One.

The turret was revolving. Not a Stalin at all, a KV-1 with a 76-millimeter. He fixed with fascination on the monster, watching as the mouth of the gun lazed over, seeming almost to open wider as it drew toward him. They certainly were taking their time lining up the shot. The tank paused, gun set just right. Repp would have liked at least to get rid of his last bullet. He didn’t feel particularly bad about all this. The hatch popped on the tank, someone inside wanted a better look, and the lid rose maybe an inch or two. Repp took him, center forehead, last bullet.

There was nothing to do. He set the rifle down. This was an execution. As if by signal, Russian troops began to file down Groski Prospekt. Repp, firing since 0930, checked his watch. 1650. An eight-hour day, and not a bad one. He chalked up the score in the seconds left him. Three hundred and fifty rounds he had fired, couldn’t have missed more than a few times. Make it ten, just to be fair. That was 340 men. Then the three on the stairway with the pistol. Perhaps two more in the grenade blast. Three hundred and forty-five kills, 345. Three hundred and fo—.

The shell went into the tower forty feet below Repp. The Russians had gotten fancy, they wanted to bring the tower down with Repp inside it, poetic justice or some such melodramatic conceit. The universe tilted as the tower folded. The line of the horizon broke askew and dust rose chokingly. Repp grabbed something as gravity accelerated the drop.

The tower toppled thunderously into Groski Prospekt in a storm of dust and snow. But its top caught on the roof of the building across the way and was sheared neatly off. Repp found himself in a capsule of broken brick deposited there, untouched, baffled. It was as if he’d walked away from a plane crash.

He walked across the flat roof of the building, waiting to get nailed. Artillery started up but the shells landed beyond him. There was smoke everywhere but he was alone. Across the roof, a shell had blown open a hole. He looked down into almost a museum specimen of the Soviet Worker’s apartment, and leapt down into it. He opened the door and headed down a dark hallway. Stairs. He climbed down them, and left through a front door. There were no Russians anywhere, though far off, he could make out small figures. Taking no chances, he headed down an alley.

That night he had schnapps with a general.

“The world,” the sentimental old man intoned, “will know you now.” Dr. Goebbels stood ready to make this dream come true.

“Sir,” somebody whispered.

“I see them,” said Repp.

Scope on. The screen lights. He saw the first one, a wobbling man-shaped blotch of light, against green darkness. Then another, behind him, and still another.

Germs, Repp thought. They are germs, bacilli, disease. They are filth.

He drew back the bolt and squirmed the black cross of Vampir’s reticule against the first of the shapes.

“Filth,” he repeated.

He took them.

11

“Vampir did quite well, I thought,” said Repp. He abstractedly counted off the reasons for his pleasure, each to a finger. “No sight picture breakup, good distinct images, weight not a factor. In all, easy shooting.”

Vollmerhausen was astonished. He certainly wasn’t expecting praise. Though he knew the shooting had gone well, for he’d heard two enlisted men chattering excitedly over it.

But Repp was not yet finished. “In fact,” he elaborated, “you’ve performed extraordinarily well under great pressure. I wish it were possible to arrange for some kind of official recognition. But at least accept my congratulations.” He was toying with the blackened metal cube Vollmerhausen had noticed earlier, a charm or something. “A great miracle has happened here.” He smiled.

“I—I am honored,” stuttered Hans the Kike. They were back at Anlage Elf, in the research facility, safe in the Schwarzwald after another harrowing flight.

“But then sometimes the most important assignments are those nobody ever knows about, eh?” said Repp.

Vollmerhausen felt this was a strange comment for a famous man, but merely nodded, for he was still stunned at Repp’s sudden burst of enthusiasm. And a sudden, still-resentful part of him wished that the asshead Schaeffer were here to listen to Der Meisterschütze himself heap on the praise. Yet, he acknowledged, he deserved it. Vampir represented an astonishing feat in so small a time, under such desperate pressure. Though even now it was hard to believe and take real pleasure in: he’d done it.

Still, certain details and refinements remained to be mastered, as well as some after-mission checks and some maintenance, and it was this problem he now addressed, aware at the same time how modest he must have seemed. “May I ask, Herr Obersturmbannführer, how soon you expect to go operational? And what preparations will be necessary on my part?”

“Of course,” Repp said smartly. “Certain aspects of the mission remain problematical. I’ve got to wait on intelligence reports: target confirmations, strategic developments, political considerations. I would say another week. Perhaps even more: a delicate job. It depends on factors even I can’t control.”

“I see,” said Vollmerhausen.

“I should tell you two things further. The weapon and I will leave separately. Vampir will be taken out of here by another team. They are responsible for delivery to target area. Good people, I’ve been assured.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you’ll have to prepare a travel kit. Boxes, a trunk, I don’t know. Everything should be lashed down and protected against jolts. It needn’t be fancy. After what you’ve handled, I shouldn’t think it would be a problem.”

“Not at all.”

“Now, secondly—look, relax. You look so stiff.”

It was true. Though seated, Vollmerhausen had assumed the posture of a Prussian Kadett.

“I’ve noticed that I make people nervous,” Repp said philosophically. “Why, I wonder? I’m no secret policeman. Just a soldier.”

Vollmerhausen forced himself to relax.

“Smoke, if you care to.”

“I don’t.”

“No, that’s right. I think I will.” He drew and lit one of the Russian things. He certainly was chipper this morning, all gaudy in his camouflages. “Now, may I be frank with you?” He toyed again with the black cube Vollmerhausen had noticed earlier.

“Germany is going to lose the war. And soon too. It’s the third week in April now; certainly it’ll all be over by the middle of May. You’re not one of those fools who thinks victory is still possible. Go ahead, speak out.”

Again, Repp had astonished him. He realized it showed on his face and hurriedly snapped his mouth shut.

“Yes, I suppose. Deep down. We all know,” Vollmerhausen confirmed.

“Of course. It’s quite obvious. They know in Berlin too, the smart ones. You’re a practical man, a realist, that’s why we chose you. But I tell you this because of the following: Operation Nibelungen proceeds. No matter what happens in Berlin. No matter that English commandos and American tanks are inside the wire here. In fact especially in those cases. You weren’t in Russia?”

“No, I—”

“No matter. That’s where the real war is. This business here with the Americans and the British, just a sideshow. Now, in Russia, four million fell. The figure is almost too vast to be believed. That’s sacrifice on a scale the world’s never seen before. That’s why the mission will go on. It’s all that generation will ever have. No statues, no monuments, no proud chapters in history books. Others will write the history; we will be its villains. Think of it, Vollmerhausen! Repp, a villain! Incredible, isn’t it?”

He looked directly at the engineer.

“Unbelievable,” said the engineer.