The source of commission for a building might be private, church, or state. Everything has its effect. Here, time was taken. You can see it in the end result."
"I see no more than a decorative pile of rubble, Captain."
"Indeed. The treasures of a thousand years have been trampled in this war — which only further proves my point. Yet for a brief interval in our militant history, this place was a masterpiece. There was one man with insight, with the character to bring it to realization. This kind of talent has not often prevailed in our design of things."
"The Fuhrer has a talented architect."
Gruber watched closely and saw the reaction, a veiled smile.
"Albert Speer? He certainly has talent, but I would place it more in the category of propaganda than design. Grand monuments to feed grand egos."
"And you, Captain? You have this trait, this gift of vision? Perhaps when the war has ended you will help oversee the rebuilding of our cities."
The sniper-architect seemed to ponder this. "No, Colonel, I think not. We Germans are very exact in our measures and drawings, but beauty requires a very different kind of effort. When our country is rebuilt, there will be a lack of money and patience to do it properly, with style. The Berlin to come will be square and efficient. Nothing more."
Gruber weighed this silently, then noted the rifle leaning against the wall near the window. "Have you had any luck today?" he asked, pointing loosely to the gun.
"If I had, I would not still be here. One shot, then —" Braun snapped his fingers in the air, "one must not linger."
"Of course," Gruber said.
"There was a small unit, perhaps a dozen men. They settled their equipment behind a wall," Braun gestured out the window, "about four hundred meters away. They went off on patrol, but soon will return for their things."
"And then?"
Braun took the last of his wine before setting down the glass.
The ease that had enveloped him seemed to fade. His eyes narrowed and Gruber met his gaze, wondering what he must be thinking.
"What is it that you want, Colonel?"
There was the answer, Gruber thought. Full colonels of the SD didn't make house calls to captains on the front. Not without a damned good reason. Gruber started to speak, but then paused and looked at the sergeant, who was still back by the landing. Braun jerked his head to one side, and the sergeant turned and disappeared down the rope. Gruber spotted a chipped teacup on the floor. He picked it up, blew off some dust, and charged it generously from Braun s bottle.
"The war is nearly done, Captain. Given this, there are plans to be made for the future of the Reich." He was glad to see Braun remain impassive, nothing in his face to suggest what most Germans would now say: Hasn't the Reich done enough? "There will be an effort to regroup — in time. But we have one critical need." Gruber took a slug from the cup, no time taken to evaluate merits, but rather gulping as one would a beer. "There is a spy, a man with vital information that we must have. Unfortunately, contact has been lost. Our networks are finished —"
"In America!" Braun broke in. He beamed a satisfied smile. "That is it! You need someone who can pass as an American. Someone to retrieve your spy."
"Or at least his information."
Braun seemed to consider this before asking, "You can get me out of Berlin? Even now?"
"I think so."
"And where in America would I have to go?"
"This I will not tell you. Not yet." Gruber took another hard swallow from the cup. "First I must be convinced that you are the right man."
They eyed one another, two poker players searching for truth in their adversary's facade. A short, shrill whistle from below broke the standoff.
Braun raised his hand to command silence and eased to the window. Only a small opening remained at the fallen frame of splintered wood and brick. He picked up a tiny spotting periscope and eased it into the opening.
"Our Russian friends have returned," he announced. "Would you like to see, Colonel?"
Gruber crossed to the window and was nearly there when Braun threw an arm to his chest like a lion striking a gazelle, pushing him to the side.
"The light, Colonel. It comes in here." He waved toward a shaft of dank illumination. "Not much, but one mustn't get caught."
Gruber nodded. He approached the window at an angle and took the periscope. After some searching, he found a group of ten Russians milling about behind a wall. Some were eating from tin cups, while others paced and rubbed their hands against the cold. The wall was tall enough to protect them from ground-level fire, but Braun had found enough elevation to see a bust of all who were standing. They seemed quite far away.
"How many can you take from here?" he asked.
Braun prepared his rifle. "One, Colonel. Never more than one. That way I can survive to shoot another day." He paused. "But then — will I have another day?"
Gruber looked again through the periscope, offering no reply.
The captain smiled. "This will be my last, I think. And for that, I will give you the honor. Which should I take?"
Gruber looked back at Braun. He had moved to the other side of the opening, their faces only inches apart. His blue eyes bored into Gruber, striking at his soul.
In a voice barely above a whisper, Braun said, "You are now God, Colonel. Who do I kill? The one with the fur hat? The one who limps?"
The eyes still penetrated and Gruber turned away to reference the scope. "There is an officer, near the back. That would be best."
"Best for what? For the Reich? I think not."
"What do you mean?"
"If I shoot the officer, someone will take his place. And if he was a good officer, they'll all want to kill more Germans. If he was a bad officer, they would thank me. But neither case helps our cause."
Gruber threw down the periscope. "Then who the hell do you shoot?"
Braun was now standing just back from the window, in a shadow, steadying the rifle on a shattered armoire. "For the Reich, Colonel, I will assist you. I should shoot whoever moves in front of the officer."
"What?"
"Whoever moves in front will have a hole in his head. Just another dead soldier to join the millions of others. But your officer," the rifle fell steady, "he will find the man s blood on his face. And tomorrow, the brains in his canteen cup. These things, my Colonel… these things make for a very cautious leader. A man who has many … second.. thoughts."
Braun's stillness was absolute. The eye Gruber could see was closed, but he imagined the other, pale blue behind the sight, piercing an eagles stare at a helpless prey. The calm was shattered by the crack of the shot. Gruber flinched involuntarily, and before the echo could reverberate back off the rubble outside, Braun was bolting toward the rope.
"Come," Braun called jauntily, "we must not loiter!"
Gruber hustled to follow, reaching the rope as the sniper, gun slung onto his shoulder, was about to rappel down. "But shouldn't we take one look, to see if you scored a hit?"
Braun paused for an instant, a bemused look on his handsome, scarred face. "What do you think, my Colonel?" Then he disappeared down the rope.
That evening, Corporal Fritz Klein watched as four men entered Gruber's office. The three who had been there this morning were joined by an army captain, a tall blond man who seemed strangely at ease. They met for three hours, summoning Klein only once to bring them coffee. When the gathering ended, he came to attention at his desk.