“In Iran, wrestlers are regarded as men of high social status,” he said. “Rather like matadors in Spain. Being physically fit, they are frequently called upon to become policemen, bodyguards, sometimes even assassins.”
“They sound like the SS,” observed Student.
Schellenberg turned back to General Schmid and asked him if the Luftwaffe was willing to proceed with the plan to kill the Big Three, assuming Hitler himself approved it. Schmid glanced around the table and, finding no opposition to Operation Long Jump, nodded slowly.
“The Fuhrer knows that the Luftwaffe will do anything that helps to win the war,” he said.
After the meeting, Schellenberg took a taxi back to Wittenberg Platz and returned to where he had left his car near the Ka-De-We. Before the war, the store had served forty different kinds of bread and 180 kinds of cheese and fish, but choice was rather more limited in the autumn of 1943. Approaching his car, he glanced around, hoping the black Opel had gone; but it was still there, which seemed to heighten the gravity of his situation. The Gestapo were not about to let the small matter of his having given them the slip for several hours deter them from whatever it was they wanted to find out. As soon as he drove off, the Opel came after him, and he resolved to find out before the afternoon was over exactly what it was they were investigating-his supposed Jewishness, his affair with Lina Heydrich, or something else.
He drove quickly now, back the way he had come, until he reached the edge of the Grunewald Forest-the city’s green window-where, on an empty, wide, firebreak road that ran between two armies of facing trees, he pulled over. Leaving the car’s engine still running and the driver’s door open, he grabbed the Schmeisser MP40, hid it under his coat, and ran into the woods. He ran at a right angle to the road for almost thirty meters before turning and running parallel to the road for almost a hundred more in the direction from which he had just driven. Returning cautiously to the edge of the tree line near the road, he saw that he was no more than twenty meters behind the Opel, which had halted at what the driver must have considered to be a discreet distance. Crouching behind a large red oak, Schellenberg unfolded the MP40’s stock and worked the slide action slowly and quietly, to ready the weapon’s thirty-two-round magazine. Surely they wouldn’t want to lose him twice in one day. The driver’s door of his own car was wide open. At first the two Gestapo men inside the Opel would assume that he had gotten out to take a leak, but when he didn’t return, curiosity would surely overcome them. They would have to get out of the car.
Ten minutes passed with no sign of movement in the Opel. And then the driver’s door opened and a man wearing a black leather coat and a dark-green Austrian-style hat got out and fetched a pair of binoculars from the trunk, which was Schellenberg’s cue to step out of the trees and walk quickly up to the Opel.
“Tell your friend to get out of the car with his hands empty.”
“Jurgen,” said the man with the binoculars. “Come here, please. He’s here and he has a machine pistol. So please be careful.”
The second Gestapo man stepped slowly out of the car with his hands raised. Taller than his colleague, with a broken nose and a boxer’s ear, he was wearing a dark pinstripe suit and sensible Birkenstock shoes. Neither was more than thirty and both wore the cynical smiles of men who were used to being feared and who knew that nothing could ever happen to them. Schellenberg jerked the gun toward the trees.
“Move,” he said.
The two men walked through the line of trees with Schellenberg following at a distance of three or four meters until, at a small clearing about forty meters from the road, he ordered them to stop.
“You’re making a serious mistake,” said the smaller one, who was still holding the binoculars. “We’re Gestapo.”
“I know that,” said Schellenberg. “On your knees, gentlemen. With your hands on your heads, please.”
When they were kneeling, he told them to throw their guns as far as they could and then show him some kind of identification. Reluctantly the two men obeyed, each tossing away a Mauser automatic and showing him the small steel warrant disc that all Gestapo men were obliged to carry.
“Why were you following me?”
“We weren’t following you,” said the man with the boxer’s ear, still holding out the warrant disc in the palm of his hand like a beggar who had just received alms. “There’s been a mistake. We thought you were someone else, that’s all.”
“You’ve been following me all day,” said Schellenberg. “You were outside my office on Berkaerstrasse this morning, and you were outside the Ka-De-We this afternoon.”
Neither man replied.
“Which section of the Gestapo are you in?”
“Section A,” said the one with the binoculars, which were now lying on the ground in front of him.
“Come on,” snapped Schellenberg. “Don’t waste my time. Section A what? ”
“Section A3.”
Schellenberg frowned. “But that’s the section that deals with matters of malicious opposition to the government. What on earth are you following me for?”
“As I said, there must have been a mistake. We’ve been tailing the wrong man, that’s all. Happens sometimes.”
“Don’t move until I tell you to move,” said Schellenberg. “So I’m not who you thought I was, eh?”
“We were tailing a suspected saboteur.”
“Does he have a name, this saboteur?”
“I’m not at liberty to disclose that.”
“How do you know that I’m not an associate of this saboteur of yours? If I was, I might shoot you. Perhaps I’ll shoot you anyway.”
“You won’t shoot us.”
“Don’t be so sure. I don’t like people following me.”
“This is Germany. We’re at war. People get followed all the time. It’s normal.”
“Then maybe I’ll shoot you both to get you off my ass.”
“I don’t think so. You don’t look like the type.”
“If I don’t look like the type, then why were you following me?”
“We weren’t following you, we were following your car,” said the other man.
“My car?” Schellenberg smiled. “Why, then you must know who I am. You’ve had plenty of time to get a Kfz-Schein on my car. That would easily have told you who and what I am.” He shook his head. “I think I’ll shoot you after all, just for being such bad liars.”
“You won’t shoot us.”
“Why not? Do you think anyone’s going to miss an ugly bastard like you?”
“We’re on the same side, that’s why,” said the one with the binoculars.
“But you still haven’t said how you know that. I’m not wearing a uniform, and I’m pointing a gun at you. I know you’re in the Gestapo. And the plain fact is that I’m a British spy.”
“No, you’re not, you’re in the same line of work we are.”
“Shut up, Karl,” said the man with the boxer’s ear.
“And what line of work would that be?”
“You know.”
“Shut up, Karl. Don’t you see what he’s trying to do?”
“I’m your enemy, Karl. And I’m going to kill you.”
“You can’t.”
“Yes, I can.”
“You can’t, because you’re Reich Security Office, just like us, that’s why.”
Schellenberg smiled. “There, now. That wasn’t so very difficult. Since you’ve admitted you know who I am, then you’ll understand why I’m anxious to find out why you should want to follow me, an SD general.”
“Guilty conscience, is it?” said the man with the ear.
“Tell you what, Karl. I’m going to count to three, and if you don’t tell me what this is all about, I’m going to execute you both. Right here. Right now. One.”
“Tell him, Jurgen.”
“He won’t shoot us, Karl.”
“Two.”
“Keep your mouth shut, Karl. He won’t do it. He’s just bluffing.”
“Three.”
Schellenberg squeezed the trigger, and a startling staccato burst of fire shattered the silence of the forest. The MP40 was considered an effective weapon at up to a hundred meters, but at less than ten meters it was positively deadly, and he could hardly have missed his primary target-the tougher-looking man with the boxer’s ear. With the impact of each 9mm Parabellum bullet that struck him in the face and torso his body jerked and a short, feral scream escaped his bloody mouth. Then he rolled over, writhing on the ground, and a second or two later, was still.