“Her, sir. But when she is old enough I will tell her of the honor of being awakened from her dreams by such a famed investigator as yourself.”

“Good day.”

“Hail Hitler.”

Kohl dropped the phone in the cradle. He was confused. The facts in the murders suggested an SS, Gestapo or Stormtrooper killing. But had that been the case, Kohl and the gendarme would have been ordered at once to stop the investigation – the way Kripo detectives had been told instantly to cease looking into a recent black-market food case when the investigation found leads to Admiral Raeder of the navy and Walter von Brauchitsch, a senior army officer.

They weren’t being prevented from pursuing the case but they were encountering foot-dragging. What to make of the ambiguity?

It was almost as if the killings, whatever the motive, had been dangled before Kohl as a test of his loyalty. Had Commander Meyerhoff called the Kripo at the behest of the SD to see if the inspector would refuse to handle cases involving Jew and Pole killings? Could this be the case?

But, no, no, that was too paranoid. He was thinking of this only because he’d learned of the SD file on him.

Kohl could come up with no answers to these questions and so he rose and wandered through the silent halls once more to the Teletype room to learn if another miracle had occurred and his counterparts in America had seen fit to respond to his urgent inquiries.

The battered van, hot as an oven inside, pulled up on Wilhelm Square and parked in an alley.

“How do I address people?” Paul asked.

“‘Sir,’” Webber said. “Always ‘sir.’”

“There won’t be any women?”

“Ach, good question, Mr. John Dillinger. Yes, there may be a few. But they will not be in official positions, of course. They’ll be your peers. Secretaries, cleaners, file clerks, typists. They will be single – no married women may work – so you will say ‘Miss.’ And you may flirt a little if you like. That would be appropriate from a workman but they will also understand if you ignore them, wishing only to get your job done as efficiently as possible and get back home to your Sunday meal.”

“Do I knock on doors or just enter?”

“Always knock,” Morgan offered. Webber nodded.

“And I say ‘Hail Hitler’?”

Webber scoffed. “As often as you like. One has never gone to prison for saying that.”

“And that salute you do. The arm in the air?”

“Not necessary,” Morgan said. “Not from a workman.” He reminded, “And remember your G ’s. Soften them. Speak as a Berliner. Lull suspicions before they arise.”

In the back of the sweltering van Paul stripped off his clothes and pulled on the coveralls Webber had provided. “Good fit,” the German said. “I can sell them to you if you wish to keep them.”

“Otto,” Paul said, sighing. He examined the battered identity card, which contained a picture of a man resembling himself. “Who’s this?”

“There is a warehouse, not much used, where the Weimar stored files of soldiers who fought in the War. There are millions of them, of course. I use them from time to time for forging passes and other documents. I locate a picture that resembles the person buying the documents. The photographs are older and worn but so are our identity cards because we must keep them with us at all times.” He looked at the picture then up at Paul. “This is a man who was killed at Argonne-Meuse. His file notes that he won several medals before he died. They were considering an Iron Cross. You look good for a dead man.”

Webber then handed him the two work permits that would allow him access to the Chancellory. Paul had left his own passport and the fake Rus sian one at the boardinghouse, had bought a pack of German cigarettes and carried the cheap, unmarked matches from the Aryan Café; Webber had assured him he’d be searched carefully at the front of the building. “Here.” Webber handed him a notebook and pencil and a battered meter stick. He also gave him a short steel rule, which he could use as a jimmy on the lock in Ernst’s office door if need be.

Paul looked these items over. He asked Webber, “They’re really going to fall for this?”

“Ach, Mr. John Dillinger, if you want certainty, aren’t you in the wrong line of work?” He took out one of his cabbage cigars.

“You’re not going to smoke that here?” Morgan asked.

“Where would you have me smoke it? On the door stoop of the Leader’s abode, striking the match on an SS guard’s ass?” He lit the stogie, nodded at Paul. “We will be waiting here for you.”

Hermann Göring strode through the Chancellory building as if he owned it.

Which, he believed, he one day would.

The minister loved Adolf Hitler the way Peter loved Christ.

But Jesus eventually got nailed to a T of wood and Peter took over the operation.

That is what would happen in Germany, Göring knew. Hitler was an unearthly creation, unique in the history of the world. Mesmerizing, brilliant beyond words. And because of that he would not survive to see old age. The world cannot accept visionaries and messiahs. Wolf would be dead within five years and Göring would weep and beat his breast, pierced by pitched, genuine sorrow. He would officiate during the lengthy mourning. And then he would lead the country to its position as the greatest nation in the world. Hitler said that this would be a thousand-year empire. But Hermann Göring would steer his regime on the course to forever.

But, for now, smaller goals: tactical measures to make certain that it was he who stepped into the role of Leader.

After he’d finished his eggs and sausage, the minister had changed clothes again (he normally went through four or five outfits a day). He was now in a flamboyant green military uniform, encrusted with braids, ribbons and decorations, some earned, many bought. He had dressed for the part because he felt like he was on a mission. And his goal? To tack Reinhard Ernst’s head to the wall (Göring was, after all, hunting master of the empire).

The file exposing Keitel’s Jewish heritage tucked under his arm like a riding crop, he strode down the dim corridors. Turning a corner, he winced in pain from his wound – the bullet he’d taken in the groin during the November ’23 Beer Hall Putsch. He’d swallowed his pills only an hour before – he was never without them – but already the numbness was wearing off. Ach, the pharmacist must have gotten the strength wrong. He would berate the man about this later. He nodded to the SS guards and stepped into the Leader’s outer office, smiling to the secretary.

“He asked that you go in at once, Mr. Minister.”

Göring strode across the carpet and then entered the Leader’s office. Hitler was leaning against the edge of his desk, as he often did. Wolf was never comfortable sitting still. He would pace, he would perch, he’d rock back and forth, gazing out windows. He now sipped his chocolate, set the cup and saucer on the desktop, and nodded gravely to someone sitting in a high-backed armchair. Then he looked up. “Ah, Mr. Air Minister, come in, come in.”

Hitler held up the note Göring had penned earlier. “I must hear more about this. It’s interesting that you mention a conspiracy… Our comrade here, it seems, has brought similar news of such a matter too.”

Halfway through the large office, Göring blinked and stopped abruptly, seeing the other visitor to the Leader’s office rise from the armchair. It was Reinhard Ernst. He nodded and offered a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Minister.”

Göring ignored him and asked Hitler, “A conspiracy?”

“Indeed,” Hitler said. “We have been discussing the colonel’s project, the Waltham Study. It seems some enemies have falsified information about his associate, Doctor-professor Ludwig Keitel. Can you imagine? They’ve gone so far as to suggest that the professor has Jewish blood in him. Please, sit, Hermann, and tell me about this conspiracy you’ve uncovered.”