“Don’t move,” Paul said in German. “Drop the gun.”

The man didn’t drop it but, convinced the man he’d shot wasn’t a threat, slipped his own weapon into his pocket. He looked up and down Dresden Alley. “Shhhh,” he whispered then cocked his head to listen. He slowly approached. “Schumann?” he asked.

Paul said nothing. He kept the Luger aimed at the stranger, who crouched in front of the shot man. “My watch.” The words were in German, a faint accent.

“What?”

“My watch. That’s all I’m reaching for.” He pulled out his pocket watch, opened it and held the crystal in front of the man’s nose and mouth. There was no condensation of breath. He put the timepiece away.

“You’re Schumann?” the man repeated, nodding at the briefcase on the ground. “I’m Reggie Morgan.” He too fit the description Avery had given him: dark hair and mustache, though he was much thinner than the dead man.

Paul looked up and down the alley. No one.

The exchange would seem absurd, with a dead body in front of them, but Paul asked, “What’s the best tram to take to get to Alexander Plaza?”

Morgan replied quickly, “The number one thirty-eight tram… No, actually, the two fifty-four is better.”

Paul glanced at the body. “So then who’s he?”

“Let’s find out.” He bent over the corpse and began to rifle through the dead man’s pockets.

“I’ll keep watch,” Paul said.

“Good.”

Paul stepped away. Then he turned back and touched the Luger to the back of Morgan’s head.

“Don’t move.”

The man froze. “What’s this?”

In English Paul said, “Give me your passport.”

Paul took the booklet, which confirmed that he was Reginald Morgan. Still, as he handed it back, he kept the pistol where it was. “Describe the Senator to me. In English.”

“Just easy on the trigger, you don’t mind,” the man said in a voice that placed his roots somewhere in New England. “Okay, the Senator? He’s sixty-two years old, got white hair, a nose with more veins than he ought to have, thanks to the scotch. And he’s thin as a rail even though he eats a whole T-bone at Delmonico’s when he’s in New York and at Ernie’s in Detroit.”

“What’s he smoke?”

“Nothing the last time I saw him, last year. Because of the wife. But he told me he was going to start again. And what he used to smoke were Dominican cigars that smelled like burning Firestones. Give me a break, pal. I don’t want to die ’cause some old man took up a bad habit again.”

Paul put the gun away. “Sorry.”

Morgan resumed his examination of the corpse, unfazed by Paul’s test. “I’d rather work with a cautious man who insults me than a careless one who doesn’t. We’ll both live longer.” He dug through the pockets of the dead man. “Any visitors yet?”

Paul glanced up and down Dresden Alley. “Nothing.”

He was aware that Morgan was staring in chagrin at something he’d found in the dead man’s pockets. He sighed. “Okay. Brother, here’s a problem.”

“What?”

The man held up an official-looking card. On the top was a stamp of an eagle and below it, in a circle, a swastika. The letters “SA” appeared on the top.

“What does that mean?”

“It means, my friend, that you’ve been in town for less than a day and already we’ve managed to kill a Stormtrooper.”

Chapter Six

“A what?” Paul Schumann asked.

Morgan sighed. “ Sturmabteilung. Stormtrooper. Or Brownshirt. Sort of the Party’s own army. Think of them as Hitler’s thugs.” He shook his head. “And it’s worse for us. He’s not in uniform. That means he’s a Brown Elite. One of their senior people.”

“How did he find out about me?”

“I’m not sure he did, not you specifically. He was in a phone booth, checking up on everybody on the street.”

“I didn’t see him,” Paul said, angry with himself for missing the surveillance. Everything was too damn out of kilter here; he didn’t know what to look for and what to ignore.

Morgan continued. “As soon as you started into the alley, he came after you. I’d say he just took it on himself to see what you were up to – a stranger in the neighborhood. The Brownshirts have their fiefdoms. This must’ve been his.” Morgan frowned. “But still, it’s unusual for them to be so vigilant. The question is why is a senior SA man looking into ordinary citizens? They leave that to their underlings. Maybe some alert has gone out.” He gazed at the corpse. “In any event, this is a problem. If the Brownshirts find out one of their own has been killed they won’t stop searching until they find the murderer. Oh, and they will search. There are tens of thousands of them in the city. Like roaches.”

The initial shock of the shooting had worn off. Paul’s instincts were returning. He walked from the cul-de-sac to the main portion of Dresden Alley. It was still empty. The windows were dark. No doors were open. He held up a finger to Morgan and returned to the mouth of the alley, then looked around the corner, toward the Beer House. None of the few people on the street seemed to have heard the shot.

He returned and told Morgan that everything seemed clear. Then he said, “The casing.”

“The what?”

“The shell casing. From your pistol.” They looked over the ground and Paul spotted the small yellow tube. He picked it up with his handkerchief, rubbed it clean, just in case Morgan’s prints were on it, and dropped it down a drainpipe. He heard it rattle for a moment until there was a splash.

Morgan nodded. “They said you were good.”

Not good enough to keep from getting nabbed back in the United States, thanks to a little bit of brass just like that one.

Morgan opened a well-worn pocketknife. “We’ll cut the labels out of his clothes. Take all his effects. Then get away from here as fast as possible. Before they find him.”

“And who is ‘they’?” Paul asked.

A hollow laugh from Morgan’s lips. “In Germany now, ‘they’ is everybody.”

“Would a Stormtrooper wear a tattoo? Maybe of that swastika? Or the letters ‘SA’?”

“Yes, it’s possible.”

“Look for any. On his arms and chest.”

“And if I find one?” Morgan asked, frowning. “What can we do about it?”

Paul nodded at the knife.

“You’re joking.”

But Paul’s face revealed that, no, he wasn’t.

“I can’t do that,” Morgan whispered.

“I will then. If it’s important he’s not identified, we have to.” Paul knelt on the cobblestones and opened the man’s jacket and shirt. He could understand Morgan’s queasiness but being a button man was a job like any other. You gave it one hundred percent or you found a new line of work. And a single, small tattoo could mean the difference between living and dying.

But no flaying was required, as it turned out. The man’s body was free of markings.

A sudden shout.

Both men froze. Morgan looked up the alley. His hand went to his pistol again. Paul too gripped the weapon he’d taken from the Stormtrooper.

The voice called again. Then silence, except for the traffic. A moment later, though, Paul could detect an eerie siren, rising and falling, growing closer.

“You should leave,” Morgan said urgently. “I’ll finish with him.” He thought for a moment. “Meet me in forty-five minutes. There’s a restaurant called the Summer Garden on Rosenthaler Street, northwest of Alexander Plaza. I have a contact who’s got information about Ernst. I’ll have him meet us there. Go back to the street in front of the beer hall. You should be able to get a taxi there. Trams and buses often have police on them. Stick to taxis, or walk, when you can. Look straight ahead and don’t make eye contact with anyone.”

“The Summer Garden,” Paul repeated, picking up the briefcase and brushing dust and grime off the leather. He dropped the Stormtrooper’s pistol inside. “From now on, let’s stick to German. Less suspicious.”

“Good idea,” Morgan said in the local tongue. “You speak well. Better than I expected. But soften your G ’s. It will make you sound more like a Berliner.”