Текст книги "The Master Sniper"

Автор книги: Stephen Hunter

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“And again, success.”

“He heard of a place, a convent, the Order of Saint Teresa, in the canton of Appenzell in the foothills of the Alps, in northeastern Switzerland. There were said to be Jews there, Jew children, whose parents had somehow gotten them out. But the nuns were very frightened. Very secretive. It took us more weeks until … until this.”

He held up the draydel.

“Felix got it from the caretaker, an alcoholic old man. In exchange for a small sum of money. It’s very old, unique. It had been passed down in their family for generations, father to son. It was identified by an inmate in the concentration establishment Auschwitz, a former member of the Hirsczowicz household. It proved to us the child was there. It made our operations feasible. Both of them.”

“Both?” said Leets, feeling his stomach begin to grow cold. Was there some aspect they had no idea of, some part of it they’d not come across, that was this very second beginning?

“There is another man, a German agent in Spain. A long-term chap. He has wonderful papers. Authentic papers, in fact, and neighbors to vouch for him and a whole set of references, a most impressive documentation. All identifying him as Stepan Hirsczowicz. A cousin. Long lost. The papers are quite real; they were taken from a real Stepan Hirsczowicz, who died at Mauthausen.”

Leets saw it now: the final twist.

“And so you get the money.”

“Yes. Early on, the plan was to bring it straight into the Reich, a matter of simple transfer, no difficulties. But then we began to see how the war would turn out. It was the Reichsführer’s idea, quite brilliant. All that money, clean, untouched, money that had never been in the Reich, never been associated with it. And he knew that after the war it could have its uses. All kinds of uses. It would be for the SS men who had gotten out, or were in hiding, or for this, or for that. It was a wonderful opportunity. It was really wonderful.”

And Leets understood how important it was to them: he saw now how a modern state, as it died, could totally invest its resources into the murder of one child. It wasn’t astounding at all, really; he felt no sense of anticlimax, of being let down.

He fingered the draydel: what a route it had traveled, what a long, sad journey. From the father, Josef, to the boy, Michael: a symbol of a father’s love. It’s all I can give you. I have no other, here. I would give anything, everything, to save you, but I have only this. Then it had gone to the caretaker, and then to the killers. To Felix and then to this smarmy creep here in the room with them and then to the big cheese Himmler, and Pohl’s greasy little fingers had probably gotten onto it. Then, finally, to Repp’s cold hands. A great miracle has happened.

“A bomb would be chancy, I suppose,” said Outhwaithe. “Any kind of elaborate commando mission difficult to mount in a neutral country. Thus it’s got to be one man, one good man.”

“And there was a special problem that made Repp the inevitable selection,” Eichmann explained bloodlessly. “The nuns keep the children in the cellar all the time.”

“They must bring them out at night.”

“For half an hour in the courtyard at midnight…. It’s behind a wall. But a man with a rifle could reach it from the mountain.

“There would be twenty-six of them, right? In all?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“So he doesn’t have to worry about hitting the right one.”

“No, Major. That’s the beauty of it. He doesn’t have to know. He’ll kill them all.”

“What do they call it? The gun, I mean.”

“Vampir.”

“Vampire,” Leets said in English.

“They had great trouble with the weight. Vollmerhausen worked very hard on the weight. It had to be light, because Repp had to carry it around the mountain. There were no roads.”

“How did they solve it?”

“The technical aspects I’m not sure of. It has to do with the sun. He exposes a plate to sunlight, and it makes the light-sensitive elements more potent. Thus he needs less power, and can carry a smaller battery. It’s very ingenious.”

“How much money will Repp get?” Tony asked.

“How did you know?” Eichmann said.

“Come now, we’re not that stupid. If there’s all that money at stake, he’s not going to be the only chap risking his neck and do it for the pure ideological pleasure.”

“He was coy. He pretended not to be interested. He said it was his bequest to the fallen. The German fallen. And so the Reichsführer pressed him. He did not have to press hard.”

“How much?”

“A million. Million, U.S. If he succeeds, he gains the world.”

He sat back.

“There. That’s it. I sold you Repp. That’s everything.”

“Not quite. When?”

“I said I didn’t know.”

“You know,” said Leets. “Everything you’ve told us is meaningless unless you tell us when.”

“I have violated every oath I ever took this afternoon.”

“I don’t give a fuck for your oaths. When? When?”

“It’s a trump card. I want a letter, saying how helpful I’ve been. Address it to the commandant here. Already, certain groups have been sent back to a large PW camp, where surely they will be set free at first convenience. I only want to go there. I’ve done no wrong.”

“You were playing for this. To bring us all the way, except for this, weren’t you?”

The German officer gazed at him levelly. “I’m not a stupid fellow either.” He even had a pen and paper ready.

“I wouldn’t,” Tony said. “We don’t know what this bird’s up to. We’ll find out soon enough. There’s got to be records—”

But Leets scrawled a brief note To Whom It Concerned, testifying to the German’s outstanding moral character. He handed it over, signed, dated.

“Thank you,” said Eichmann.

“Now: when?”

“A night when he can move with absolute freedom. A night when countermoves are impossible. A night when nobody is thinking of war.”

Leets stared at him.

Roger burst in, shrieking. He danced past the German, knocking him to one side, and grabbed Leets up in a wild do-si-do and in a croaking babble informed them the sky was full of airplanes, the booze was gurgling, the laughter building.

“Reams. Reams,” he cried.

Reams of what? Paper? Leets thought in confusion.

“I got a date,” Roger shouted, “a real pretty girl.”

“Roger,” Leets yelled.

“It’s over, fucking World War Number Two, over, they signed the surrender at Rheims, we missed it on the road.”

Leets looked beyond the boy to Eichmann, who sat, composed and grim, and then beyond Eichmann, and out the door, and in the wall there was a window. Tony was rising beside him urgently, calling for the MP to take the German back, and Roger said he was in love, he was in love, and out the window Leets noted the setting of the sun and the coming of the German night.

28

Repp came out of sleep fast: gunfire.

He rolled from the bed and moved quickly to the window. A glance at his watch told him it was still before nine. Margareta, her blond hair unkempt, one thin bare leg hanging out, stirred grumpily under the covers.

Repp could see nothing in the bright light. The crackle of guns rubbed raggedly against his ears again, a messy volley. A battle? He recalled something about the German soldiers turning themselves in today. Perhaps a few had decided on more honorable action, and war had come at last to Konstanz. But then he realized what must be happening: a cold finger pressed for just a second against his heart.

He snapped on the radio. Nothing on Radio Deutschland. Broadcast not scheduled till noon. He fiddled with the dial, picking up excited jabber in English and Italian, which he didn’t understand.

Finally, he encountered a French-speaking station. He knew the phrase from 1940. He’d seen it chalked on walls then, a fantasy, a dream.

A nous la victoire.

To us, victory.

They were playing “The Marseillaise.” He turned it off as Margareta lifted her head, face splotchy from sleep. A breast, pink-tipped and vague, swung free as she rose from the covers.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s time to go,” he said.

He was eight hours ahead of Leets.

Repp checked the mirror once again. Gazing back at him was a prosperous, sleek civilian, freshly bathed and shaved, hair brilliantined back, crisp carnation of breast-pocket handkerchief, neat tie on glossy white shirt under exquisitely tailored suit coat. He had trouble recognizing this image as his own, the cheeks so rosy, the eyes set in a pink bland face.

“You look like a cinema star,” she said. “I didn’t realize how handsome you were.”

Yet he could see the lights playing off his forehead where the sweat had begun to accumulate in beads, high and moist. The border was coming up, the nightmare passage.

“Repp. One last time,” she said. “Stay. Or get across and go somewhere safe. But best, stay with me. There’s some kind of future here, somewhere, I know there is. Children even.”

He sat down on the bed. He felt exhausted. He tried to press images of prying border guards and intensive interrogations out of his mind. He noted that his hands were trembling. He knew he had to go to the toilet.

“Please, Repp. It’s all over now. It’s done, finished.”

“All right,” he said weakly.

“You’ll stay?” she said.

“It’s just too much. I’m not meant for this kind of thing, for playing other people. I’m a soldier, not an actor.”

“Oh, Repp. You make me so happy.”

“There, there,” he said.

“So gallant. So damned gallant, your generation. You had so much responsibility, and you carried it so well. Oh, God, I think I’m going to start crying again. Oh, Repp, I also feel like laughing. It’ll be fine, I know it will, it’ll work out for the best.”

“I know it will too, Margareta,” he said. “Of course I do. It’ll all be fine.”

He went to her.

“I want you to know,” he said, “I want you to know an extraordinary thing. The most extraordinary thing in my life: that I love you.”

She smiled, though crying.

She dabbed at her messy face.

“I look so awful. All wet, hair a mess. Please, this is so wonderful. I’ve got to clean up. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“You are beautiful,” he said.

“I must clean up,” she said, and turned and stepped for the door.

He shot her in the base of the skull and she pitched forward into the hall. He himself felt awful, and he was trying to be kind.

She didn’t know, he told himself. Not for one second did she know.

Now all the trails were dead and there were no links between Repp and the private and Herr Peters.

Repp moved her to the bed and delicately put the sheets over her. He threw the pistol in the cellar and washed his hands. He checked his watch. It was almost nine.

He stepped bravely out, blinking in the sun.

The French private, glum because his comrades were drunkenly shooting up central Konstanz, demanded Repp’s passport. Repp could see the boy was sullen, presumably stupid, and would therefore be inclined to mistakes. He handed over the document, smiling mildly. The boy retreated to a table where a sergeant sat while Repp waited near the gate. Here, the German side, the arrangements were more imposing, a concrete blockhouse, gun emplacements and sandbags. But this formal military layout seemed a little idiotic now that it was manned only by a few Frenchies rather than a platoon of German frontier policemen.

“Mein Herr?”

Repp looked up. A French officer stood there.

“Yes? What is it?” Repp demanded.

“Could you step over here, please?” The man spoke bad German.

“Is something the matter?”

“This way, please.”

Repp took a deep breath and followed him over.

“I have a train to catch. The noon train. To Zurich,” he said.

“This will only take a moment.”

“I’m a Swiss citizen. You have my passport.”

“Yes. The first I’ve seen. What business did you have in Germany?”

“I’m a lawyer. It was a matter of getting a fellow’s signature on a document. In Tuttlingen.”

“And how was Tuttlingen?”

“Loud. The Americans came. There was a battle.”

“At the bridge, yes.”

“It was very frightening.”

“How did you get from Konstanz to Tuttlingen?”

“I hired a private car.”

“I thought petrol was all but impossible to find.”

“The man I hired took care of that. I paid a fortune, but I don’t know anything about it.”

“Why do you look so uneasy?”

Repp realized he wasn’t doing well. He thought his heart would burst or shatter in his chest. He tried not to swallow or blink.

“I don’t care to miss my train, Herr Hauptmann.”

“Use the French, please. Capitaine.”

Repp said the French word awkwardly.

“Yes, thanks.”

Repp knew he’d been a hair from calling the man Sturmbannführer, the SS word.

“May I go now?”

“And what’s your rush? Hurrying to get to the wonderful Swiss climbing?”

“There are avalanches this time of year, Captain.”

The captain smiled. “One other thing. I notice a curious designation on your passport. It’s the first Swiss one I’ve seen. Here, it says ‘R-A.’ What can that mean?”

Repp swallowed. “It’s an administrative category. I know nothing about it.”

“It means ‘Race—Aryan,’ doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know you Swiss went in for that sort of thing.”

“When you are a little country next to a big country, you try and make the big country happy.”

“Yes. Well, the big country is not too happy these days.”

How much longer would this last?

“But the Swiss are. The Swiss win every war, don’t they?”

“I suppose so, sir,” said Repp. His mouth tasted sour.

“Go on. This is ridiculous. Pass, get out of here.”

“Yes, sir,” Repp said, and scurried off.

It was like a sudden transit to wonderland: People pink and gay, crowding, chunky, prosperous. Just a few miles, a fence, a bitter officer overzealously guarding his gate and this, a whole other world—Kreuzlingen, Konstanz’s Swiss suburb. Repp struggled in the dangerous intoxication of it. He tried to locate deep within himself a primordial sense of righteousness, or abiding moral discontent. But he was too bedazzled by surface charms: goods brightly wrapped in shopwindows, chocolates and all kinds of foods, beautifully dressed women who were totally oblivious of their appearance, fat kiddies, banners flapping out of windows, private autos purring down the street. A holiday air prevailed: had he blundered into some quaint Swiss festival?

No, the Swiss were celebrating war’s end too. Repp darkened as this knowledge made itself clear to him. A fat mama with two children seemed to materialize out of the crowd along the sidewalk.

“Isn’t it wonderful, mein Herr? No more killing. The war is finally done.”

“Yes, wonderful,” he agreed.

They had no right. They weren’t a part of it. They had not won a victory, they had not suffered a defeat. They had merely profited. It made him sick, but though he felt like a pariah among them, he pressed ahead, several blocks down the Hauptstrasse, into Kreuzlingen’s commercial center, then took the Bahnhofstrasse toward the station. He could see it ahead, not a huge place like the Berlin or the Munich monstrosities before the war, but prepossessing on its own scale, with glassed-in roof.

Glass!

All that unbroken glass, glittering whitely among the metal girders, acres of it. He blinked stupidly. Were there trains there that actually chugged through a placid countryside without fear of American or English gangsters swooping down to rain death from the sky? Almost in answer to this question, a whistle shrieked and a puff of white smoke rose.

A block yet from the Bahnhof itself, he arrived at an open-air cafe, the Café München.

They’ll change that name by noon, he thought.

A few tables were unoccupied. Repp chose one and sat down.

A waiter appeared, a man in white smock with attentive eyes. “Mein Herr?”

“Ah,” a little startled, “coffee, I think,” almost having said “real coffee.” The man withdrew instantly and reappeared in seconds with a small steamy cup.

Repp sat with it, letting it cool. He wished he could stop feeling nervous. He wished he could stop thinking about Margareta. All the hard business was over, why couldn’t he relax? Yet he could not seem to settle down. So many of the little things of the world seemed off: the Swiss were fatter, cheerier, their streets cleaner, their cars shinier. It was impossible to believe that with the money he’d be a part of all this. He could have a black shiny car and dress in a suit like this and have a thousand white shirts. He could have ten Homburgs, two hundred ties, a place in the country. He could have all that. What lay ahead was only the operation itself, and that was what he was best at.

He tried not to think of After. It would come when it came. If you looked too far ahead you got in trouble, he knew for a fact. Now, there was only room for the operation.

Across the street, he saw a small park, green under arched elms, and in it benches and gym apparatus for children. Strange that it was so green so early; but then, was it early? What was the date? He’d been keyed to the surrender, not the date. He thought hard: he knew he’d crossed the bridge into Konstanz May 4; then he’d been sealed up with Margareta—how long? It seemed a month. No, only three days; today then was May 7. Yet the pale sun had urged bud growth out of the trees and lay in pools on the grass, which itself was green and not the thatchy stuff of earlier.

In the park, two blond children played on the teeter-totter. Repp watched them idly. Surely they were Swiss: but for just a moment he saw them as German. Uncharacteristically, he began to feel morbid and sentimental about children. Today of all days. Yet these two beauties—real Aryan stock, chubby, red-cheeked—really represented something to him: they were what might have been. We tried to give you a clean, perfect world, he told them. That awesome responsibility—a major cleaning action, Grossauberungsaktionen—had fallen to his generation. Hard, difficult work. But necessary. And so close, so damned close! It filled him with bitterness. So much accomplished, then pfft, gone up in smoke. The big Jews had probably finally stopped it. Repp almost wept.

“A pretty boy and girl, eh, Herr Peters?”

Repp turned. Was this Felix? He hadn’t used the approach code. Repp looked at a man about his own age, with acne-pitted face, in a pinstriped suit. Felix? Yes, Repp had been shown a picture of the same fellow in Berlin. Felix was just the code name; he was really a Sturmbannführer Ernst Dorfman of Amt Via, SD Foreign Intelligence.

“Hansel and Gretel,” said Felix. “A fairy tale.”

“Yes, beauties,” agreed Repp.

“May I sit?”

Repp nodded coldly.

“Oh. Forgive my manners: did you get the Tuttlingen Signature?”

“Without difficulty.”

“Excellent.” Felix smiled, and then confided, “A silly game, no? Like a novel. In Berlin, they think business like that is important.” His cool eyes showed amusement. But the man’s cavalier attitude bothered Repp. “And how was the trip?”

“Not without difficulties.”

“Yet you made good time.”

“The schedule was designed around maximum time allowances. I came through in minimum.”

“And how was the woman?”

“Fine,” he said.

“Yes, I’ll bet you had pleasant hours with that one. She was pointed out to me once. You aces, you always get to go first-class, don’t you?”

“The car?” Repp asked.

“Christ, you’re a firebreather. Still trying to make Standartenführer, eh? But this way.”

Repp did not at all like to hear the word Standartenführer thrown so casually into a public conversation, but there were in fact no other customers within earshot of the table. He stood with Felix and pulled some money out of his pocket. But he had no idea how much to leave.

“Two francs would do nicely, Herr Peters,” Felix said.

Repp stared stupidly at the strange coins in his hand. Now what the hell? Finally, he dumped two of the big ones on the table and followed Felix.

“That’s quite a tip you left the fellow, Herr Peters,” said Felix. “He can send a son to Kadettenanstalt on it.”

They crossed the street and walked along some shop fronts and then turned down a smaller street. An Opel, black, pre-war, gunned into life. Its driver turned as they approached.

Repp got in the back.

“Herr Peters, my associate, Herr Schultz.”

He was a young man, early twenties, with eager eyes and an open smile.

“Hello, hello,” said Repp.

“Sir, I was with SS-Wiking in Russia before I was wounded. We all heard about you.”

“Thanks,” said Repp. “How far to Appenzell?”

“Three hours. We’ve got plenty of time. You’d best try and relax.”

They pulled from the curb and in minutes Schultz had them out of the town. They took Road No. 13 south, following the coast of the Bodensee. It shimmered off to the left, its horizon lost in haze, while on the right tidy farms were set far back from the road on rolling hills. Occasionally Repp would see a vineyard or a neatly tended orchard. They soon began to pass through little coastal towns, Münsterlingen with its Benedictine nunnery, and Romanshorn, a larger place, with a ferry and boatyards; beyond, a fine view of the Appenzell Alps, blue and brooding, was disclosed; and then Arbon, which boasted a castle and a fancy old church—

“The Swiss could do with an autobahn,” said Felix.

“Eh?” said Repp, blinking.

“An autobahn. These roads are too narrow. Very funny, the Swiss, they won’t spend a penny unless they have to. No grand public buildings. Not interested in politics at all, or philosophy.”

“I saw them dancing in the streets,” said Repp, “because the war was over.”

“Because the markets will be open, rather,” said Felix, “and they can go back to being the clearinghouse of nations. They do not believe in anything except francs. Not idealists like us.”

“I assume we can chat as if we are at a reception following a piano concert because all the necessary details have been attended to,” Repp said.

“Of course, Herr Peters,” said Felix.

“The weapon is—”

“Still in its case. Unopened. As per instructions.”

“You’re not known to British or American Intelligence?”

“Oh, I’m known. Everybody in Switzerland knows everybody else. But as of the thirtieth I became uninteresting to them. They expected me to politely put a bullet through my skull. They’d rather pay attention to their new enemies, the Russians. That’s where all the activity is now. I’m a free man.”

“But you were nevertheless cautious in your preparations?”

“Herr Obersturmbannführer, an incautious man does not last any longer in my profession than in yours. And I’ve lasted since 1935. Here, Lisbon, Madrid during the Civil War, a time in Dublin. Buenos Aires. I’m quite skilled. Do you want details? None of our part of the operation was set up through code channels; rather it was all done via hand-carried instructions, different couriers, different routes. Lately, I haven’t trusted the code machines. And I had a ticket to B.A. out of Zurich last Saturday. Which I took. I got as far as Lisbon, where another agent took my place. I returned, via plane to Italy and then train through the Brenner Pass. I haven’t been in Zurich for nearly a week. We’ve been staying in the Hotel Helvetia in Kreuzlingen, on Swiss passports such as yours. All right?”

“My apologies,” said Repp.

Repp lit a cigarette. He noticed that they’d turned inland. There was no more water to be seen and now, ahead through the windshield, the Alps seemed to bulk up majestically, much nearer than when first he’d observed them.

“The last town was Rorschach, Herr Peters,” said the young driver. “Now we’re headed toward St. Gallen, and then to Appenzell.”

“I see,” said Repp.

“Pretty, the mountains, no?” said Felix.

“Yes. Though I’m not from mountainous territory. I prefer the woods. How much further in time?”

“Two hours, sir,” said the driver. Repp saw his warm eyes in the mirror as the young man peeked at him.

“I think I ought to grab some sleep. Tonight’ll be a long one.”

“A good idea,” said Felix, but Repp had already dozed off into quick and dreamless sleep.

“Herr Obersturmbannführer, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”

He awakened roughly. The driver was shaking him. He could see that the car was inside something. “We’re here.

We’re here.”

Repp came fully awake. He felt much better now.

The car was in a barn—he smelled hay and cows and manure. Felix, in the corner, labored over something, a trunk, Repp thought.

“Vampir?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Repp walked to the barn door, which was ajar, and looked out. They were partially up a mountain, at the very highest level of cultivation. He looked down across a slope of carefully tended fields and meadows and could see the main road several miles away.

“It seems desolate enough,” he said.

“Yes, owned by an old couple. We bought it from them at an outrageous price. I tell you, I never worked an operation with such a budget. We used to have to account for every paper clip. Now: you need a farm, you buy a farm! Somebody sure wants those little Jew babies dead.”

Repp walked out of the barn and around its corner, to follow the slope upward. The fields ended abruptly a few hundred meters beyond, giving way to forest, which mantled the rest of the bulk of the mountain, softening its steepness and size. Yet he still knew he was in for some exercise. The best estimates, based on aerial survey photos, put the distance between himself and the valley of the Appenzell convent roughly twenty kilometers, rough ground through mountain forest the whole way, up one side of it, around, and then down the other. He flipped his wrist over to check his watch: 2:35 P.M. Another six or seven hours till nightfall.

Repp shook the lethargy out of his bones. He had some walking to do, with Vampir along for the ride. He calculated at least five hours on the march, which would get him to his shooting position by twilight: vitally important. He needed at least a glimpse of the buildings in the light so that he could orient himself and calculate allowances on his field of fire, the limits to his killing zone.

Repp stabbed out his cigarette and returned inside.

He took off the tie, threw it in the car, and peeled off the jacket, folding it neatly. He changed into his mountain boots, a pair of green-twill drill trousers and a khaki shirt. Then he put on the Tiger jacket, the new one, from the workshops at Dachau, its crisp patterns, green on paler green, flecked with brown and black. But Repp had vanity too: against regulations, he’d indulged in one of the traditions of the Waffen SS and had the German eagle and swastika sewn onto his left sleeve.

Against whose regulations? he wondered. For now not only did he represent the Waffen SS, he was the Waffen SS: he was what remained of thirty-eight divisions and nearly half a million men, heroes like Max Seela and Panzer Meyer and Max Simon and Fritz Christen and Sepp Dietrich and Theodor Eicke; and Totenkopf, and Das Reich and Polzei and Liebstandarte and Wiking and Germania and Hohenstauffen and Nord and Prinz Eugen, the divisions themselves, Frundsberg and Hitlerjugend: gone, all gone, under the earth or in cages waiting to be hanged by Russians or Americans: he alone was left of this army of crusaders, he was chief of staff and intelligence and logistics and, most important, the men, the dead men. It was an immense legacy, yet its heaviness pleased him. Better me than most. I can do it. A simple thing now, move and shoot. After Russia all things have seemed easy, and this last mission will be easiest of all.

“Herr Obersturmbannführer?” The young driver stood looking at him as he snapped the last of the buttons.

“Yes?”

“Sir, wouldn’t it be safer to travel in civilian clothes, in hiker’s kit? That way, if—”

“No matter what I’m wearing, I’ll have that”—he pointed to a table, on which Felix now had arranged the weapon components, gleaming with oil—“which no hiker would carry. But I won’t run into anybody. Dense forest, high in the mountains, far from climbing and hiking trails. And this is a day of celebration, people everywhere are dancing, drinking, making love. They won’t be poking about.”

“But the boy has a good point,” called Felix, “after all—”

“And finally, this is no SD operation. It’s the last job of Totenkopfdivision, of the Waffen SS. I’m no assassin, gone to murder. I’m an officer, a soldier. This is a battle. And so I’ll wear my uniform.”

“Well,” said Felix wearily, “it’s your funeral, not ours.”

“No,” said Repp. “It won’t be my funeral.”

He went over; he could see smudge marks from Felix’s fingers on the sheen of the cool, oily metal of the rifle components; these somehow bothered him.

“Of course it has not been opened until just now?”

He knew Felix was giving the driver a look of disbelief, but he heard the voice ring out, though without conviction, “Just as we were instructed.”

Repp assembled the rifle quickly, threading the gas piston, operating handle and spring guide into the receiver, inserting the bolt camming and locking units, forcing the pin into the hinge at the trigger unit pivot, and locking the whole together. It took seconds. Then, without ceremony, he loaded each of the six magazines, thirty rounds apiece, with the special subsonic ammunition with the spherical bullet heads. He set the rifle and clips aside, and checked off the connections and wiring in the electro-optical pack. Finally, after examining it closely for defects and finding none, he locked the night scope itself with its infrared lamp to the zf.4 mount on the receiver of the STG-44, using the special wrench. Turning the bulky weapon sideways, he edged a magazine into the housing, feeling it fit into the tolerances; then with a sharp slap from the heel of his palm he drove the magazine home, hearing it snap in as the spring catch hooked.

“You look like a doctor getting ready to operate,” said Felix.

“It’s just a tool, that’s all, a modified rifle,” Repp responded, uneasy at the man’s apparent awe of the equipment. “Now help me with this damned thing.”

He put on the battle harness, with canteen and pouches for the magazines, and over that fitted the instrument rack. Felix and the youngster helped lift the thing into position, and he stepped into it like a coat, pulling the straps tight. He stepped away from them, taking the full weight.

“Christ, that’s a heavy bastard. Will you make it?” asked Felix.

“I’ll make it all right,” said Repp grimly, as he looped the sling on the rifle over his shoulder. One last glance at his watch; it was 2:45 P.M.

“Sir?” The driver. He held something bright out. “For you. For afterward.”