“But you?”
The yellow-green eyes glinted with amusement.
“When the Gestapo police arrive I shall be the only one present with an accurate description of the assassins, who, I shall swear, were eight in number and possessed of hairy, ringed tails. Now, go quickly. God be with you.”
Chapter II
On the morning of June fifth, there was an undercurrent of suppressed excitement and tension in the offices of the Reich’s Minister of Occupation, Marshal Wilhelm von Bock.
The tension was not localized however, in the imposing white-façaded building that Marshal von Bock had appropriated from the Czech government, but it was evident in all parts of Prague, reflected in the submissive eyes of women and the sullen, bitter eyes of men.
The death of Reinhardt Heydrich, the protector of Czechoslovakia, had been announced the day before, and already three hundred and fifty innocent men and women of Prague had been executed in wholesale retaliation.
In the imposing inner sanctum of Reich’s Minister von Bock, far from the bloody street scenes, far from the tragic-eyed men and women of Prague, this matter of reprisal was being discussed coldly, deliberately.
Marshal von Bock was pacing slowly in front of his magnificent mahogany desk. On the wall behind the desk an immense swastika flag hung from the ceiling to the floor. The marshal was a short, gross man with a distended stomach and heavy, oily jowls. In his elaborately emblazoned uniform he looked ridiculously like a strutting pigeon; but there was nothing ridiculous about the marshal’s pale, ruthless eyes and thick, cruel lips.
“This affair,” he was saying in his soft, slightly lisping voice, “presents an interesting psychological problem, do you not agree Herr Faber?”
He paused, hands clasped behind his back, and peered down at the figure sprawled comfortably in one of the room’s thickly padded leather chairs.
Michael Faber glanced up at the marshal and smiled faintly. His lean face was tranquilly relaxed and his yellow-green eyes were sleepily veiled.
“But, of course, Herr Minister,” he drawled. “If you continue the execution of innocent citizens we shall soon know exactly how far a people may be goaded. That should be valuable clinical information if any of us are here to appreciate it.”
Marshal von Bock folded his pudgy arms and shook his head despairingly.
“My good Herr Faber,” he said woefully, “you still have your curious American respect for the common people, do you not? After the things you have seen in Nazi countries you should realize that the people are but a helpless, unimportant mass of atoms. Those who guide and direct that mass of atoms are the only important human beings. You worry about the people of Prague, of Czechoslovakia revolting? Bah! That is ridiculous. We can grind them to powder under our heels and they will only whine for pity.”
Michael Faber lit his pipe and stared thoughtfully at the glowing match as smoke swirled around his head. His hunter’s eyes caught the reflection of the match and gleamed warmly under lowered lids.
“What you say, marshal,” he said, “is undoubtedly true. But what happened to Heydrich can happen, one day, to any of us.”
A flicker of amusement touched his face as Marshal von Bock suddenly mopped his damp brow.
“Bah!” the Minister said sharply. “That was an accident.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder and resumed his slow pacing.
“That was only an accident,” he repeated. “When we have completed our reprisals against these swine they will know better than to try a thing like that again.”
“Will the reprisals consist simply of murdering more Czechs?” Michael Faber asked.
Marshal von Bock stopped pacing and regarded Faber thoughtfully.
“The word, Herr Faber, is not ‘murder’,” he said softly.
“A slip of the tongue,” Michael said lazily.
“Your tongue seems to be in the habit of slipping, Herr Faber,” von Bock said. He folded his arms carefully. “You have been helpful to us in numerous ways, but please remember that we could, if necessary, do without you, Herr Faber. In Nazi Germany no one man is important!”
Michael raised his right arm languidly.
“Heil Hitler!” he murmured.
Minister von Bock flushed and glanced nervously about.
“I did not of course mean to include our Fuehrer in my statement,” he said weakly. “I meant that only the Fuehrer is important in Nazi Germany. It was a slip of the tongue.”
Michael’s eyes glinted with amusement.
“Bad habit,” he observed.
Marshal von Bock glared sharply at him, and then he resumed his pacing, mopping his perspiring brow as he padded back and forth in front of his desk.
“Let us forget this conversation,” he said. “We were discussing reprisals. What our future policy will be I do not know. That is a matter for the Reich State to decide. I am expecting word from them any day now as to how to proceed. When a man as important as Heydrich is assassinated, the means of reprisal is for the Fuehrer to decide. Do you realize that this assassination has given encouragement to all enemies of the Reich in Europe? If drastic and effective reprisals are not instantly undertaken a wave of this type of revolt might sweep the continent. And our enemies abroad are mocking us. We must show them, too, what happens to all enemies of the Reich, whether in Europe or across the seas.”
As the marshal finished speaking the heavy double doors of the office opened and an under-officer entered and saluted.
“Someone to see you, Herr Minister,” he said.
“Who is it?” Marshal von Bock said. “If he does not have an appointment send him away.”
“It is a woman, Herr Minister. She asked me to give you this.” The underofficer handed the minister a card.
Marshal von Bock glanced at the card and his eyes narrowed.
“Send her in immediately,” he said. When the under-officer left he turned to Michael and his fat oily face was agleam with excitement. “She is from Berlin, from the office of Heinrich Himmler.”
The door opened again and a tall, red-haired girl entered the room. Her features were as cold and white as marble, and her cool gray eyes were without expression. She was beautiful, Michael noticed, with an imperious, regal beauty that was without warmth or appeal.
She walked slowly toward von Bock and her slender legs and body moved in a flowing poem of motion.
The minister drew in his paunch and snapped to attention. His right arm shot out.
“Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler!” the girl answered.
“Heil Hitler,” murmured Michael, around the stem of his pipe.
The girl glanced down, seeing him for the first time. Her cool gray eyes studied him carefully, deliberately, then she turned her gaze back to von Bock.
“You are Reich’s Minister von Bock?” she asked. Her voice was clear and firm, with just the faintest trace of an accent.
“That is right,” von Bock answered. “Won’t you be seated?”
“I prefer to stand. I am Marie Kahn, from the office of Reich’s Deputy, Heinrich Himmler. I have an important communication for you in relation to the assassination of Upper Group Leader Heydrich. Who is this man?” She gestured sharply toward Michael, without looking at him.
“He is the American, Michael Faber. He has done much to help us in the past two years. You may speak before him.” The girl glanced down at Michael and studied him coolly. A faint sneer touched her thin, finely molded lips.
“The American renegade, eh?” She turned back to von Bock. “How can you be sure of a man who is a traitor to his country?”