35
The Brown House
STEP ONE. THOMAS BAUER drove the beaten-down truck as it coughed and hissed with every rotation of the tires.
The sides were dented in multiple places; there was a tear in the top; the windshield was missing altogether.
The side panel bore the words ZUVERL?SSIGE ELEKTROINSTALLATION UND REPARATUR—Reliable Electrical Installation and Repair.
The business no longer existed, which is why the truck had been donated to Fritz Gerlich’s charity.
Bauer would have preferred something related to heating, not electrical, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
It was all they had, so it would have to do.
He stopped the truck just short of the Konigsplatz. To his right was the three-story Brown House, which towered over Brienner Stra?e. The property was draped with Nazi flags, surrounded by a metal gate, and secured by guards who walked the perimeter in their heavy fur-lined coats, clutching rifles.
Clipboard in hand, Bauer left the van, and took the short walkway to the main entrance.
The front door opened. Two brownshirts emerged, blond-haired and blue-eyed, the taller one holding a leather portfolio, the shorter one with his hand on his sidearm.
They were dressed in standard uniform—brown shirt and black tie, dark trousers, knee-high boots, a billed cap with a strap around their chins, swastika armbands.
“You guys called about a heating problem?” Bauer glanced at his clipboard.
The guards looked at each other. The taller one with the portfolio opened it. “We’ve had a problem with the heat for weeks.”
Bauer knew that, of course, courtesy of Emil Maurice, who said everyone had been complaining about the temperature inside the building for the last month.
“But we don’t have a record of any appointment with…” Squinting at the name on the side of the truck. “… Reliable.”
“Yeah, we’re way behind schedule,” said Bauer. “And we do it all nowadays. You have to change with the times, right? I’m your guy for steam heat.” Bauer flipped the clipboard around so they could see the work order. “And they sent me here next.”
“We need a record of your appointment. Without a record, you can’t enter.”
“Okay, well. Maybe you want to call your supervisor?”
“He’s gone. You’re here after work hours.”
That, too, was by design, thanks to more intel from Emil Maurice. The shift changed at six in the evening.
“So you want me to leave? Fine by me.” Bauer shrugged. “We have a long list of customers behind you. It’s like everyone in Munich lost their heat all at once. We can always reschedule.”
“Yes.” The tall brownshirt nodded. “Could you come back tomorrow morning?”
“No, once the order’s canceled, it’s canceled. But you can call and get back in at the end of the line. With any luck, we’ll be back before Christmas.”
“Christmas? That’s over a month away!”
“Tell me about it. Our backlog is crazy. Oh, almost forgot.” Bauer removed a pen from his pocket. “I need a name.”
“A name?”
“That’s what my boss tells me. If a customer turns us away, I need the name of the person who told us to leave. That way, if the customer calls back and complains, we can prove we were here and identify who told us not to do our work.” He poised the pen over the work order. “Your name?”
The tall brownshirt considered this. “Fine, just come in. The service entrance is around the corner.”
Here we go, Bauer thought as he returned to the van and brought it around to the service gate. Don’t screw this up.