Blok sat down on the sea-green sofa, its arms protected with lace coverlets, and in a few minutes he heard the klaxon horn of the ambulance approaching. Blok reasoned that the gods of Valhalla were smiling on him, because Frankewitz was still breathing.
7
“A toast!” Harry Sandler lifted his wineglass. “To Stalin’s coffin!”
“Stalin’s coffin!” someone else echoed, and the toast was drunk. Michael Gallatin, sitting at the long dining table across from Sandler, drank without hesitation.
It was eight o’clock, and Michael was in the suite of SS Colonel Jerek Blok, amid Chesna van Dorne, twenty Nazi officers, German dignitaries, and their female companions. He wore a black tuxedo, a white shirt, and a white bow tie, and to his right Chesna wore a low-cut, long black dress with pearls covering the creamy swell of her breasts. The officers were in their crisp dress uniforms, and even Sandler had put away his tweeds in favor of a formal gray suit. He had also left his bird in his room, a fact which seemed to relieve many of the other guests as well as Michael.
“To Churchill’s tombstone!” the gray-haired major sitting a few seats down from Chesna proposed, and all-including Michael-drank merrily. Michael scanned the table, examining the faces of the dinner guests. Their host and his lead-footed aide were absent, but a young captain had seated everyone and gotten the party going. After another few rounds of toasts, in honor of drowned U-boat men, the valiant dead of Stalingrad, and the fried corpses of Hamburg, white-jacketed waiters began to roll in the dinner on silver carts. The main event was roast boar with an apple in its mouth, which Michael noted with some pleasure was set in front of Harry Sandler. The hunter had evidently shot the beast in the forest’s hunting preserve just yesterday, and as he cut slabs of greasy meat and slid them onto platters it was clear Sandler knew how to handle a carving knife as well as a rifle.
Michael ate sparingly, the meat too full of fat for him, and listened to the conversations on all sides. Such optimism that the Russians would be thrown back and the English would come crawling to Hitler’s feet with a peace treaty was worthy of a gypsy and a crystal ball. The voices and laughter were loud, the wine kept flowing and the waiters kept bringing food, and unreality was so thick in the air Harry Sandler might have carved it. This was the food these Nazis were used to eating, and their bellies looked full.
Michael and Chesna had talked most of the afternoon. She knew nothing about Iron Fist. Neither did she know anything of Dr. Gustav Hildebrand’s activities, or what went on at Hildebrand’s Norway island. Of course she knew that Hildebrand advocated gas warfare-that was a common fact-but Hitler evidently remembered his own sniff of mustard gas in the Great War and didn’t care to open that particular Pandora’s box. Or, at least, not just yet. Did the Nazis have a stockpile of gas bombs and shells? Michael had inquired. Chesna wasn’t sure of the exact tonnage, but she felt sure that somewhere the Reich had at least fifty thousand tons of weapons, kept ready in case Hitler changed his mind. Michael pointed out the fact that gas shells could be used to disrupt the invasion, but Chesna disagreed. It would take thousands of shells and bombs to stop the invasion, she said. Also, gas of the kind Dr. Hildebrand’s father had helped develop-distilled mustard during the Great War, Tabun and Sarin in the late 1930’s-might easily blow back on the defenders in the tricky coastal winds. So, Chesna told him, a gas attack on the Allies might backfire on the German troops instead. That had to be a possibility the high command had already considered, and she didn’t think one Rommel-who was in charge of the Atlantic Wall’s defenses-would allow. Anyway, she said, the Allies had control of the air now, and would certainly shoot down any German bombers that approached the invasion beaches.
Which left them where they’d begun, pondering the meaning of a phrase and a caricature of Adolf Hitler.
“You’re not eating. What’s wrong? Isn’t it raw enough for you?”
Michael looked up from his deliberations and stared across the table into Sandler’s face. It had grown more ruddy from all the toasts, and now Sandler wore a slack-lipped smile. “It’s all right,” Michael said, and forced the greasy meat into his mouth. He envied Mouse, eating a bowl of beef soup and a liverwurst sandwich in the servants’ wing. “Where’s your good-luck charm?”
“Blondi? Oh, not so far. My suite’s next door. You know, I don’t think she likes you very much.”
“What a shame.”
Sandler was about to reply-a gimcrack witticism, no doubt-but his attention was distracted by the red-haired young woman who sat next to him. They began to talk, and Michael heard Sandler say something about Kenya. Well, it took a bore to kill a boar.
At that moment the dining-room door opened, and Jerek Blok stalked in with Boots following behind. Instantly a chorus of cheers and applause rose up and one of the dinner guests proposed a toast to Blok. The SS colonel plucked a wineglass from a passing tray, smiled, and drank to his own long life. Then Michael watched as Blok, a tall, thin man with a sallow face, wearing a dress uniform studded with medals, made the rounds of the table, stopping to shake hands and slap backs. Boots followed him, a fleshy shadow.
Blok came to Chesna’s chair. “Ah, my dear girl!” he said, and bent down to kiss her cheek. “How are you? You look lovely! Your new film is almost out, yes?” Chesna said it was imminent. “And it’ll be a tremendous smash and give us all a boost, won’t it? Of course it will.” His gray-eyed gaze-the eyes of a lizard, Michael thought-found Baron von Fange. “Ah, and here’s the lucky man!” He approached Michael, held out his hand, and Michael rose to shake it. Boots stood behind Blok, staring at the baron. “Von Fange, isn’t it?” Blok asked. His handshake was loose and damp. He had a long, narrow nose and a pointed chin. His close-cropped brown hair swirled with gray at temples and forehead. “I met a Von Fange in Dortmund last year. Was that a member of your family?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. My father and uncles travel all over Germany.”
“Yes, I met a Von Fange.” Blok nodded. He released Michael’s hand, leaving it feeling as if Michael had gripped something oily. Blok had bad teeth; the front lower teeth were all silver. “I can’t remember his first name, though. What’s your father’s name?”
“Leopold.”
“That’s a noble name! No, I can’t quite recall.” Blok was still smiling, but it was an empty smile. “And tell me this: why isn’t a strapping young man like you part of the SS? With your heritage, I could easily get you an officer’s commission.”
“He picks tulips,” Sandler said. His voice was getting a little slurred, and he held his wineglass out to be refilled.
“The Von Fange family has cultivated tulips for over fifty years,” Chesna spoke up, offering information from the German social registry. “Plus they own very fine vineyards and bottle their private labels. And thank you for bringing that to Colonel Blok’s attention, Harry.”
“Tulips, eh?” Blok’s smile had grown a bit cooler. Michael could see him thinking: perhaps this wasn’t SS material after all. “Well, Baron, you must be a very special man to have swept Chesna off her feet like this. And such a secret she was keeping from her friends! Trust an actress to be an actress, yes?” He directed his silver smile at Chesna. “My best wishes to you both,” he said, and moved on to greet the man who sat at Michael’s left.