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both waited for his reply, and Schellenberg knew that he was on dangerous ground now. Choosing his words with care, he said calmly, “But Herr von Ribbentrop made it clear that the whole business was to be carried through at the Führer's express command. He has even provided me with the necessary written authority. The Reichsführer must see that I cannot possibly question an order from the Führer himself. My personal opinion doesn't enter into the matter.”
    Heydrich turned away abruptly to conceal his smile, but Himmler was positively glowing with approval. “I could not have put it better myself. He carries the burden for all of us. The destiny of Germany rides on his shoulders.”
    Schellenberg said, “So, you also wish me to proceed in this matter, Reichsführer?”
    “Most certainly. You will travel to Lisbon as soon as arrangements can be made, by way of Madrid, I think. A consultation with our Ambassador there, Von Stohrer, would be useful.”
    Heydrich turned from the window. “One point, Reichsführer. Lisbon is alive with secret agents of every nationality, and General Schellenberg will be known to many of them. I have every faith in his ability to defend himself from the front, but I think it essential to have someone to protect his back. With your permission, I'll assign two or three of my best men.”
    “Not necessary,” Himmler said. “I'll take care of it personally. The Gestapo, I'm sure, will be able to provide exactly the operatives we're looking for.”
    “As you say, Reichsführer.”
    “Good. You may leave us now, General Schellenberg. I'm sure you have many preparations to make. I'd like a further word with you, Reinhard, on another matter.”
    Schellenberg went out quickly and returned to his office. He was sweating slightly and lit a cigarette. A moment later Frau Huber came in with a cup of coffee.
    “See Ilse?” he smiled. “I told you there was nothing to worry about.”
    As he raised the cup to his lips his hand was trembling.
    As always after such an episode he needed action and went down to the firing range in the basement which was presided over by an SS Sturmscharführer named Reitlinger. The targets against the sandbags at the far end were of charging Russian soldiers, not Tommies, an affectation of Himmler who still cherished the hope of some sort of compromise with a people who were, after all, an Aryan race.
    “Action, Horst. That's what I need,” Schellenberg said. “What have you got?”
    “The new Erma police submachine gun, General. Just in this morning.”
    Schellenberg emptied it in short bursts, firing from the waist, cutting a couple of the targets in half. The noise was deafening.
    As it died down, he placed the weapon on the firing bench. “A butcher's gun. What I need is something more subtle—a silent killer, if you like.”
    Reitlinger smiled and moved to the armorer's cupboard, for he knew very well what Schellenberg, who was a superb pistol shot, meant. He returned with a Mauser 7.63 mm Model 1932, with the latest adaptation, a bulbous silencer, a weapon specially developed for German counterintelligence operatives.
    “Now this is more like it.”
    Schellenberg hefted the weapon in his hand. It held a ten-round magazine which he emptied fairly rapidly, putting two shots squarely in the middle of five of the targets. The only sound was a series of dull thuds.
    “Very neat,” Heydrich said, appearing behind him, “but surely you're losing your touch, Walter? Two shots each instead of one?”
    “A wounded man can always shoot back,” Schellenberg said. “A second shot will almost invariably finish him off. I like to cover my bets.”
    “You said that as if it were a stage direction.” Heydrich held out a hand. Reitlinger rammed a fresh magazine into the Mauser and passed it to him. “Yes, Walter, I am more than ever inclined to believe that is what you are—an actor. Rather a good one, by the way.”
    He emptied the magazine, aiming each shot