The Master Sniper by Stephen Hunter
He tried not to think of After. It would come when it came. If you looked too far ahead you got in trouble, he knew for a fact. Now, there was only room for the operation.
Across the street, he saw a small park, green under arched elms, and in it benches and gym apparatus for children. Strange that it was so green so early; but then, was it early? What was the date? He’d been keyed to the surrender, not the date. He thought hard: he knew he’d crossed the bridge into Konstanz May 4; then he’d been sealed up with Margareta—how long? It seemed a month. No, only three days; today then was May 7. Yet the pale sun had urged bud growth out of the trees and lay in pools on the grass, which itself was green and not the thatchy stuff of earlier.
In the park, two blond children played on the teeter-totter. Repp watched them idly. Surely they were Swiss: but for just a moment he saw them as German. Uncharacteristically, he began to feel morbid and sentimental about children. Today of all days. Yet these two beauties—real Aryan stock, chubby, red-cheeked—really represented something to him: they were what might have been. We tried to give you a clean, perfect world, he told them. That awesome responsibility—a major cleaning action, Grossauberungsaktionen—had fallen to his generation. Hard, difficult work. But necessary. And so close, so damned close! It filled him with bitterness. So much accomplished, then pfft, gone up in smoke. The big Jews had probably finally stopped it. Repp almost wept.
“A pretty boy and girl, eh, Herr Peters?”
Repp turned. Was this Felix? He hadn’t used the approach code. Repp looked at a man about his own age, with acne-pitted face, in a pinstriped suit. Felix? Yes, Repp had been shown a picture of the same fellow in Berlin. Felix was just the code name; he was really a Sturmbannführer Ernst Dorfman of Amt Via, SD Foreign Intelligence.
“Hansel and Gretel,” said Felix. “A fairy tale.”
“Yes, beauties,” agreed Repp.
“May I sit?”
Repp nodded coldly.
“Oh. Forgive my manners: did you get the Tuttlingen Signature?”
“Without difficulty.”
“Excellent.” Felix smiled, and then confided, “A silly game, no? Like a novel. In Berlin, they think business like that is important.” His cool eyes showed amusement. But the man’s cavalier attitude bothered Repp. “And how was the trip?”
“Not without difficulties.”
“Yet you made good time.”
“The schedule was designed around maximum time allowances. I came through in minimum.”
“And how was the woman?”
“Fine,” he said.
“Yes, I’ll bet you had pleasant hours with that one. She was pointed out to me once. You aces, you always get to go first-class, don’t you?”
“The car?” Repp asked.
“Christ, you’re a firebreather. Still trying to make Standartenführer, eh? But this way.”
Repp did not at all like to hear the word Standartenführer thrown so casually into a public conversation, but there were in fact no other customers within earshot of the table. He stood with Felix and pulled some money out of his pocket. But he had no idea how much to leave.
“Two francs would do nicely, Herr Peters,” Felix said.
Repp stared stupidly at the strange coins in his hand. Now what the hell? Finally, he dumped two of the big ones on the table and followed Felix.
“That’s quite a tip you left the fellow, Herr Peters,” said Felix. “He can send a son to Kadettenanstalt on it.”
They crossed the street and walked along some shop fronts and then turned down a smaller street. An Opel, black, pre-war, gunned into life. Its driver turned as they approached.
Repp got in the back.
“Herr Peters, my associate, Herr Schultz.”
He was a young man, early twenties, with eager eyes and an open smile.
“Hello, hello,” said Repp.
“Sir, I was with SS-Wiking in Russia before I was wounded. We all heard about you.”
“Thanks,” said Repp. “How far to Appenzell?”
“Three hours. We’ve got plenty of time. You’d best try and relax.”
They pulled from the curb and in minutes Schultz had them out of the town. They took Road No. 13 south, following the coast of the Bodensee. It shimmered off to the left, its horizon lost in haze, while on the right tidy farms were set far back from the road on rolling hills. Occasionally Repp would see a vineyard or a neatly tended orchard. They soon began to pass through little coastal towns, Münsterlingen with its Benedictine nunnery, and Romanshorn, a larger place, with a ferry and boatyards; beyond, a fine view of the Appenzell Alps, blue and brooding, was disclosed; and then Arbon, which boasted a castle and a fancy old church—
“The Swiss could do with an autobahn,” said Felix.
“Eh?” said Repp, blinking.
“An autobahn. These roads are too narrow. Very funny, the Swiss, they won’t spend a penny unless they have to. No grand public buildings. Not interested in politics at all, or philosophy.”
“I saw them dancing in the streets,” said Repp, “because the war was over.”
“Because the markets will be open, rather,” said Felix, “and they can go back to being the clearinghouse of nations. They do not believe in anything except francs. Not idealists like us.”
“I assume we can chat as if we are at a reception following a piano concert because all the necessary details have been attended to,” Repp said.
“Of course, Herr Peters,” said Felix.
“The weapon is—”
“Still in its case. Unopened. As per instructions.”
“You’re not known to British or American Intelligence?”
“Oh, I’m known. Everybody in Switzerland knows everybody else. But as of the thirtieth I became uninteresting to them. They expected me to politely put a bullet through my skull. They’d rather pay attention to their new enemies, the Russians. That’s where all the activity is now. I’m a free man.”
“But you were nevertheless cautious in your preparations?”
“Herr Obersturmbannführer, an incautious man does not last any longer in my profession than in yours. And I’ve lasted since 1935. Here, Lisbon, Madrid during the Civil War, a time in Dublin. Buenos Aires. I’m quite skilled. Do you want details? None of our part of the operation was set up through code channels; rather it was all done via hand-carried instructions, different couriers, different routes. Lately, I haven’t trusted the code machines. And I had a ticket to B.A. out of Zurich last Saturday. Which I took. I got as far as Lisbon, where another agent took my place. I returned, via plane to Italy and then train through the Brenner Pass. I haven’t been in Zurich for nearly a week. We’ve been staying in the Hotel Helvetia in Kreuzlingen, on Swiss passports such as yours. All right?”
“My apologies,” said Repp.
Repp lit a cigarette. He noticed that they’d turned inland. There was no more water to be seen and now, ahead through the windshield, the Alps seemed to bulk up majestically, much nearer than when first he’d observed them.
“The last town was Rorschach, Herr Peters,” said the young driver. “Now we’re headed toward St. Gallen, and then to Appenzell.”
“I see,” said Repp.
“Pretty, the mountains, no?” said Felix.
“Yes. Though I’m not from mountainous territory. I prefer the woods. How much further in time?”
“Two hours, sir,” said the driver. Repp saw his warm eyes in the mirror as the young man peeked at him.
“I think I ought to grab some sleep. Tonight’ll be a long one.”
“A good idea,” said Felix, but Repp had already dozed off into quick and dreamless sleep.
“Herr Obersturmbannführer, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
He awakened roughly. The driver was shaking him. He could see that the car was inside something. “We’re here.
We’re here.”
Repp came fully awake. He felt much better now.
The car was in a barn—he smelle
“Vampir?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Repp walked to the barn door, which was ajar, and looked out. They were partially up a mountain, at the very highest level of cultivation. He looked down across a slope of carefully tended fields and meadows and could see the main road several miles away.
“It seems desolate enough,” he said.
“Yes, owned by an old couple. We bought it from them at an outrageous price. I tell you, I never worked an operation with such a budget. We used to have to account for every paper clip. Now: you need a farm, you buy a farm! Somebody sure wants those little Jew babies dead.”
Repp walked out of the barn and around its corner, to follow the slope upward. The fields ended abruptly a few hundred meters beyond, giving way to forest, which mantled the rest of the bulk of the mountain, softening its steepness and size. Yet he still knew he was in for some exercise. The best estimates, based on aerial survey photos, put the distance between himself and the valley of the Appenzell convent roughly twenty kilometers, rough ground through mountain forest the whole way, up one side of it, around, and then down the other. He flipped his wrist over to check his watch: 2:35 P.M. Another six or seven hours till nightfall.
Repp shook the lethargy out of his bones. He had some walking to do, with Vampir along for the ride. He calculated at least five hours on the march, which would get him to his shooting position by twilight: vitally important. He needed at least a glimpse of the buildings in the light so that he could orient himself and calculate allowances on his field of fire, the limits to his killing zone.
Repp stabbed out his cigarette and returned inside.
He took off the tie, threw it in the car, and peeled off the jacket, folding it neatly. He changed into his mountain boots, a pair of green-twill drill trousers and a khaki shirt. Then he put on the Tiger jacket, the new one, from the workshops at Dachau, its crisp patterns, green on paler green, flecked with brown and black. But Repp had vanity too: against regulations, he’d indulged in one of the traditions of the Waffen SS and had the German eagle and swastika sewn onto his left sleeve.
Against whose regulations? he wondered. For now not only did he represent the Waffen SS, he was the Waffen SS: he was what remained of thirty-eight divisions and nearly half a million men, heroes like Max Seela and Panzer Meyer and Max Simon and Fritz Christen and Sepp Dietrich and Theodor Eicke; and Totenkopf, and Das Reich and Polzei and Liebstandarte and Wiking and Germania and Hohenstauffen and Nord and Prinz Eugen, the divisions themselves, Frundsberg and Hitlerjugend: gone, all gone, under the earth or in cages waiting to be hanged by Russians or Americans: he alone was left of this army of crusaders, he was chief of staff and intelligence and logistics and, most important, the men, the dead men. It was an immense legacy, yet its heaviness pleased him. Better me than most. I can do it. A simple thing now, move and shoot. After Russia all things have seemed easy, and this last mission will be easiest of all.
“Herr Obersturmbannführer?” The young driver stood looking at him as he snapped the last of the buttons.
“Yes?”
“Sir, wouldn’t it be safer to travel in civilian clothes, in hiker’s kit? That way, if—”
“No matter what I’m wearing, I’ll have that”—he pointed to a table, on which Felix now had arranged the weapon components, gleaming with oil—“which no hiker would carry. But I won’t run into anybody. Dense forest, high in the mountains, far from climbing and hiking trails. And this is a day of celebration, people everywhere are dancing, drinking, making love. They won’t be poking about.”
“But the boy has a good point,” called Felix, “after all—”
“And finally, this is no SD operation. It’s the last job of Totenkopfdivision, of the Waffen SS. I’m no assassin, gone to murder. I’m an officer, a soldier. This is a battle. And so I’ll wear my uniform.”
“Well,” said Felix wearily, “it’s your funeral, not ours.”
“No,” said Repp. “It won’t be my funeral.”
He went over; he could see smudge marks from Felix’s fingers on the sheen of the cool, oily metal of the rifle components; these somehow bothered him.
“Of course it has not been opened until just now?”
He knew Felix was giving the driver a look of disbelief, but he heard the voice ring out, though without conviction, “Just as we were instructed.”
Repp assembled the rifle quickly, threading the gas piston, operating handle and spring guide into the receiver, inserting the bolt camming and locking units, forcing the pin into the hinge at the trigger unit pivot, and locking the whole together. It took seconds. Then, without ceremony, he loaded each of the six magazines, thirty rounds apiece, with the special subsonic ammunition with the spherical bullet heads. He set the rifle and clips aside, and checked off the connections and wiring in the electro-optical pack. Finally, after examining it closely for defects and finding none, he locked the night scope itself with its infrared lamp to the zf.4 mount on the receiver of the STG-44, using the special wrench. Turning the bulky weapon sideways, he edged a magazine into the housing, feeling it fit into the tolerances; then with a sharp slap from the heel of his palm he drove the magazine home, hearing it snap in as the spring catch hooked.
“You look like a doctor getting ready to operate,” said Felix.
“It’s just a tool, that’s all, a modified rifle,” Repp responded, uneasy at the man’s apparent awe of the equipment. “Now help me with this damned thing.”
He put on the battle harness, with canteen and pouches for the magazines, and over that fitted the instrument rack. Felix and the youngster helped lift the thing into position, and he stepped into it like a coat, pulling the straps tight. He stepped away from them, taking the full weight.
“Christ, that’s a heavy bastard. Will you make it?” asked Felix.
“I’ll make it all right,” said Repp grimly, as he looped the sling on the rifle over his shoulder. One last glance at his watch; it was 2:45 P.M.
“Sir?” The driver. He held something bright out. “For you. For afterward.”
Repp took it: Swiss chocolate, wrapped in green foil.
“Thanks. Breakfast. A good idea.” He dropped it in the pocket of the Tiger coat, then stepped away from the table, taking the full heft of the rifle for the first time. He felt the blood drain from his face with the effort. A hand touched his shoulder.
“Are you all right?” Felix asked.
“And if I’m not, you’ll go?” Repp said. “No, I’m fine, just have to get used to the weight. I’ve been living too soft lately.”
“Too many Fräuleins,” said the irritating Felix.
Repp left the barn, into the sunlight, blinking. Already he could sense his body growing used to the weight.
Quickly the trees swallowed Repp. He moved among them in plunging, deliberate strides, a manifesto of purposefulness. But already the straps cut into him. Sweat broke out on his skin. His muscles became warm and fluid in the effort and he knew—from Russia—that if one pushed hard enough, if one had enough resolve, enough need, enough concentration, one reached a stage beyond pain, where great feats of endurance and stamina were possible. Repp knew he needed greatness today; he needed everything he had, and then more, and he was prepared to offer it. He was quite cheerful at this stage, full of confidence, hungry for the test, alert and content.
He forced his way through the underbrush, not looking back at all. He knew that higher, where the air was thinner, this rough new forest of elm and oak and a thousand tangles would give way to an ancient one of virgin pine, somewhat like the interior of the Schwarzwald. The travel would be much easier then, through solemn ranks of trees on pine-needle-packed dust which would billow up in great clouds, catching in the slanting sunlight as he rushed along. But that was hours away still; now, only this thick green stuff, sticky with sap and gum, every step of the way urging
He forged ahead, fighting the increase in the incline, sidestepping where possible, climbing over where not, the clumps of rocks that began to sprout in his way. As he rose along the mountain the forest began a gradual change; he almost didn’t notice it and could pick no one moment when it had one character and another when it had a different one; or perhaps a cloud, far above, had sealed off the sun. At any rate, it ceased soon to be a jungle; the trees, though more majestic, were farther apart; denseness gave way to longer, gloomier perspectives; that sense of tropical green light, opaque chlorophyll in the sun, vanished in a darker pall. He felt as if he were in a cellar, clammy cool, tubed and catacombed, a jumble of ambiguous shadows, pools of abstract blackness, sheer thrusts of light at unexpected points where a gap in the canopy admitted the sun. The trees grew huge and gnarled. The undergrowth remained but now it fought its way through a carpet of decomposition, matted leaves, vegetable matter returning to the gunk of creation. There was a splendor in this dark vision, but Repp was in no frame of mind to enjoy it. He concentrated on movement, on pace, though once in a while reached with relief a flatter place where the mountain itself seemed to pause in its race upward.