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Chapter ONE

44-46 Beerenstrasse

Berlin-Zehlendorf

0915 Hours 12 January 1943

The three-story stucco villa the von Heurten-Mitnitz family had built in the upper-class suburb of Zehlendorf in 1938 was never intended to be home. It was a pied-à-terre for those times when Graf and his wife—or the brothers and their wives—happened to be in Berlin. Otherwise, they preferred their Pomeranian estates and traveled to Berlin only rarely.

The downstairs, including the kitchen, had been designed to entertain large numbers of people in a way that would reflect the stature of the family. Anyone could rent a ballroom at the Adlon or the Hotel am Zoo for a dinner dance. Only a few could feed fifty at a sit-down dinner in their private residence.

The entrance foyer, designed to hold one hundred people for cocktails, was just inside the front door. It was illuminated by an Austrian crystal chandelier hanging from a roof beam. On either side of the far wall, over the double doors that led to the dining room, were curving stairs leading to the apartments upstairs. The host and his wife could make an impressive entrance down the stairs.

Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz didn’t like the house. The apartment he lived in there reminded him of a lesser suite in a second-rate hotel. But there were few decent apartments to lease in Berlin; and besides, living in the house would give him greater freedom of movement than an apartment or a suite in a hotel would.

He checked his appearance in the mirror in his bathroom: He was wearing a well-fitting gray suit, one of the last three he’d gotten from London before the war started. Next he patted his pockets to make sure he had his cigarette case and wallet, then started down the curving stairs to the foyer.

Halfway down, he called out:

“How good of you, Herr Standartenführer!”

Johann Müller was standing in his overcoat beside von Heurten-Mitnitz’s housekeeper just inside the foyer. Melting snow from his boots formed small puddles on the tile floor.

"My pleasure, Herr Minister,” Müller replied.

“Nevertheless, I am grateful to you,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “I really don’t know how I would get to the office before noon otherwise.”

“My pleasure,” Müller repeated.

The housekeeper went to the foyer closet and took a fur-collared overcoat and a homburg from it. She handed von Heurten-Mitnitz the homburg first, and he put it on before a mirror over a radiator, then held his arms behind him so she could help him with the coat.

“Thank you, Frau Carr,” he said.

He made a courteous gesture, waving Müller through the foyer ahead of him. An Opel Admiral sat at the curb.

“New car, Johnny?” he asked as he got in.

“New to me,” Müller said. “It’s got ninety thousand kilometers on the meter. And I don’t know how practical it is,” he added as he climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. “It’s conspicuous. Someone in my line of work should not be too conspicuous.”

“You look well in it,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said, then: "Why don’t we take the Avus?”

Müller nodded and headed for the superhighway.

“Frau Carr, you know,” Müller said,“has reported you for listening to the BBC. I saw the Zehlendorf SS report for the week.”

“I rather thought she would,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said dryly. “Her vigilance and devotion to the state are commendable. What do they tell her, by the way, when she does make such reports?”

“In this case, she was asked if anyone was with you,” Müller said, “and told that since you have a Propaganda Ministry permit, further reports would not be necessary unless someone was with you when you listened.”

“I wonder if she was relieved or disappointed?” von Heurten-Mitnitz mused. “I gather you’re leading up to the ‘Gisella Thanks Eric’ message?”

“You’re sure it’s our Gisella and our Eric?”

“Oh, I’m sure it is,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

“What the hell does it mean?” Müller said. “That we’re to get her a radio so that she can listen to the BBC?”