“However, that is not my main concern. Tell me, Colonel, do you have any idea just how the Americans came to know that the Fuhrer was going to be at that particular place and at that particular time?”
The question stunned Varner. He had thought the bombing a tragic accident of war, but could it be that it was assassination, and not an accident? “Sir, I have no idea.”
“You were with von Stauffenberg. Did he say anything suspicious?”
“No sir. We had just managed lighting our cigarettes, no small feat when our wounds are considered, when the bomber suddenly appeared quite low overhead. We both jumped into a slit trench and tried to make ourselves very small. Otherwise, we had not spoken.”
Himmler leaned back in his chair. “And how did you know each other?”
Varner felt himself beginning to sweat. He caught von Rundstedt out of the corner of his eye. The old general was expressionless, a flinty statue.
“We first met at the hospital. We were both there for therapy on our wounds. Prior to that I did not know him personally, although I had heard of him. Most people in the army had, of course.”
Himmler nodded and Varner forced himself to exhale. Was it possible that von Stauffenberg had been part of a plot to assassinate Hitler, and, if so, had he somehow managed to carry it out?
There was a pause as Josepf Goebbels, the clubfooted and diminutive Minister of Information and Propaganda limped in and took a seat. The most important people in the Nazi hierarchy were now together, with the exception of Hermann Goering and Martin Bormann. Varner thought Goering’s absence was particularly curious. It was commonly suspected that the obese air marshal was the heir to Hitler’s Germany, and not Himmler. It was also rumored that he spent most of his time in a narcotic haze.