He rolled his shoulders around inside an off-the-rack suit. It was an older contemporary cut, unlike Slim Jim’s stylish uptime number, and it pulled tight in all the wrong places as he leaned forward.

“Mr. Kennedy understood that he had a deal with you for your support in this matter, whenever he asked for it. You said you’d back his choice for the primaries with money and votes. What, are you backing out or something? You got your own plans, is that it?”

Slim Jim enjoyed the sensation of being able to say nothing for so long, it became uncomfortable. He enjoyed the view out of his picture windows, the expensive fit-out of the conference room, the acres of polished oak table in front of him.

“Nah,” he said at last. “I don’t have my own plans. I gave Joe my word, and that’s as good as ink on paper. Better, in fact. I got a lawyer who’s an absolute fucking wonder at blowing holes in bits of paper. You tell him, when one of the boys is ready to run, I’ll do whatever I can to help…”

He left the sentence hanging long enough for Doyle to understand more was coming. “But?” said the fixer.

“But,” added Slim Jim, “I’m still waiting to hear from him about a little favor that I asked for back in Hyannisport.”

“Uh-huh,” said Doyle, warily. “And that’d be?”

“The Zone legislation,” said Slim Jim. “The sunset clause. Your boss promised me he would help kill it in the House. You make sure he understands that I’m serious. I want that clause nixed. We got a good thing going out here and we don’t need the apple cart tipped over by a bunch of know-nothing pinheads trying to wind the clock back. It’d be very bad for business.”

Doyle sized him up as though he were still a small-time grifter trying to pass a rubber check.

“That it?” he asked.

“That’s it,” said Slim Jim.

“Okay then, I’ll tell him. Can I get you later today, if he’s got an answer?”

Slim Jim shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “I’m going for a surf with a buddy. You can call Maria O’Brien and tell her.”

He might have expected more panic. The fact that most Berliners appeared to be going about their business may have spoken to something commendable in the German spirit.

On the other hand, Ambassador Oshima thought it more likely that they simply didn’t know what had happened. Propaganda Minister Gцbbels kept a very tight rein.

All that Oshima had publicly read or heard about the fighting in the east was that a poorly coordinated sneak attack on a Wehrmacht regiment at the edge of the Demilitarized Zone had been repulsed, with heavy enemy casualties. Some German newspapers were even speculating that the Ukrainian nationalists might be responsible. There were at least three feuding militias in the Ukraine, and they all had clashed with both Communist and German forces in the last year.

But Oshima knew better.

The Reich’s ruling elite was still stunned by the blow Stalin had delivered. They hadn’t yet settled upon a response, so no compelling story had been invented to explain away this strategic reversal. As he motored down the Unter den Linden on his way to meet with Himmler, he could not rid himself of the images he had seen of the city of Berlin, ravaged by the Red Army.

He well remembered the Nanking Incident, and it took little effort to imagine the same sort of thing played out here, or at home, once the Bolshevik hordes had arrived at the gates. The ambassador maintained an outward faзade of calm, but unless he had good news to send back to Tokyo, he feared what the next few months might bring.

The Red Army would pay a heavy toll for every inch of Japanese soil they defiled, but unlike the blissfully ignorant Berliners, he had seen the raw reports and even some video coverage of the new Eastern Front, and he harbored no misconceptions about the enemy they faced. The Communists had been busy, and most shockingly they had obviously gained access to Emergence technology. They seemed almost as well equipped as the Americans and British, and their armies were much larger. The only way they could be stopped was with an atomic bomb. He hoped Himmler might have word of a breakthrough on that score, because to date the Axis had enjoyed very little success in their atomic endeavors.

As the limousine pulled up at an intersection near the Brandenburg Gate, Oshima watched a couple of SS officers browbeating a fat civilian. It wasn’t immediately apparent what crime he had committed, and of course it was entirely possible that the man was only guilty of attracting their attention in the first place. As much as Reichsfьhrer Himmler had been a good ally to Imperial Japan, delivering on all of his promises to the letter, the sight of the two black-clad Nazis bullying the terrified Berliner reminded Oshima that his “allies” would just as soon treat him as the subhuman they thought him to be. And that if they did prevail against the Allies and the Communists, their very nature would lead them to seek dominion over the emperor’s realm, as well.

A part of him had suspected Himmler of hiding progress on the atomic bomb because he wanted the weapon exclusively for the Reich. But now, with Germany caught between two formidable enemies, it seemed more likely that the Reichsfьhrer’s protests and lamentations were genuine. If Hitler had possessed the superweapon, he surely would have used it on Zhukov and Konev. Instead, everything that Oshima heard about the Soviet front led him to believe that an epic disaster was in the making.

His driver apologized for the delay in getting to the Wilhelmstrasse for Oshima’s meeting. The RAF had bombed the city the previous night for the first time in weeks, and the roads were still affected, even though the brunt of the raid had fallen a few miles away. A stray stick of bombs had landed on the transport hub of Potsdamer Platz, throwing the central traffic grid into chaos.

Oshima said nothing. He was a world away, in the old wooden streets of Tokyo, remembering his life before this madness. He doubted he would ever see home again.

That last time he had been aboveground for any length of time it was…

Well, in fact he couldn’t remember. It had been so long, and events had taken such a twisted and evil course since then, that Himmler seemed to have spent most of his waking life shuffling from one dank, stale-smelling underground bunker to another. The touch of morning sun on his face in the brief seconds between climbing out of his Mercedes and hurrying into the nondescript building on a small street running off Wilhelmstrasse had been like a week at a spa in the Alps. If only he could have lingered in the sooty, high-walled courtyard at the back of the building where his car had pulled up. He might have stood there all day, soaking in the warmth and the sweet, soft light. But such an indulgence was not for him. History was bearing on his shoulders, threatening to crush him.

Those foul, creeping, two-faced pigs in Moscow were…were…

His brain locked up, unable to get past the impacted rage and violation.

This was not supposed to happen. They were supposed to be plowed under by the Aryan race, led by his glorious SS. Instead a horde-a veritable Mongol horde of the beasts-was tearing across the steppes, threatening to break into the German heartland and plunge Western civilization into a new dark age. The fьhrer had been so overcome by his anger that he’d suffered some form of seizure and actually passed out in the bunker, stopping in midrant and smashing his head on the edge of the table as he collapsed. None of the trembling, whey-faced physicians had been able to revive him. He had simply remained there on the floor, his head resting on the balled-up jacket of a Luftwaffe officer, as grotesque spasms swept over his prostrate form.