pound.”
Their attentive waiter, Randolph, came with two snifters of Courvoisier.
“I believe it is time now,” the Warrior said. “You have wined me and dined me most graciously. Now we must talk.”
For the next fifteen minutes, the Führer was alternately a graceful diplomat, a moralist, a harsh military strategist.
The complete plan for the operation known as Dachau Two was revealed to the Warrior.
The plot was mercilessly torn to shreds and then rebuilt from the remnants. Truly terrifying and unassailable this time.
Black coffee was ordered by the Warrior. The face and broad neck of the white-maned man had grown bright scarlet red over the intense quarter of an hour.
“Finally,” the Führer said in a nerveless monotone that was chilling, “my group will strike. The effect will be like nothing ever seen. An extraordinary blitzkrieg, even in this age.”
The Warrior answered slowly, with grave consideration showing in every line of his face.
“If it was anyone other than you who asked this of me—I would say
no, no, no
. The risks of your plan are almost unconscionable. Because it is
you
who ask, however, I must give my tentative approval.”
The Führer started to speak, but the Warrior slowly raised his hand.
“Not
approval to proceed, my friend, approval to seek further guidance from the other Council members. You now have one negative vote. My vote is
no.”
The Führer’s head remained bowed for several seconds. Words finally came with obvious difficulty and great emotion.
“I have to tell you a most difficult thing now. You see, I have already approached the other members of the Council. I have all five votes. Yours is the only negative vote.”
The Warrior nodded. “I must fight you then,” he said. “I will use all of my resources.”
Outside the Washington, D.C., restaurant, the Warrior and the Führer got into separate black limousines, one with bulletproof windows, the other with DPL license plate.
As one of the limousines crossed Victory Bridge, the black car sparked suddenly, like a match being lit in a stiff wind.
There was a bright red-and-yellow flame at the center or the famous bridge. Then dark metal fell on the Potomac like huge raindrops.
Back at the Shoreham Hotel, the Führer made a single-sentence phone call.
“Begin Dachau Two.”
CHAPTER 21
Rusted, off-white farms—evidence that upstate New York is really part of the Midwest—lined either side of Route 32 South going toward Wallkill.
Stone-pocked mailboxes were designed for Browns, Grays, Halls, and the
Kingston Freeman
. An ocean of tea-green and silver leaves filtered the low late-May sky. Hay fever grew high along the roadside. Spring sang “Come Build a Maypole under My Apple Tree.”
An agent named Hallahan suggested to David that traveling under armed bodyguard was like “being a little bait fish, with some other bait fish trying to protect you from mako sharks.”
“That must be comforting as hell for David to hear now,” Harry Callaghan said. “Not inaccurate, though,” he added, puffing on his pipe.
“It does have an eerie quality to it,” David offered from the backseat of the government Lincoln. “It feels like, oh, when you leave a movie matinee and walk out into bright sunshine. Or like the first time you go outside after a shitty flu.”
David was extremely aware of the smallest details on the trip. The different bird sounds along Route 32: some melodic, others shrill and electric. The muted colors of the landscape. Shadow shapes. Fresh earth smells coming in his open window.
It was ridiculous, he was sure, but his heartbeat was a steady
thump thump
for the entire forty-minute trip to meet the Nazi-hunter Rabinowitz.
Small apple farms shot by on either side of the road. Then the Wallkill Correctional Facility—a slate-gray building in the center of a raving-yellow cornfield.
Then came the unincorporated village of Wallkill, New York.
Pimply teenage boys and girls stood around
Their attentive waiter, Randolph, came with two snifters of Courvoisier.
“I believe it is time now,” the Warrior said. “You have wined me and dined me most graciously. Now we must talk.”
For the next fifteen minutes, the Führer was alternately a graceful diplomat, a moralist, a harsh military strategist.
The complete plan for the operation known as Dachau Two was revealed to the Warrior.
The plot was mercilessly torn to shreds and then rebuilt from the remnants. Truly terrifying and unassailable this time.
Black coffee was ordered by the Warrior. The face and broad neck of the white-maned man had grown bright scarlet red over the intense quarter of an hour.
“Finally,” the Führer said in a nerveless monotone that was chilling, “my group will strike. The effect will be like nothing ever seen. An extraordinary blitzkrieg, even in this age.”
The Warrior answered slowly, with grave consideration showing in every line of his face.
“If it was anyone other than you who asked this of me—I would say
no, no, no
. The risks of your plan are almost unconscionable. Because it is
you
who ask, however, I must give my tentative approval.”
The Führer started to speak, but the Warrior slowly raised his hand.
“Not
approval to proceed, my friend, approval to seek further guidance from the other Council members. You now have one negative vote. My vote is
no.”
The Führer’s head remained bowed for several seconds. Words finally came with obvious difficulty and great emotion.
“I have to tell you a most difficult thing now. You see, I have already approached the other members of the Council. I have all five votes. Yours is the only negative vote.”
The Warrior nodded. “I must fight you then,” he said. “I will use all of my resources.”
Outside the Washington, D.C., restaurant, the Warrior and the Führer got into separate black limousines, one with bulletproof windows, the other with DPL license plate.
As one of the limousines crossed Victory Bridge, the black car sparked suddenly, like a match being lit in a stiff wind.
There was a bright red-and-yellow flame at the center or the famous bridge. Then dark metal fell on the Potomac like huge raindrops.
Back at the Shoreham Hotel, the Führer made a single-sentence phone call.
“Begin Dachau Two.”
CHAPTER 21
Rusted, off-white farms—evidence that upstate New York is really part of the Midwest—lined either side of Route 32 South going toward Wallkill.
Stone-pocked mailboxes were designed for Browns, Grays, Halls, and the
Kingston Freeman
. An ocean of tea-green and silver leaves filtered the low late-May sky. Hay fever grew high along the roadside. Spring sang “Come Build a Maypole under My Apple Tree.”
An agent named Hallahan suggested to David that traveling under armed bodyguard was like “being a little bait fish, with some other bait fish trying to protect you from mako sharks.”
“That must be comforting as hell for David to hear now,” Harry Callaghan said. “Not inaccurate, though,” he added, puffing on his pipe.
“It does have an eerie quality to it,” David offered from the backseat of the government Lincoln. “It feels like, oh, when you leave a movie matinee and walk out into bright sunshine. Or like the first time you go outside after a shitty flu.”
David was extremely aware of the smallest details on the trip. The different bird sounds along Route 32: some melodic, others shrill and electric. The muted colors of the landscape. Shadow shapes. Fresh earth smells coming in his open window.
It was ridiculous, he was sure, but his heartbeat was a steady
thump thump
for the entire forty-minute trip to meet the Nazi-hunter Rabinowitz.
Small apple farms shot by on either side of the road. Then the Wallkill Correctional Facility—a slate-gray building in the center of a raving-yellow cornfield.
Then came the unincorporated village of Wallkill, New York.
Pimply teenage boys and girls stood around
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