The Master Sniper by Stephen Hunter
“Get on with it.”
“The arrangement holds that the boy must survive the war. He is to be delivered to the bank and identified by fingerprints. It made sense, because the boy would be raised in Palestine, far from any battles. It was only to make sure the boy didn’t get somehow lost in a shuffle.”
“But the war broke out,” Leets added. In his mind he could see the Zionists stuck in the middle of Switzerland, in the middle of Nazi territory, with the boy who was the key to their future. “And so they left him there.”
“You have grasped the essence.”
“Kill him and there’s no money for the Jews.”
“No. And this is how I was brought into it. I was considered an expert in finding Jews.”
“I see.”
“I supervised the search team. It was not easy. It was very difficult. An agent of ours, one Felix, operated under my direct control. Painstakingly we tracked the rumors, the lies, the missing trails.”
“And again, success.”
“He heard of a place, a convent, the Order of Saint Teresa, in the canton of Appenzell in the foothills of the Alps, in northeastern Switzerland. There were said to be Jews there, Jew children, whose parents had somehow gotten them out. But the nuns were very frightened. Very secretive. It took us more weeks until … until this.”
He held up the draydel.
“Felix got it from the caretaker, an alcoholic old man. In exchange for a small sum of money. It’s very old, unique. It had been passed down in their family for generations, father to son. It was identified by an inmate in the concentration establishment Auschwitz, a former member of the Hirsczowicz household. It proved to us the child was there. It made our operations feasible. Both of them.”
“Both?” said Leets, feeling his stomach begin to grow cold. Was there some aspect they had no idea of, some part of it they’d not come across, that was this very second beginning?
“There is another man, a German agent in Spain. A long-term chap. He has wonderful papers. Authentic papers, in fact, and neighbors to vouch for him and a whole set of references, a most impressive documentation. All identifying him as Stepan Hirsczowicz. A cousin. Long lost. The papers are quite real; they were taken from a real Stepan Hirsczowicz, who died at Mauthausen.”
Leets saw it now: the final twist.
“And so you get the money.”
“Yes. Early on, the plan was to bring it straight into the Reich, a matter of simple transfer, no difficulties. But then we began to see how the war would turn out. It was the Reichsführer’s idea, quite brilliant. All that money, clean, untouched, money that had never been in the Reich, never been associated with it. And he knew that after the war it could have its uses. All kinds of uses. It would be for the SS men who had gotten out, or were in hiding, or for this, or for that. It was a wonderful opportunity. It was really wonderful.”
And Leets understood how important it was to them: he saw now how a modern state, as it died, could totally invest its resources into the murder of one child. It wasn’t astounding at all, really; he felt no sense of anticlimax, of being let down.
He fingered the draydel: what a route it had traveled, what a long, sad journey. From the father, Josef, to the boy, Michael: a symbol of a father’s love. It’s all I can give you. I have no other, here. I would give anything, everything, to save you, but I have only this. Then it had gone to the caretaker, and then to the killers. To Felix and then to this smarmy creep here in the room with them and then to the big cheese Himmler, and Pohl’s greasy little fingers had probably gotten onto it. Then, finally, to Repp’s cold hands. A great miracle has happened.
“A bomb would be chancy, I suppose,” said Outhwaithe. “Any kind of elaborate commando mission difficult to mount in a neutral country. Thus it’s got to be one man, one good man.”
“And there was a special problem that made Repp the inevitable selection,” Eichmann explained bloodlessly. “The nuns keep the children in the cellar all the time.”
“They must bring them out at night.”
“For half an hour in the courtyard at midnight…. It’s behind a wall. But a man with a rifle could reach it from the mountain.
“There would be twenty-six of them, right? In all?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“So he doesn’t have to worry about hitting the right one.”
“No, Major. That’s the beauty of it. He doesn’t have to know. He’ll kill them all.”
“What do they call it? The gun, I mean.”
“Vampir.”
“Vampire,” Leets said in English.
“They had great trouble with the weight. Vollmerhausen worked very hard on the weight. It had to be light, because Repp had to carry it around the mountain. There were no roads.”
“How did they solve it?”
“The technical aspects I’m not sure of. It has to do with the sun. He exposes a plate to sunlight, and it makes the light-sensitive elements more potent. Thus he needs less power, and can carry a smaller battery. It’s very ingenious.”
“How much money will Repp get?” Tony asked.
“How did you know?” Eichmann said.
“Come now, we’re not that stupid. If there’s all that money at stake, he’s not going to be the only chap risking his neck and do it for the pure ideological pleasure.”
“He was coy. He pretended not to be interested. He said it was his bequest to the fallen. The German fallen. And so the Reichsführer pressed him. He did not have to press hard.”
“How much?”
“A million. Million, U.S. If he succeeds, he gains the world.”
He sat back.
“There. That’s it. I sold you Repp. That’s everything.”
“Not quite. When?”
“I said I didn’t know.”
“You know,” said Leets. “Everything you’ve told us is meaningless unless you tell us when.”
“I have violated every oath I ever took this afternoon.”
“I don’t give a fuck for your oaths. When? When?”
“It’s a trump card. I want a letter, saying how helpful I’ve been. Address it to the commandant here. Already, certain groups have been sent back to a large PW camp, where surely they will be set free at first convenience. I only want to go there. I’ve done no wrong.”
“You were playing for this. To bring us all the way, except for this, weren’t you?”
The German officer gazed at him levelly. “I’m not a stupid fellow either.” He even had a pen and paper ready.
“I wouldn’t,” Tony said. “We don’t know what this bird’s up to. We’ll find out soon enough. There’s got to be records—”
But Leets scrawled a brief note To Whom It Concerned, testifying to the German’s outstanding moral character. He handed it over, signed, dated.
“Thank you,” said Eichmann.
“Now: when?”
“A night when he can move with absolute freedom. A night when countermoves are impossible. A night when nobody is thinking of war.”
Leets stared at him.
Roger burst in, shrieking. He danced past the German, knocking him to one side, and grabbed Leets up in a wild do-si-do and in a croaking babble informed them the sky was full of airplanes, the booze was gurgling, the laughter building.
“Reams. Reams,” he cried.
Reams of what? Paper? Leets thought in confusion.
“I got a date,” Roger shouted, “a real pretty girl.”
“Roger,” Leets yelled.
“It’s over, fucking World War Number Two, over, they signed the surrender at Rheims, we missed it on the road.”
Leets looked beyond the boy to Eichmann, who sat, composed and grim, and then beyond Eichmann, and out the door, and in the wall there was a window. Tony was rising beside him urgently, calling for the MP to take the German back, and Roger said he was in love, he was in love, and out the window Leets noted the setting of the sun and the coming of the German night.
28<
Repp came out of sleep fast: gunfire.
He rolled from the bed and moved quickly to the window. A glance at his watch told him it was still before nine. Margareta, her blond hair unkempt, one thin bare leg hanging out, stirred grumpily under the covers.
Repp could see nothing in the bright light. The crackle of guns rubbed raggedly against his ears again, a messy volley. A battle? He recalled something about the German soldiers turning themselves in today. Perhaps a few had decided on more honorable action, and war had come at last to Konstanz. But then he realized what must be happening: a cold finger pressed for just a second against his heart.
He snapped on the radio. Nothing on Radio Deutschland. Broadcast not scheduled till noon. He fiddled with the dial, picking up excited jabber in English and Italian, which he didn’t understand.
Finally, he encountered a French-speaking station. He knew the phrase from 1940. He’d seen it chalked on walls then, a fantasy, a dream.
A nous la victoire.
To us, victory.
They were playing “The Marseillaise.” He turned it off as Margareta lifted her head, face splotchy from sleep. A breast, pink-tipped and vague, swung free as she rose from the covers.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s time to go,” he said.
He was eight hours ahead of Leets.
Repp checked the mirror once again. Gazing back at him was a prosperous, sleek civilian, freshly bathed and shaved, hair brilliantined back, crisp carnation of breast-pocket handkerchief, neat tie on glossy white shirt under exquisitely tailored suit coat. He had trouble recognizing this image as his own, the cheeks so rosy, the eyes set in a pink bland face.
“You look like a cinema star,” she said. “I didn’t realize how handsome you were.”
Yet he could see the lights playing off his forehead where the sweat had begun to accumulate in beads, high and moist. The border was coming up, the nightmare passage.
“Repp. One last time,” she said. “Stay. Or get across and go somewhere safe. But best, stay with me. There’s some kind of future here, somewhere, I know there is. Children even.”
He sat down on the bed. He felt exhausted. He tried to press images of prying border guards and intensive interrogations out of his mind. He noted that his hands were trembling. He knew he had to go to the toilet.
“Please, Repp. It’s all over now. It’s done, finished.”
“All right,” he said weakly.
“You’ll stay?” she said.
“It’s just too much. I’m not meant for this kind of thing, for playing other people. I’m a soldier, not an actor.”
“Oh, Repp. You make me so happy.”
“There, there,” he said.
“So gallant. So damned gallant, your generation. You had so much responsibility, and you carried it so well. Oh, God, I think I’m going to start crying again. Oh, Repp, I also feel like laughing. It’ll be fine, I know it will, it’ll work out for the best.”
“I know it will too, Margareta,” he said. “Of course I do. It’ll all be fine.”
He went to her.
“I want you to know,” he said, “I want you to know an extraordinary thing. The most extraordinary thing in my life: that I love you.”
She smiled, though crying.
She dabbed at her messy face.
“I look so awful. All wet, hair a mess. Please, this is so wonderful. I’ve got to clean up. I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“You are beautiful,” he said.
“I must clean up,” she said, and turned and stepped for the door.
He shot her in the base of the skull and she pitched forward into the hall. He himself felt awful, and he was trying to be kind.
She didn’t know, he told himself. Not for one second did she know.
Now all the trails were dead and there were no links between Repp and the private and Herr Peters.
Repp moved her to the bed and delicately put the sheets over her. He threw the pistol in the cellar and washed his hands. He checked his watch. It was almost nine.
He stepped bravely out, blinking in the sun.
The French private, glum because his comrades were drunkenly shooting up central Konstanz, demanded Repp’s passport. Repp could see the boy was sullen, presumably stupid, and would therefore be inclined to mistakes. He handed over the document, smiling mildly. The boy retreated to a table where a sergeant sat while Repp waited near the gate. Here, the German side, the arrangements were more imposing, a concrete blockhouse, gun emplacements and sandbags. But this formal military layout seemed a little idiotic now that it was manned only by a few Frenchies rather than a platoon of German frontier policemen.
“Mein Herr?”
Repp looked up. A French officer stood there.
“Yes? What is it?” Repp demanded.
“Could you step over here, please?” The man spoke bad German.
“Is something the matter?”
“This way, please.”
Repp took a deep breath and followed him over.
“I have a train to catch. The noon train. To Zurich,” he said.
“This will only take a moment.”
“I’m a Swiss citizen. You have my passport.”
“Yes. The first I’ve seen. What business did you have in Germany?”
“I’m a lawyer. It was a matter of getting a fellow’s signature on a document. In Tuttlingen.”
“And how was Tuttlingen?”
“Loud. The Americans came. There was a battle.”
“At the bridge, yes.”
“It was very frightening.”
“How did you get from Konstanz to Tuttlingen?”
“I hired a private car.”
“I thought petrol was all but impossible to find.”
“The man I hired took care of that. I paid a fortune, but I don’t know anything about it.”
“Why do you look so uneasy?”
Repp realized he wasn’t doing well. He thought his heart would burst or shatter in his chest. He tried not to swallow or blink.
“I don’t care to miss my train, Herr Hauptmann.”
“Use the French, please. Capitaine.”
Repp said the French word awkwardly.
“Yes, thanks.”
Repp knew he’d been a hair from calling the man Sturmbannführer, the SS word.
“May I go now?”
“And what’s your rush? Hurrying to get to the wonderful Swiss climbing?”
“There are avalanches this time of year, Captain.”
The captain smiled. “One other thing. I notice a curious designation on your passport. It’s the first Swiss one I’ve seen. Here, it says ‘R-A.’ What can that mean?”
Repp swallowed. “It’s an administrative category. I know nothing about it.”
“It means ‘Race—Aryan,’ doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know you Swiss went in for that sort of thing.”
“When you are a little country next to a big country, you try and make the big country happy.”
“Yes. Well, the big country is not too happy these days.”
How much longer would this last?
“But the Swiss are. The Swiss win every war, don’t they?”
“I suppose so, sir,” said Repp. His mouth tasted sour.
“Go on. This is ridiculous. Pass, get out of here.”
“Yes, sir,” Repp said, and scurried off.
It was like a sudden transit to wonderland: People pink and gay, crowding, chunky, prosperous. Just a few miles, a fence, a bitter officer overzealously guarding his gate and this, a whole other world—Kreuzlingen, Konstanz’s Swiss suburb. Repp struggled in the dangerous intoxication of it. He tried to locate deep within himself a primordial sense of righteousness, or abiding moral discontent. But he was too bedazzled by surface charms: goods brightly wrapped in shopwindows, chocolates and all kinds of foods, beautifully dressed women who were totally obliviou
No, the Swiss were celebrating war’s end too. Repp darkened as this knowledge made itself clear to him. A fat mama with two children seemed to materialize out of the crowd along the sidewalk.
“Isn’t it wonderful, mein Herr? No more killing. The war is finally done.”
“Yes, wonderful,” he agreed.
They had no right. They weren’t a part of it. They had not won a victory, they had not suffered a defeat. They had merely profited. It made him sick, but though he felt like a pariah among them, he pressed ahead, several blocks down the Hauptstrasse, into Kreuzlingen’s commercial center, then took the Bahnhofstrasse toward the station. He could see it ahead, not a huge place like the Berlin or the Munich monstrosities before the war, but prepossessing on its own scale, with glassed-in roof.
Glass!
All that unbroken glass, glittering whitely among the metal girders, acres of it. He blinked stupidly. Were there trains there that actually chugged through a placid countryside without fear of American or English gangsters swooping down to rain death from the sky? Almost in answer to this question, a whistle shrieked and a puff of white smoke rose.
A block yet from the Bahnhof itself, he arrived at an open-air cafe, the Café München.
They’ll change that name by noon, he thought.
A few tables were unoccupied. Repp chose one and sat down.
A waiter appeared, a man in white smock with attentive eyes. “Mein Herr?”
“Ah,” a little startled, “coffee, I think,” almost having said “real coffee.” The man withdrew instantly and reappeared in seconds with a small steamy cup.
Repp sat with it, letting it cool. He wished he could stop feeling nervous. He wished he could stop thinking about Margareta. All the hard business was over, why couldn’t he relax? Yet he could not seem to settle down. So many of the little things of the world seemed off: the Swiss were fatter, cheerier, their streets cleaner, their cars shinier. It was impossible to believe that with the money he’d be a part of all this. He could have a black shiny car and dress in a suit like this and have a thousand white shirts. He could have ten Homburgs, two hundred ties, a place in the country. He could have all that. What lay ahead was only the operation itself, and that was what he was best at.