Stephen Hunter - The Master Sniper

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 smelled hay and cows and manure. Felix, in the corner, labored over something, a trunk, Repp thought.

“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.