Fox On The Rhine by Douglas Niles, Michael Dobson

not so large or so active a compound as Wolfschanze. Here, too, the swastika hung listlessly, and black-shirted SS guards patrolled with pacing Alsatians. Besides the smaller size, there was another, more subtle difference to this compound--here all the guards wore black. Nowhere could be seen the feldgrau tunics of the Wehrmacht, for this was the headquarters of Reichsführer SS Heinrich Himmler.
    During the course of the hot afternoon and muggy evening, no sign of undue excitement had stirred around the gray concrete blocks or amid the wide walkways bordered with bright flower beds. Yet within these bombproof shelters, a controlled frenzy drove the officers who manned the radio and telephone centers. Desperately they tried to establish contact with the Wolf’s Lair--with Hitler, or at least with some member of his staff. Meanwhile, the reichsführer had brooded in the darkness of his office, consulting star charts and then pacing in agitation, waiting for news as darkness settled over Poland and inched westward to blanket the rest of the continent.
    For most of these hours the officers had been able to establish precious few facts--until shortly before midnight a frantic telephone call arrived from the Wolf’s Lair. Within minutes, General Gerhardt Fuller entered the reichsführer’s office and snapped to attention. His black eyes gleamed beneath the brim of his high, peaked cap--the only sign of the general’s rising state of excitement.
    “The führer is dead!” he began, without preamble. “Conspirators have moved in Berlin, Munich, and other districts--but there is a lack of coordination in their efforts.”
    Himmler turned to look at the general. His hands were clasped behind his back. In the dark room, his black uniform made him virtually invisible, except for the metallic glistening of the SS death’s-head insignia. As usual, the general’s skin crawled as he felt the penetrating eyes of the reichsführer on him. Although Himmler was not a physically prepossessing figure in his wire-rimmed spectacles, there was something about his gaze that put Fuller in mind of a snake facing a rabbit. Fuller could swear that Himmler was not surprised by the earthshaking news.
    “Are you certain?” said Himmler in a mild voice.
    “Yes, Herr Reichsführer. Hauptmann Braun, a loyal officer of the SS, reached us by ordering a technician to splice into the telephone line at the Wolf’s Lair--the switchboard and radios there were destroyed shortly after the assassination. In fact, the man underwent no little risk to get his message out.”
    “I see,” observed Himmler. “Please continue.”
    “A bomb was planted, apparently by Count von Stauffenberg, Fromm’s chief of staff. No one knows who’s in command, and everyone is accusing everyone else.”
    “Yes, I suppose that’s to be expected. And the rest of the army?” inquired Himmler, his voice almost prim.
    “They are paralyzed. There is no doubt that high-ranking officers stand behind the revolt, but the bulk of the rank and file--and the generals as well--await guidance, orders.”
    “Of course,” murmured the leader of the SS. For a few moments Himmler was silent, and Fuller remained rigid.
    The leadership of the state stood vacant, but it would not remain so for long. Of course, with the Reich threatened by looming defeat on all sides, even the prize of the government might seem a hollow trophy. Still, the murderous act meant that right now Himmler was the most powerful man in Nazi Germany. As personal commander of the SS, the reichsführer had the fanatical loyalty of those vast legions--a private army that existed alongside, and even within, the conventionally structured Wehrmacht. Could he use that power to seize control, to arrest this chaos in the early stages?
    It was Fuller’s job to see that he didn’t get that opportunity. The import had been clear to Fuller since those five words had been whispered over the telephone, long before Braun had leaked