by APC APC
Chapter 5: The Reich Chancellery
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The door chimes sounded early the next morning. Klein and Schliemann were too hung over to answer the door, so Henrik was forced to do it himself, with his father’s Luger tucked neatly in his housecoat pocket.
“Herr Kessler, where are your bodyguards? Are you answering the door alone, unarmed, with spies about?” It was Heydrich. He looked winded and uncharacteristically anxious. His convertible Mercedes was idling loudly behind him with the back door open. A driver sat in the front seat with goggles still on and leather driving gloves gripping the steering wheel. The license plate read SS-3.
“Not exactly unarmed,” Henrik showed Heydrich the Luger in his pocket. “As for your soldiers, I’m afraid they’ve been into the wine.”
“Ah, those idiots. I would send them to the Russian front if they weren’t so good at killing, and so well connected in Berlin. It’s politics, you see.”
Henrik shrugged. “I’m surprised to see you so soon.”
“Events are moving faster than expected. I came to give you this.” He handed Henrik a new uniform, freshly pressed with the silver, double-lightning chevrons of the SS embroidered in the collar. “You’ll need something to wear to the Reich Chancellery.”
“The Reich Chancellery!”
“Of course. You didn’t expect to keep the general’s jacket. The old fool would miss it,” he said with disdain and then placed a paper on the elegant rosewood coffee table by the door. “Sign here.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll need to join the party.”
Henrik looked at the official document with its inlaid black swastikas and knew immediately what it was. Despite his current situation with Esther and her family, Henrik considered himself to be a true German, in blood and in spirit. He’d joined the Hitler Youth, the German air force and eventually the German secret service to serve his country, but for some reason that he didn’t entirely understand, he’d never joined the Nazi Party. Was it simple neglect or some unconscious moral objection? He didn’t know.
“You must sign it,” Heydrich said again with some impatience, and then pushed a black pen in font of his face.
“Oh yes, of course.” Henrik shuffled the new SS uniform onto his left arm, and with a stroke of the pen, it was done. His name looked foreign to him at the bottom of the official-looking document. He hadn’t signed his name that way in three years. Heydrich, on the other hand, seemed perfectly happy with the signature. He hurriedly folded up the form and stuffed it into his pocket.
“Catch the 1:10 to Berlin. Don’t be late. And don’t forget to bring this.” He handed Henrik a brown envelope. “And if those two dumb heads don’t sober up, shoot them for me with your Luger.” Heydrich turned abruptly on his heels and headed back to his waiting vehicle without so much as a wave good-bye.
“Herr Heydrich, must you leave already?” Henrik asked nervously. Heydrich stopped and looked back over his shoulder. Henrik continued his invitation. “I know it is early, but my father has the best wine cellar in the Netherlands. Would you not like a sample before you leave, perhaps with some cheese?” The last thing Henrik wanted to do was spend more time with the obergruppenfuhrer of the SD, but his instincts told him that he somehow needed to get close to this villain. At the very least, it would be something he could trade with Major Koch for knowledge of Esther’s whereabouts.
“No, no. I have no time,” Heydrich said with a dismissive wave of his bony hand. “I’m going on ahead. I’ll meet you in Berlin. There’ll be plenty of wine there.” He stepped lively into the front seat beside his driver and the Mercedes sped away leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.
So much for the subtle approach, Henrik thought. He looked at the envelope Heydrich had given him. It was heavy bond paper, embossed with gold lettering and sealed with wax and the Fuhrer’s official insignia. Events were moving fast indeed. Henrik prized it open slowly with his Sheffield knife, being careful not to damage the seal. He would want to save it later as a keepsake. It wasn’t every day that a lieutenant got a letter from the Chancellor of Germany.
The gold lettering continued on the inside:
Lieutenant Henrik Kessler is hereby awarded the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross for his meritorious actions in valiant service of the Fatherland. Kessler family cordially invited. Full colors.
It was signed at the bottom Adolf Hitler in flamboyant script. Henrik was suddenly short of breath and his heart pounded in his chest. Would the Fuhrer actually be there in person? Would he meet him face to face? This was his dream ever since he attended his first Nazi rally as a teenager and saw the lone leader of the Fatherland addressing the throngs of patriotic Germans. And now he would be the one receiving a medal.
“What is it?” Henrik’s father appeared at the foot of the stairs. It was only the second time Henrik had seen his father since returning home. Henrik wondered where he’d been hiding all this time.
“An invitation from . . .” he faltered on the name, his lips unworthy to speak it. He handed the letter to Kessler Sr. The old man took a moment to adjust his monocle and then his eyes widened with comprehension. He looked up at his son with a mixture of surprise and pride.
“We’re going to Berlin,” Henrik said by way of an explanation. “We’ll have to close up the summer residence for a while and move back home.” Henrik smiled nervously. He didn’t know what else to say. A tear formed in his father’s eye, and for a moment, at least, Henrik felt indescribable joy.
The train ride from Amsterdam to Berlin took roughly six hours, but the journey was anything but a droll experience. By then the SS soldiers were sufficiently recovered from their hangovers to assume their proper duties as bodyguards. Although Henrik had little faith in their ability to protect him, he took full advantage of the situation, making them carry the luggage onto the train and fetch refreshment whenever the opportunity presented itself. The war, although harsh and bloody, had done little to affect the lives of Germany’s upper classes, and traveling by train in a first class car was still a luxurious and pleasurable activity. For the first time in years, maybe ever, Henrik could look his father in the eye and feel something other than self-loathing.
“A trip to the capital can mean only one thing, Henrik,” his father said between puffs of his expensive cigar. “Promotion. You have to prepare yourself, Henrik. Success can be a heavy burden to bear. Once the Fuhrer’s eye is on you, your world will never be the same.”
“How did you handle it, father?” Henrik was asking all the right questions. The perfect son. Kessler’s eyes beamed.
“I remember my first trip to Berlin after my 10th victory in the air. Who could have known then that I would more than triple that score?” The corner of his thick, gray eyebrow rose over the gold rim of his monocle. “I was just a boy, really, not much older than you are now. I’ll always remember the Kaiser’s words as he awarded me the Blue Max, Pour le Mérite. ‘I have my eye on you, young man,’ he said. It was the proudest moment of my life—until today.”
Henrik felt like his heart was about to burst. He was still glowing six hours later when they walked into the Reich Chancellery and were met by a phalanx of senior officers in finely creased and starched uniforms, with more bronze on their chests than Reichsmarks in the National Treasury. Henrik wished he still had the marshal’s parade jacket with all of its shiny medals.
Henrik’s father had more than a few medals on his jacket and was treated like a war hero, especially by the older officers. But the real guest of honor tonight was Henrik himself, without a medal to his name. He was made to shake hands with all of the senior officers present and to regale them with tales of his adventures, but it wasn’t until well after 10:00 p.m. that Hitler arrived with Himmler and the rest of his entourage to make the grand presentation.
He smiled warmly and shook Henrik’s hand. He was a small man, much s
maller than Henrik had imagined, with small hands and a small bite of a mustache. Henrik felt awkward standing in front of him. He felt as if he should kneel like a peasant before royalty, like a worshipper before a god.
“You have done the Fatherland a great service,” Hitler said loudly. It was amazing that such a small man could speak with such authority. Henrik literally trembled before him. “Your courage and faithfulness to the German people are an inspiration to all young Germans. I have my eye on you, Lieutenant Henrik, and soon all the world will see the fruit of your efforts. Righteous vengeance will reign down fire from above. Together we will change the world.” He shook his fist above his head as he did in his famous oratories to thousands.
Henrik risked a quick glance at his father. The old man was weeping openly. Hitler stepped forward to attach the shining Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross to Henrik’s throat collar, and then he said something that only Henrik could hear, something that truly did change his world. “Bring me victory, young Henrik,” he whispered. “Cleanse the world of my enemies—the Communists, the Allies and the filthy Jew. Will you do this for me?” His lips were so close Henrik could feel the Fuhrer’s hot breath in his ear. Henrik nodded bashfully.
“Yes, my Fuhrer.”
“That’s a good German,” he patted Henrik’s shoulder. “You will make your father proud.”
Hitler’s words were still running through Henrik’s mind and weighing heavily on his heart several hours later as he stood in a quiet corner drinking his fifth brandy. His father seemed to sense the change in his son and left him alone. He’d never understood Henrik, but he was well acquainted with his moods. He knew there was no reason or argument, no kind word that could snap him out of his brooding. He had too much of his mother in him.
Kessler Sr. had hoped that this latest turn of events was the sign of a change in his son, a turning of the corner, a harbinger of even greater honors to come, but now he feared for the future. Would Henrik be able to throw off the foolish notions of his youth and embrace his true heritage? What had the Fuhrer said to him that affected him so? Whatever it was, Henrik would not tell him, and he had not smiled since then. Kessler Sr. could only hope that Henrik would not be foolish enough to miss this great opportunity. But he knew there was nothing he could say to make his son understand. He would have to come to this realization on his own or not at all.
While Kessler Sr. was wise enough to leave his son alone, the junior officers present at Hitler’s party were not. They viewed Henrik as a genuine German hero. Many of them were second and third sons of German aristocrats, who enlisted as officers because they could never inherit the family estate. Most had not yet seen action, their upper class status at once a blessing and a curse—saving them from dangerous combat, at least for the time being, but robbing them of the chance for glory. They were desperate to prove themselves. And here was a man of similar age and background who had really done it. A deep cover agent behind enemy lines procuring top secret plans that would one day win the war for Germany. It was a dream come true. And it wasn’t long before these bright, young hopefuls found their hero and had him surrounded. Unfortunately for them, Henrik was in no mood to entertain the troops.
“How long were you in America, lieutenant?” a young lieutenant by the name of Johan Hauser asked, wide-eyed. Johan was the fifth son of a wealthy beer baron and had never stepped a foot outside of Germany his entire life. He had command of a radar station in Wildeshausen, a small town that had never seen action and probably never would even if Germany was completely overrun by the Allies.
Henrik swished his brandy, his bored expression doing little to dissuade his faithful fans. “About three years.”
“Three years right under their noses. The Americans are such fools.”
“Presumably,” Henrik mumbled without looking up. “But brave people. Good soldiers.”
Hauser seemed startled by Henrik’s compliment of the enemy, and mildly offended. “But they cannot win. They are children.”
Henrik stopped swishing his drink. “Yes, children, honest, innocent, spoiled, but in their hearts they believe in goodness. Or at least they did until about six months ago.”
Several officers grunted, but some remained silent.
“What happened six months ago?” Johan asked, scratching his head.
“Pearl Harbor.”
Johan sighed with comprehension, but then a new thought struck him. “Did you ever kill one of them?”
“Americans? No.”
A young captain leaned into the circle. He was short with a long neck. He was a pilot too, but Henrik forgot his name. “I heard you shot down a whole squadron over the channel.”
Henrik laughed bitterly. “Three planes, and they weren’t Americans. They were Brits. But that wasn’t combat. It was espionage, cloak and dagger. I stabbed them in the back.” He gulped down what was left of his brandy and grabbed another off a passing tray.
“And in Hawaii? I heard you shot down three more there.”
“Japs.”
The young officers looked at each other in confusion. “But aren’t the Japs our allies?”
Henrik just shrugged. The jovial spirit of the evening was rapidly dissipating. As the young officers began to wonder whether they should risk asking another question, the sound of clapping broke through the silence. A tall major stepped forward. Henrik recognized him immediately. Neils Hollingsworth, a.k.a. Major Koch. He really was closer than Henrik thought.
“Masterfully done,” Neils said loudly. “You’ll have to forgive the lieutenant. Spy humor is a difficult thing to grasp. Henrik, if you’re done shocking your new friends, I’d like to have a word with you.”
Henrik took a long drink of his brandy and once again exchanged his empty glass for a full one. “Gentlemen,” he said coldly and then followed the tall officer to the window. The snow was falling out the window, the moon’s light glistening in crystal reflection. Henrik remembered many a night like this back in the Netherlands, hunting wolves with his father and gathering the cattle in from the field. In those days, he’d always longed for the warmth of the fire, but tonight he would rather be out with the wolves.
“Have you completely lost your mind? You’re going to blow your cover.” Neils’ voice was quiet but intense. “Listen carefully. A lot has changed since you’ve been gone, but a lot has stayed the same. Take a look at your Fuhrer over there. See the big shots standing around him? There’s Heydrich. You already know him. Through Himmler he’s become quite the rising star, one of Hitler’s most trusted paladins. My sources tell me he was once a trusted protégé of Admiral Canaris, that wily old fox, but they’ve had a bit of a falling out recently over some dirty business in the Soviet Union. Apparently Heydrich forged some false documents to implicate some high-ranking Soviet generals. I’m sure you heard what happened after that.”
Henrik had heard, even in America. The unbelievable news spread halfway around the world. The plot, trumped up though it was, gave Stalin the excuse he needed to go on a bloodthirsty rampage, purging almost the entire upper echelon of his government and military staff. It was one of the largest political massacres in modern history, second only to the French Revolution and perhaps the Bolshevik uprising itself. But he hadn’t known that Heydrich was behind it all. Henrik looked into his brandy goblet but made no comment.
“Do you recognize the other officers with him? There’s Goering and Ribbentrop on the left. Ribbentrop is believed to run Foreign Intelligence, but Rosenberg behind him is in charge of the Foreign Political Office. There’s Borman to, but he’s head of the Minorities Section and not very important. He’s not here tonight. Probably out rounding up more Gypsies and Jews. So there you have it—a veritable viper’s nest of German intelligence, and they all hate each other.” Hollingsworth laughed as if he’d just made a joke, and then took a dainty sip of his expensive champagne. “So who is it?”
/> “What?”
“Who is your handler?”
“I don’t have a handler. Too dangerous. I was deep cover. On my own.”
“Your superior then. Somebody must have trained you, sent you on your mission, arranged the contacts, told you where to go and what to look for.”
It was the admiral, but Henrik wasn’t about to tell Hollingsworth that. After leaving his beloved ship the Graf Spee, Canaris had taken control of the Abwehr, a small fact finding cell that under his leadership quickly became one of the largest and most powerful intelligence organizations in the Third Reich. But to look at him, you never could have guessed it. Sipping his cognac and quietly smoking his pipe in the background, he looked as gentle as a lamb.
“He’s not here,” Henrik said simply.
“What? Are you sure?”
“It was von Fritsch.”
“Of course. Well, that’s unfortunate.”
“Why?”
“He fell from grace a while back. He was embroiled in a homosexual scandal. It was all just some big misunderstand. Another man by the name of Fritsch was the real queer. He was found murdered some time later along with his lover. Von Fritsch was cleared of all charges but he’ll never regain his position of power. So that puts us in a bit of a quagmire.”
“Why?” Henrik repeated the question dully.
“How to get you back on the inside, my boy. We have important work to do.”
Henrik shook his head and Hollingsworth’s smile faded.
“I know this is hard for you, Henrik, but if you ever want to see Esther again, you’ll—what do the Americans say—play ball?” Neils took Henrik’s brandy from him and passed him a tall glass of sparkling champagne that he had been guarding on the windowsill behind him.
“What’s this?” Henrik asked briskly. He hated champagne.
“Drink it. It will make you sick. That will give you a reason to excuse yourself and seek the lavatory. Hidden somewhere in this castle is the Chancellery archive. It contains secret plans for the counter-invasion, the V-weapons, stuff like that.”
“I’m not your rat.”
“Don’t be a fool. We need that archive to find your precious girlfriend, or has your Fuhrer’s recent favor made you forget all about your one true love.” Neils watched Henrik’s face change color. “Did you think this would be easy? Did you think you could keep your hands clean? I want to help you, Henrik. I really do. But you’re going to have to hold up your end of the bargain.”
Henrik looked down. “How’s the wound, Neils?” he said, and then without warning his left hand shot out, grazing the paratrooper’s right shoulder roughly where he had stabbed him the night before. Neils grimaced, and then his eyes turned cold. He transferred the brandy to his left hand and raised it to his rather large nose.
“A Mosel Reisling 93, I believe. Very expensive.” He took a sip and his lips pursed unpleasantly. “Too bitter. That’s the problem with you Germans—too much aftertaste. The Mosel Valley is supposed to have the best grape in all of Europe, but I just don’t taste it. I prefer French wine, don’t you?” He took another sip and made the same sour face. Then he put the brandy down on the windowsill and stepped uncomfortably close to Henrik.
“The shoulder’s fine, Henrik. Thanks for asking.” He spoke softly but there was a menacing edge to his voice. “I’ve enjoyed this little chat. I really have, but now it’s time for you to get back in there and turn this thing around . . . or the girl dies.” Neils gave Henrik a rough shove in the back and walked briskly into the thick of the dancing couples. Henrik watched him leave, his eyes unable to hide the anger he was feeling. After a moment, he looked back at the carousing young officers.
“Herr Hauser,” he called loudly over the idle chatter and incessant drone of the orchestra. “Have you heard the one about the American President at the beer festival?”
Johan shook his head timidly. The officers’ nervous chatter ceased. Henrik approached them armed with a winning smile and Neils’ glass of sparkling champagne.
“After ten steins of beer, he still wasn’t drunk. So he asks the barmaid. What’s wrong with this beer keg? I’ve had ten steins from it and I’m still not drunk. The barmaid is all concerned because she knows that Americans can’t hold their liquor. One teacup and they’re reeling, two cups puts them under the table, but ten steins . . .? So she comes over to see what’s the matter. That’s not a beer keg, you idiot, she says. That’s a toilet.” Henrik laughed loudly at his own joke. “Do you get it? He was drinking piss, ten steins of piss.”
The officers laughed, perhaps a bit forced, and then one of the older pilots told another joke involving stupid Americans. Once again, the German officers were united in robust nationalistic prejudice. Henrik took a wayward sip of Neils’ champagne and promptly vomited on the red marble floor. Henrik could see his father on the other side of the crowded ballroom looking on with disapproval and vomited again. Five glasses of Mosel Reisling 93—wasted!
“My apologies, gentlemen,” Henrik said, wiping the muck from his lips. “I must find the toilet. I hope there are no Americans drinking from it.”
“Go,” Johan laughed. “You can’t hold your liquor. You must be an American too.” The officers guffawed robustly at this, and Henrik staggered away with vomit still dripping from the side of his mouth.
Once out of the ballroom, Henrik climbed the stairs to the second floor and wandered down the hall until the sound of the orchestra faded into the distance. The Reich Chancellery was an enormous edifice boasting nearly two hundred rooms. The chance of Henrik wandering into the right room and discovering the secret Chancellery archive, if it even existed, was astronomically low. Henrik wasn’t even certain that he should try. Was he still a German? Then why was he seeking to betray his country for a Jewish girl? An hour ago, he had promised the Fuhrer that he would rid the world of his enemies, including the Jews. But what about Esther? If he didn’t do something, Esther and her whole family would suffer—maybe even die, if the rumors were true. Could he let that happen? Could he live with himself?
“Herr Kessler.”
Henrik turned around to see the two SS officers, Klein and Schliemann, jogging down the baroque hallway towards him. In all of the excitement of the evening, he’d completely forgotten about his bodyguards. Now he was sure he would never find the archive.
“Herr Kessler, where are you going?” Schliemann sounded a little tipsy, and Klein was quite obviously drunk. His big body kept bouncing off the marble walls like a giant rubber ball. “The toilet is downstairs.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want the toilet anymore?” Klein slurred.
“Why, Gustaff, whatever do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, Herr Schliemann.”
“I know what you mean, Gustaff, but does young Henrik? I think he does.”
Henrik shrugged, wondering how long he could maintain his bluff.
“Come now, Herr Kessler. You heard about the upper rooms of the Chancellery, and you came looking for women, young women, beautiful women.”
“Fat women!”
Schliemann looked back at his drunken cohort with a puzzled expression. “You like fat woman, Gustaff?”
“Everybody likes fat women,” he answered, leaning up against Schliemann’s shoulder to keep from falling. Schliemann raised an eyebrow.
“Not women, Herr Schliemann,” Henrik said, an idea suddenly occurring to him. “Wine.”
“Fvine.” Klein held up a half empty bottle of Mosel Reisling. “But there’s lots of fvine back at the party. Come on. Let’s go.” He tried to turn but bumped into the wall again. He reached for Klein’s shoulder and caught it just in time to keep from falling.
“Not that piss,” Henrik said disdainfully. “The Bernkasteler Doctor. The most famous vintage in all the world. Legend has it that the Archbishop of Tier was deathly ill. He tried doctors and medicine and prayer to
no avail. And then he came to the little village of Bernkastel and after only one glass of their local wine was magically cured. The best doctor is in Bernkastel, he declared.”
“Sounds expensive,” Schliemann said with interest.
“Priceless. You see, after he was revived, the Archbishop fell so in love with the wine that he refused to leave the little village of Bernkastel or drink anything else, not even water. He called it the nectar of the gods. The church thought he was possessed and burned him at the stake. Ever since then, the Bernkasteler Doctor 1649 has been forbidden. But Hitler has a secret stash of the stuff hidden somewhere in the Reich Chancellery. They say it’s like sipping pure gold.”
“It wouldn’t be up here, dumb head. The wine cellar is in the basement. Come with me. I’ll show you.” Schliemann stepped forward and Klein slid off his shoulder and hit the floor like a fallen tree. He was out cold. “Ah, leave him.”
Schliemann led Henrik into the servants’ area and then down the back stairway. He seemed to know his way around the Chancellery even while drunk, and he talked incessantly. “I was stationed here for over a year at the beginning of the war. I saw them bring all kinds of treasure into this castle. Gold. Precious jewels. Ancient artifacts. I used to come down here and borrow some from time to time. There was so much of the stuff. Who was going to miss it? The plunders of war.” His laughter echoed through the cold wine cellar. The chambers seemed endless, but Henrik saw no sign of treasure or the archive.
“Sounds like a great job. Why did you leave?”
Schliemann shrugged. “I guess somebody missed it?”
After almost an hour of wandering aimlessly past row after row of stolen wine bottles, they came at last to an empty chamber, more like a cell, ten feet by ten feet with a low ceiling that Henrik had to duck under to keep from bumping into.
“It’s in here. I know it’s in here.”
“There’s nothing in here.”
“If I can just find . . .” Schliemann began stomping on each of the large floor stones one at a time. Henrik thought that the wine had claimed what was left of the SS officer’s wits until one of the stones sunk beneath Schliemann’s heavy foot and the wall opened to reveal a vast storehouse of gold bars—stacks and stacks of them right up to the ceiling.
And yes, there was treasure—pearl necklaces, gold candlesticks, silver goblets, and jewelry with precious stones of every variety. It appeared that the palaces, churches, and synagogues of every country in Europe, save Britain, had been ransacked just to fill this one, ugly basement.
“This is what I’m talking about.” Schliemann headed straight for the jewelry and began pawing it with his thick, drunken fingers. Henrik shook his head. This was not what he had come for. He looked past the gold bars and saw the entrance to another chamber.
“Schliemann, what’s back there?”
“What? Oh, you won’t find it there. It’s just paper.”
“Paper?”
“Books, scrolls, manuscripts, files—some kind of library, I guess.” Schliemann picked up a bejeweled tiara and placed it on his greasy, black hair. “Look at me,” he said, but before he could turn around, Henrik picked up a wine bottle and smashed it against Schliemann’s rather large head. The sodden warrant officer fell face forward into a pile of pearl necklaces, a large bump growing rapidly on the back of his scull. Henrik looked at the broken wine bottle in his hand—Bernkastel 1649. What a waste, he thought.
Things happened fast after that. Henrik dropped the broken bottle and propped his fallen comrade up against a large wooden chest. He climbed through the treasure room and into the back chamber. He’d found it, the fabled Chancellery archive. Battle plans. Arms shipments. Troop deployments. Prisoner transfers. The secrets in these volumes were worth more than all the gold bars in Germany.
He rifled through the files like a man possessed, but after only a few minutes he knew it was hopeless. There were no documents relating to Jewish concentration camps. Neils was lying. But Henrik had already guessed at that. His only hope now was that the British spy really did have connections in high places. That much appeared to be true. Not every German officer was invited to Hitler’s party, but Neils was. If he could just give him something to chew on, throw him a bone, as it were.
“Halt or we will shoot!”
Henrik froze. It was too late. He peeked out of the archive chamber and into the treasure room. Two German soldiers were standing in the doorway with their guns trained on Schliemann. One of them had a Luger, the other an MP40 machine gun—a loud, powerful weapon that could slice a man in half at close range.
“Raise your hands and turn around,” shouted the officer with the Luger. “Raise your hands or we will shoot!”
Schliemann did not respond. He couldn’t. He was still out cold from the blow Henrik had given him. Henrik had placed his limp body facing the treasure. From the dimly lit cellar door, he must have looked like an intruder caught in the act. Henrik wondered darkly if he should just let the guards put a few rounds in Schliemann’s back, but then he had another idea. The SS officer might come in handy after all.
When Schliemann still did not respond after more threats, the guards began to advance slowly. That was when Henrik slipped out from behind the gold bars and plugged them both in the back of the head. They dropped to the ground without a word of protest. A second later, Neils appeared in the doorway and nearly took a bullet between the eyes. Henrik smiled at Neils’ surprised express and then pocketed his weapon.
“I saw the guards racing down the stairs and knew something was up,” Neils explained. “You must have triggered a silent alarm.” He looked at the dead guards and shook his head. “You’re good. I give you that. No pang of conscience. No wasted effort. Just two perfect shots right to the back of the head.”
He glanced back at Henrik with an odd look of admiration as if he’d just complimented him on a well-played cricket shot, but it was a compliment that burned. Henrik had felt nothing, but he should have. He’d just murdered two German guards, soldiers like himself. He should have felt an overwhelming weight of guilt. But he didn’t. He’d done it to find Esther, and he would do it again if he had to. He knew that for certain now. He’d sealed the contract in German blood.
“You better get out of here, and lose your Luger.”
“No need,” Henrik said casually. He was in no hurry.
“They’ll check your weapon—see that it’s been fired.”
“But it hasn’t. I used your Berretta with the silencer.” Henrik pulled Hollingsworth’s pistol from his pocket.
“Mine?” he patted his jacket where the Berretta should have been and then remembered Henrik’s feint to his wounded shoulder in the ballroom. He must have taken his pistol then.
“Now all I need is a fall guy.” Henrik took out his Luger and pointed it at Hollingsworth’s head. “You lied. There were no documents, no records about Holland, the Jews, nothing.”
“But there must be. This is the archive. It has to be here. A diagram. A map. It might not even look like a map. Maybe you just didn’t have enough time. Maybe we can come back later.”
“That would be difficult with a bullet in your head.”
“Then don’t put a bullet in my head. Listen to me, Kessler. Be reasonable. We’ve come this far. Don’t give up now. Believe me when I tell you this. You are that girl’s only chance of making it out of Germany alive, and I’m yours.”
Henrik lowered the Luger. Maybe he never would have shot Neils in the first place. Maybe he would never know. He reached into his left pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. It was a diagram with letters scattered randomly across it as if they’d fallen from a shattered typewriter. Hollingsworth took one look at the paper and his eyes bugged out of his head.
“This is it! The list! There must be every base in Germany on this thing.”
“And Esther?�
�
“She’s here. It will have to be decoded, but she’s here. We’ll find her.”
Henrik wasn’t sure. It could just be a map of train stations, or bus depots or outhouses. There were no roads, no boundaries. It might not be anything at all, just a piece of paper with random letters scattered across it. But if he really believed that, why did he pocket the paper in the first place? Why did he rip it out of the file? Why had he committed it to the impervious archive of his unusual memory? Henrik handed the paper to Hollingsworth along with his silenced pistol. “Well, I hope you have another plan.”
Schliemann groaned in the corner and Neils smiled.
“I’m sure I’ll think of something.”