Stephen Hunter - The Master Sniper

“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.

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?”