Free Munich Signature by Bodie Thoene, Brock Thoene

minutes’ respite from the racket.
    Colonel Oster sipped a cup of cold coffee and leaned in to ask Canaris, “How does our Führer keep his arm up like that all the night?” There was a twinkle in his eyes and Canaris shut him off with a look of warning. Hermann Göring stood gorging himself at the buffet table not ten feet away. He stuffed his belly with food and filled his ears with gossip. Any critical word would find its way back to Hitler.
    Canaris raised his eyes to Thomas von Kleistmann, who chatted amiably with Göring. Göring had flown with the young man’s father over France in the Great War. He had been present when von Kleistmann’s father had been killed. This fact had boosted the career of Thomas in spite of his unfortunate entanglement with the daughter of a Jew.
    Ah well, such youthful foolishness could be forgiven. Hermann Göring bore the young officer no ill will. Together they would forget the past mistakes and march forward for the Fatherland.
    The conversation between Thomas and Göring pleased Admiral Canaris. Such attention brought von Kleistmann that much closer to Hitler’s inner circle. Such nearness might yield an unexpected item of information to help their cause. To stop the inevitable. To stop the god of war from overtaking them all.
    Colonel Oster raised an eyebrow in astonishment. “Our Thomas is doing well,” he said as he tasted a sandwich. “It was a good idea to call him back from Paris for the holiday.”
    “Göring was fond of his father. Wilhelm von Kleistmann was a hero for the Fatherland. It cannot hurt us if Göring and Himmler bring him close to the Führer.” His words were barely audible. He kept his eyes fixed on a beautiful young woman who was talking to yet another member of Hitler’s inner circle. Anyone watching Canaris would have suspected that he had an interest in her, that his whispered words were some obscene appreciation of the woman provided for the pleasure of the officers at the review.
    Oster nodded and smiled and nodded as the young woman noticed them. “That fat, overstuffed hog has spent the whole evening at the buffet table. Von Kleistmann will have to learn to eat like a pig if he is to keep up with him.”
    Canaris turned toward the heaping table. “And what do you suppose they are talking about?” Just then Göring threw his head back in a burst of laughter.
    “Certainly not Czechoslovakia,” Oster retorted dryly.
    “Nor Jews.” Canaris walked the brief distance to the buffet and took a plate as if he wanted to eat. Göring spotted Canaris and good-naturedly slapped him on the back.
    “A good fellow you have here, Canaris! I have just been getting reacquainted with the son of Willie von Kleistmann!”
    “I thought perhaps it was only fair for Thomas to share in the celebration remembering the fallen—“
    “Ah, yes! The fallen! Just what we were talking about, eh, Thomas?” Göring nudged Thomas in the ribs and laughed again. “Yes, yes! The fallen! We were discussing the difference between the whores in Paris and the whores in Berlin! There is no difference, eh, Thomas?”
    As if in agreement, Thomas shrugged. It was plain to see that Hermann Göring was drunk. Not out of control, but certainly drunk.
    With half a smile Oster added, “I would have thought you would be talking about the difference between French art and German art.” Oster knew that Göring had amassed a fortune in collecting the art of arrested Jews. The jibe went right past Göring.
    “Whores! Art! What’s the difference? Culture is culture, ja ?” Göring stuffed a slice of ham in his mouth and continued to talk. “And we agree that German culture is the purest . . . the most spiritual. ”
    Thomas cleared his throat. “Perhaps more spiritualist than spiritual.” He raised his eyes toward the doors that led to the balcony and the torchlight procession. There was indeed an eerie spiritual quality to it. Göring did not notice the look of understanding that