The next morning Richard was waiting in her office, looking no better disposed than he had on Friday.
“Good weekend?” he asked sarcastically.
“Yes, thank you,” she said calmly. “You?”
“Wonderful. I listened to the radio Saturday night and listened to the radio all day Sunday—”
“Look, Richard,” she said, suddenly feeling angry, “I’m not obliged to give up my plans just because your wife takes it into her head to go away for the weekend. You don’t own me—”
“I’m going to tell her.”
She stared at him. “Why? To punish me?”
He grabbed her arm. “We had the chance of a whole weekend together. Is your father’s family more important than that? You see them every month. They’re not even real relations.” He stopped, releasing her arm. “Is that where you really were?” he forced out.
“No, Errol Flynn invited me to his yacht.”
“Don’t joke!”
“What do you expect me to say? What do you think I am? Richard, if I wanted to start another love affair with someone, I’d do it in the open, and only after I’d ended this one with you. It’s you who’s in love with secrecy, remember?”
“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point.”
“I just wish I didn’t have to keep on making it. Richard, I know it would have been fun to spend the weekend together, but I am not, not, going to spend my life waiting around for you to be available. Some women might put up with it, but I’m not one of them. And I’ve never pretended any different, have I?”
“No,” he said wearily. “I know you haven’t.”
“Good,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. “Now leave me alone. I’ll see you Friday.”
He went, leaving her feeling unsure of what she should do. Richard was a habit, one that she’d always considered distracting and harmless. One that helped fill the gap left by the impossibility of a real relationship. Now she was beginning to realize how dangerous a habit he had become.
Twelve days after Wim Doesburg’s trip to Syracuse, Obergruppenführer Walter Schellenberg sat brooding in the back of a limousine as it wound up the hairpin turns toward the Führer’s mountain retreat. His interview with Himmler the previous day had proved less than satisfactory. Not only had the Reichsführer sprayed him with germs, occasioning his present sore throat and runny nose, but he’d also abdicated all responsibility for the matter.
“Take it directly to the Führer,” Himmler had advised, the tone of his voice implying that nothing would persuade him to do so himself.
Himmler thought it too risky because it broke the infamous Goering Law — never offer the Führer anything that you don’t already have at your disposal. Well, no one could accuse Himmler of a surfeit of imagination.
But the Führer would appreciate the plan, Schellenberg was sure of it. There really was no risk; it was just the enormity of the prize that made it hard to believe. If they failed, it would cost them only two soldiers and a U-boat. If they succeeded, then at the very least defeat could be avoided. With an atomic V rocket they could reduce London to rubble in a single strike or, more to the point, threaten to do so. Then the Western Allies would come quickly enough to the negotiating table to talk about the real enemy, about saving Europe from Stalin’s barbarian hordes. A few photographs of disemboweled German soldiers might wake Roosevelt up, and Churchill had always been an anti-Communist at heart.
There seemed no reason why success should elude them. The people in America seemed very efficient, the Kriegsmarine said there were no difficulties involved in the transport, the scientists had confirmed that they could make a bomb if they had the Uranium-2.35. There had been nine English-speaking officers to choose from with the necessary combat experience and firsthand knowledge of America. One of them had even been a physics teacher before the war. An omen, if ever he’d seen one. Himmler was a fool.
The car drew up outside the Berghof. Schellenberg was greeted by Hitler’s adjutant, General Schmundt, and informed that the Führer was still involved in the afternoon military conference. This explanation was somewhat unnecessary: as soon as he entered the Great Hall, Schellenberg could hear Hitler’s raised voice through the open door of the conference room. He sat down as far from the blazing log fire as possible and tried to ignore the suffocating perfume exuded by the myriad bowls of fresh flowers.
Hitler stopped shouting. Schellenberg could hear the obsequious tones of Jodl and Keitel taking turns to explain something. They obviously were not successful, for suddenly Hitler’s harsh voice was echoing through the house once more.
“Rommel does not see the whole picture. The rest of them are cowards and fools. I try to make the orders so clear that even a child could understand them, and what do I get? Requests for authorization to do the exact opposite!” There was silence, then the Führer’s voice again, this time sweet and reasonable, as if he were talking to a favorite young nephew. “I understand the military arguments for withdrawal, but war is more than a purely military matter. It is about people, individual soldiers, about their will to win. Retreat is addictive. It doesn’t matter whether it makes sense militarily. It is psychologically disastrous. Always. Always.”
Keitel and Jodl started talking again. Schellenberg could visualize the scene from past experience: the Führer leaning over the map, his arms rigid at his sides, while all the toadies murmured yes and shrugged at each other behind his back. Why did he bother with them?
The door behind him opened, admitting another perfume.
“Good afternoon, Herr Obergruppenführer.” the woman said. “Or is it evening? I never know when one turns into the other. We haven’t had the pleasure of your company for a long time.”
Schellenberg rose from his seat and bowed. “Good evening, Fraulein Braun. I’m afraid the demands of the war leave little time for the pleasures of life.”
She pouted. “If anyone knows that, I do.” She looked around, as if, Schellenberg thought, she was wondering where she was. “I hope you have some good news for him,” she said absentmindedly. “It’s been so hard on him these last few months,” she added, lowering her voice as if she were betraying a state secret.
“Of course,” Schellenberg said sympathetically, wondering what else to say.
He was saved by the reappearance of Schmundt. “The conference will end shortly, Herr Obergruppenführer. The Führer suggests you wait for him in the upstairs study.”
It was as hot in the study as in the hall, but like everyone else who entered that room, Schellenberg found his attention captured by the huge picture window and its breathtaking view of Alpine peaks fading into the distance.
An hour passed and the mountains receded into the gathering darkness as the stars brightened above them. He was beginning to feel vaguely hypnotized by the effect when the door finally opened to admit Hitler and his pet Alsatian.
“It’s a wonderful view, isn’t it? I designed the house myself, you know.”
“Yes, my Führer.”
Hitler sat down in one of the leather-covered armchairs. He looked pale, but there was none of the trembling that Schellenberg had heard about. There was a half-smile on his face as he stroked the dog’s back and stared out into the night. “When there are difficult decisions to be taken,” he said, “I often come and sit here by myself. I sometimes think that it is the majesty of all this” — he indicated the panorama of the outside world with a sweep of an arm — “that really makes the decisions. I am only its voice.”
Schellenberg said nothing.