Night Angels(92)

What about your career? she had asked. If the ambassador heard of his potential confrontation with Eichmann, he could well expect an entry of demerit on his profile. He hoped it wouldn’t get to that, but if that was what it took to save a life, then it was inevitable.

He passed jewelry stores with glittery glass windows, a fashion boutique, and a small shop selling furs and stockings, all with new shop names and fluttering swastika flags. Near the snowy slopes of a park, people were sledding, children playing on their toboggans. A child, his face red, crashed near his feet. He was about to help when the boy sprang up and spat at him. “Foreigner!” he shouted, and ran away.

Fengshan would never have dreamed of hostility from a child in Vienna three years ago. Vienna, a city of culture, decorum, and tradition, had changed.

He arrived at the Hotel Sacher, the majestic building that he had visited several times with Captain Heine and other diplomats. Snow was plowed and piled on the sidewalk, where many Mercedes and Adlers were parked, and there were no signs of turmoil inside the hotel. He showed the guard at the hotel his identification card and entered the lobby.

Miss Schnitzler was not in the lobby.

He had arrived on time.

He thought to go to the room that she had written. 1004. But the hallway was crowded with cleaning maids. He went to the lounge near the lobby to sort out his thoughts. How would Miss Schnitzler, a Jewess, banned from the hotel, approach Eichmann in this place? The moment she appeared, she would be identified, and he would like to intercept her before she got caught.

The lounge was crowded with SS officials and their female companions dressed in tasseled golden dresses, their wrists flashing gold and silver. A soft Italian overture was playing, the same type of elegant tune he had heard each time he came here. But he couldn’t help thinking the hotel, with the same rich red drapery, wood paneling, and golden chandelier, looked severe and joyless, like a military club for Nazi officials.

He went to a table on the right and sat; a few officers nearby turned in his direction and smoked furiously.

Fengshan took the newspaper from the rack behind him and tried to read. Before the Anschluss, the Hotel Sacher had been a haunt for aristocrats and diplomats, but now he felt outnumbered.

“Herr Consul General.”

He looked up.

That sly smile. Here he was, the murderer of a Jewish waiter, the self-proclaimed genius who designed the plan to rob the wealth of many Jews and expel them from their homes, the enemy of his dear friend Captain Heine, the ruthless plotter of the Nisko camp, the relentless lout who had demolished his consulate and sought to destroy his career, the Nazi who had caused Grace’s miscarriage and their incalculable loss.

And he was alive, standing, a blonde woman on his arm. “Herr Eichmann.”

The Nazi looked decorated, with golden pins and medals of Hauptsturmführer on his uniform, his eyes probing, calculating; it seemed to Fengshan that he was always seeking innovative ideas to torment people.

“Such a pleasure to see you in the hotel, Herr Consul General. Are you here to meet someone?”

The man spoke with a degree of triumph, clearly remembering what he had inflicted on Grace. Miss Schnitzler was right. Eichmann was evil to the core; he deserved to die.

“A female friend?” the brute pressed.

“A good friend.” It was maddening, but Fengshan managed to remain polite. He spread the newspaper in front of him, while Eichmann circled him, a cigar in his hand.

“Do I happen to know her?”

“I doubt it.”

There were three SS officers decorated with medals following Eichmann in an obsequious manner. It sickened Fengshan. How fast the death-scheme peddler had ascended. He used to be one of those low-ranking men looking to climb the greasy ladder of power.

“How’s your wife, Herr Consul General?”

He looked into those despicable gray eyes. “She has changed. The miscarriage has infected her heart and soul. May the criminal who caused her pain have his due.”

“I’ve warned you, Herr Consul General, we all need friends in Vienna.” He laughed and took his companion out of the lounge; his laughter, shrill, a violent jangle eclipsing the Italian overture.

Eichmann would get his due, too, but not today. Fengshan stood, left the lounge, and came into the lobby. In the corner near the marble staircase, a team of maids, wearing their white uniforms and caps, were dusting the banisters. A maid with golden hair turned, her gaze following Eichmann, laughing with his mistress, heading to the hallway.

That face with a scar.

Miss Schnitzler had disguised herself, perhaps with the money she borrowed from him, and infiltrated the hotel despite its security. This was reckless. Most reckless indeed! Fengshan picked up his pace, crossing the lobby as Miss Schnitzler, pushing a cart stacked with towels, trod steadfastly toward the hallway Eichmann and his mistress had entered. By the time Fengshan made his way to the hallway, she was knocking on a door some distance away. Room 1004.

Fengshan stopped, his heart jumping to his throat. Don’t do it, he prayed. If she dared to shoot, even if she killed Eichmann, she would not be able to get out alive.

The door opened.

“Herr Eichmann!” That loud voice.

A shot.

Eichmann’s body tumbled out and thumped to the ground in the hallway. Blood sprayed from his chest, and his mistress shrieked near the door. Lola pushed the cart aside and stepped closer to Eichmann, ready to give him another shot. But she didn’t see, or hear, that the SS men from the lounge, drawing guns, were rushing into the hallway. Someone fired.