Free Munich Signature by Bodie Thoene, Brock Thoene Page B

in Europe.” Now he paused in front of a drab metal door that looked just like any other. “And there will be a special room for the work in here. You will see. Proof. It is absolute proof.”
    “Proof?” Oster sounded amused. “Of what?”
    In reply, Göring threw open the door and switched on the light. Before them, taking up nearly an entire wall, was a painting so frightening and fearful that Thomas backed up a step and stood holding tightly to the doorknob.
    Demons and transparent human spirits writhed in torment across the dark canvas. Above it all, astride a powerful horse, Adolf Hitler peered from a whirling mass of smoke and bloody vapor. His eyes peered at them from beneath the dark shock of hair. Lips were tight beneath the small mustache. There was indeed a power in this morbid likeness that sent a chill up the spine of the little audience.
    Tears filled Göring’s eyes and at last he spoke with a drunken slur. “What did I tell you? A perfect likeness, ja ?”
    Canaris spoke first. “Perfect. Hardly the sort of painting that will excite the masses to anything but fear.”
    Göring turned to him in wonder. “But don’t you see? You don’t recognize the artist, Herr Admiral?” There was a strange smile on his lips. “It is the work of Franz von Stuck.”
    “Franz von Stuck?” Oster stepped forward. “Impossible!”
    Thomas moved forward to look at the signature at the bottom of the painting. Franz von Stuck. My first oil painting. 1889.
    Göring gave the explanation. “The year Adolf Hitler was born . You see? And Franz von Stuck painted this—the birth of the German god Wotan.”
    “God of Creation. God of Destruction. God of opposites.” Oster’s usual flippant tone faded off with a shudder.
    “Proof! Hitler is our god, you see. Can’t you see? Von Stuck was given this vision! This prophecy! It is the Führer! ” Göring’s voice was an awed whisper. He continued to gaze at the evil face that stared out from the center of the whirling mist. It was Hitler! There was no mistaking the features.
    Thomas backed from the room. He felt suffocated beneath the weight of the earth and the dark force of the eyes that gleamed from the painting like those of a ravenous beast. It was this gleam the Führer desired in the eyes of his followers. Thomas heard his own heart drumming like the snare drums of the procession.
    Nothing but a painting, the year of his birth!
    Adolf Hitler! God of Destruction! How could a handful of mere men fight against—
    Suddenly the eyes of the painting bored into Thomas’ soul, searching out his hidden plans and hopes. Some said Hitler could read minds. Everyone knew that he called upon mediums to read the future. Could he see them now, this evil god? Did he inwardly count the men who did not stand beside him on the balcony with outstretched arms? The thought made Thomas want to run. But where could he hide from such eyes?

 
    5
     
    The Face of Evil
     
    Albert Sporer had been placed in solitary confinement, yet he shared his cell with many others. He sat on the straw pallet and drew his knees up to his chest as three large rats scurried to fight to the death for a small piece of eclair. These creatures were the true inheritors of Hradcany, he thought. They owned the foundations of Prague, as had their fathers and generations of vermin before them.
    Tonight Sporer leaned against the damp wall of his tiny cubicle and watched as the rats attacked and bit and tumbled across the slimy stones in mortal combat. To die for an eclair! The miniature drama amused Sporer. He touched his tongue to the custard and then bit off another tiny fragment and spit it into the fight. Four more rats rushed from a crack between the stones and joined the battle. Another morsel. The rage was renewed. The vicious attacks became more violent.
    There was much that man could learn from rats. Indeed, a morsel of promise, a half-truth tossed into the road, could cause men to kill one another. Was this