“That’s not our concern. Everyone with access to floors above the ground needs a special permit. Your party membership card?”

“I… I don’t have it with me.”

“You are not a member of the Party?”

“Of course, sir. I am a loyal National Socialist, believe me.”

“You’re not a loyal National Socialist if you don’t carry your card.” The officer searched him, flipped through the notebook, glanced at the sketches of the rooms and the dimensions. He was shaking his head.

Paul said, “I am to return later in the week, sir. I can bring you a special permit and Party card then.” He added, “And at that time I can measure your office as well.”

“My office is on the ground floor, in the back – the area not scheduled for renovation,” the SS officer said sourly.

“All the more reason to have a fine Persian carpet. Of which we happen to have several more than have been allotted. And nothing to do but let them rot in a warehouse.”

The man considered this. Then he glanced at his wristwatch. “I don’t have time to pursue this matter. I am Security Underleader Schechter. You will find my office down the stairs and to the right. The name is on the door. On with you now. But when you come back, have the special permit or it will be Prince Albrecht Street for you.”

As the three men sped away from Wilhelm Square, a siren sounded nearby. Paul and Reggie Morgan looked uneasily out the windows of the van, which stank of burned cabbage and sweat.

Webber laughed. “It’s an ambulance. Relax.” A moment later the medical vehicle turned the corner. “I know the sounds of all the official vehicles. It’s helpful knowledge in Berlin nowadays.”

After a few moments Paul said quietly, “I met him.”

“Met whom?” Morgan asked.

“Ernst.”

Morgan’s eyes widened. “He was there?”

“He came into the office just after I got there.”

“Ach, what do we do?” Webber said. “We can’t get back inside the Chancellory. How will we find out where he’ll be?”

“Oh, I found that out,” Paul said.

“You did?” Morgan asked.

“I had time to look over his desk before he arrived. He’ll be at the stadium today.”

“Which stadium?” Morgan asked. “There are dozens in the city.”

“The Olympic stadium. I saw a memorandum. Hitler’s having photographs of senior Party officials taken there this afternoon.” He glanced at a nearby clock tower. “But we have only a few hours to get me into place. I think we’ll need your help once again, Otto.”

“Ach, I can get you anywhere you wish, Mr. John Dillinger. I work the miracles… and you pay for them. That is why we are such good partners, of course. And speaking of which, my American cash, if you please.” And he let the transmission of the van scream in second gear as he held out his right hand, palm up, until Morgan dropped the envelope into it.

After a moment Paul was aware that Morgan had been looking him over. The man asked, “What was Ernst like? Did he seem like the most dangerous man in Europe?”

“He was polite, he was preoccupied, he was weary. And sad.”

“Sad?” Webber asked.

Paul nodded, recalling the man’s fast yet burdened eyes, the eyes of someone waiting for arduous trials to be over with.

The sun finally sets…

Morgan glanced at the shops and buildings and flags on the wide avenue of Under the Lindens. He asked, “Is that a problem?”

“Problem?”

“Will meeting him make you hesitate to… to do what you’ve come here for? Will it make a difference?”

Paul Schumann wished to God that he could say it would. That seeing someone up close, that talking to him, would melt the ice, would make him hesitate to take that man’s life. But he answered truthfully. “No. It will make no difference.”

They sweated from the heat, and Kurt Fischer, at least, sweated from fear.

The brothers were now two blocks from the square where they would meet Unger, the man who was to spirit them away from this foundering country and reunite them with their parents.

The man they were trusting with their lives.

Hans stooped down, picked up a stone and skipped it across the waters of the Landwehr Canal.

“Don’t!” Kurt whispered harshly. “Don’t draw attention to us.”

“You should relax, brother. Skipping stones doesn’t draw attention. Everybody does it. God, it’s hot. Can we stop for a ginger beer?”

“Ach, you think we are on holiday, don’t you?” Kurt glanced around. There were not many people out. The hour was early, the heat already fierce.

“See anyone following us?” his brother asked with some irony.

“Do you want to stay in Berlin? All things considered?”

“All I know is that if we give up our house, we’ll never see it again.”

“If we don’t give it up, we’ll never see Mother and Father again. Probably we’ll never see anyone again.”

Hans scowled and picked up another stone. He got three skips this time. “Look! Did you see that?”

“Hurry up.”

They turned into a market street, where vendors’ booths were being set up. There were a number of trucks parked on the streets and sidewalks. The vehicles were filled with turnips, beets, apples, potatoes, canal trout, carp, cod oil. None of the most-in-demand items, of course, like meat, olive oil, butter and sugar. Even so, people were already queuing up to find the best – or rather the least unappetizing – purchases.

“Look, there he is,” Kurt said, crossing the street and making for an old truck parked off the side of the square. A man with curly brown hair leaned against it, smoking as he looked through a newspaper. He glanced up, saw the boys and nodded subtly. He tossed the paper inside the cab of the truck.

It all comes down to trust…

And sometimes you’re not disappointed. Kurt had had doubts that he would even show up.

“Mr. Unger!” Kurt said as they joined him. They shook hands warmly. “This is my brother, Hans.”

“Ach, he looks just like his father.”

“You sell chocolates?” the boy asked, looking at the truck.

“I manufacture and sell candy. I was a professor but that is not a lucrative job any longer. Learning is sporadic but eating sweets is a constant, not to mention politically safe. We can talk later. Now we should get out of Berlin. You can ride in the cab with me until we get near the border. Then you will climb into a space in the back. I use ice to keep the chocolate from melting on days like this, and you will lie under boards covered with ice. Don’t worry, you won’t freeze to death. I’ve cut holes in the side of the truck to let in some warm air. We’ll cross the border, as I do every week. I know the guards. I give them chocolate. They never search me.”

Unger walked to the back of the truck and closed the gate.

Hans climbed into the cab, picked up the newspaper and started reading. Kurt turned, wiped his brow and looked out one last time over the city in which he’d spent his entire life. In the heat and the haze, it seemed Italian, reminding him of a trip he’d taken to Bologna with his parents when his father was lecturing for a fortnight at the old university there.

The young man was turning back to climb into the truck next to his brother when there was a collective gasp from the crowd.

Kurt froze, eyes wide.

Three black cars skidded to a stop around Unger’s truck. Six men jumped out, in black SS uniforms.

No!

“Hans, run!” Kurt shouted.

But two of the SS troops raced to the passenger side of the vehicle. They ripped the door open and dragged his younger brother onto the street. He fought back until one struck him in the gut with a truncheon. Hans yelped and stopped struggling, rolling on the ground, clutching his belly. The soldiers pulled him to his feet. “No, no, no!” Unger cried. Both he and Kurt were shoved against the side of the truck.