Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Andrew Rosenheim grew up in Chicago and in a small town in Michigan. He went to Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar in 1977 and has lived there ever since. For many years he worked in publishing, at Oxford University Press and Penguin Books among others, and is now a full-time writer. He is married with twin daughters.

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Fear Itself

THE OVERLOOK PRESS

Chapter One

Schellenberg crossed the square quickly, avoiding the Town Hall, three storeys of pale quarried stone and a mansard roof that had originally been the house of a minor Hapsburg. Banners from a recent rally were still up, their red and black a vibrant contrast to the sombre grey slate of the paving stones. At the east end of the square, trencher tables stood in the bright sun, covered in crumbs from the platters of Schwarzbrot und Wurst that had been laid out for the attendees. Though there was no need to lure them with rewards.

He was tired from his trip, and had slept badly – but what could you expect from a railway hotel? He shuddered at the memory of his grim room, but the very pleasant accommodation he was used to when travelling might have led to questions – Are you here on business, Herr Schellenberg? Do you have relatives in Austria? What is your view of the 'situation'? Questions required answers, and answers helped people's recollections. On this trip he did not want to be remembered.

His colleagues thought he was in Linz, further north and the boyhood home of the Führer, meeting with members of the Austrian Nazi Party, helping to plan for what was now a certainty in one, maybe two years' time – the Anschluss, when Germany came in and the two countries were united. Even his family thought he was there, for it was crucial that there be no slip, however unintended, that would link him to the man he'd meet today.

Klagenfurt was not a large city, but the train station was crowded: it was market day, and people came from all around to buy the local specialities – Speck, the slabs of smoked marble-white pork fat streaked by dark strips of lean, and produce from the Rosental, the Slovene-speaking valley that was the most fertile in the region. He was leaving town while the market visitors were coming in, so the carriage of his local train was deserted.

It was a short trip, just twenty minutes, the train gliding west along the north shore of the Wörthersee, a lake shaped like a thin elongated worm running east to west. On every side the land rose rapidly into foothills covered by firs, and in the further distance separate ranges of mountains loomed, which in the clear air of this summer day looked much closer than they were. On the shore itself sat a series of resort hotels, some gathered in clusters to form the core of several small towns – including Pörtschach, where Schellenberg left the train.

The main street was the same road that ringed the entire lake, and he walked west along it, past shops and cafés, and two grand hotels that faced the water. From their grounds he could hear the sound of tennis balls struck softly on clay courts, and across the road on the lawns running down to the water hotel guests were stretched out in deck chairs to catch the high midday sun. It must be nice to have a holiday, he thought – without resentment, for he knew his mission was potentially crucial for the Reich.

To the south he saw the range of the Karawanken Mountains, which formed the border with Yugoslavia. Behind them reared the Julian Alps, jagged and snow peaked. Here was the Dreiländereck, the corner where the three countries of Austria, Yugoslavia, and Italy met in an uneasy nexus. There had been fierce fighting near there in the last war, the Austrians and Italians locked into a system of battlements as complicated as any of the famous labyrinthine trench works in Belgium and France. His own father had fought there, as part of the German reinforcements sent to help the Austrians in the 1917 breakout at Caporetto. Much of the fighting had been waged almost invisibly, at the very top of the range of mountains Schellenberg could see now in the distance. We were fighting nearer to God, his father was fond of saying with a tart smile. Not that he seemed on our side by the end.

On the outskirts of Pörtschach a garage sat back from the road, with a solitary petrol pump, several cars parked to one side of the lot, and a shed that functioned as the office. Inside, a man in oil-stained overalls stood behind a counter, adding up figures on a scrap of paper.

'Guten Tag,' said Schellenberg.

'Grüss Gott,' muttered the man, without looking up.

'Herr Schmidt has left a car for me, I believe.' He didn't give his name.

The man nodded, still intent on his sums. He reached with one hand under the counter and brought out a small brown envelope, which jingled as he pushed it across the counter. 'The Mercedes-Benz,' he said.

Schellenberg nodded. 'Much obliged, I am sure,' he said, and went out the door with the keys. He stopped for a moment and pulled a pair of tan driving gloves from a coat pocket.

They were small-sized and tight; he had to stretch the leather over each finger until he could clench his fists.

The car was almost new – a 170 DS sedan. It started up with a roar, then purred like a spoiled cat. Thank you, Herr Schmidt, thought Schellenberg as he drove away, whoever you may be. A sympathiser of course, but then many Austrians were, especially here in Carinthia.

He drove into the hills, along winding paved roads, through small farms and past the occasional Gasthaus. Once he had to slow for cows on the road. The paved surface gave way to gravel as he climbed higher, then to rough track, and as he entered deep forest he turned off onto an old fire road. From the absence of tyre marks he could see that no vehicle had come this way for months.

The track moved laterally across the side of the hill, and after a mile he turned onto a small spur that ended abruptly in a cul de sac carved from a copse of towering spruce; here his car could not be seen from the track. He got out and locked it, then set off through the woods, moving quietly but quickly along the soft ground which was covered by dried pine needles that had accumulated over the seasons, scenting the air with a mild resinous perfume. After walking less than half a mile, heading down the mountain, he stopped and stood on a ledge of rock that perched over a small clearing, not even the size of a tennis court. He stayed here for a moment, listening carefully. Satisfied, he hopped down and stood waiting in the clearing.

He didn't have long to wait. Within ten minutes he could hear someone coming uphill, along the faded remnants of a trail. Moments later a man emerged from the trees. He was dressed in a loose-fitting green hunter's jacket, with leather hiking shorts, knee socks and climbing boots; on his head sat a felt hat like those worn on Bavarian postcards. He was the incarnation of a hiking visitor, though the man was perspiring heavily and did not look as if he had enjoyed his climb. When he saw Schellenberg he raised a hand and gave a timid wave, then came across the small clearing.

'Herr Werner, I presume,' said Schellenberg cordially. The man nodded. 'It is good of you to come.'

The man named Werner shrugged. 'And you are?'

'Schellenberg of the SD.' He proffered a gloved hand, explaining, 'Urticaria. Hives bother me terribly in this heat. But tell me, Werner, where did you travel from?'

'Venice, of course,' said Werner, looking slightly surprised. He took off his hat. 'As you instructed I changed at Villach. Though my way here was pretty roundabout. I believe it would be thoroughly impossible for anyone to reconstruct my journey,' he said with...