BERLIN, 18 MARCH 1940

  SS-General Bruno Heidel, commanding officer of the Third Training Division, Prison Administration, had been called by his batman at six o’clock and was now shaving in his bathroom. His suite of three rooms— sleeping quarters, office and reception room—were on the fourth floor of the Staff Residential Building. The barracks were in darkness at this hour, save for the sparsely deployed pilot lamps permitted by the blackout regulations for military and paramilitary establishments.

  General Heidel had already cut his face twice with the razor, the result of his thoughts being elsewhere. With part of his mind he was rehearsing certain changes in the credo he had composed six months ago for general distribution to all SS training camps. Since that time, war had been declared, and a patriotic note was called for in certain passages, to remind the trainees of their increased responsibilities. Also, the Jewish question was now being handled along much firmer lines, and he could dispense with a few of the euphemisms.

  You will bear it in mind, at all times, that a concentration camp is not a correction facility for those who have misbehaved themselves. It is a prison for those who have dared to challenge the sacred authority of our Führer and the supreme authority, under him, of the Third Reich. By their political, subversive and rebellious acts they have shown—

  He cut himself again, and cursed under his breath. This was to be a big day, because of the breathtaking decision he had made in the hour of sleeplessness that usually came to him between three and four in the morning. Using the shaving brush, he got on with the business more slowly, relathering under his chin and watching with slight distaste the pinkish coloration of the foam as the new cut bled freely.

  The war, yes. In time of peace, their defiance would be intolerable. In time of war, in which we now find ourselves, they have lost the right to be treated as Germans, and you must treat them with the same hatred and the same ruthlessness you-would show a foreign enemy in our midst.

  He picked up the razor again and began drawing swathes through the foam. The Jews, yes. As for the Jews, you will remember that they have now been officially declared to be subhuman. Their very existence in our complex of clean, orderly and well-run camps is an insult to our endeavors. You will not treat them as dogs. True Germans are always kind to dogs. You will treat them as vermin. You will—

  That was going a bit far, perhaps. The business of the Totenkopfverbände was one of discretion, and if a printed version of the credo was picked up by the general public it might arouse comment. On the other hand, Reichsführer Himmler himself had referred to the Jewish race as a “virulent disease,” and in a public broadcast. And what about that loud-mouth Julius Streicher and his Jew-baiting rag Der Stürmer? He was being too soft, dammit!

  You will treat them as a virulent disease, that must be contained, controlled and finally stamped out.

  But part of his mind was occupied with quite another matter. At the meeting last night at that precious von Kassel’s villa—he ought to keep that bloody house-boy out of sight when visitors were there, for God’s sake!—they’d all agreed on what to do next, following von Fleig’s murder. Nothing. At least for a time. Nothing. But during the night he’d changed his mind. They ought to keep going, and with renewed vigor. If some rival faction was trying to beat them to it, they ought to go faster, not slower. But one thing was certain: he’d never convince von Kassel of that, nor Maihof. Von Kassel had that startling intuition of his, almost an ability to see into Hitler’s mind, and of course he’d started the whole plan in the first place. But he was too “sensitive.” Too “subtle.” And he wore too much bloody eau de, cologne! And if that sounded irrelevant, one must remember that the Führer was thoroughly masculine in his tastes, and almost a monk in his way of life—hardly ever a drop of alcohol, simple food, not a womanizer like Heydrich (now that man ought to take his daily bath in kitchen disinfectant!) and certainly not a man to wear eau de cologne. It might sound ridiculous, but their whole plan for world dominion could easily founder, simply because that poof von Kassel stood a bit too close to the Führer while they were trying to put it across.

  He went cold just thinking about it. And Maihof. A good man, clever, persuasive—and Hitler would want persuading, above all—but distinctly lacking in guts. He’d opted for stopping the whole plan dead in its tracks, the moment he’d got the news about von Fleig’s assassination. And it was going to take guts to go to the Führer and tell him face to face that they’d worked out a feasibility study on a project he’d already abandoned.

  So he would go to see Hitler alone.

  The blade slipped again on the thought of it, and he rinsed off the reddening lather and got the antiseptic stick from the cabinet. Go it alone, yes. Cut out von Kassel—Hitler was dead against homosexuals—and cut out that gutless Maihof. And when the day came when Hitler stood before the world and gave it his ultimatum, he —Bruno Heidel— would be there, ready for the honors. What reward would be considered too lavish for the one man who had offered his Führer the world? None. He’d remain by Hitler’s side, the second most important man in the entire New German World!

  Grandiose? Yes. Possible? Certainly. He’d spent hours talking to that Jew Lenneberg at the physics laboratory where they’d now got him under close guard. He had a little girl, Hildi, nine years old, now being cared for by his sister, his wife having been run over in the blackout. Did he want to see little Hildi again? Then he knew what he’d got to do. Give them the facts, the figures, the equations, the physical requirements, the estimated cost, and put it in the kind of language the Führer and his advisers could understand. The man was working well, practically around the clock, and it was already clear that his word alone might be enough to convince Hitler that the superweapon could be his for the asking. Professor Joseph Lenneberg had been nominated for the Nobel Prize before the Nazis had come into power.

  The General splashed hot water onto his razor and shook it dry, using the antiseptic stick again as the blood still oozed from two of the cuts. A sign of his nerves, of his excitement this morning; a sign, if you like, of eventual success, even glory, if he took the bull by the horns and let nothing stop him.

  Today he would request a formal but private interview with the Führer. Subject: the national interest and the future of Germany.

  Someone was knocking on the door. It could only be one of his batmen, probably Ulich.

  “What do you want?” he called loudly. They had orders never to disturb him at his ablutions. A General couldn’t look the part with shaving soap all over his face.

  Ulich called something about an urgent message, so Heidel bellowed for him to come in. If the message didn’t sound urgent enough, he’d scalp him.

  “A message by bearer,” the batman told him, and handed him a card, keeping his distance and a correct stance.

  An SS-Standartenführer, according to the card. And much decorated. “Tell him I’ll see him in half an hour.”

  But Ulich was back in two minutes.

  “What the hell is it now?” shouted General Heidel.

  The message was urgent in the extreme, his batman told him. It concerned the death of General von Kassel.

  “The what?”

  Ulich repeated the message, and stood watching the color leaving the General’s face and the three blood clots darken in contrast.

  He looked at the card again, and,in a moment, much more quietly, said, “I’ll see him now.” He went thoughtfully through his sleeping quarters into the slightly smaller reception room, with its dark furniture and the framed photograph of the Fuhrer.

  The visitor came in quickly and offered a smart salute, his briefcase tucked firmly under his left arm.

  “Heil Hitler, Herr Obergruppenführer!”

  “Heil Hitler. Now what the devil’s this about General von Kassel? And who are you?”

  The SS Colonel stood at ease, pulling at the zip of his briefcase and producing an envelope. As Heidel watched him, his mind was buzzing with questions and worries. First von Fleig and now von Kassel . . . dead within nine days of each other. Not just dead. Murdered. If it were true, about von Kassel.

  “Am I to understand General von Kassel is dead?”

  “Regrettably, Herr Obergruppenführer.”

  There was something else nagging for attention in the General’s mind as he looked at the tall blond Colonel. Hadn’t there been something about an SS Colonel’s having been seen in the Zehdenick area at the time of von Fleig’s assassination?

  “This letter, Herr Obergruppenführer, will explain everything.” The visitor took another step toward him, holding out the envelope. As the General closed his fingers on it his eyes were still on the other man’s, and in that instant he knew without any doubt that he was looking into the face of death.

  Bruno Heidel was a big man, and strong. He had received, in a flash of intuition, a warning of what was to come, and was thus prepared for it, and prepared to fight to the death. But he lacked one element. Rage.

  Rage, and the authority of relentless training.

  Half-fist to the throat. To kill.

  Heidel reeled and his arm came up to block the strike as the envelope fluttered to the maroon Bavarian carpet beneath his feet and for an instant the face of the other man was close to his, staring, unfamiliar and inhuman and almost unconcerned as the second blow came to spin his wide-shouldered, heavy body the other way, one boot catching against the end of the sofa and sending him off balance, his hands flung out to save himself, because his animal instinct told him that once he was down he was finished. The dark brocade of the fabric swirled across the field of his vision and then he steadied, the sofa supporting him so that he could halt the momentum the blow had set up in his frame and react to it, kicking forward and going for the groin, his right boot lifting and altering his balance, altering it dangerously.

  Sword hand to the jugular. To kill.

  At some time Bruno Heidel was aware of glass smashing, perhaps the Lalique figurine of the girl with the borzoi that stood on the coffee table, a gift from the Mayor of Berlin. Later, perhaps one hundredth of a second later, he was aware of pain shooting along the muscles of his forearm on the left side as it struck against an object, conceivably the service revolver in the other man’s holster as their bodies spun together. But always he was aware of the force that was here in the room with him, invincible and inescapable, as if, when the door had opened, a whirlwind had found its way in here and was destroying everything it touched.

  But Bruno Heidel was difficult to kill. His brute strength was an element that could function almost by itself, a vehicle for the conditioned reflex that had been triggered a few seconds ago when the other man’s fist had reached for his throat. He struggled as an animal struggles against the steel of the trap or the jaws of the predator, and for almost a minute was able to keep his balance and spin and turn and react, backing and recovering and going in against the adversary with blows that would have felled him if their aim had been good. The coffee table was tipped on end and sent hurtling against the wall with two of its mahogany legs breaking off and fluting through the air, drawing blood from Heidel’s temple; one of the dark upholstered chairs went over backward with the fabric ripping as a boot caught its heel in the leather. But he was prolonging the agony of his death by force alone; there was no subtlety in him, no science.

  Heel-palm. The nose bone upward into the brain. To kill

  And something screamed and the world burst into a kind of fire, before the dark came down.

  Silence remained, save for the breathing of the man who still lived. The door opened, and one of the batmen came in, drawing his revolver. But he was a small man, and too slow, because of his astonishment. The second one was bigger and had his gun in the low aim as he came in at a run, but he was off balance and uncertain of the target, distracted by the sight of the General’s face as it lay on the bloodied carpet, one eye staring. They had no chance.

  The door was still half open, and the man who was left alive stood listening, fighting to quiet the breath that was heaving in and out of his lungs. He waited fully a minute, but no one came. Then he walked out of the room, and away.

  SACHSENHAUSEN, 20 MARCH 1940

  “We’ve made great progress,” said Himmler, smiling as he held the bright yellow wildflower between his

  finger and thumb. “Great progress, in such a short time.”

  The men around him looked pleased. They were standing in the neat, brick-pathed and beautifully kept herb garden adjoining the main compound of the camp. Kommandant Voess, following the example of the Reichsführer, was himself becoming a veritable expert on the healing properties of herbs and their proper cultivation. It had only been in January of last year when the Reichsführer had inaugurated the Deutsche Versuchsanstalt fur Emahrung und Verpflegung as an official institute for experimental nutrition and provisioning, but already most of the concentration camps boasted an herb garden and a horticultural staff, many of them drawn from prisoners with degrees in botany or related subjects.

  “We know,” Reichsführer Himmler told his listeners, “that this rather common-looking little flower—saffron, or the Carthamus tinctorius—has powerful properties as a laxative, a diuretic, a carminative and a sudorific. We know that its seed has also some of these properties. The plant, suitably cultivated, processed and applied, has proved extremely useful in cases of influenza, colds and general fevers. In women, it regulates the menstrual flow.”

  From where SS-General Maihof was standing, the . little yellow flower was reflected in the Reichsführer’s round, rimless spectacles, and outlined boldly against his black uniform with its broad gold band at the cuff of the left arm, almost the same color as the flower. The General was listening to every word, in case the Reichsführer asked a question; but there was more on his mind than the therapeutic properties of the Carthamus tinctorius. He was a very frightened man.

  “But this is the first time,” said Heinrich Himmler with deep solemnity, “that the saffron flower has been seen to bloom in this area so early in the year—thanks to Kommandant Voess’s experiments with .cultivation

  under glass.” His mild, contemplative eyes came to rest on the Kommandant. “I sincerely congratulate you. We have made great progress, since the beginning of last year, with our studies, thanks to people like yourself.”

  “It’s been my privilege to follow your example, Herr Reichsführer.”

  It was a blithe spring day, a little cool, perhaps, but with a hint of coming warmth on the fragrant breeze. The birdsong from the nearby woods was sweet.

  “We are beginning to know—” The Reichsführer started again in his quiet, melodious voice, but was interrupted as a sound came from the other side of the wall; it was something like a scream, but rather too low, too guttural; it was difficult even to tell whether it was a man or a dog. Other sounds began, of men laughing, and then, quite unmistakably, the deep-chested barking of a guard dog as it went for a target; then there was a clear, high scream, and the dog’s muted growling as its jaws closed on something; then finally there was the sound of a shot, and the scream was silenced, and in a moment the growling of the dog died away. In the walled herb garden, no one looked anywhere but at the Reichsführer’s face. “We* are beginning to know,” he continued in his measured, schoolmaster’s tones, “our good friends of the earth—the Lily of the Valley, which strengthens the brain; the Milkweed, an emetic, a purgative and splendid for women’s complaints; the Valerian plant, with its excellent tonic properties for the nerves, and so on.”

  General Maihof appeared to be listening attentively, though his thoughts were elsewhere. In the last eleven days von Fleig, von Kassel and Bruno Heidel had been murdered, and he ^yas now the last of the secret faction left alive. To be a marked man, he had discovered, was to suffer the waking nightmare of not knowing: of not knowing when he might be drawing his last breath; of not knowing if the footsteps behind him were simply those of an aide; of not knowing how it would come, when it came—with a bullet, a blow, or a blade.

  “We should explore this treasure chest of Nature with delight, reverence and the wish to learn. These simple wild plants will gradually replace the harsh chemical medicaments stacked on the shelves of the chemists’ shops—and accumulating in our own bodies. . . .”

  From the edge of the group, some fifteen feet or so immediately behind General Maihof, the tall blond Standartenführer listened without expression, watching the bland face of the Reichsführer as he pursued his discourse, and occasionally glancing slightly to the left at the pale bare neck of SS-General Maihof.

  The evening light was deepening among the soft hills north of the Elster, and a few vehicles moving along the road between Elsterwerda and Kirchain had their sidelights on. Traffic was light, and most of it was military.

  A camouflaged tanker, carrying 15,000 liters of high-octane aviation fuel for the provisioning of fighter stations along the Czechoslovakian frontier, had passed through the town of Kirchain some ten minutes ago, and was proceeding south. Every so often, lighter traffic would pile up behind it and then overtake it along the straight stretches of road.

  Southward, half a dozen SS staff cars had left Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp an hour ago, with little distance between them; but by now they had spread out along the road and only two of them were still within half a mile of each other as they drove through the town of Elsterwerda, heading north toward Berlin.

  In the leading 540-K Mercedes sat General Walther Maihof, an aide beside him on his left and a second aide in the front seat next to the driver. He’d spoken hardly a word since leaving the camp, and his aides summed up his mood and left him alone. For the past two days he had been trying to make a decision between two alternatives, both of them desperate: to get himself and his family across the Swiss frontier with the help of his influential connections in Basel, or go straight to Hitler and ask for physical protection as part of his ^reward for presenting his atomic bomb feasibility study. If he didn’t do one or the other, he was going to follow his late colleagues to a violent death. Whatever rival faction was systematically wiping out his own, it wasn’t going to stop now.