“Yes, mein Führer.”
“But thank you for telling me. I must keep up with his
his perversions.” His expression changed radically again, becoming more relaxed. He had said what he had to say about the SA.
“So,” he said pleasantly. “I understand it was your man in the American Embassy who turned in Reinhardt.”
“Yes, mein Führer. A porter. A Judenhascher, actually, but very reliable.”
“Heinrich is a little put out,” Hitler said, strolling around his desk, his hands clasped behind his back. “He would like to take credit for the whole affair. It annoys him that you have these Judenhaschers and special agents working For you.”
“Did he complain, mein Führer?”
“No, no, no, no, of course not,” Hitler answered, waving off the suggestion. “Heinrich is no fool. He knows it was my idea to set up your little unit.”
Actually Vierhaus had come to Hitler with the idea for an elite unit within the SS but all of Hitler’s close associates were accustomed to having the Führer take credit for good ideas. Hitler had treated the suggestion as a joke at first but finally he had given Vierhaus a small budget and permission to train five men. Vierhaus had managed, by conscripting stool pigeons and menial workers, to expand his unit to twenty-five or thirty.
He had begun the practice of using Germans of mixed blood, usually an eighth or sixteenth Jewish, as agents, promising them freedom from persecution as long as they were effective. Known as Judenhascher, Jewhunters, they were frequently used to gather information on other Jews, often spending weeks poring over family records, looking for a great-grandmother or second cousin who might have a trace of Jewish blood. Vierhaus turned the reports over to Himmler’s SS and the files of information grew thicker every day, waiting for Himmler to put them to whatever dark use his mind might contrive.
Hitler laughed and slapped his hand on the table.
“You know what I like about you, Willie? You are a practical man. So, tell me more. Were you there when they interrogated Reinhardt?”
Vierhaus nodded.
“What did he tell us? What about the Black Lily?”
“He claimed he never heard of it.”
The phone rang and Hitler whirled and snatched it off the hook. “No, no, no!” he yelled and slammed it back down. He spun back toward Vierhaus.
“He’s a liar!” Hitler bellowed, his face turning red. His fist slammed down on the table. “Of course he knows about it! He helped start it!” He composed himself, taking a deep breath, then he began tapping his cheek with his forefinger. “It is important to crush these organizations quickly, Willie. These fanatics. Fanaticism is contagious. I want that to be your first priority. Break them. Break the Black Lily.”
“Isn’t that the job of the Gestapo, mein Führer?”
Hitler waved his hand frenetically in front of his face, shaking his head as he spoke. “Goring has other things to worry about. Do not concern yourself with politics.”
“Yes, mein Führer. Reinhardt also told me something else interesting. The American I told you about, Keegan?”
“The Ire?”
“Irish-American. Apparently the deputy ambassador, Wallingford, tried to borrow Keegan’s plane for Reinhardt’s escape and Keegan refused.”
“Ah, perhaps your instincts about him are correct.”
“I made it my business to have a talk with Keegan early this morning. He is quite the cynic and I get the definite feeling that he is unhappy with things in America. He particularly distrusts bankers and businessmen, says they were the only winners in the war.”
“True, quite true,” Hitler said, his head bobbing in agreement. “What did you have in mind for Keegan?”
“I am not sure. He is very rich and quite independent.
Knows everybody—in the embassies, the military, government people, most of the royal families here and in England. A man like that, if he is sympathetic with your vision, mein Führer, could have many uses. He knows court secrets—who might be vulnerable to blackmaiclass="underline" homosexuals, bankrupts, influential people whose taste exceeds their bank account.”
“I agree. Just be careful dealing with him,” said Hitler. “Never trust Americans. Too idealistic.”
“Yes, mein Führer.’
“What of Siebenundzwanzig?”
“His training goes very well. Ludwig reports that he is an excellent student. He learns quickly. Incidentally, I am trying something—it is a bit devious.”
“Of course,” Hitler leered. “What else would I expect from you?”
“I have introduced another student in the training course with Swan. Swan is not aware of this, of course, but the man will be his replacement if there should be an accident or if he gets caught. Swan thinks the new man is training for a totally different assignment. It is a good opportunity to compare them.”
“I needn’t tell you to be cautious in dealing with Twenty- seven,” Hitler said, his face hardening into stern lines again. “He is a great catch but we could lose him if he becomes disillusioned—or if he thinks we do not have complete faith in him.”
“I will keep that in mind, mein Führer. I am going down to visit the camp in person.”
“Very good. I will be anxious to hear your report. Have you worked out the details of the operation?”
“I’ll be ready when he is.”
“Excellent. I’m proud of you, Willie.”
“Thank you, mein Führer.”
“And, Willie, don’t forget,” He held up a single finger. “The Black Lily.”
“Yes, mein Führer. Hell Hitler.”
“Heil Hitler.
Swan plunged down the steep side of the mountain, the wind thundering in his ears. He was in total control of his downward pitch, his course so steep it was almost like leaping off a cliff. He ignored the danger of the drop run just as he ignored the beauty of the Alps surrounding him and the pain of the effort in calf, thigh and shoulder. He was totally concentrated, his eyes focused one hundred feet in front of him, scanning back and forth to check for boulders, small trees or other obstructions hidden by the deep snow. If he perceived any threat he altered his course as little as necessary to avoid it, never sacrificing speed as his skis skimmed the snow beneath him. He was racing against the stopwatch in his mind.
A mile away, near the base of the mountain, a tall, muscular man in white snow camouflage stood shin-deep in the snow, sweeping the side of Hummel Peak with his binoculars. He was nearly six-five and in excellent physical shape, deeply tanned from hours on the slopes. He was bald as a mountaintop with a long, triangular face and pale, analytical eyes. His only insignia was the silver SS eagle on his cap. Suddenly he stopped and backtracked an inch or two. The skier was a mere speck streaking down the side of the mountain.
“There he is,” he said. “About halfway down. Good God, he must be doing seventy miles an hour.”
Vierhaus watched the speck as it plunged down the steep, clean side of the tall Dolomite peak, then raised his binoculars. Through the glasses, he watched the black-clad sportsman as he sped down the slope without veering, snow showering in his wake.
“I hope he does not injure himself,” Vierhaus said.
“That will not happen,” the tall SS officer said. “Swan will never injure himself. Swan will never have an accident. He would not permit it.”