Which one?

Shouts behind him as the Stormtroopers poured into the street. No time to wait. He picked the nearest alleyway.

Wrong choice. The only exits from it were five or six doors. They were all locked.

He started to run back out of the cul-de-sac but stopped. There were now a dozen Brownshirts prowling through the crowds, moving steadily toward this alley. Most of them held pistols. Boys accompanied them, dressed like the flag-lowering youngsters he’d met yesterday at the Olympic Village.

Steadying his breathing, he pressed flat against the brick.

A swell mess this is, he thought angrily.

He stuffed his hat, tie and suit jacket into the satchel, then pulled on the green jacket.

Paul set the bag at his feet and took out the pistol. He checked to make certain the gun was loaded and a round chambered. Bracing his arm against the wall, he rested the weapon on his forearm and leaned out slowly, aiming at the man who was in the lead – Felstedt.

It would be difficult for them to figure out where the shot had come from and Paul hoped they’d scatter for cover, giving him the chance to lam through the rows of nearby pushcarts. Risky… but they’d be at this alley in a few minutes; what other choices did he have?

Closer, closer…

Touching the ice…

Pressure slowly increasing on the trigger as he aimed at the center of the man’s chest, the sights floating on the spot where the diagonal leather strap from belt to shoulder covered his heart.

“No,” the voice whispered urgently in his ear.

Paul spun around, leveling the pistol at the man who’d come up silently behind him. He was in his forties, dressed in a well-worn suit. His thick hair was swept back with oil and he had a bushy mustache. He was some inches shorter than Paul, his belly protruding over his belt. In his hands was a large cardboard carton.

“You may point that elsewhere,” he said calmly, nodding down at the pistol.

The American didn’t move the gun. “Who are you?”

“Perhaps we may converse later. We have more urgent matters now.” He stepped past Paul and looked around the corner. “A dozen of them. You must have done something quite irksome.”

“I beat up three of them.”

The German lifted a surprised eyebrow. “Ach, well, I assure you, sir, if you kill one or two, there will be hundreds more here within minutes. They’ll hunt you down and they may kill a dozen innocent people in the process. I can help you escape.”

Paul hesitated.

“If you don’t do as I say they will kill you. Murder and marching are the only things they do well.”

“Put the box down.” The man did and Paul lifted his jacket, looked at the waistband then gestured for him to turn in a circle.

“I have no gun.”

The same gesture, impatient.

The German turned. Paul patted his pockets and ankles. He was unarmed.

The man said, “I was watching you. You removed your jacket and hat – that’s good. And you stood out like a virgin on Nollendorf Plaza in that gauche tie. But it is likely you’ll be searched. You must discard the clothes.” A nod toward the satchel.

Running footsteps sounded nearby. Paul stepped back, considering the words. The advice made sense. He dug the items out of the satchel and stepped to a trash bin.

“No,” the man said. “Not there. If you wish to dispose of something in Berlin don’t throw it into food bins because people foraging for scraps will find it. And don’t throw it into the waste containers or the Gestapo or the V-men or A-men from the SD will find it; they regularly go through garbage. The only safe place is the sewer. No one goes through the sewers. Not yet, in any case.”

Paul glanced down at a nearby grating and reluctantly shoved in the items.

His luck-of-the-Irish tie…

“Now I’ll add something to your role as an escaper-from-dung-shirts.” He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted several hats. He selected a light-colored canvas crush hat. He unfurled and handed it to Paul then replaced the others. “Put it on.” The American did so. “Now, the pistol too. You must get rid of it. I know you are hesitant, but in truth it will do you little good. No gun carries enough bullets to stop all the Stormtroopers in the city, let alone a puny Luger.”

Yes or no?

Instinct again told him the man was right. He crouched down and tossed the gun down the grating as well. He heard a splash far below street level.

“Now, follow me.” The man picked up the carton. When Paul hesitated he whispered, “Ach, you’re thinking, how can you possibly trust me? You don’t know me at all. But, sir, I would say that under the circumstances the real question is, how can you not trust me? Still, it’s your choice. You have about ten seconds to decide.” He laughed. “Doesn’t that always seem to be the way? The more important the decision, the less the time to make it.” He walked to a door, fiddled with a key and unlocked it. He glanced back. Paul followed. They stepped into a storeroom and the German swung the door shut and locked it. Watching through the greasy window, Paul saw the band of Stormtroopers step into the alley, look around, then continue on.

The room was densely packed with boxes and crates, dusty bottles of wine. The man paused, nodding to a carton. “Take that. It will be a prop for our storytelling. And perhaps a profitable one too.”

Paul looked at the man angrily. “I could have left my clothes and the gun in your warehouse here. I didn’t have to throw them out.”

The man jutted out his lower lip. “Ach, yes, except that this isn’t exactly my warehouse. Now, that carton. Please, sir, we must hurry.” Paul set the satchel on top, hefted the box and followed. They emerged into a dusty front room. The man glanced out the filthy window. He began to open the door.

“Wait,” Paul said. He touched his cheek; the cut from the brass knuckles was bleeding slightly. He ran his hands over some dirty shelves and pat ted his face, covering the wound, and his jacket and slacks. The smudges would draw less attention than the blood.

“Good,” the German said and pushed the door wide. “You are now a sweaty laborer. And I will be your boss. This way.” He turned directly toward a cluster of three or four Stormtroopers, speaking to a woman who lounged against a street lamp, holding a tiny poodle on a red leash.

Paul hesitated.

“Come on. Don’t slow up.”

They were almost past the Brownshirts when one of them called to the two men, “You there, stop. We will see your papers.” One of his friends joined him and they stepped in front of Paul and the German. Seething that he’d given up his gun, Paul glanced to his side. The man from the alley frowned. “Ach, our cards, yes, yes. I am very sorry, gentlemen. You must understand we’re forced to work today, as you can see.” A nod toward the cartons. “It was unplanned. An urgent delivery.”

“You must carry your card with you at all times.”

Paul said, “We are only going a short way.”

“We are looking for a large man in a gray suit and brown hat. He is armed. Have you seen anyone like that?”

A consulting glance. “No,” Paul said.

The second Brownshirt patted both the German and Paul for weapons then grabbed the satchel and opened it, glanced inside. He lifted out the copy of Mein Kampf. Paul could see the bulge where the Russian passport and rubles were hidden.

The German from the alley said quickly, “Nothing of interest in there. But now I recall that we do have our identification. Look in my man’s carton.”

The Brownshirts glanced at each other. The one holding Hitler’s book tossed it back inside, set the satchel down and ripped open the top of the carton that Paul held.

“As you can see, we are the Bordeaux Brothers.”

A Brownshirt laughed, and the German continued. “But you can never be too sure. Perhaps you should take two of those with you for verification.”