The Hunt aka 27 (7 page)

As cold as Vierhaus obviously was, he stood outside the tea house and knocked. Hitler waved him in.

“My God it’s cold out there,” he complained as he burst through the door. “That trooper out there says it’s ten below freezing!”

He scrambled to the fire and im
m
ediately stood with his back to it, hiding the mound on his shoulder. He closed his eyes and shivered as the crackling flames warmed him.

“We’ll have to start a war in Africa, Willie, just so you can be comfortable,” Hitler said.

“Worse, much worse,” Vierhaus a
n
swered. “Dust. I think dust is worse than the cold.”

“Everybody to their own
discomfort
,” Hitler said. “Hans hates mud worse than cold. You hate dust worse than cold.”

“And you,
mein Führer,
what do you hate worse than cold?”

“Failure,” Hitler said.

“Sometimes they go together,” Vierhaus said. “Napoleon met both in Russia.”

“The trouble with the French is they always put more on their plate than they can eat,” Ingersoll said, fixing a sandwich.

“The trouble with the French is that they have no stomach for fighting,” Hitler added. “They’d rather make love than win a battle.”

“At the Somme I saw a whole battalion of infantry turn their backs on us and run,” Ingersoll said, nibbling on the sandwich and washing it down with a swallow of wine. “As far as the eye could see, nothing but French behinds.”

“A lovely sight, I’ll bet,” Vierhaus said and laughed.

“Absolutely beautiful,” Ingersoll answered.

“Probably running back to Paris to find a bottle of wine and a
Fräulein
for the night,” Hitler said, chuckling. “Can you believe they actually think their Maginot line will stop us. Ha! A concrete cow fence is going to stop the
Wehrmacht?
I can hardly wait for that day.”

He snipped off another piece of sausage and chewed it passionately, rolling the meat around on his tongue, sucking every gram of juice from it before swallowing.

“It’s beginning to snow, Führer,” Vierhaus said. “The plane from Berlin may have a problem landing in Linz.”

“I’m sure Hermann will not let his pilot turn back. The head of the
Luftwaffe
will not denied by a little snow.”

“Well, there is good news. Albert’s plane has landed. He is on his way up from the village at this very moment.”

“Splendid!”

“I left a message for him to come on down when he arrives. I trust that’s all right?” Vierhaus said.

“Yes, yes,” Hitler quickly agreed. “I am anxious for Speer and Hans here to get together. Two crea
t
ive geniuses matching wits, that should be stimulating.”

He stood up and joined Vierhaus in front of the fireplace, his back to the flames, his hands clasped behind his back.

“I had hoped Leni Riefenstah
l
could be here but she is finishing a film. When Leni is finishing a film she is as if.
. .
in a trance.”

“Fritz Lang thinks she’s one of the greatest cinematographers alive today,” Ingersoll said.

“One
of?” said Hitler. “She is
the
greatest cinematographer alive today. That is why she is the official cameraman of the Third Reich. Take Speer, for instance. Speer has majestic vision. It is impossible for him to think small. If I asked for a pebble he would deliver me a mountain.”

“I saw the Brown House this morning,” Ingersoll said. “It’s magnificent.”

“Tell him,” Hitler said. “He loves to be flattered, although he tries not to show it.”

“I hope he brings the Nuremberg model,” Vierhaus said. “Everything Albert does soars,” Hitler said. “He is my architect because he lifts Germany’s spirits. But the stadium at Nuremberg, it will be a symbol. I will promise you this, when we hold the rally to celebrate its completion, every German will know that the Third Reich is their des tiny.”

He stood in front of Ingersoll and clenched his fists tightly against his chest.

“You see, what I am talking about is pride,
Schauspieler.
Hitler is pride. Speer is pride. Wagner is pride.” He paused for effect, leaned an inch closer to Ingersoll. “Johann
Ingersoll
is pride.”

Now for the
pièce de résistance.

He leaned closer to Ingersoll, glancing for a moment at Vierhaus, then settling his hard, almost fevered stare on
Johann Ingersoll.

“I am sure you are familiar with th
e
Schutzsta
ff
el,
the SS, my personal elite corps. More powerful than the army, the SA, and the police all put together. Himmler is in charge. You have seen the uniform?”

“The black is very impressive,” Ingersoll said.

“You have brought great credit
t
o
the Fatherland,” Hitler went on. “It would be to my advantage, and I think to yours, if you would accept a commission in the
Schutzsta
f
fel.”

Ingersoll was stunned. “A commission? For doing what?”

“You will be my personal representative in the world of the arts. Wearing the uniform at official events will give the SS added prestige and respect. I was thinking perhaps
. . .
Colonel
Hans Wolfe.”

A colonel!
Ingersoll said to himself.
My
God, a colonel in Hitler s own elite corps.

“I am flattered,
mein Führer.”

“You will accept then?”

“With honor, sir!”

“Excellent! Willie, get me the Bible from that table over there. I will administer the oath pers
o
nally.”

“Yes,
mein Führer.”

Vierhaus got the Bible and handed it to Ingersoll. “Raise your right hand and repeat after me,” said Hitler. Ingersoll held the Bible in his left hand and raised his right. Hitler repeated the oath of the SS:

“I swear to thee Adolf Hitler,

As Führer and Chancellor of the German Reich,

Loyalty and bravery.

I vow to thee and to the superiors

Whom thou shalt appoint

Obedience unto death,

So help me God.”

Ingersoll repeated the entire oath verbatim.

Hitler smiled and held out his hand.

“Congratulations, Colonel. I will put you in touch with my personal tailor in Berlin. Your uniform will be my gift. Along with this.”

Hitler held his hand out. Vierhaus took a package from his coat pocket and gave it to him. It was wrapped as a present, a long slender box, about a foot long, four or five inches wide. Hitler offered it to Ingersoll.

“Congratulations,” he said with a s
m
ile. Yet, as Ingersoll met his gaze, he saw more than a smile. He saw pride. And he saw anticipation.

The actor slowly took the package in both hands and stared at it a moment. Subconsciously he hefted it once or twice, a throwback to his childhood when the heaviest gifts were always the best. It was heavy enough.

“Open it, open it,” Hitler said impatiently.

Ingersoll put it on the edge of the table and took off the wrapping paper. It was a mahogany box. Inside was a dagger, the official SS long knife, ebony handled with a gleaming double-edged blade almost a foot long scab
a
rded in black leather. On the hilt was the official SS insignia, two jagged lightning streaks in gold. He turned it over and on the opposite side of the handle was a golden eagle perched on a wreath which encircled a diamond-studded swastika. He drew the dagger from its scabbard. Just below the hilt, pressed into the steel, were the initials “A.H.”

Ingersoll was struck dumb. In a matter of moments he had been commissioned a colonel in the SS and presented with a personal gift signed by the Führer.

He looked at Hitler with adoration.

“I can tell you this now,” he stammered. “Although we have been keeping it a very guarded secret
,
I’ve
made five horror films in less than two years and frankly, I
w
ant to get away from these thrillers, play a dramatic part. Stretch my talent. We plan to have the world
premiere of
Der N
a
cht Hund
on
February twenty-seventh in the Kroll. On that night I plan to appear as myself and end this publicity charade. It’s become a terrible burden. Now I can go
as
Colonel
Hans
Wolfe. The publicity impact will be even greater!”

Hitler looked at Vierhaus for a mo
m
ent and pursed his lips.

Now is the time,
Hitler thought.
He i
s
ready.

Hitler began to stride the room, Lands behind his back, slapping a fist into the palm of his othe
r
hand. He stared at the ceiling of the room as he spoke.

“You have a unique combination of talents, my friend. You are a superb actor. You speak four languages fluently, you are a master of dialects and accents. You are a master of disguise, a soldier and a survivalist, an acrobat. You believe in the Third Reich. And
. .
you are a killer. Two squads of American Marines in one encounter, correct?”

He stopped and looked down at I
n
gersoll.

“Yes, Führer, that is correct.”

“Was it difficult? The killing, I mean?”

Ingersoll stared at him for a few seconds and smiled. “On the contrary, Führer, it was very satisfying,” he said.

“There, you see,” Hitler said, spreading his arms to his sides. “Unique talents. One of a kind. Did I tell you, Willie?”

“
Yes,
mein Führer,
you
told me,” Vierhaus agreed, accepting the fact that the plot had suddenly become Hitler’s.

“Is the Third Reich your dream, 1-lans?”

“Yes.”

“The most important thing in the world?”

“Yes.”

“More important than your career, even life itself?”

“Yes!”

Hitler poured himself another glass of wine. His gaze was riveted to Ingersoll’s. He sipped the wine and leaned forward again and nodded.

“I believe you. And I believe that if I told you I had an impossible mission to be performed, a mission requiring great personal sacrifice, one which would require giving up your name, your career,
your
fortune—everything—I
do
believe that if I asked you to take on such a mission, you would say yes.”

Ingersoll said nothing. Hitler’s words had put him in a near trance of ecstasy.

“Even if this mission meant living in a country you detest for years, six, seven, perhaps?”

Now Hitler leaned closer, his voice a whisper.

“Even if I tell you this mission is so secret that I cannot tell—
even
you—what
it will
be. Only the professor and I will know, until it is time for you to act. Even then I believe you would accept such an assignment.”

“It would be an honor even to be considered for such a task,” Ingersoll whispered back.

“Well, Hans Wolfe, so you are. You are the man I want to carry out that mission.”

Stunned, Ingersoll looked back and forth between the two men.

Is he serious,
he wondered.
Is this some kind of a test of my loyalty, my trust in him?

“There is within the SS a highly guarded unit called
Die Sechs Füchse,
the Six Foxes. It is headed by Professor Vierhaus. There are only five members, including himself. Each of the other four is a unique individual, like yourself. Each has been given a specific mission to perform. Each is known by a code name known only to Willie and myself. Even Himm
l
er does not know their identities or their individual objectives. There are no written reports and no records kept by the Six Foxes. The reason is that these missions are so sensitive, so secret, that we cannot afford even the slightest breach of security. The individuals themselves do not know the nature of the assignments. Obviously if they were caught and gave up the secret, that mission would have to be abandoned. And each of these missions is
vital
to the future of
Deutschland.”

“I understand,” Ingersoll said.

“The agents of Die
Sechs Füchse
report only to Vierhaus and he reports only to me. The particular assignment we have in mind for you would, in the event war is imminent with the United States, paralyze their war effort and neutralize them. It would, we are certain, keep the United States out of the war. In other words, Hans, this mission could directly affect the outcome of our struggle
. So, if you choose to accept and are su
c
cessful, you will be the single most important war hero in the history of the Third Reich.”

Ingersoll’s excitement flooded over. He began to speak but Hitler held up a finger.

“Before you say anything, Hans Wolfe, you must understand if you accept this job, both Hans Wolfe and Johann Ingersoll must die. You would become a man without an identity. A number.”

“A number?”

“Willie
……….
Hitler said.

“You would be known only as
Siebenundzwanzig.”

“Twenty-seven? Why twenty-seven?”

“You will understand in time,” Vierhaus said. “Between the three of us, we will shorten it to Swan. I would suggest that we move your personal fortune to Swiss banks, although you would have to promise never to draw money from these accounts until the mission is complete. Upon your death, your property would be sold and those funds, too, would be deposited in Switzerland. We cannot afford to establish the remotest kind of paper trail. Does that make sense?”

Almost in a state of shock, Ingersoll merely nodded.

“You will be trained in every facet of espionage, sabotage and survival,” Vierhaus continued. “When you are ready you will be the most competent agent in the German intelligence system. And then you would go underground until the time is right. And that, dear sir, could be,” and he paused before completing the sentence, “five to eight years from now.”

“What would I do for eight years?”

“Wait,” said Hitler. And then he smiled. A genuine, uncomplicated smile. “Become an American. A plain, insignificant American.”

Ingersoll could not speak. The awesome scope of Hitler’s proposal had short-circuited his thinking powers. Too much had happened in the last few minutes for him to rationally sort it all out. Only one thought was beginning to come through:
to become another person, in another country. What an acting job. The world’s
greatest
acting job.
. .