Too soon for Ernst's liking, he and Lieutenant Ritter were being ushered by an unsuspecting cook into the study of a comfortable house in a suburb of Berlin. While Ernst licked his dry lips and fought to stop himself from shaking, Ritter asked the distinguished-looking gentleman sitting at the desk if he was indeed General von Schleicher.

'Yes, of course,' the former chancellor replied, looking up in surprise, even as Ritter pulled his pistol from its holster, c.o.c.ked the safety catch, and opened fire.

The noise was appalling in that confined s.p.a.ce.

Fumbling in a state of nerves, not having killed before, Ernst fired in a daze even as Schleicher was falling and, worse, just as Frau von Schleicher appeared out of nowhere, rushed toward her stricken husband, and was cut down by the bullets that Ernst and Ritter were still firing.

Now two bodies lay on the floor in dark pools of spreading blood.

While Ernst stood there, too shocked to move, Ritter hurried over to the b.l.o.o.d.y bodies on the floor, examined them dispa.s.sionately, then looked up and said, 'This b.a.s.t.a.r.d's dead, but his wife's still alive. An ambulance is coming for them, dead or alive, so let's get out of here. There's more work to be done.'

Which was certainly true.

In the courtyard of Stadelheim Prison the slaughter was well under way, but Ernst, when he reported to Gruppenfhrer Dietrich, was told to make his way back to Gestapo headquarters in the Prinz Albrechtstra.s.se where there was plenty of worthwhile work still to do. After driving there in traffic jammed up by the police roadblocks and SS trucks being used to raid other SA groups, he was ordered down to the cells. It was a h.e.l.l of smoke and ricocheting gunfire, of aggressive bawling and piteous pleas for mercy, and Ernst didn't know what to do, didn't want to do anything, turned away to rush out again, but was pushed back by an officer.

'That b.a.s.t.a.r.d in there!' the officer bawled. 'That rat in his hole!'

Pushed forward by the officer, Ernst found himself beside the weeping Willi Brandt in a crowd of jostling SS troops, firing his pistol, as the others fired, into Cell 16. There, Gregor Stra.s.ser, winner of the Iron Cross, first cla.s.s, devoted National Socialist and once the Fhrer's friend, dodged back and forth, his eyes astonishingly bright, trying to avoid the hail of bullets. Finally, jerking spasmodically, he collapsed in his own blood and was given the coup de grce.

The cells stank of cordite and p.i.s.s and the rank sweat of terror.

There were no names after that only bodies spurting blood. Ernst went with the others, losing control of himself, firing his pistol in dark prison cells, in the hot, sunlit courtyards, then driving across the city to execute others in their homes, then on to the Lichterfeld Barracks here, there and everywhere, through the day, into the night murdering SA troops and government ministers and policemen and politicians.

He fell asleep in darkness, awakened to the new day, took part in more executions at Lichterfeld Barracks and Columbia House, an SS torture chamber, until, at approximately 0400 hours the following morning, he was finally allowed to holster his pistol and wash the blood from his hands.

Like his good friend Willi Brandt, he wept and then dried his stinging eyes.

He remembered returning home and telling Ingrid what had happened. He remembered, also, that she did not show any sympathy for his exhaustion, any understanding of his feelings of shame and horror, but only reviled him for what he had done, swore that she would never forgive him, and told him never to touch her again, because he would simply revolt her. That morning, as he lay on the sofa, he drew his strength from contempt for her.

He became a good n.a.z.i.

CHAPTER SEVEN Wearing a gray suit, plain white shirt, and tie, Bradley was feeling more like a full-time lawyer and less like a disappointed, part-time intelligence agent when he picked up the telephone in his office high above Wall Street.

'Miss Kinder?' he checked tentatively. 'The Miss Kinder, from Roswell, New Mexico?'

'That's right,' Gladys Kinder replied. 'You sound surprised, Mr

Bradley.'

'Well, I certainly wasn't expecting to hear from you, so, you know,

I was '

She chuckled in a familiar, oddly mocking manner. 'Well, here I

am.'

'Where, exactly?'

'In the Algonquin Hotel. It's famous for its famous resident writers,

so I wanted to stay here.'

'What are you doing in New York?' he asked, feeling guilty at how

pleased he was to hear her voice. 'It's a long way from Roswell.' 'I'm on my way to Europe,' she replied, 'and I'm sailing f'rom this

fair city, so I thought I'd give you a call. I remembered that you'd

taken a shine to me when we talked in your hotel, so I figured you'd at

least buy me a drink.'

'I really don't think ' he began, taken aback by her insolence,

embarra.s.sed by her accuracy, and horrified that his secretary might be