A Traitor's Loyalty: A Novel (36 page)

The Commissar-General, ruler of the Commissariat-General. The Commissariat-General was the East, the broad, endless expanses of fertile plains and empty, abandoned shells of cities and towns. That had been Heydrich’s fief. Thirty years ago that land had been the Soviet Union’s most populous region. But its population had been Slavs, and the Germans had dispersed throughout the Reich as slave labor those few who survived having the most destructive war the world had ever seen fought in their homeland. Some remained in the East as farmers, feeding the German population in the west; many more had been sent west to work on assembly lines or as house servants.

“
A Jew,” Ellie murmured. “You’re a Jew.” Her eyes fastened on his and she stared at him, her face inscrutable. He reached out slowly and gently touched her shoulder, but she jerked away from him as if he might be contagious
.

Jews had replaced the Slavs who had been deported from the East; the Jews of Germany and the conquered and allied territories had found themselves first confined to cramped, crumbling ghettos within their cities, then deported to work camps scattered throughout German Europe during the latter half of the war, and finally, after the fighting finished, relocated to a network of camps in the East, in the custody of the Commissar-General, Reinhard Heydrich.

Large black and white photographs of emaciated inmates arriving at the camps in cattle cars, being sorted into male and female, healthy and unhealthy groups by SS doctors, dominated the walls. Prisoners classed as troublesome had large targets sewn onto their backs. Quinn searched their gaunt, emaciated faces, shaven heads, and sunken eyes, looking for any resemblance to himself, wondering if he was staring at his own family
.

A sudden peal of laughter jerked him out of his reverie, and a young girl—four or five years old—ran past him, clutching something black in her hand. A moment later another child—a boy, a year or two older, clutching something grey—followed. He turned to follow them with his eyes. The boy caught up with the girl and grabbed her by the upper arm, reaching for the object in her hand, and Quinn realized it was a Waffen- SS figurine, possibly from the museum’s gift shop; the grey toy in the boy’s hand was a figurine of a partisan fighter, one of the groups of Slavs or Jews who had taken to the hills and fought the German conquest. The girl was managing to keep the Waffen-SS figurine just out of the boy’s reach, and giggling uncontrollably
.

Reinhard Heydrich, as head of the SS under Heinrich Himmler, had first been responsible for the registration of Jews in conquered territory, for their confinement to the ghettos, and for their relocation to the initial camps, and had then, after his appointment as Commissar-General at the beginning of 1944, directed the camps to which Europe’s entire Jewish population had eventually found themselves transferred.

Their relatives abroad, those who had emigrated from Germany in the 1930s, had grown old or passed on, and there were very few left who still tried to drum up international awareness of what had happened to the Jews, to bring about the condemnation of the Reich. And what can we do then, their children tiredly asked them. Turn Germany into a pariah state? It happened; it was evil, and we
already
condemn them for it. But the Germans are the most powerful country in the world, and we
have
to deal with them.

But Quinn—Quinn, who had been East, Quinn, who had followed his brother into the army to honor Isaac’s sacrifice of his own life to stop the Nazis—had done more than simply deal with them. Quinn had just
placed the man responsible for the Purification at their head.

My God. What have I done?

Heydrich, followed by his bodyguard, emerged from the press room and strode purposefully down the corridor toward the main chamber, Meier falling into step behind him. Quinn shook himself from his reverie and rose, joining the small entourage as it passed. They crossed quickly through the chamber into the building’s antechamber, then out onto the entrance steps.

A Mercedes waited at the bottom of the steps, an infantryman standing by its open back door. Two Wehrmacht troopers on motorcycles sat idling ahead of it, while behind it there was an armored personnel carrier.

Heydrich descended the steps briskly and climbed inside the Mercedes. Meier gestured for Quinn to go next, then got in himself. The infantryman closed the door, and the whole convoy pulled away from the steps and set off across the square.

There was silence until they turned onto In den Lauben, heading in the direction of the Nibelungen Bridge.

“Where is Himmler?” Quinn asked.

Meier stirred, but Heydrich spoke before he could answer. “He is currently before a tribunal. Behind one of the other doors in the corridor where you found me interviewing SS-Obergruppenführer Fegelein.”

“What will happen to him?”

“The tribunal should return its verdict some time after midnight. I imagine the Reichsführer-SS will come before his firing squad around dawn.”

“Will you be present?”

Heydrich smiled. “No. I will be sound asleep at that time. As, I imagine, you will be.” He cocked his head at Quinn’s quizzical expression. “You wish to say something, Herr Quinn.”

“I’m surprised,” Quinn confessed. “You don’t want a public trial?”

“That is the last thing I want. A public trial, a public execution—those will only create a martyr. On the other hand, I could simply brush him aside, intern him in a work camp in Kiev or the Volga, try to hold him out of the public eye. But alive, he would become a focal point of resistance for any disaffected officers in the SS hierarchy. No, the best thing is to dispose of him quietly, without fanfare. It won’t be public knowledge; there will be no mention of his fate in the press. Eventually, after long enough without being heard of, he will simply be forgotten.”

Quinn turned and stared out the window as they crossed the Nibelungen Bridge. The armored van still lay on its side on the edge of the precipice, as did the trucks he and Barnes had knocked out of the way earlier in the day; none blocked passage across the bridge, so none was an immediate priority for clearance. Work crews
had
cleared, however, the intersection beyond the bridge, though the entire end of the Hermann Göring Works overlooking it remained a pile of rubble.

They pulled into the Strength through Joy Hotel, though this time, instead of descending into the parking levels, they pulled up to the hotel’s main entrance. A doorman hurried forward to open the door, and the three of them got out and headed inside.

Heydrich strode straight through the lobby and directly toward the lift, where a waiting bellhop had already pressed the button to summon it. The guards scattered around the hotel, all Waffen-SS earlier, had now been replaced by the Wehrmacht.

The lift arrived. The three men entered and ascended to the fifth floor. The lieutenant at the reception desk jumped to his feet and snapped off a salute, but Heydrich ignored him and headed down the corridor to his office.

Manfred was waiting at his desk when the three men entered. He too immediately rose and saluted. Heydrich waved him impatiently to his ease.

The door to Heydrich’s office was ajar. “Herr Quinn,” the Commissar-General said, “why don’t you wait inside? We’ll be in in a moment.”

Quinn nodded. “Of course, Herr Generalkommissar.”

As Quinn crossed the room, Heydrich spoke to the other two. “Manfred, before I forget. There will have to be a thorough honors list drawn up, and I’ll begin earnest consideration of that tomorrow, but make a note for Hauptmann Meier: promotion and—” he paused, considering, “—Iron Cross, First Class.”

Meier snapped proudly to attention as Quinn slipped through the door, pushing it almost shut behind him—closing it all the way would have seemed odd and drawn attention to himself.

He did not have more than a few moments. The room was dark. He crossed the room quickly, striding over to the window behind Heydrich’s desk and unlatching it. Then, keeping half an ear on the low murmur of conversation from the other room to make sure all the speakers remained stationary and were not heading in his direction, he started trying the desk drawers. Two were locked, and he found nothing in the others that could serve for what he needed.

There was the door back out to the others, but there was also another door leading off the office. This one was closed. He tried the knob and found it unlocked. Silently, he cracked the door open. Heydrich’s bedroom. A nightstand stood just inside the door. He began trying its drawers.

Perfect. Lying inside the second drawer was a dagger. He picked it up and examined it in the moonlight spilling in through the window. It was an SS dagger, a swastika tooled into the leather sheath, twin SS lightning bolts embossed on the haft. He slid it a half inch out of its sheath. Even in the slight, pale light, the blade reflected purely. He pressed his thumb against its edge; it was sharp. Satisfied, he slipped the dagger into his pocket.

When Heydrich and Meier entered the office, Quinn was sitting peacefully on one of the settees, and the bedroom door was closed.

“Why on earth are you sitting here in the dark, Herr Quinn?” Heydrich asked as Meier turned on the light.

Quinn shrugged, rising to his feet. “A moment of quiet reflection, Herr Generalkommissar.”

“Ah,” said Heydrich, satisfied. He seated himself behind his desk while Meier drew the curtains. “And on what were you reflecting?”

Quinn pursed his lips. “On the strange turnings our lives can take, in but a matter of hours. Or even minutes.”

Heydrich snorted. “I see. How very . . . appropriate to the moment.” He favored Quinn with a slight smile, but then his gaze became more purposeful. “I apologize for keeping you waiting for a few minutes, but I wanted to make sure I had the opportunity to express my appreciation to you this evening.”

Quinn nodded in acknowledgement. “Waiting was no trouble at all, Herr Generalkommissar.”

Now Heydrich rose. “You did what you did out of patriotism. You are not German, but patriotism of whatever ilk is something I can respect deeply. Nevertheless, without you, not only would I not have achieved what I have today, but I very likely would not have lived to see this night. You, Herr Quinn, have been responsible today for my achievement of supreme power in the Reich.”

“Of that, Herr Generalkommissar,” Quinn said, “I have been very much aware tonight.”

Heydrich seemed not to hear the edge in his words, and continued, “After the day’s events, I suspect you might currently be unable to find a welcome in your own country. Germany, on the other hand, will be more than happy to provide for you.” He yawned slightly and checked his watch. “But that, Herr Quinn, will be a matter for tomorrow. Manfred will have a room waiting for you.”

Quinn nodded at the dismissal. “Good night, Herr Generalkommissar.” He turned and walked from the room.

Manfred was sitting at his desk. He looked up when Quinn walked in. “Ah, Herr Quinn. Please, this way.” He rose and led Quinn from the antechamber into the corridor, then stopped and opened the very first door on his left.

Quinn followed him in. This suite was much more spacious than the one he had been shown to with the others earlier in the day.

“Is there anything else you need tonight, Herr Quinn?” Manfred asked solicitously.

Quinn shook his head. “No, thank you.”

“Very good then,” Manfred said. He gestured to the telephone sitting on the desk. “If you are hungry, the phone has instructions for reaching room service. Good night, Herr Quinn.” He turned and left the room, closing the door behind himself.

For a long time Quinn stood there, counting silently in his head. When he had reached six hundred—ten minutes—and no one had disturbed him, he turned and headed through into the bedroom.

He walked straight over to the window and unlatched it, pushed it open and slipped out onto the ledge outside. It was cold up here, twenty meters above the ground in the middle of the night, and the breeze bit bitterly into his skin.

Slowly, cautiously, he edged his way down the ledge to Heydrich’s office window. He could hear voices coming from inside.

Heydrich was speaking. “We shall have to draw up shortlists for Reichsmarschall and Commissar-General soon, but the main priority must be the new commander of the SS. We must ensure he is
loyal
, and that he is not a Himmler sympathizer.”

“Yes, Herr Generalkommissar,” Meier said.

There was silence for a few moments, then Heydrich spoke again. “It has been a very long day, Hauptmann, and I think that for tonight that will be all. Tell Manfred I am not to be disturbed till I rouse myself. Good night, Hauptmann.”

“Good night—” a pause, then, “—mein Führer.”

Heydrich did not respond at first; after several long seconds, he said only,
“Heil Hitler.”

Quinn heard Meier’s heels snap together and could imagine him saluting.
“Heil Heydrich!”

After that there was silence; a few minutes later, the light went off. Quinn began counting again.

When he had reached three hundred, he gently pried the window open and slipped inside. The office was deserted, but Heydrich’s bedroom door stood ajar. Quinn padded softly over to it, his hand in his pocket with his fingers closed around the dagger.

The lights were off. Heydrich stood before his bedroom window, looking out over the city. Quinn stood in the doorway for a long time, just watching him.

At last the Commissar-General turned. He started when he saw Quinn.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, trying to cover his surprise with indignation.

Quinn withdrew the dagger from his pocket, removed it from its sheath and dropped the sheath on the floor. “Don’t call out, mein Führer.” The title sounded mocking on his lips. “You’ll be dead before anyone can get to you.”

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

Quinn started crossing the room slowly, approaching Heydrich. “You killed my family, mein Führer.” His voice was menacingly quiet.

Heydrich’s mouth worked for a second without any sound emerging, then he managed, “What are you talking about?”