The Shooters (Presidential Agent 4)

It was a five-minute drive along a steep, curving, gravel road, and then they passed through a gate in a ten-foot-tall stone wall and came to a stop before an imposing house.

Pevsner led them all inside.

Anna and the boys and the girl-Elena, who is almost exactly as old as my son-said a polite good night.

Castillo looked around. There was an enormous room off the entrance foyer. A crystal chandelier hung from what was probably a thirty-foot-high ceiling, illuminating a wall on which hung probably fifty stuffed deer and stag heads. On either side of a desk, two stuffed, snarling pumas faced each other.

This is familiar.

Why do I recognize it?

The memory bank produced an image of a large, fat, jowly man standing at the entrance to the room, dressed in lederhosen and a Bavarian hat with a pheasant tail feather stuck in it, and holding a bow and arrow.

I'll be goddamned!

Pevsner said in Russian: "My people will take care of your bags, friend Charley. Does the boy-your communicator-have to be present while we talk?"

"No, but he has to be close," Castillo answered in Russian. "And he'll need some place to set up his radio."

"Will he require help?"

Castillo shook his head.

"Then let's go in there," Pevsner said, pointing to the enormous room and taking Castillo's arm.

Castillo switched to German and asked, "Are you sure it will be all right with the Reichsforst und Jagermeister?"

"You are amazing," Pevsner said in Russian. "How are you familiar with that, with Carinhall?"

Castillo continued to speak German: "My grandfather had a book-a large, leather-bound book-that Goring gave him when he was a guest. I used to look at it when I was a kid."

"Your grandfather was a Nazi?"

"He was an Army officer who was badly wounded at Stalingrad and evacuated just before it fell. With Billy Kocian, incidentally. He told me Goring used to receive busloads of wounded senior officers at the place, and everyone got a book. The first picture inside, so help me God, was of Goring in lederhosen holding a bow and arrow.

"But, no, to answer your question, my grandfather was not a Nazi. My mother told me-when she knew she was dying; she said she thought I should know-that he was on the SS's list of those officers known to be associated with Claus von Stauffenberg in the bomb plot, and they were looking for him until the end of the war."

"What kind of a senior officer, Karl?" Pevsner said, now speaking German.

"Infantry, detailed to Intelligence. He was a lieutenant colonel at Stalingrad; they promoted him to colonel while he was recuperating."

"And now the German senior officer's grandson is an American senior officer detailed to Intelligence, and the descendants of the SS, now in the employ of the Russians, are looking for him in order to kill him. Blood really does run deep, doesn't it, friend Charley?"

Castillo realized that Pevsner's observation made him uncomfortable and wondered why.

"I think you mean, 'History does repeat itself, doesn't it?'" Castillo said, then went on quickly before Pevsner could reply: "I had a couple of days off one time in Berlin and went to see Carinhall. It's in Brandenburg, in the Schorfheide Forest-was there; Goring had the place blown up to keep the Russians from getting it. They did a good job. The gates are still there, but aside from that not much else is left."

A maid rolled a cart loaded with spirits and the necessary accoutrements into the room, cutting off the conversation. After she had positioned the cart, she looked at Pevsner.

"That will be all, thank you," Pevsner said, and waited to continue speaking until she had left them alone.

"Would you have me serve you, friend Charley? Or…?"

"Wait on me, please. I find that flattering. Some of that Famous Grouse single-malt will do nicely, thank you very much."

Pevsner shook his head and turned to making the drinks.

Pevsner began: "The fellow who built this place-I bought it from his grandson-was German. Nothing much is known about him before he came here-and I have inquired and have had friends inquire. There is no record of a Heinrich Schmidt having ever lived in Dresden, which is where his Argentine Document of National Identity says he was born.