The Man with the Iron Heart

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The big green Mercedes convertible bore a number plate of stark simplicity: SS3. The Reichsprotektor of Bohemia and Moravia sped from his country estate toward the Castle of Prague. German soldiers in field gray and Czech guards in tobacco brown would salute him when he arrived. Czech President Hacha also had his offices in the castle, but his will was as nothing when set against the Reichsprotektor’s. Everyone knew it-including Hacha.

Reinhard Heydrich glanced at his watch. “Step on it, Klein,” he said irritably. “We’re running late.”

“Right, sir,” Oberscharfuhrer Johannes Klein answered with a silent sigh. If they were late, the senior noncom knew it wasn’t more than thirty seconds. Heydrich didn’t tolerate tardiness…or much of anything else.

Klein checked his own wrist. Not even half past ten yet. Like a lot of big wheels, Heydrich bitched for the sake of bitching. He might look like the perfect Aryan-tall and lean, blond and handsome. He might be a first-class fencer and pilot and violinist. He had some little old lady in him all the same.

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