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Maurice had given him the combination: eight to the right, eleven to the left, twenty-three to the right, 8-11-23, the eighth of November, 1923, the date of the Beer Hall Putsch. Maurice had learned it from Geli. As far as he knew, she was the only person Hitler had ever told.

The latch popped open. He shone the flashlight into the interior of the safe.

A handful of envelopes. Bauer swept all of them into his leather bag, closed the safe, and got to his feet.

He heard something outside. Footfalls. Not directly near the office. More distant. A heavier echo to them. The grand staircase leading to the top floor. Someone was taking the stairs up. Surely it was a patrol and nothing more. The guard would walk the floor, see nothing, and move on. Hitler’s office was dark; there was no indication of an intruder’s presence.

But Emil Maurice had told him that patrols within the building were rare, that most of the guards just stayed near the front station while they took turns patrolling the exterior. So who was coming up?

Bauer pulled off his black sweater, forcing his right arm to operate, the pain so agonizing that his eyes watered. Underneath the sweater was the same Reliable Service uniform he’d worn earlier.

The footsteps grew closer, headed in his direction. Not slow, just-patrolling-the-halls casual. The footsteps were purposeful. They had a destination.

Bauer reached the table in the center of the room. He turned on the lamp light, not wanting to draw attention from the outside but needing cover in case someone entered. It would be hard to explain away why he was working in a completely dark room. At the radiator, he unscrewed one, then another bolt from the wall.

Bauer’s heartbeat raced. He reached into his bag and removed the Walther PPK 9-millimeter and shoved it into his left pant pocket.

The footsteps stopped, just outside the office door. Without hesitation, a key was inserted into the door. It popped open.

His heartbeat drumming against his chest, Bauer reminded himself to stay cool. Cool was the way to play it, if possible, before it turned ugly.

The flick of a switch, and suddenly the room was awash in light from the overhead.

“Whoa,” he said, shielding his eyes, trying to sound casual.

“What—who exactly are you?” a man demanded.

Bauer took a moment before blinking hard and turning to the man.

The Führer, Adolf Hitler.

40

I’M DEAD, BAUER TOLD himself. There’s no way out of this.

But there was always a chance. And only one way it could work: to stay in character, no matter what.

“I’m fixing your radiator,” Bauer said, reminding himself to be as nonchalant as possible. “Almost done.”

“My radiator?” Hitler looked back toward the door, as if about to flee or summon a guard. “Nobody mentioned this to me.”

“It was someone at the front gate, didn’t get a name. Feel free to call them.” Bauer knew it was the riskiest of bluffs, but he hoped he was projecting enough confidence, enough casualness, to assuage him. “You guys have had a heating problem. They said to start on the top floor.”

“Oh, very well, if you’re finishing up.” Hitler waved him off. “I could use the company. Someone who doesn’t expect anything from me.”

Bauer used the screwdriver, left-handed, to drive the screws back into place, firming the radiator cover against the wall. Hitler settled in behind his desk as Bauer threw the tools into the bag, over the envelopes he’d taken from the safe, which Hitler was now sitting directly in front of. One glance inside, one phone call to the guards downstairs, and Bauer would be finished.

“I see you’re favoring your right side,” Hitler commented.

“Oh, yeah. War injury. How do you like that—a one-armed radiator repairman?”

“Ah, you served your country, comrade. Where?”

The last thing he wanted was a conversation. But he had no choice.

“Eleventh Infantry,” he said.

“The western front. Yes, yes. You were at the Somme?”