Himmler’s detractors liked to claim that the forty-five-year-old Reichsfuhrer was nothing more than an ignorant chicken farmer, an opportunist, a murderer, and a man who’d ridden Hitler’s coattails to prominence. They were correct, but Heinrich Himmler was now one of the most important men in Germany, if not its most important man thanks to the events at Rastenberg.

Varner was glad that he wasn’t alone in Himmler’s conference room in the basement of the Reich Chancellery located in the heart of Berlin. Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt represented the army and was now its de facto head because of the deaths of Jodl and Keitel. He was the man Varner had immediately notified by radio from Rastenberg. Varner had served under him in Russia and the sixty-nine-year-old field marshal had left his current position in France to fly back to Berlin and take control of the military aspects of the developing situation. The field marshal was terse and unlikeable, but thoroughly professional. He was bringing order back from the chaos that was the decapitated OKW.

Himmler bit his lower lip and glared at Varner. “You did extraordinarily well, Colonel Varner. The world still thinks Hitler is recovering from his wounds instead of lying in an ice-filled coffin in his train en route to Berlin. It might have been better if you had notified me first, but you are a soldier and contacting von Rundstedt must have made sense.”

“It did, sir, and I apologize if I should have done differently.”

“I’m quite certain he had no way of contacting you, Reichsfuhrer,” von Rundstedt said.

Himmler blinked and waved his hand dismissively. “No matter. Everything is going well and you are to be commended for your presence of mind in both sealing off the compound and convincing those around that the Fuhrer was alive.