Breitner smiled ruefully. “We’ve even survived a trip home in a funeral train. Unfortunately,” he said, taking another swig from the bottle, “we have enough intelligence — not that it requires much — to know that this particular war is lost. Dying in a Russian ditch may not be everyone’s idea of destiny, but it was one I was becoming almost fond of. Dying for the goddamn SS is something else entirely. It’s—”
“It’s not who that worries me, it’s what. For all we know, they may have decided to kidnap the King of England.”
“That’s tame. I was thinking of Stalin.”
“Easy. What about recapturing Marlene Dietrich?”
“I volunteer.”
The train was drawing slowly to a halt, clanking over points. The lights of a city could be seen outside. “Where the hell are we?” Breitner asked.
“Posen, I think. Christ, look at this.” Both men stared out on a panorama of ruin, pillars of masonry sticking into the night sky, empty streets choked with rubble. As the train chugged slowly forward they saw the body of an old woman lying beside the track, one arm rigidly extended upward, the light of the yard lamps reflecting off her spectacles.
“Who the hell would be bombing Posen? It’s too far east for the Americans.”
“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” Paul murmured, suddenly feeling sober. He sat down heavily. “You know, sometimes I can’t see how this war will end. It’s just bitten too deep. There’s more to forgive than there is forgiveness.”
“They said that after the last war,” Breitner said, pulling himself away from the window. “They’ll probably say it after the next one.”
Paul laughed. “You’re an optimistic bastard, aren’t you?”
“No. You know what really depresses me?”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
“If we were winning, we wouldn’t care.”
Schellenberg stared through the peephole at the two officers waiting in the anteroom. Major Breitner, Hauptmann Russman. They looked younger than he’d expected; perhaps he was too accustomed to being around the old and the wounded who made up his staff. He went back to their dossiers on his desk. Breitner was thirty-five, Russman thirty-four. Well, perhaps the excitement of war had kept them young. He looked at his watch. It was time to let his two eagles in.
“Gentlemen,” he said, still smiling as they seated themselves, “the Reich has a new need for your talents. An operation is being mounted by the external section of the Reichssicherheitshauptampt at the express instructions of the Führer himself. It has the highest security classification imaginable — only three men in the Reich are aware of its existence. When—”
“With great respect, Obergruppenführer,” Breitner interrupted, “but before we are made privy to the nature of this operation, I would appreciate some clarification regarding our position. Are we still under the jurisdiction of the Wehrmacht or have we been officially transferred to your authority?”
Schellenberg’s smile faded slightly at the edges. “Officially, this operation does not exist. To answer your unspoken question — I require volunteers, not conscripts. Though I must in all fairness add that if you decline this assignment, you may have to be temporarily detained. For security reasons, of course. There would be no imputation of disloyalty: you have both served the Reich with distinction in the past.”
Breitner nodded and said nothing. Christ Almighty, he thought.
“I hope, however,” Schellenberg continued, “that this operation will appeal to both your sense of duty and your spirit of adventure. This is no ordinary operation. It would hardly be an exaggeration to say that the fate of the Reich may rest on its success. You have been selected, after exhaustive inquiries, because you are not ordinary officers. You both speak excellent English, you work well together, and you, Major Breitner, have professional scientific experience. Above all, you have both lived in America.”
The two men glanced at each other in astonishment. Science? America? What crazy scheme was this?
“As I said,” Schellenberg continued smoothly, “this is not an ordinary operation. It is, however, a relatively straightforward one. You would be transported across the Atlantic to the state of Georgia by U-boat. You would then carry out a single, simple military operation of a kind you have performed in the past. You would then be transported back.”
“And the objective?” Breitner asked.
“Ah, the objective. First I must fill in the background.” Schellenberg explained the development of the new bomb, the state of German progress in the same direction, the significance of Uranium-235, the train itself, traveling through “thousands of miles of virtually empty countryside.” He described the “wholly inadequate” American security precautions. “The Americans may not be stupid,” he concluded, “but they are overconfident to the point of stupidity. To them the war is elsewhere. It would never occur to them that German officers might suddenly turn up in their own country. It would be a complete surprise.”
Yes, Paul thought. That at least rang true. Perhaps this operation was less insane than it sounded.
“When?” Breitner asked.
“One thing we lack is time. The U-boat must sail from France, and regrettably the French ports may have to be sacrificed in the not too distant future. So we must aim for the August 4 train, which means a departure from La Pallice within the next three days. This of course will prevent any detailed advance planning. Our agents in America will have to brief you fully when you arrive.”
There was a silence. Breitner looked at Paul and then turned back to Schellenberg. “We would like a few minutes to discuss the matter, Obergruppenführer.”
“You may have the use of my office.”
“We’d prefer to stretch our legs,” Breitner said. “We’ve been on a train for the last thirty-six hours, and those gardens look most inviting.”
“Very well.”
Once outside the two men walked about fifty yards in silence. “Why did we have to come out here?” Paul asked eventually. “That was the most comfortable chair I’ve sat in for years.”
Breitner lit a cigarette. “Christ, you’re so naive sometimes. That office must be knee-deep in microphones.”
“You think the garden isn’t?”
Breitner laughed. “You’re probably right. Okay, give me and the microphones a good reason for saying yes to this mad scheme.”
Paul lit his own cigarette. “I’ll give you three. One, if we say no, we’ll at best end up back in the East.”
“Good, but not very positive.”
“Two, how does duty strike you?”
“Like the song says: My comrades and my sense of duty, they died together in the snow.”
“Three, it’s not such a mad scheme.”
“Yes, you have to admire the nerve. Train holdups in America! In 1944!”
“And I’ll give you a fourth. We’re going, whatever we say. Like the man said, the U-boat leaves in less than three days, so they’ve decided it’s us. And we’ve both still got living relatives.”
Paul looked at him sharply. “You think they’d go that far?”
“Yes.”
They walked in silence for a while. Paul was remembering another Atlantic crossing many years before, his first sight of her face across the smoky room, their first embrace on the promenade deck, surrounded by ocean and stars. Breitner was thinking that it had been American bombs that had killed his wife and son, and wondering why he felt no thirst for revenge.
He shook his head. “I don’t suppose it’ll be much different from holding up trains anywhere else.”
“Gerd, what is this stuff? Uranium-235?”
“God knows. Atomic physics was taboo in my time. ‘Jewish physics’ they called it. Now there’s an irony to savor.” He ground out his cigarette. “I expect they’ll enlighten us further before we go.”