The Führer Must Die by Victoria Andre King

Author:Victoria Andre King [King, Victoria Andre]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2016-04-15T04:00:00+00:00

NOVEMBER 15TH, 1939

BRANDT HAD JUST PLACED A very ominous looking cup of coffee in front of Nebe when Nolte charged in and Heil Hitlered with renewed vigor. “They were there!”

A clearly more relaxed Nebe gave him a sardonic smile. “Of course they were. Now go have them bring Elser in.” Brandt stifled a chuckle and Nebe’s eyes flashed at him. “Remind me at which point of his mind-numbing tale we left off.”

Brandt glanced quickly through his typing. “The umbrella boat and the fat landlady’s bathtub.” Nebe tried to take a swig of the coffee but had to spit it back in the cup. Brandt shrugged apologetically as Georg and his bodyguards entered followed by Nolte.

Nebe seemed full of youthful vigor, “feeling his oats” as the Americans would say. “So you shaved and bathed, Georg. When did you plant the bomb?”

“The following evening I walked into the BürgerBräuKeller carrying the umbrella and my tool case. There was nothing unusual about that, a number of tradesmen got off work and stopped for dinner on their way home. The waiters were all tall, big-bellied men, but professionally light on their feet. Their beaked faces glided by, almost a foot over my head because I’m only 5’4”. A Viking prow of a face loomed over me. ‘We close in half an hour, sir,’ he said it in a voice you’d use when talking to a dullard. I smiled, nodded, and kept walking through the ranks of dining rooms. The table cloths looked as crisp and tight as the clothes on a sculpture.

“The ballroom was empty and lit only by what light leaked in from the hall and the street. I slipped in and took the stairs to the second-floor balcony then walked along it, checking every room. Most were unlocked but with the look of constant use, full of canned goods and barrels of sauerkraut, table wear and busboy trolleys. Three quarters of the way around the balcony there was a knob with a broken latch, the knob wouldn’t turn but when I released it the door sprung open a crack. When I placed my palm against it, the door eased open with a satisfying squeak of disuse. The room was empty except for a painters’ drop cloth, two saw horses, and some dried-out cans of paint. The peeling wallpaper looked prehensile. I walked in and closed the door. There was the smell of cockroaches, the stale smell of old newspapers and the sweetish smell of old age in the darkness. I lit a candle and wedged the sawhorses against the door, then pulled the drop cloth over myself like a blanket, blew out the candle and went to sleep.

“When I woke up and checked my watch, it was 1:35 a.m. I picked up my equipment and walked out to the balcony. The ballroom had huge French windows. A light might have been seen from the street but two street lamps gave me enough illumination to work. I sat down in front of the right-hand pillar and laid out the tools.

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