sent after you in that distant time.”
Stefan was jolted by the mention of an SS squad because he knew it must have been the group that arrived in Palm Springs less than an hour before he left, the group that had occasioned the lightning in the clear desert sky. He was suddenly more worried for Laura and Chris than he had been, because his respect for the dedication and murderous abilities of the SS was far greater than that with which he regarded the Gestapo.
He also realized Hitler had not been told that the Gestapo squads had been outgunned by a woman; he thought Stefan had gone up against them himself, not realizing that Stefan had been comatose throughout those encounters. That played into the lies that Stefan intended to tell, so he said, “My Furhrer, I dealt with those men when they came after me, yes, and did so in good conscience because I knew they were all traitors to you, intent on killing me so that I would not be able to return to you and warn you of the nest of subversives who were—and still are—at work within the institute. Kokoschka has since vanished—am I correct? And so have five other men at the institute, as I understand. They had no faith in the future of the Reich, and fearing that their roles in the murders of March fifteenth would soon be revealed, they fled to the future, to hide in another era.”