“Well,” Herbert said, “I think it’s damned ironic.” “What is?” Hood asked.
“I can’t find a square inch of common ground with my own people, yet I’m in an airport the Allies bombed to hell along with half of Hamburg. I’m here making nice with a flight attendant and getting ready to work on the same end of the road with guys who shot at my dad in the Ardennes.
Takes some getting adjusted to.” “Like you said,” Hood remarked, “it’s a new world.” “Yeah,” Herbert said. “New and darin’ me to keep up with it. But I will, Paul. God in heaven help me, I will.” So saying, Herbert picked up the pace. He scooted around Americans, Europeans, and Japanese— all of whom, Hood was sure, were running the same race in their own way.
CHAPTER THREE Thursday, 9:59 A.M., Garbsen, Germany
Werner Dagover’s lip curled with disgust when he rounded the hill and saw the woman sitting behind the tree.
That was fine, fine work by the road team, he thought, letting someone through. There was a time in Germany when careers were destroyed by slipups like this.
As he approached, the barrel-chested sixty-two-yearold security guard vividly recalled being seven years old and having his Uncle Fritz come to live with them. The master saddler of an army riding school, Fritz Dagover had been the ranking official on duty when a drunken army sports instructor snuck a Generalmajor’s horse from the stable. He took it for a midnight ride and broke its leg. Though the instructor had committed the infraction without Fritz’s knowledge, both men were court-martialed and dishonorably discharged. Despite the fact that civilian manpower was scarce during the war and Uncle Fritz was a trained leatherworker, he was unable to get work. He ended his life seven months later, swigging arsenic-laced ale from his canteen.
It’s true, Werner reflected, great evil was committed during the twelve-year Reich. But a high value was placed on personal responsibility. In purging everything from the past, we’ve also cast out discipline, the work ethic, and too many other virtues.
Today, few guards were willing to risk their lives for an hourly wage. If their presence on a movie set, at a factory, or in a department store was not a deterrent, then it was too bad for the employer. The fact that they’d agreed to do a job didn’t matter to most guards.
But it mattered to Werner Dagover of Sichern. The name of the Hamburg-based company meant “security.” Whether it was a woman accidentally interrupting a shoot or a gang of thugs celebrating Hitler’s birthday during this week’s insidious Chaos Days, Werner would see to it that his beat was secure.
After notifying the dispatcher that there was a woman in the woods, apparently alone, Werner shut off his walkietalkie.
Drawing back his shoulders, he made sure his badge was on straight and pushed stray hairs under his hat. As he’d learned during his thirty-year tenure as a Hamburg police officer, one couldn’t wield authority without looking authoritative.
As Sichern’s guard-at-large for this operation, Werner had been stationed in the command trailer on the main road of the small town., When the call came from Bernard Buba, he’d biked the quarter mile to the movie location and parked by the prop trailer. Then he’d made his way inconspicuously around the crew, past the hill, and headed into the twenty acres of forest. Beyond the woods was another road where Sichern guards were supposed to be watching for picnickers or birdwatchers or whatever this woman was.
As Werner neared the tree, his back to the sun, he stepped on a nutshell. The slender young woman rose with a start and turned. She was tall, with aristocratic cheekbones, a strong nose, and eyes that seemed like liquid gold in the direct sunlight. She was wearing a loose white blouse, jeans, and black boots.
“Hello!” she said breathlessly.
“Good morning,” Werner replied.
The guard stopped two paces from the woman. He tipped his hat.
“Miss,” Werner said, “a film is being shot just around the hill and we must keep the area clear.” He extended his hand behind him. “If you’ll come with me, I can escort you back to the main road.” “Of course,” the woman said. “I’m sorry. I wondered what those men were doing on the road. I thought perhaps there had been an accident.” “You would have heard an ambulance,” Werner noted.
“Yes, of course. ” She reached behind the tree. “Let me just get my backpack.” Werner called his dispatcher on the walkie-talkie and explained that he was escorting a woman back to the main road.
“So— a movie,” the woman said, slinging the backpack over her left shoulder. “Is anyone famous in it?” Werner was about to tell her he didn’t know much about movie actors when he heard leaves rustle above him.
He looked up in time to see two men, dressed in green and wearing ski masks; jump from the lowest branch. The smaller man landed in front of him, holding a Walther P38.
Werner couldn’t see the larger man who dropped behind him.
“Don’t speak,” the gunman told Werner. “Just give us your uniform.” Werner’s eyes shifted to the woman as she removed a folding-stock Uzi from the backpack. Her expression was cool now, impervious to the contemptuous look he gave her.
She stopped beside the gunman, nudged him aside with her knee, and pressed the gun muzzle under Werner’s chin. She glanced at the name tag on his breast pocket.
“Just so there’s no misunderstanding, Herr Dagover,” she said, “we kill heroes. I want the uniform now.” After hesitating a long moment, Werner reluctantly undid his belt buckle. He pressed down on the walkie-talkie to make sure it was snug in its loop, then laid the big leather belt on the ground.
As Werner began undoing the big brass buttons on his uniform, the woman crouched and scooped up the belt. Her eyes narrowed as she removed the walkie-talkie and turned it over.
The small red “transmit” light was glowing. Werner felt his throat go dry.
He knew it had been a risk to turn it on so the dispatcher could hear them. But sometimes the job required risks, and he didn’t regret having done it.
The woman touched the “lock” button with her thumb, taking it off transmit. Then she looked from Werner to the man behind him. She nodded once.
Werner Dagover gasped as the man slipped two feet of copper wire around his throat and pulled tight. The last thing he felt was a ripping pain which girdled his neck and shot down his spine.
Short, powerfully built Rolf Murnau of Dresden, in what was formerly East Berlin, stood at ease beside the oak.
The nineteen-year-old was armed and attentive as he watched the hill that lay between them and the film set. He held the Walther P38 in one hand, but that was only his most obvious weapon. The ski mask tucked in his belt was lined with washers, making it a devastating and unexpected bludgeon in a fight. A sharpened hat pin hidden beneath the collar of his shirt was perfect for slitting throats. Stick in the point, drag it quickly to the side. And the crystal of his wristwatch made a surprisingly effective weapon when dragged across an opponent’s eyes. The bracelet he wore on his right wrist could be slipped over his hand and used as brass knuckles in a fistfight.
Every now and then, Rolf turned to make sure no one approached from the road. No one did, of course. As planned, he and the other two members of Feuer had parked off the road and walked in when the guards were on their coffee break. The men were too busy chatting among themselves to notice.
Rolf’s smoky eyes were alert, and his small, pale lips were pressed together. That, too, had been part of his training. He had worked hard to control his blinking. A warrior waited for an opponent to blink, then attacked. He had also learned to keep his mouth shut while drilling. A grunt told an opponent that a blow had worked or that you were struggling. And if your tongue were extended, a punch under the chin could make you bite it off.
Rolf felt strong and proud as he listened to the sluts and gays and moneymen beyond the hill on the movie set.
All of whom would die in the flames of Feuer. Some would perish today, most of them later. But eventually, through people like Karin and the famous Herr Richter, the world vision of Der Fhrer would be realized.
The young man’s head was covered with a black stubble which barely concealed the fire-red swastika cut into his scalp. Perspiration from a half hour in the mask gave the hair a bristly, boyish shine. It also dribbled into his eyes, but he ignored it. Karin was big on military formality, and she would not approve if he wiped his brow or scratched an itch.