In The Presence Of My Enemies

And, to a certain extent, his intimidation worked even against his formidable foes. He might have been-Heinrich thought he was-bluffing when he warned that the SS could make the Wehrmacht sorry. But the panzers' cannons and machine guns waited tensely-waited for they knew not what. A nightjar swooped out of the darkness to snatch one of the moths dancing in the air around the palace lights. The sudden, unexpected streak of motion made men from the SS and the Wehrmacht turn their heads towards it. If it had startled one of them into tightening his finger on a trigger…

Heinrich never knew exactly how long the impasse lasted. Somewhere between half an hour and an hour was his best guess. What broke it was a high, clear sound that pierced both the yells from the crowd and the diesel rumble of the armored fighting vehicles: the sound of one man laughing.

The man was a Wehrmacht panzer commander. Like his fellows, he wore radio headphones. He laughed again, louder this time, and raised a bullhorn to his mouth. "Give it up, you sorry bastards!" he blared. "Prutzmann's blown his brains out. The Putsch is falling down around your ears."

"Liar!" one of the SS men shouted, an odd desperation in his voice-it wasn't I don't believe you but I don't dare believe you.

"You've got your own radios," the Wehrmacht panzer commander answered through the bullhorn. "You can find out for yourselves. Go ahead. I'll wait." He theatrically folded his arms across his chest.

There in the glare of the panzers' lights, an SS radioman did call…whom? Somebody at Prutzmann's headquarters, Heinrich supposed. He could tell when the radioman got his question answered. The fellow suddenly sagged, as if his skeleton had turned to rubber. He spoke to the officer who'd parleyed with the Wehrmacht soldiers. The officer clapped a hand to his forehead in an altogether human gesture of despair: the kind of gesture Heinrich had never imagined seeing from an SS man.

Little by little, the officer pulled himself together. He stepped forward again. "You seem to be right," he called bleakly to the Wehrmacht panzer commander. "What do you want from us?"

"Give us Globocnik," the Wehrmacht man said. "The rest of you lousy sons of bitches can go back to your barracks. We'll deal with you later if we decide you're worth the trouble."

The SS officer drew back to hash things out with his comrades. Heinrich couldn't hear a word they said through the growl of the armored fighting vehicles' engines and the shouting and oaths from the crowd. Those soon coalesced into a chant of, "Globocnik! Globocnik! Give us Globocnik!" Heinrich happily howled it along with everybody else.

When a squad of blackshirts with assault rifles turned and went purposefully into the Fuhrer 's palace, he stopped chanting and thumped Willi on the shoulder. "They're going to get him!" he exclaimed. "They really are!"

"Either that or they're going to try to sneak him out of here," Willi said. "This place has got to have more secret escape routes than Brazil's got coffee beans."

"Their buddies will pay for it if they do that," Heinrich reminded him. "And besides, who'd want to rally behind Odilo Globocnik? Prutzmann, maybe. Whatever else he was, he was sly. But Globocnik? He was never anything but a false front for other people to work behind."

Willi thought that over, then nodded. "Well, when you're right, you're right." He grinned at Heinrich. "You should try it more often." Heinrich snorted.

A shot rang out inside the Fuhrer 's palace. Hearing it over the engine, Heinrich jerked and almost fell off the armored personnel carrier. "Is that Globocnik taking Prutzmann's way out?" he said. "Or was he 'shot while attempting to escape'?" The familiar SS euphemism for an execution had a fine ironic flavor here.

"We'll find out," Willi said. "What a man-the twenty-four-hour Fuhrer!" He made as if to spit to show his contempt, but held back when he realized he was all too likely to spit on someone.

A few minutes later, the squad of SS men came out again. They half led, half dragged a lurching figure in their midst. Blood ran from their captive's head, but he seemed no worse than stunned. "Here's Globocnik!" one of the blackshirts shouted. "He tried to shoot himself, but he didn't have the balls to do it right. His hand twitched when he pulled the trigger, so all he did was crease his scalp. You want him, you're welcome to him."

They shoved Odilo Globocnik down the steps toward the waiting Wehrmacht men. He staggered as if drunk, his arms flailing wildly. But the soldiers never got him. Instead, the baying mob surged forward.

Globocnik wailed once as they swarmed over him. The Wehrmacht men might have been able to stop it. They stayed in their panzers and APCs and did not a thing.