One of the panzer commanders had a bullhorn, probably the same model as the SS panzer man had used outside of Rolf Stolle's residence. "Prutzmann!" he shouted, his amplified voice echoing from the granite and concrete and glass. "Come out with your hands up, Prutzmann! We won't kill you if you do. You'll get a trial."
And then we'll kill you,Susanna finished mentally. Hearing Lothar Prutzmann's unadorned surname blare from the bullhorn was a wonder in itself, a wonder and a portent.How the mighty have fallen, it said. Unadorned surnames blared at prisoners in interrogation cells. The Reichsfuhrer -SS had surely never expected such indignities to be his lot.Too bad for him.
No answer came from the famous office. The lights were on in there, but closed venetian blinds kept Susanna from seeing inside. "Don't screw around with us, Prutzmann!" the Wehrmacht commander shouted. "You have five minutes. If you don't come out, we'll come in after you. You'll like that a lot less, I promise."
Susanna looked at her watch, only to discover she'd somehow lost it. She shrugged. Five minutes wouldn't be hard to figure out. All the civilians on the panzer with her-and on the other Wehrmacht machines-shouted and cursed the Reichsfuhrer -SS. Between their cries (including her own) and the rumble of the panzers' engines, whatever was happening more than a few meters away got drowned out.
The deadline had to be drawing near. The man commanding Susanna's panzer leaned down into the turret, presumably to give the gunner his orders. The commander had just straightened when a tall blond man in the uniform of a Security Police major came out with a handkerchief tied to a pointer to make a flag of truce. "Don't shoot!" he shouted.
"Why not?" said the commander of the lead panzer. "Why the hell not, you SSSchweinehund? Where's Prutzmann? He's the one we want."
"He's dead," the blond Security Police major answered. "He stuck a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Didn't you hear the bang?"
A frantic tumult of cheering rose from the civilians. Through it, the lead panzer commander used the bullhorn to say, "Show me the body. Till I see the body, I figure this is some sort of scheme to buy time for him to get away." The blond major started to go back into the building. The panzer commander stopped him: "Hold it right there, buddy. If they don't bring Prutzmann's body out,you're the one who's dead meat."
"Have it your way," the major said. "You will anyhow." He turned and shouted back into SS headquarters: "Hans-Joachim! Detlef! Bring him out! They want to see him."
Noxious diesel fumes from the idling panzer made Susanna cough. A dull headache pounded behind her eyes. It all put her in mind of Professor Oppenhoff's cigars. She didn't care. To see Lothar Prutzmann dead, she would have gone through worse than this.
Or so she thought, till two SS men-she supposed they were Hans-Joachim and Detlef-dragged out a corpse. Each had hold of a highly polished boot. The body wore the black dress uniform of a high-ranking SS official. In the glare of the panzers' lights, the blood that ran from the back of the head was shockingly scarlet. Susanna's stomach lurched. Death-anyone's death-was better contemplated at a distance than seen close up.
Again, so she thought. But the man who commanded her panzer said only, "It's a fresh corpse, anyhow. They don't drip that way very long." If that wasn't the voice of experience, she'd never heard it.
The commander of the lead panzer got down from his machine and bounded up the stairs to the entrance two at a time so he could get a good look at the body. He stooped beside it, then slowly straightened. With a fine flair for the dramatic, he spread his arms wide and waited till every eye was on him. Then and only then did he shout, "It's Prutzmann!"
Susanna squealed. A great roar of joy rose from the crowd. That burly man on the panzer with her planted a big, smacking kiss on her cheek. He needed a shave. His beard rasped her skin. He smelled of schnapps and onions. She couldn't have cared less.
Where's Heinrich?she wondered again.Is he seeing this, too? That, she cared about. After a spell in Lothar Prutzmann's prison, Heinrich of all people deserved to see his corpse.
"Where's that friend of yours, that Susanna?" Willi Dorsch bawled in Heinrich's ear.
"I don't know," Heinrich shouted back. "I haven't seen her in a while." The two of them had precarious perches on an armored personnel carrier full of Wehrmacht soldiers. As it rattled west through the streets of Berlin, one of the crew fired short machine-gun bursts into the air whenever he felt like it. The noise was shattering.
"If somebody starts shooting back at that trigger-happy maniac, we're all ground round." Willi sounded absurdly cheerful.
"This charming thought already occurred to me, thanks." Heinrich didn't.
Willi laughed. "So many crazy things have already happened today, I'm just not going to worry any more. One way or another, it'll all work out."
"Maybe it will." By then, Heinrich was past arguing. In fact, he couldn't very well argue, because a hell of a lot of crazy thingshad happened. The wind of their passage whipped around his glasses and made his eyes water. That wind was cool, but not especially clean; it was full of diesel exhaust from the other armored vehicles in this convoy. How many panzers and armored personnel carriers and self-propelled guns (to say nothing of soft-skinned trucks) were trundling around Berlin tonight? Even more to the point, how many different sides were they on? And what would happen when those on one side bumped up against those from another?
Rat-a-tat-tat!The machine gunner squeezed off another exuberant burst. A tracer round drew a hot red line across the night. Nobody returned fire. Heinrich approved of that. Somewhere, though, those bullets would be coming down. Even as falling lumps of lead, they could kilclass="underline" they'd be falling from a long way up.
Treads growling and grinding, the armored personnel carrier turned left. Heinrich started to laugh. "What's funny?" Willi asked.
"Back where we started from," Heinrich answered. There on the left stood Oberkommando der Wehrmacht headquarters; on the right, across the wide expanse of Adolf Hitler Platz, the Fuhrer 's palace and the vast, looming bulk of the Great Hall. Dead ahead towered the Arch of Triumph, as usual bathed in spotlights. Heinrich would have bet it had sharpshooters atop it. But were they wearing SS black or the Wehrmacht 's mottled Feldgrau?
The armored column of which the personnel carrier was a part turned right, rumbling toward the Fuhrer 's palace. The panzers and APCs had to go slowly and carefully to keep from crushing people under their tracks. Adolf Hitler Platz wasn't jammed sardine-tight, the way the little square in front of Rolf Stolle's residence had been. It would hold more than a million people. At the moment, it held tens, perhaps hundreds, of thousands.
"Wehrmachtor SS?" somebody called nervously.
"Bugger the SS with a pine cone," the machine gunner answered, and fired another burst into the air. "We're thereal soldiers, by God, and if those blackshirted pricks don't know it they'll find out pretty goddamn fast!"
The whoops that came from the crowd said that was what they wanted to hear. But SS men held the Fuhrer 's palace. Sandbagged machine-gun nests outside the entrance were plenty to keep the people at a respectful distance. Panzers and armored personnel carriers laughed at machine guns-though Heinrich, on the outside of the armor plate, wouldn't laugh if they opened up. And if the SS had machine guns here, it probably had antipanzer rockets, too.
Heinrich didn't see any Waffen -SS armor. Maybe Lothar Prutzmann had figured he wouldn't need it here once he'd got hold of Stolle. That only went to show he wasn't as smart as he thought he was.