In the morning they were gone, and that meant the rifle too, Vollmerhausen felt. Twice before breakfast staff members had approached.

“Herr Ingenieur-Doktor? Does it mean we’ll be able to go?”

“I don’t know,” he’d answered. “I just don’t know.” Not needing to add, Only Repp knows.

And shortly then, a man came for him, from Repp.

“Ah, Hans,” said Repp warmly, when he arrived.

“Herr Obersturmbannführer,” Vollmerhausen replied.

“You saw of course our visitors last night?”

“I caught a glimpse across the yard at them.”

“Toughies, no? But sound men, just right for the job.”

“They’ve taken Vampir?”

“Yes. No reason not to tell you. It’s gone. All packed up. Carted away.”

“I see,” said Vollmerhausen.

“And they brought information, some last-second target confirmations, some technical data. And news.”

Vollmerhausen brightened. “News?”

“Yes. The war is nearly finished. But you knew that.”

“Yes.”

“Yes. And my part of the journey begins tonight.”

“So soon. A long journey?”

“Not far, but complicated. On foot, most of it. Rather drab actually. I won’t bore you with details. Not like climbing aboard a Hamburg tram.”

“No, of course not.”

“But I wanted to talk to you about your evacuation.”

“Evac—”

“Yes, yes. Here’s the good news.” He smiled. “I know how eager your people are to get back to the human race. This can’t have been pleasant for them.”

“It was their duty,” said Vollmerhausen.

“Perhaps. Anyway, you’ll be moving out tomorrow. After I’ve gone. Sorry it’s so rushed. But now it’s felt the longer this place stays, the bigger the chance of discovery. You may have seen my men planting charges.”

“Yes.”

“There’ll be nothing left of this place. Nothing for our friends. No clues, no traces. Your people will return as if from holiday. Captain Schaeffer’s men will return to the Hungarian front. And I will cease to exist: officially, at any rate. Repp is dead. I’ll be a new man. An old mission but a new man.”

“Sounds very romantic.”

“Silly business, changing identities, pretending to be what one’s not. But still necessary.”

“My people will be very excited!”

“Of course. One more night, and it’s all over. Your part, Totenkopfdivision’s part. Only my part remains. One last campaign.”

“Yes, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”

“The details: have them packed up tonight. Tomorrow at ten hundred hours a bus will arrive. It’s several hours to Dachau. From there your people will be given travel permits, and back pay, and be permitted to make their way to destinations of choice. Though I can’t imagine many of them will head east. By the way, the Allies aren’t reported within a hundred kilometers of this place. So the travel should be easy.”

“Good. Ah, thanks. My thanks, Herr Obersturmbannführer.” He reached over and on impulse seized Repp’s hand.

“Go on. Tell them,” Repp commanded.

“Yes, sir, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” Hans shouted, and lurched out.

Tomorrow! So soon. Back into the world, the real world. Vollmerhausen felt a surge of joy as if he’d just glimpsed the sea after a trek across the Sahara.

It was in the general confusion of preparing for the evacuation that night that a thought came to him. He tried to quell it, found this not difficult at first, with the technicians rushing merrily about him, dismantling their elaborate comfort systems in the barrack, storing personal belongings in trunks, even singing—a bottle, no, several bottles appeared and while Vollmerhausen, teetotaler, couldn’t approve, neither could he prevent them—as if the war were officially and finally over and Germany had somehow won. But later, in the night, in the dark, it returned to him. He tried to flatten it, drive it out, found a hundred ways to dispel it. But he could not. Vollmerhausen had thought of a last detail.

He pulled himself out of bed and heard his people breathing heavily—drunkenly?—around him. He checked his watch. After four, damn! Had Repp left already? Perhaps. But perhaps there was still time.

It had occurred to Vollmerhausen that he might not have warned Repp about the barrel residue problem. So many details, he’d forgotten just this one! Or had he? But he could not picture a conversation in which he properly explained this eccentricity of the weapon: that after firing fifty or so of the specially built rounds, the residue in the barrel accumulated to such an extent that it greatly affected accuracy. Though Repp would know, probably: he made it his business to know such things. Still …

Vollmerhausen drew a bathrobe around himself and hurried out. It was a warm night, he noticed, as he hurried across the compound to the SS barrack and Repp’s quarters. But what’s this? Stirrings filled the dark—a squad of SS troopers moving about, night maneuvers, a drill or something.

“Sergeant?”

The man’s pipe flared briefly in the dark. “Yes, sir,” he responded.

“Is Obersturmbannführer around? Has he left yet?”

“Ah—no, sir. I believe he’s still in his quarters.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” Ebullient, Vollmerhausen rushed on to the barrack. It was empty, though a light burned behind the door of Repp’s room. He walked among the dark, neat bunks and rapped at the wood.

No answer.

Was Repp off after all?

“Herr Obersturmbannführer?”

Vollmerhausen felt edgy, restless with indecision. Forget the whole silly thing? Go on in, be a bulldog, wait, make sure? Ach!

Hans the Kike pushed through the door. Room was empty. But then he noticed an old greatcoat with private’s chevron across a chair. Part of Repp’s “new identity”? He entered. On the desk lay a heap of field gear: the rumpled blanket, the six Kar ’98 packs on the harness, the fluted gas-mask cylinder, a helmet, in the corner a rifle. Repp clearly hadn’t left yet. Vollmerhausen began to wait.

But he again began to feel restless and uncomfortable. You didn’t want to stand in a man’s room uninvited. Perhaps he should slip out, wait by the door. Ah, what a dilemma. He did not want to do the wrong thing. He turned to stride out, but his sudden spin sent a spurt of commotion into the still air, and a single paper, as though magically, peeled itself off the desk and zigzagged dramatically to the floor. Vollmerhausen hurried over and picked it up to replace it.

It was hotly uncomfortable in the room. A fire blazed in Repp’s stove and the smell of his Russian cigarettes filled the air. Vollmerhausen’s eyes hooked on the GEHEIME KOMMANDOSACHE stamped haphazardly across the page top. The title read “NIBELUNGEN,” the exotic spacing for emphasis, and beneath the subtitle “LATEST INTELLIGENCE SITUATION 27 APR 45.”

He read the first line. The language of the report was military, dry, rather abstract, ostentatiously formal. He had trouble understanding exactly what they were saying.

Vollmerhausen was completely lost. Nuns? A convent? He couldn’t make it out. His heart was pounding so hard he was having trouble focusing. So damned hot in here. Sweat oozed from his hairline. He knew he must put the report down instantly, but he could not. He read on, the last paragraph.

He felt a growth of pain in his stomach. I am part of this? How? Why?

Repp asked, “Find it interesting?”

Vollmerhausen turned. He was not even surprised.

“You simply can’t. We don’t make war on—”

“We make war on our enemies,” said Repp, “wherever we find them. In whatever form. The East would make you strong for such a thing.”

“You could bring yourself to do this?” Vollmerhausen wanted to cry. He was afraid he was going to be sick.

“With honor,” Repp said. He stood there in the dirty tunic of a private soldier, hatless.

“You can’t,” Vollmerhausen said. It seemed to him a most cogent argument.

Repp brought up the Walther P-38 and shot him beneath the left eye. The bullet kicked the engineer’s head back violently. Most of the face was knocked in. He fell onto Repp’s desk, crashing with it to the floor.