And why? Had it been money? Politics? Some other reason?

But at the moment he could find no hint of the answers to those questions. Escaping occupied all his thoughts.

He shoved the accelerator to the floor and turned onto a broad, immaculate highway, passing a sign that assured him that the city center of Berlin was six kilometers away.

Modest quarters, off Bremer Street in the northwest portion of town. Typical of many dwellings in this neighborhood, Reginald Morgan’s was in a gloomy stone four-flat that dated from the Second Empire, though this particular structure summoned up no Prussian glory whatsoever.

Willi Kohl and his inspector candidate climbed from the DKW. They heard more sirens and glanced up to see a truck of SS troops speeding along the roads – yet another installment of the secret security alert, even more extensive than earlier, it seemed, with random roadblocks now being set up throughout the city. Kohl and Janssen themselves were stopped. The SS guard glanced with disdain at the Kripo ID and waved them through. He didn’t respond to the inspector’s query about what was happening and merely snapped, “Move along.”

Kohl now rang the bell beside the thick front door. The inspector tapped his foot with impatience as they waited. Two lengthy rings later a stocky landlady in a dark dress and apron opened the door, eyes wide at the sight of two stern men in suits.

“Hail Hitler. I’m sorry, sirs, that I didn’t get here sooner but my legs aren’t-”

“Inspector Kohl, with the Kripo.” He showed his identity card so the woman would relax somewhat; at least they were not Gestapo.

“Do you know this man?” Janssen displayed the photo taken in Dresden Alley.

“Ach, that’s Mr. Morgan, who lives here! He doesn’t look… Is he dead?”

“Yes, he is.”

“God in heav-” The politically questionable phrase died in her mouth.

“We’d like to see his rooms.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Follow me.” They walked into a courtyard so overwhelmingly bleak, Kohl thought, that it would sadden even Mozart’s irrepressible Papageno. The woman rocked back and forth as she walked. She said breathlessly, “I always thought him a little strange, to tell the truth, sirs.” This was served up with careful glances at Kohl, to make it clear that she was no confederate of Morgan’s, in case he’d been killed by the National Socialists themselves, and yet that his behavior wasn’t so suspicious that she should have denounced him herself.

“We haven’t seen him for a whole day. He went out just before lunch yesterday and he never returned.”

They went through another locked door at the end of the courtyard and up two flights of stairs, which reeked of onion and pickle.

“How long had he lived here?” Kohl asked.

“Three months. He paid for six in advance. And tipped me…” Her voice faded. “But not much.”

“The rooms were furnished?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any visitors you recall?”

“None that I knew of. None that I let into the building.”

“Show her the drawing, Janssen.”

He displayed the picture of Paul Schumann. “Have you seen this man?”

“No, sir. Is he dead too?” She added abruptly, “I mean, sir, no, I’ve never seen him.”

Kohl looked into her eyes. They were evasive, but with fear, not deception, and he believed her. Under questioning, she told him that Morgan was a businessman, he took no phone calls here and picked up his mail at the post office. She didn’t know if he had an office elsewhere. He never said anything specific about his job.

“Leave us now.”

“Hail Hitler,” she replied and scurried off like a mouse.

Kohl looked around the room. “So you see how I made an incorrect deduction, Janssen?”

“How is that, sir?”

“I assumed Mr. Morgan was German because he wore clothes made of Hitler cloth. But not all foreigners are wealthy enough to live on Under the Lindens and to buy top-of-the-line at KaDeWe, though that is our impression.”

Janssen thought for a moment. “That’s true, sir. But there could be another reason he wore ersatz clothes.”

“That he wished to masquerade as a German?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, Janssen. Though perhaps he wanted not so much to masquerade as one of us but more to not draw attention to himself. But either makes him suspicious. Now let’s see if we can make our mystery less mysterious. Start with the closets.”

The inspector candidate opened a door and began his examination of the contents.

Kohl himself chose the less demanding search and eased into a creaking chair to look through the documents on Morgan’s desk. The American had been, it seemed, a middleman of sorts, providing services for a number of U.S. companies in Germany. For a commission he would match an American buyer with a German seller and vice versa. When American businessmen came to town Morgan would be hired to entertain them and arrange meetings with German representatives from Borsig, Bata Shoes, Siemens, I.G. Farben, Opel, dozens of others.

There were several pictures of Morgan and documents confirming his identity. But it was curious, Kohl thought, that there were no truly personal effects. No family photographs, no mementos.

…perhaps he was somebody’s brother. And maybe somebody’s husband or lover. And, if he was lucky, he was a father of sons and daughters. I would hope too that there are past lovers who think of him occasionally…

Kohl considered the implications of this absence of personal information. Did it mean he was a loner? Or was there another reason for keeping his personal life secret?

Janssen dug through the closet. “And is there anything in particular I ought to be looking for, sir?”

Embezzled money, a married mistress’s handkerchief, a letter of extortion, a note from a pregnant teenager… any of the indicia of motive that might explain why poor Mr. Morgan had died brutally on the immaculate cobblestones of Dresden Alley.

“Look for anything that enlightens us, in any way, regarding the case. I can describe it no better than that. It is the hardest part of being a detective. Use your instinct, use your imagination.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kohl continued his own examination of the desk.

A moment later Janssen called, “Look at this, sir. Mr. Morgan has some pictures of naked women. They were in a box here.”

“Are they commercially made? Or did he take them himself?”

“No, they are postcards, sir. He bought them somewhere.”

“Yes, yes, then they do not interest us, Janssen. You must discern between the times that a man’s vices are relevant and when they are not. And, I promise you, voluptuous postcards are not presently important. Please, continue your search.”

Some men grow calm in direct proportion to their desperation. Such men are rare, and they are particularly dangerous, because, while their ruthlessness is not diminished, they are never careless.

Robert Taggert was one such man. He was livid that some goddamn button man from Brooklyn had out-thought him, had jeopardized his future, but he was not going to let emotion cloud his judgment.

He knew how Schumann had figured things out. There was a piece of wire on the floor of the shed and bits of lead next to it. Of course, he’d checked the bore of the gun and found it plugged. Taggert thought angrily, Why the hell didn’t I empty the powder out of his shells and recrimp the bullets back into the brass casing? There’d have been no danger to Ernst that way and Schumann never would have figured out the betrayal until it was too late and the SS troops were around the shed.

But, he reflected, the matter wasn’t hopeless.

After a second brief meeting in the Olympic pressroom with Himmler and Heydrich, during which he told them he knew little more of the plot than what he’d already explained, he left the stadium, telling the Germans that he would contact Washington at once and see if they had more details. Taggert left them both, muttering about Jewish and Russian conspiracies. He was surprised he’d been allowed out of the stadium without being detained – his arrest would not have been logical but was certainly a risk in a country top-heavy with suspicion and paranoia.