Hess was losing patience. “Who do you want me to shoot?”
The reichsfuhrer stopped pacing and stared at him. With his glasses, Himmler resembled an angry owl about to devour his prey. Behind Hess, the colonel seemed to be holding his breath. Both of Himmler’s soft hands had curled into hard fists at his side. Hess feared that he had forgotten his place and gone too far. At one word from Himmler, SS guards would come through the door and take him out to be shot. Another sniper would be found.
Himmler started pacing again. “General Dwight Eisenhower is the overall Allied commander. You must know, Hess, that to kill a snake you must cut off the head.”
Hess was amazed. Eisenhower. He had seen the man’s face in a newspaper once — bald head, jug ears, big smile. More politician than soldier. The name was synonymous with the presence of Americans in Europe. What Himmler said made sense. If any soldier was a target, then why not their leaders?
“Herr Reichsfuhrer, I believe what you are calling for is an assassination,” Hess said.
“Call it what you want, Hess. It is your duty to do this for the Fatherland.”
“It won’t be easy, but it could be done. Of course, if General Eisenhower can be killed, so can you. Or Stalin. Or the Fuhrer himself. You see what a mess you might be starting?”
“You do speak your mind, Hess. Be glad that I am in an indulgent mood today.”
Himmler went to stand by the fire. Reluctantly, Colonel Brock edged away from the warmth to make room for the reichsfuhrer. “It is true that assassination is no simple matter. There are repercussions. But it sends a powerful message to the enemy. This is why is must be done in a certain way, on their own precious soil.”
Hess was confused. Did the reichsfuhrer want Eisenhower drowned in his bathtub? Hess was a soldier and a marksman. It now sounded as if what Himmler needed was a thief and murderer. “Herr Reichsfuhrer, I don’t understand.”
“Colonel Brock tells me that you speak some English.”
“A little.”
“A little will be enough.” Himmler stepped away from the fire. “Tell him, Brock.”
The colonel took out a handkerchief and blew his nose, then cleared his throat. “I’ve come down with a cold from being in Stalingrad,” he complained. “I understand that Washington is much warmer, even in winter. For a soldier like you, Hess, it should be like a vacation.”
“Washington? The American capital?”
“In two weeks’ time, that’s where you are going to shoot — assassinate — General Eisenhower,” Brock said. “Every night, Allied bombers fill the skies over Germany. The Red Army will soon be at our gates. The Americans are planning their invasion from the safety of England. We must bring the war to them, Hess.” Brock smacked his fist into his open palm in a gesture that was surprising loud in the muffled quiet of Himmler’s office. “We must weaken their resolve.”
“Do you want me to kill their president while I’m at it?”
Brock and Himmler exchanged a look. Hess had meant it as a joke, but he had the impression that they had already discussed that possibility at some length. Himmler shook his head and Brock resumed speaking. “There is such a thing as going too far, Hess. You said it yourself. The American president is old and crippled. Eisenhower is a soldier.”
“Maybe you have the wrong man.”
“We know what you’ve done in Russia, Hess. Two hundred and fifty-seven confirmed kills and God knows how many others. You are skilled with a rifle. You are the man to carry out this Eisenhower assignment.”
Hess’s thoughts flashed back to Stalingrad, where men ran from one building to another as they dodged bullets, hoping to survive another day. Snow and ice everywhere. His blood turned cold just thinking about it. He didn’t want to go back. Even if Himmler would let him. He knew too much now, and a bullet was a better way of ensuring his silence than flying him back to Stalingrad.
“America,” he finally said. “It won’t be easy.”
“You will have help. We have already arranged for a U-boat to drop you at a beach on the Atlantic coast.”
“But how will I find the general?”
“The same way you found those Russian officers at Stalingrad,” Brock said. “You must create an opportunity. The Abwehr has an agent in the American capital who can help with details of your operation.”
Himmler sat down at his desk and began to shuffle papers. “A destroyer will take you to a rendezvous with a submarine,” the reichsfuhrer said. “You are not claustrophobic, I hope. Some men have trouble with submarines.”
“A coffin is claustrophobic, Herr Reichsfuhrer. I can manage a U-boat.”
“Very well. Colonel Brock will see to the details.”
Hess stood quietly. Himmler looked up at him. He said in a formal tone, “As a German soldier, you have accepted this mission on behalf of the Fatherland?”
Hess thought again of the coming Russian winter. He hoped Brock was right and that Washington was warmer. “I want something in return.”
Himmler looked deep into the sniper’s eyes. Hess had thought the reichsfuhrer would be angry, but what he saw in Himmler’s eyes was a knowing look that seemed to say: So. It always comes down to this. Nonetheless, Himmler could not keep the disdain out of his voice. He was blunt. “What do you want, Hess? Women? Money?”
“No, Herr Reichsfuhrer. I want a Knight’s Cross.”
“You already have the Iron Cross, Hess.”
“There’s a saying in Russia that it’s easier to get an Iron Cross than a new pair of socks.”
The barest of smiles touched Himmler’s lips. This was the sort of motivation he understood. The Knight’s Cross was the highest honor given to a soldier. “Shoot Eisenhower and you shall have it,” he said.
“Thank you, Herr Reichsfuhrer.” Hess snapped to attention. “Heil Hitler!”
He spun on his heels to go, but Himmler stopped him. “Hess, you were the best shot ever at the sniper school and yet you were not invited to stay as an instructor. You made them nervous. You see, we know all about you, Hess. You are a good shot, but you are also a killer. That is why you were chosen.”
Hess followed Colonel Brock out. When the oak doors clicked shut behind them, the hallway felt very cold.
Chapter 5
U-351 churned through the sea at top speed day after day and night after night. The diesel engines thrummed and strained to propel the U-boat at its top speed of seventeen knots. This was not a normal cruise, where the submarine slipped silently through the water like some great steel shark, preying on Allied merchant ships. They submerged only when there was some danger of being seen by an enemy vessel or airplane. The U-boat traveled faster on the surface. Even a born landlubber like Zumwald could tell that they were in a hurry to get someplace. But where? He shuffled through a deck of cards, then dealt himself an imaginary hand, spreading the cards face-up across this blanket. The edges of the cards were worn soft as felt.
“We’re going to Africa on a secret mission,” Bueller assured him from the bunk across the aisle. He was busy turning the pages of another American Western, The Rangeland Avenger by Max Brand. Zumwald studied the cover, which showed a cowboy in a white hat brandishing a lever action rifle. Someone in a black hat was visible behind him. Good guys and bad guys. If only the world was that simple. He listened to the water rushing over U-351’s metal skin and thought that they were about as far from the Old West as it was possible to get.