Webber stroked his mustache. “All right, let us be honest: In these days one must look much harder for opportunities than in the past.”

“And I’m an opportunity.”

“Who can say, Mr. John Dillinger? Perhaps no, perhaps yes. If no, then I’ve wasted nothing but an hour drinking beer with a new friend and that is no waste at all. If yes, then perhaps we can both profit.” He rose, walked to the window and looked out past a thick curtain. “I think it is safe for you to leave… Whatever you are doing in our vibrant city, I may be just the man for you. I know many people here, people in important places – no, not the men at the top. I mean the people it is best to know for those in our line of work.”

“What people?”

“The little people, well placed. Did you hear the joke about the town in Bavaria that replaced its weathervane with a civil servant? Why? Because civil servants know better than anyone which way the wind is blowing. Ha!” He laughed hard. Then his face grew solemn again and he finished the stein of beer. “In truth, I’m dying here. Dying of boredom. I miss the old days. So, leave a message or come see me. I’m usually here. In this room or at the bar.” He wrote the address down on a napkin and pushed it forward.

Glancing at the square of paper, Paul memorized the address and pushed the paper back.

Webber watched him. “Ah, you’re quite the savvy sportswriter, aren’t you?”

They walked to the door. Paul shook his hand. “Thank you, Otto.”

Outside, Webber said, “Now, my friend, farewell. I hope to see you again.” Then he scowled. “And for me? A quest for yellow dye. Ach, this is what my life has become. Lard and yellow dye.”

Chapter Nine

Reinhard Ernst, sitting in his spacious office in the Chancellory, looked over the carelessly formed characters in the note once again.

Col. Ernst:

I await the report you have agreed to prepare on your Waltham Study. I have devoted some time to review it on Monday.

Adolf Hitler

He cleaned his wire-rimmed glasses, replaced them. He wondered what the careless lettering revealed of the writer. The signature was particularly distinctive. The “Adolf ” was a compressed lightning bolt; “Hitler” was somewhat more legible but it sloped curiously, and severely, downward to the right.

Ernst spun around in his chair and stared out the window. He felt just like an army commander who knew that the enemy was approaching, about to attack, but not knowing when he would strike, what his tactics would be, how strong was his force, where he would establish the lines of assault, where the flanking maneuver would come.

Aware too that the battle would be decisive and the fate of his army – indeed, of the whole nation – was at stake.

He wasn’t exaggerating the gravity of his dilemma. Because Ernst knew something about Germany that few others sensed or would admit out loud: that Hitler would not be in power long.

The Leader’s enemies, both within the country and without, were too many. He was Caesar, he was Macbeth, he was Richard. As his madness played itself out he would be ousted, murdered, or even die by his own hand (so astonishingly manic were his rages), and others would step into the immense vacuum after his demise. And not Göring either; greed of soul and greed of body were in a footrace to bring him down. Ernst’s own feeling was that, with the two leaders gone (and Goebbels pining away for his lost love, Hitler), the National Socialists would wither, and a centrist Prussian statesman would emerge – another Bismarck, imperial perhaps but reasonable and a brilliant statesman.

And Ernst might even have a hand in that transformation. For, short of a bullet or bomb, the only sure threat to Adolf Hitler and the Party was the German army.

In June of ’34, Hitler and Göring murdered or arrested much of the Stormtrooper leadership during the so-called Night of the Long Knives. The purge was felt necessary largely to appease the regular army, which had become jealous of the huge Brownshirt militia. Hitler had regarded the horde of thugs on one side and the German military – the direct heirs of the nineteenth century’s Hohenzollern battalions – on the other, and without a moment’s hesitation chose the latter. Two months later, upon President Hindenburg’s death, Hitler took two steps to solidify his position. First, he declared himself the unrestricted leader of the nation. Second – and far more important – he required the German armed forces to pledge a personal oath of loyalty to him.

De Tocqueville had said that there would never be a revolution in Germany for the police would not allow it. No, Hitler wasn’t concerned about a popular uprising; his only fear was the army.

And it was a new, enlightened military that Ernst had devoted his life to since the end of the War. An army that would protect Germany and its citizens from all threats, perhaps ultimately even from Hitler himself.

Yet, he reflected, Hitler was not gone yet, and Ernst couldn’t afford to ignore the author of this note, which was as troubling to him as the distant rumble of armor approaching through the night.

Col. Ernst: I await the report…

He had hoped that the intrigue Göring set in motion would fade away, but this piece of onionskin paper meant that it would not. He understood that he had to act quickly to prepare for and repel the attack.

After a difficult debate, the colonel came to a decision. He pocketed the letter, rose from his desk and left his office, telling his secretary that he would return within a half hour.

Down one hall, down another, past the ubiquitous construction work in the old, dusty building. Workers, busy even on the weekend, were everywhere. Building was the metaphor for the new Germany – a nation rising from the ashes of Versailles, being reconstructed according to Hitler’s often-quoted philosophy of “bringing-into-line” with National Socialism every citizen and institution in the country.

Down another hallway, under a stern portrait of the Leader in three-quarter view, looking slightly upward, as if at his vision for the nation.

Ernst stepped outside into the gritty wind, hot from the broiling afternoon sun.

“Hail, Colonel.”

Ernst nodded to the two guards, armed with bayonet-mounted Mausers. He was amused at their greeting. It was customary for anyone near cabinet rank to be addressed by his full title. But “Mr. Plenipotentiary” was laughably cumbersome.

Down Wilhelm Street, past Voss Street then Prince Albrecht Street, with a glance to his right at No. 8 – Gestapo headquarters in the old hotel and arts-and-crafts school. Continuing south to his favorite café, he ordered a coffee. He sat for only a moment and then walked to the phone kiosk. He called a number, dropped some pfennigs into the slot and was connected.

A woman’s voice answered. “Good day.”

“Please, Dame Keitel?”

“No, sir. I am the housekeeper.”

“Is Doctor-professor Keitel available? This is Reinhard Ernst.”

“One moment, please.”

A moment later a man’s soft voice came through the line. “Good day, Colonel. Though a hot one.”

“Indeed, Ludwig… We need to meet. Today. An urgent matter has come up about the study. You can make yourself available?”

“Urgent?”

“Extremely so. Can you come to my office? I’m awaiting word on some matters from England. So I must be at my desk. Four P.M. would be convenient?”

“Yes, of course.”

They rang off and Ernst returned to his coffee.

What ridiculous measures he needed to resort to simply to find a phone not monitored by Göring’s minions. I have seen war from the inside and from the out, he thought. The battlefield is horrible, yes, inconceivably horrible. But how much purer and cleaner, even angelic, is war, compared with a struggle where your enemies are beside, not facing, you.