Codename Vengeance Read online

Chapter 13: Prague

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  Henrik brooded silently in the back seat of the Mercedes, looking out the window at the pitch darkness of the moonless night. All the world was darkness. It would never be light again. The sun would never rise. The Nazis had painted the universe a uniform black. He’d witnessed Sarah’s murder with his own eyes. He’d seen how remarkably easy it was for his fellow Germans to kill her. And he knew without the shadow of a doubt that Esther must also be dead. The only thing left for him to do now was follow her into oblivion. It was the final act of this farcical tragedy.

  As the sun rose over the Czechoslovakian countryside, Heydrich woke up and smiled at Henrik cordially. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he said and then ordered Klein to open the top. “I recently received a directive from Berlin advising me to add armor plating to my staff car and cease my practice of driving with the top down,” he explained as Klein stopped the car and put down the top. “But I have nothing to fear in this country. No Czech or Slav in his right mind would even think of harming me the reprisals would be so great. A thousand would die, no a million. Do you see the power of fear, Henrik?”

  Henrik did not respond. The man was a monster.

  “Oh, Henrik. Why so sour? It pains me to see you this way,” Heydrich taunted from the front seat as Klein got back in and started up the car. “You mustn’t blame yourself. You saved her from a truly horrible death. Better for her to die from a bullet to the brain than from poison gas.”

  Heydrich shook his head as if attempting to erase an unpleasant memory. “You should see the way those Jews climb on top of each other, grasping for every last moment of life. They are like animals. In the end, there is a pyramid of bodies up to the ceiling, with the oldest and youngest crushed to death at the bottom. For one such as your young Jewess, the final moments must be pure terror.”

  Henrik remembered what the guard had said about the little red house, the redbrick buildings. Showers, he called them. But they weren’t showers. They were something else. They were gas death traps. What kind of diabolical mind would devise a plan to kill people in such a way? It was madness.

  “And the smoke?” Henrik asked, trying to restrain his emotions.

  Heydrich looked back over his shoulder. “The smoke, yes. Terrible odor, isn’t it? That’s the main reason I avoid the camps as much as possible. The idea that a dead Jew is entering my body through my nostrils is truly repulsive, don’t you think? But we must dispose of the bodies somehow. I hear the ashes make good fertilizer.”

  Henrik struggled to understand. What he’d always known, or at least thought he’d know about the universe had been turned upside down. Germany, the nation he loved with all of his heart, had turned suffering, pain and death into an industry of diabolical efficiency. The piles of clothing, glasses, watches, teeth, hair. The showers. The ovens. It was inhumanity to the extreme.

  “How could the Fuhrer allow this to happen?” Henrik asked half to himself.

  “Allow?” Heydrich looked at Henrik with surprise and amusement. “He doesn’t allow this to happen. He is a great, great man. He makes it happen by the force of his invincible will. He is the architect of the final solution, and one day the entire world will be remade in his image. Imagine it, Henrik. A new world order of Ubermen, completely free from racial deficiency. The Aryan race will finally take its rightful place as rulers of the universe.”

  Henrik felt the Mercedes shake with the force of Heydrich’s oration. And then the Reichsprotektor’s voice lowered to barely a whisper. “Too bad you will not live long enough to see it happen.”

  “Neither will you,” Henrik responded bitterly, but it was vain threat.

  Heydrich laughed but did not press the issue further. He’d had his fun.

  “You have made me late, Herr Kessler.” Heydrich looked at his watch. “I am usually at Castle Prague by this hour, sipping a hot cup of black tea. Oh, but it will be a special morning, well worth the wait. Klein has been looking forward to this ever since you condemned his friend, Schliemann, to death with your lies. You could say that he is eager to return the favor. Very eager.”

  Klein gritted his teeth behind the wheel, sparing an evil glance back at Henrik. Henrik had no doubt that Klein would enjoy the interrogation to the fullest.

  As they entered the outskirts of Prague, Klein slowed down the Mercedes to negotiate the tight corners between the red-roofed townhouses. Prague was a beautiful city, quaint and baroque in architecture and yet modern at the same time, with electric trams and telephone lines crisscrossing the cobblestone streets. Heydrich breathed in the late spring air as if he were on a morning pleasure ride.

  “The run-down townhouse where we found you was registered to a Jew named Eli Jacobs, a former physics professor at the Wilhelm Kaiser Institute and close associate of Werner Heisenberg and Otto Hahn. That was my first clue, but I still needed more to reveal the full extent of this conspiracy, so I intervened on behalf of the Jacobs family and rerouted their transfers. The men I sent to Peenemunde to work on von Braun’s rockets. It was horrible, dangerous work that was sure to attract your attention. Eventually they were all transferred to Auschwitz, all except one. You should thank me, Henrik. I probably saved them months, perhaps years of suffering.”

  Henrik tensed up, straining against his cuffs until they dug painfully into his wrists. Heydrich watched the buildings pass by oblivious.

  “I was just on my way to pick up the final Jacobs girl. I don’t recall her name. Something Jewish.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded document. “But this, my friend, is a death warrant with her name on it.”

  Henrik screamed, yanking on the door handle until his wrists bled. Heydrich and Klein laughed heartily in the front seat and Heydrich stuffed the paper back in his inside jacket pocket. Klein slowed again to negotiate a sharp curve, and that was when the assassins struck. A man stepped boldly in front of the car and pulled back his white raincoat to reveal a Sten machine gun. Heydrich ducked instinctively, but the Sten jammed.

  “Stop the car!” Heydrich screamed, standing up and reaching for his Luger pistol. The would-be assassin was caught flat-footed with a broken gun in his hands. Heydrich aimed his pistol calmly. At this range, only a few yards, he could not miss. But before he could fire, another pedestrian stepped off the curb and hurled an object about the size of a soup can at the car. It struck the left fender and exploded loudly, popping the tire and blowing a large hole in Heydrich’s door. Henrik, still cuffed to the door handle, watched the frantic events unfold as if he were at the cinema.

  When the smoke cleared, Heydrich realized the second assassin had also missed his target. In a rage, he kicked open the broken door and vaulted out of the car, firing wildly with his Luger as he went. The bomber dropped his brown valise and fired back with a small Colt 32. Henrik recognized the distinctive rapport. Meanwhile, Klein had already jumped out of the driver’s seat and was bounding off in mad pursuit of the other unlucky assassin with the jammed Sten gun.

  Just as it looked like things were going terribly wrong for the assassins, Heydrich collapsed up against the staff car, blood soaking through his shirt. Had he been wounded by the bomb or shot? Henrik couldn’t tell. But either way, he was delighted. Klein had the opposite reaction. Giving off his pursuit of the fleeing unarmed assassin, he ran back to the aid of the obergruppenfuhrer.

  “No! Get him!” Heydrich screamed, stemming the flow of blood with a handkerchief. Klein seemed to hesitate, but Heydrich pushed him on. “It’s just a flesh wound, you fool. Get him!”

  Klein stood up and looked down the street. By now the unarmed assassin had disappeared into a narrow alleyway, so Klein turned his attention to the fleeing bomber who was still in sight. Reckless of his own safety, he sprinted down the two-lane roadway firing as he ran.

  Henrik was suddenly alone in the back seat of the Mercedes. It was now o
r never. He put his full weight into the door handle, ignoring the pain, his blood pumping with adrenalin. All at once, something gave. The door handle broke with a satisfying snap. Heydrich looked up at the noise and for a split second, their eyes met. Heydrich aimed his Luger and before Henrik could even flinch, pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Heydrich had unwittingly emptied his pistol at the fleeing assassin. He swore angrily and searched his pockets for more ammo. Henrik didn’t wait to see if he had any. Charging forward like a bull, he speared Heydrich with his head. The wounded obergruppenfuhrer grunted, and fell backwards, smashing his skull on the pavement. The empty Luger fell from his hand and rattled on the pavement.

  Heydrich was out cold, maybe dead. Henrik didn’t have time to find out which. Bending over backwards, Henrik began searching Heydrich’s pockets for the keys to the handcuffs. He found Esther’s death warrant instead. He took it out and continued searching. After a few more frustrating seconds, he found the keys and popped open the cuffs.

  He paused just long enough to grab Esther’s death warrant before racing off at a full sprint. It was foolish to go after a killer like Klein without a gun, very foolish, but he couldn’t let him kill the man who had just saved his life. He rounded the corner just in time to catch the tail end of their desperate gunfight—Klein’s heavy Luger against the assassin’s soft-sounding Colt 32.

  The firing stopped when both men ran out of ammo. Henrik couldn’t tell if either man was wounded. Then he saw the assassin duck into an alley with Klein right behind him. Henrik would have to hurry. Klein was a powerful man and would make quick work of his prey if he caught him. Henrik couldn’t allow that to happen. He ran into the alley after them and saw Klein towering over a motionless figure in a gray raincoat. Was he too late?

  “Klein!” Henrik yelled, his angry voice echoing between the stone buildings.

  Klein looked at Henrik and smiled. “Since when does the rabbit chase the lion. You were very foolish not to run away when you had the chance.” He kicked the body on the ground, causing the man to groan, and then turned to face Henrik with eager delight. Henrik stepped forward, remembering the blow Klein had landed earlier, and feinted to his left. Klein fell for it, striking out with a powerful right cross. Klein was blindingly quick, but he overcommitted himself early. Shifting his weight, Henrik dodged the blow and landed one of his own, a knee to the man’s groin. Klein staggered back, but he did not fall.

  “You’ll pay for that,” he said.

  Henrik feinted to his left again, but now Klein was onto him. He shot out a short jab, grazing Henrik’s forehead and then another that boxed his ear. He was zeroing in on his target like a high altitude attack bomber, and with his reach advantage, Henrik couldn’t even touch him, at least not with his fist. Henrik kicked at Klein’s knee. The sergeant absorbed the blow, gritting his teeth, and then caught Henrik with a round house that rang his bell. Henrik shook his head, trying to stay in the game. Klein sensed his advantage and moved in for the kill. But that was okay with Henrik. He’d had enough of the boxing match.

  Before Klein could level another punch, Henrik shot forward in a crouch and grabbed Klein’s lead leg. The big man wobbled awkwardly. Unable to use his primary weapons in close quarters, he seemed at a loss for what to do. Klein was a champion boxer, but he was no wrestler. Fortunately, Henrik was. He swiveled around Klein’s big thigh and dug his elbow into his kidney. This was enough to push Klein off balance. With a grunt, all 250 pounds came crashing down on the nearby garbage cans. Henrik reigned down a veritable hailstorm of quick jabs that forced Klein to roll over onto his stomach to save his face from being pulverized like chopped steak. Henrik stood up and put his full weight into a devastating knee to Klein’s already sore kidney.

  Klein howled.

  He wouldn’t die from his injuries but he was basically immobilized and he’d be pissing blood for a week. Henrik heard sirens in the distance and then the assassin stirred behind the overturned garbage cans.

  “Come on, soldier.” Henrik helped him to his feet. “We have to clear out. Can you run? Do you have a car?”

  Klein had beaten him up pretty badly, but he shook it off. “This way,” he said with a thick Czech accent. He paused a second to give Klein one last kick in the ribs and then hobbled off down the alley. Henrik liked him already.

  They passed through several streets checking over their shoulders as they went and trying not to attract too much attention. The Czech assassin was bleeding from his forehead and walked with a limp, but the good citizens of Prague paid him no mind as they headed out of their quaint red-roofed apartments to start their daily activities. After three years of occupation, they were used to looking the other way. Henrik hoped they were also good at lying to the SD agents that were likely to show up at any moment and start questioning them about two fugitives, one a Czech in a gray raincoat and the other a rather disheveled SS officer.

  After running through the streets of Prague for nearly half an hour, they came to a small butcher shop with chickens and turkeys hanging skinned and bloody in the window. By now, the sound of sirens and roaring engines had become a full orchestra. News of the assassination attempt must have gone out to every German military and paramilitary organization in Czechoslovakia. In minutes, Prague would be crawling with armed guards hell-bent to catch Heydrich’s would-be assassins.

  The Czech had taken them on a very circuitous route to reach their present location, avoiding the usual checkpoints and most crowded streets, but somebody was bound to have seen them. Henrik hoped this little butcher shop wasn’t the assassin’s final destination or they might be the ones skinned and hanging in the window.

  “In here,” he said impatiently when Henrik paused at the door. “Come on. It’s all right.”

  Henrik followed the Czech reluctantly into the shop. As soon as they were inside, a bald fat man dressed in a bloody apron stepped out from behind the counter and greeted the assassin with a Czech army salute. The assassin returned the salute.

  “Is it done? Did you kill the Butcher?” asked the fat man excitedly.

  Heydrich was feared and hated by the Czechs and Slavs alike. In his first year of occupation, he had executed over a thousand high-standing citizens. He was known as the Hangman, the Blond Beast, the Butcher of Prague, and here was a real butcher, a butcher of Prague, no less, asking if he was dead. Henrik could not fail to see the irony.

  The Czech assassin shook his head in shame. The butcher’s look of childlike anticipation fell immediately and then he caught sight of Henrik.

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know, but he saved my life.”

  The butcher looked at Henrik’s German uniform and iron cross medal. “Another spy paratrooper?” he asked skeptically. He eyed Henrik warily, waiting for a response. Henrik shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’m just looking for a girl.”

  The two men looked puzzled, but before Henrik could explain further, the sound of approaching sirens put an abrupt end to the conversation.

  “Hurry. Get in here,” he said pointing to the walk-in icebox. “There is no time. They know of this place. In minutes we will be swarming with Gestapo.” As the butcher grew more excited, he slipped into Czech and Henrik caught only the gist of what he said, but it was enough.

  “In there? But won’t they find us?”

  “No,” the fat man said simply.

  If Henrik had another plan, any plan, he would not have entered the icebox, but he was a stranger in a strange land. He had no other choice but to trust his knew allies. He followed the assassin into the cold room and prayed he knew what he was doing. As the icebox door closed, the assassin pushed his way past the rows of hanging beef and leaned against the back wall. To Henrik’s surprise, the stone wall moved about a foot backwards, revealing a narrow tunnel that disappeared into darkness.

  “It leads
to St. Cyril. We can hide there and plan our escape with the others.”

  “What others?”

  “The other paratroopers.” Without another word of explanation, the assassin disappeared into the dark tunnel and Henrik followed. The walls of the tunnel were made of sharp, rough-hewn stones, but in places the stones were smooth and rounded. The two men had to feel their way along blindly until the assassin finally lit a match. They had come to a crossroads.

  “Ah, it’s this way,” he said. Henrik looked down the tunnel in the dim light. It was a crypt, a catacomb of some sort that seemed to go on forever. The smooth stones weren’t stones at all, but skulls and bones imbedded in the mortar. Henrik shivered in disgust. But this was no time to be squeamish. If he didn’t keep up with his guide, he could be trapped down here forever.

  Eventually the crypt terminated at a stairwell that wound its way up into a cellar that smelled of rats and beer. The Czech lit some candles with another match and the cellar filled with light. Henrik felt as if he’d just walked through the gates of heaven. They’d reached St. Cyril.

  “So what’s the plan?” Henrik asked in a whisper.

  “We wait for your friends.”

  “My friends?” Henrik was at a loss.

  “The other British spies. The paratroopers.”

  “I think you have me confused with someone else. I’m not a British paratrooper.”

  “You attacked a German soldier and saved my life.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And yet you are wearing a German uniform with a medal. Only the British have such things.”

  That much was true. The British SIS was more experienced and better equipped than her French and American allies, a formidable foe to Canaris’ Abwehr and Himmler’s SD. But still, the Czech assassin had jumped to a dangerous conclusion on very scant evidence. There could have been a number of reasons why Henrik was wearing a German uniform, the most likely of which being that he was German.

  “And,” the assassin continued, sitting down on a broken church pew, “you have an English accent.”

  “A what?” Henrik was flabbergasted. Now he knew the man was crazy. “But I tell you I’m German. My accent, if I have one at all, is Prussian, not English.”

  “Not when you speak German,” he explained with a twinkle in his blue eyes, “when you speak Czech.”

  Henrik’s face went red, and for a moment it seemed uncertain whether he would slap the assassin or spit in his face. And then, all at once, he threw all caution to the wind and broke into a loud laugh. The assassin laughed as well. It was a pleasant sound, and Henrik could see now in the candlelight that he was a young, handsome man with a great deal of natural charisma. Henrik found it impossible to dislike him. He didn’t know if the assassin was serious about his English accent, nor did he care. The few seconds of humor had broken the tension of the last six hours like a crack in a dam.

  Joseph popped open a bottle of beer and for the next few minutes, the Czech and the German chatted in the church cellar as if they were old friends at a Bohemian pub. His name was Joseph Gabcik, a warrant officer in the Czech army who had escaped to Britain and been especially trained to kill Heydrich. Apparently, he had been planning the assassination for a long time and had a stash of food and weapons in a number of safe houses and secret locations around the city, including St. Cyril.

  The paratroopers arrived one by one over the next half hour. They were the remnants of a British/Czech commando squad that had dropped into Czechoslovakia a month ago to carry out various acts of sabotage. The mission was a complete disaster from the poorly planned beginning to the bitter end. There were only six of them left alive out of three hundred. All the rest had died, most opting to bite their cyanide capsule rather than risk capture.

  Joseph’s unlucky accomplice, Jan Kubic, was last to arrive at the church. He wanted to know about Heydrich. Henrik told him what he knew and the young man looked visibly disappointed. A sixth paratrooper never showed up for the meeting. The others seemed worried by this, but made no comment. A conspiracy was only as strong as its weakest link.

  Over the next hour, the men discussed possible plans for escape. All roads were blocked and the streets were swarming with Gestapo and Wehrmacht troops. The attack on Heydrich had provoked an unprecedented response. It would be utterly impossible to leave Prague for at least a week, maybe a month. The paratroopers could hold out that long. They had supplies and the bishop would bring them more if they needed it. And if they were discovered, they had plenty of ammo. They would fight until they were down to their last bullet, and then turn the gun on themselves.

  Henrik felt the irrational thrill of war. He was in a room with seven of the bravest men he had ever met. He wanted desperately to share in their glory and to be there for their courageous last stand, if it came to that. But he could not.

  “I’m afraid I can’t stay here with you.” Henrik kept his eyes fixed on the burning candle, too ashamed to look into their faces. He felt seven pairs of eyes fall on him. Their unspoken reproach burned more than fire ever could. “As I told you before, I’m looking for a woman. I must find her, whether she’s alive or dead. I must know.”

  “You won’t make it past the first checkpoint,” Joseph said grimly without any hint of recrimination, “not without papers.”

  Papers! Henrik reached into his pocket and pulled out Heydrich’s death warrant. “Will this do?”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Heydrich had it on him.”

  Joseph looked over the papers and nodded. “Well, my friend, I’m sorry to see you go. May God bring you success, but if he doesn’t—” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a green cyanide capsule. “May you die with honor.”

  Henrik took the capsule and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket. “Thank you, but what I could really use is a gun. I never much liked the taste of cyanide.”

  Joseph laughed and pulled the Colt 32 from his pocket. “It’s yours. I couldn’t seem to hit anything with it, but maybe you’ll have better luck. At least it won’t jam like that blasted British issue Sten gun.” He looked at Jan Kubic whose face immediately soured. “There’s spare ammo in the choir loft. Take as much as you need.”

  Henrik stepped out of the church clutching the death warrant in his hand. It was a very official document stamped with the Chancellery seal and signed by the Fuhrer himself, but was it enough to get past both the Gestapo and Wehrmacht during a high-profile lockdown? There was only one way to find out and now was as good a time as any.

  A Wehrmacht patrol was moving down the street towards the church, methodically checking each apartment block one at a time. They would find Heydrich’s would-be assassins if they had to check every basement and attic in Prague. Henrik marched directly towards them, assuming the exaggerated, purposeful stride of a German officer on an important mission for the SS.

  “You there,” he snapped loudly. “Stop messing about and tell me where I can find this prisoner.”

  The junior lieutenant turned to look at Henrik, startled, and then saluted. Henrik barely outranked him, but he wore the double lightning bolts and silver skull of the SS. Henrik shoved the death warrant in his face. The lieutenant’s eyes widened with fear when he saw the seal and signature. But then he began to read the words and his eyes narrowed. Henrik felt the tension growing. The lieutenant had noticed something wrong. Henrik resisted the urge to go for his gun.

  “Not here,” he said after a few seconds.

  “What?” Henrik feigned angry impatience.

  “There’s no area indicator. The number for Prague is 276.”

  Henrik just assumed Heydrich was keeping her prisoner in Prague. Why else would he be carrying her death warrant with him if not to execute her right in front of Henrik’s eyes?

  “Where is she then?” Henrik asked.

  He shook his head. “That’s just it. There is no
area indicator. It’s an open warrant. Is she a fugitive?”

  Henrik snatched the paper out of the lieutenant’s hands. “Never mind that. Carry on.” The lieutenant hesitated, looking at the unusual warrant in Henrik’s hands. “I said, carry on, lieutenant!” This was enough to snap him out of it. He saluted smartly and ordered the private to kick in the next door.

  Henrik stuffed the document back in his pocket and marched down the narrow street. So Heydrich had lied. He didn’t know where Esther was. In fact, he got the two daughters mixed up somehow. He was just bluffing, perhaps hoping to use it as leverage during the interrogation. The warrant might get Henrik out of the city, but other than that, it was useless. He still had no way to find Esther. He was a fugitive again in hostile territory, but now he had no place to go. The only thing he knew for certain was that he couldn’t stand still. Resuming his quick, confident stride, he marched off towards the city limits.

  Along the way, he witnessed the ruthless methods employed by the Wehrmacht and especially the Gestapo to interrogate the local Czech inhabitants. The streets were filled with screaming women and crying children. It took all of Henrik’s will power not to intervene. The trams, trains and taxis had all been shut down, so Henrik was forced to walk through the pandemonium. He felt like a bystander in hell. When he finally reached the highway checkpoint, his feet were sore and his heart sick.

  “All exits have been closed,” the guard barked. “What is your business?”

  Henrik ignored the question, holding up the signed death warrant. The guard raised an eyebrow and then picked up the phone.

  “You are to wait here,” the guard said after a truncated conversation on the telephone. Henrik considered going for his gun and making a run for it, but something in the guard’s eye told him it was a mistake. After a few minutes, a black Mercedes coup pulled up to the guard post and a gray-haired man in a navy uniform got out.

  “Well, young Kessler, you have had quite the adventure. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking a restful drive with me in the country.” The man held open his door and gestured for Henrik to get in. It was Admiral Canaris, but what did he know about Wolfsschanze, and Auschwitz, and the attack on Heydrich? And whose side was he on? Canaris had been his mentor, but would their former relationship mean anything now? Maybe Henrik had just become too much of a liability. Would there be a handshake waiting for him in that Mercedes or a bullet?

  Henrik stepped slowly into the car. Canaris sat down beside him and shut the door. He said nothing as the car slid effortlessly through the checkpoint and headed out onto the country freeway, leaving Prague in utter chaos. After a few minutes, Canaris slid his hand under his jacket and Henrik braced for the inevitable. There was no point in reaching for his Colt 32. Canaris was a master chess player and always four steps ahead of everybody else. If he wanted Henrik dead, there wasn’t a force on the planet that could stop him.

  Fortunately, Canaris didn’t want Henrik dead, at least not today. From under his jacket, he pulled out a black and white photo and handed it to Henrik. “Is this her?” he asked. It was a picture of prisoners, about a hundred of them, all women, their heads shaved, their faces drawn and vacant. One of the faces was circled with a number beside it—612780. Henrik looked at the face, at the eyes. It was Esther. His eyes filled with tears.

  “She’s being held near Nordhousen, a camp called Dora-Mittelbau. I’ve arranged for you to steal this car from me, but not until we get to Berlin, please. I’m too old to walk very far. My doctor says it’s arthritis.” He bent his knee and groaned. Henrik still wasn’t sure what he was talking about. “You’ll have a full tank of gas. Do with it what you must, but I have to warn you, Henrik, this photo is one week old. She may not be the same woman by the time you find her. She may not even be alive.”

  Henrik looked at the photo again and wiped his eyes. “Thank you,” he wanted to say, but his lips only mouthed the words. No sound came out. The admiral patted touched his arm as if to say that he understood.

  “I wish there was more I could do, but I no longer have the power I once had, or the freedom. I am watched by SD agents at every turn.” Canaris lit his pipe and puffed on it thoughtfully a few times. The smoke smelled sweet to Henrik. He used to love that smell, the smell of his father’s pipe. Now it only reminded him of Auschwitz. He shuddered convulsively.

  “Did you really kill him?” Canaris asked softly.

  “Who?”

  “Heydrich.”

  “No, at least, I don’t think so. There was a bomb and gunfire. He was wounded, and then I knocked him down and he hit his head. I don’t think he was dead, but I didn’t have time to find out.” Henrik put the photo in his pocket and pulled out the death warrant. He looked into the admiral’s eyes. “Would it be so bad if I had?”

  Canaris sighed. “He was my student at one time, my protégé, as you were. I loved him, but I have no doubt that he deserved to die.”

  “Neither do I.” Henrik handed Canaris the death warrant with Esther’s name on it. Canaris handed it back without even looking at it.

  “You better hang on to that. You might need it to get her out of Dora-Mittelbau.”

  “But . . . you knew?” Henrik muttered with shock.

  “Of course I knew. I issued the warrant.” Canaris paused to take another puff of his pipe while Henrik waited, open-mouthed, for an explanation. “I needed an excuse to search for her, didn’t I? I also needed to force Heydrich’s hand. Kill two birds with one stone, if you’ll excuse the pun. It appeared to have worked all too well, but I guess we’ll have to just wait and see.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Heydrich was taken to hospital with a wound to his side and a bump on the back of his head. He’s expected to make a full recovery.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Henrik looked at Canaris out of the corner of his eye. Was he still a German? Was he still loyal to the Fuhrer? If so, why didn’t the admiral turn him in, or kill him on the spot? Henrik was a traitor. He had killed Germans, maybe even Heydrich. He even made an attempt on Hitler’s life. And yet this honorable old German was still helping him. But maybe that was it.

  Canaris was the polar opposite of Heydrich. He was an honorable German in a dishonorable, impossible situation. He was still fighting, but in his own way, and against his own enemies. Maybe he still held out hope that Germany would emerge from this nightmare with her honor still intact. Henrik, on the other hand, had no such illusions. He had seen the horrors of Auschwitz. Either Germany was doomed, or the civilized world was. The two could not coexist.

  When they arrived in Germany, Henrik dropped the admiral and his bodyguard off at a tram stop just outside the city and then headed west on the autobahn towards Nordhausen. He could see the jagged peaks of the Harz Mountains rising on the horizon. He stepped on the accelerator. The Mercedes coup purred like a kitten. He would be there by nightfall and then he’d know. Either way, he’d know for certain.