Ice Reich

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Pain subsides, but memory just roots deeper. Greta was burned into Hart's brain like the after-dazzle of flash powder: her face framed by fur as she watched icebergs the color of her eyes, her body bathed by lantern light in the womb-like grotto of the cave, her fingers touching his sleeve as she asked him not to leave the ship— not to leave her. And that bright remembrance was shadowed by the darker tumor of Jürgen Drexler. Other mental images were etched by acid and sun fire: the bite of polar wind, the disease-contorted bodies, the tantalizing crack of light that made him crawl for the surface when muscle and will seemed utterly expended, the ominous disappearance of Schwabenland and the Bergen. Antarctica was a song so exquisite and so vile that he could not get it— could not get her— out of his head. And because of that he couldn't forget her, nor replace her, nor move past her. He'd lost her and yet somehow it wasn't over, he knew. It couldn't be over until they met again.

Initially he simply gave way to despair as he lay on a musty cotton mattress in a storeroom of the Aurora Australis, confined by the distrust of Sigvald Jansen. Lit by a caged bulb, the steel chamber mercifully prevented much contact with the Norwegian sailors, still furious about their confrontation with the Germans. "Murderer," one muttered at the pilot as he slid food through the doorway. One of the whalers had been killed in the gun battle and two wounded, Hart learned.

For a while the whalers waited grimly for him to exhibit symptoms of the dread new disease he talked wildly about, waited in both anticipation and fear. But no symptoms appeared. So he existed for a while outside of normal time, in a debilitating fog of grief and longing and regret. The sudden loss of Greta and Fritz was torment so great that at first he didn't think he could live, that he would ever again want to live. And yet he did live: numbly, automatically. And slowly— it was as if he was on a rack that was being ratcheted down day by agonizing day— the loss became more bearable. His choices became inevitabilities, never to be reversed, and his defeats a bitter peace. The alternative was madness. And as days turned to weeks— while the whaler finished its interminable season and then slowly steamed home— the hole in his heart began to scab over. The future began to replace the past and determination eclipsed despair. Even if the expedition had become a tragic fiasco— even if he'd been given up for dead— couldn't he get back into Greta's life? That must be his goal.

The Norwegians, who'd been so thirsty for revenge that they gleefully rammed the Boreas and sent the empty flying boat to the ocean's bottom, were puzzled. Was Hart a German spy, deserter, or the refugee he claimed? Nothing he said could be verified. The American claimed to have escaped from a new plague but had no sign of it. He claimed to have found the Bergen but had no proof: in fact, he claimed there was no proof, that the missing ship had mysteriously disappeared from the caldera of a mysterious island, its lagoon empty the last time he flew over. So in the end Jansen simply locked the American away and brooded about the strange clash with the Nazis, keeping Hart confined all the way to Norway. The pilot promised Jansen that a woman, some German biologist, could confirm his strange story, and he even confided to Sigvald his fantasies about reunion and rehabilitation. He would describe to authorities the forbidding island, he said. Then Norwegian scientists could return next year, armed and cautious.

But the pilot's hopes came to nothing.

The American was a diplomatic and legal conundrum and so was confined in Oslo while the Norwegians considered what to do. Hart had not a shred of evidence. And Norway was reluctant to challenge Nazi Germany over such a baffling and, in the context of recent developments, trivial incident. Greta Heinz? Not only did Hart have no address, there was no mention in the German press of her. Nor of the expedition, for that matter, or of the return of the Schwabenland. Had the crippled ship gone down? It was very odd.

Hart pondered. "It's the disease," he suggested. "They want to keep their microbe secret. Their very silence proves what I've been saying."

Of course. And did Hart have papers or passport?

All left on the ship, he explained.

Of course.

As the weeks and months passed, the Germans made no announcement of discovery of a new island and no complaint of a Norwegian whaler interfering with Reich biological sampling. The Norwegians, in turn, saw no reason to reveal to the Germans the survival of the Aurora Australis, the rescue and confinement of Owen Hart, or his report on the fate of the Bergen. The Nazis would learn all that when they returned to the island one day to find a Norwegian flag fluttering in the harbor ahead of them— assuming it even existed.

The pilot was freed in September by the turn of events. Poland had been invaded by Germany, and France and England had declared war. Brought to a hearing room, Hart was informed he was no longer wanted in Norway but had limited options. If he tried to make his claims public, the government would be forced to respond to rumors of a tragic Antarctic confrontation and the logical action would be to try Hart— the only member of the Schwabenland in custody— for the murder of the Norwegian whaler who'd died. Promised silence, however, would enable his release.

"Then let me go back to Germany," Hart pleaded. "I need to learn what happened. I need to find Greta Heinz."

"I'm afraid it's too late for that," a minister said. "The Reich has closed its borders. We've arranged with the American embassy to issue new papers and a ticket out of Norway if you'll sign these forms absolving all parties of liability and agreeing to confidentiality about regrettable incidents in polar waters. We prefer not to complicate our relations with Germany at this time."

Hart asked to be sent to England. He'd look for Greta from there. London absorbed him readily enough in its mammoth anonymity, but contacting expedition members proved impossible. If they were alive they'd been swallowed by the Reich, as remote as if on another planet. The vacuum of information was maddening: it was as if Hart had dreamed the entire voyage. He realized how little he knew about Greta. The sound and smell and touch of her was as vivid as his remembrance of what she looked like, but her past was opaque. He wrote letters, unsigned and with only a London post box as a return address (he assumed the letters would be steamed open and read by the German police), to the Reich Interior, Air Force, Forest, and Hunt ministries. Anything remotely connected to Göring.

Dear Greta. If you can read this, thank God you're alive. So am I, in London. Can you join me?

They were cryptic, he knew. He wasn't a writer and besides, he had no idea if she was alive or dead, married or alone. Had she returned? Did she think him dead? What was her situation? What was her mood? There was no reply. At times he thought the uncertainty would kill him. But of course it didn't kill him, and day simply followed day.

Nothing was getting in and out of Germany that the Nazis didn't wish. Like a hornet's nest being wrapped in ever-deeper layers of paper, the Third Reich was being sealed up. The political exodus of Jews and intellectuals from Germany was increasing and Hart held unrealistic hopes that Greta would materialize in the locomotive steam of a London train station, expelled and ready to make a new life. Aimlessly, gripped in depression, he went to the platforms a few times and threaded through the crowds, looking for her face in an exercise he knew was patently ridiculous. Other avenues proved a dead end. The German embassy had closed. The Red Cross had no record on its refugee lists. His vigil was hopeless, he was told. And yet he had no interest in returning to America and being an ocean away from Germany. No interest in other women. No interest in the larger world.

While World War II walled off Germany, it also proved a psychological salvation for Hart. Suddenly he was not alone in his inability to control events; millions were being swept along a great dark river. And he found refuge in work. The American became a flight instructor for the Royal Air Force, throwing himself into the task with grim purpose. The pilots were so young! Many confided they hoped a glamorous skill might keep them out of the trenches of this new war. Their escape became his own. He lost himself in the air.

The training field's RAF flight captain slowly befriended the quiet, remote American, once expressing curiosity at Hart's reluctance to take advantage of wartime opportunities with women. The pilot confided his despair over Greta. "In love with a Jerry!" the man marveled. "Best to keep a lid on that little secret, old chap. And better to give her up and get on with your life. If she's alive, she's entombed in a bloody madhouse."

"She's the only reason I want a life," Owen responded. "She's the one who let me come back to life."

"Don't let her rob you of it now."

Yugoslavia, Greece, North Africa, Russia. A drumbeat of defeat. If Greta was still alive she was caught in a web of monstrous dimension, a new empire that stretched from Normandy to the Caucasus and from the Arctic Circle to the Sahara. Then came Pearl Harbor. With America's entry into the war, Hart joined the U.S. Army Air Corps in England and was tapped for reconnaissance and intelligence because of his fluency in German. Hart's superiors did not appreciate his opinion that the Germans were no more likely to crack under strategic bombing than the British had, but they acknowledged his skill at interrogating captured enemy pilots.

On a few occasions Hart volunteered for reconnaissance flights over Europe. His planes were pounded by flak and hounded by fighter planes and yet he found the experience oddly dispassionate. His emotional shell— his spore coat, he thought wryly— had grown so necessarily thick that it was like watching his own peril from a distance. Even if he could still fear the long agonizing minutes it would take to plunge from twenty thousand feet, death itself promised a certain peace. His emotions were further confused by the realization that in an indirect way he could be helping to kill Greta; he sometimes looked at the great fires raging below and imagined her trapped within them. And yet when he was honest with himself he did not think she was dead, or likely to die. He felt he would know instantly if that happened— that the whole fabric of the universe would seem to come undone— and moreover, that destiny had more in store for them.

For Owen Hart, then, most of World War II was a period of endless waiting, waiting so prolonged and dreadful that time itself seemed to have been repealed. Yet finally it was the fall of 1944, the Allied forces had liberated most of France, and the pilot experienced one of those encounters that suggest fate rules life: a meeting that replaced five years of despair with a thread of hope, enough hope to fuel desperation. A prisoner was asking for Owen Hart and his name was Otto Kohl.

American military policemen saluted smartly as Major Hart strode down the gloomy corridor of a former mental hospital, his boots echoing on hardwood floors that neglect had robbed of any sheen. The pilot's face was a mask, struggling to hide rising excitement. Kohl! Owen had occasionally searched the ballooning lists of German prisoners for some connection to the past but had known it was as futile as elbowing the crowds of London train stations. And yet here was Otto, popping up out of nowhere, asking for him! One of countless Germans who'd been swept up after the fall of Paris, his fleeing Mercedes reportedly found overheated and sprung out from the weight of wine cases, gilt picture frames, a hoard of jewelry, and a Gallic mistress thirty years his junior. The French woman had been seized by nearby villagers and shaved bald. The German, however, was whisked away for an interrogation in which he boasted of high-ranking connections. The self-importance had won him temporary confinement in a political prison established at the abandoned mental institution. During the Occupation its regular inmates had mysteriously disappeared.

The war had left its dreary mark. The steel bars were past-due for painting. The elevator cage was grounded, heavy with dust. The green of the walls had darkened from restful to sick. A gurney had been abandoned in one corner, its gray sheet stained with gray blood. The small office used for interrogation was barren except for a table and two chairs. Late-autumn sun made a geometric pattern on the walls from the wire mesh on the windows; the temperature was cold. And there at the table was Otto Kohl, dressed in prison fatigues with his ankles manacled. The German blinked and tentatively smiled as Hart came in, looking almost shy. He stood awkwardly.

"Owen!" Kohl greeted hoarsely. "Back from the dead!" Hart sat down and Kohl hesitantly followed. The German looked older, his hair grayer, and yet the war seemed not to have treated him badly. Well fed. "Just back from Antarctica, Otto. The ship didn't wait."

Kohl bobbed his head anxiously. "Yes. Obviously not. But then the report was that you'd died in a heroic aerial rescue attempt. It's a miracle— my finding you alive like this. Fortune is curious, no?"

"Not half as curious as I am." So, the ship had definitely survived. He stared at Kohl, remembering the dinner at Karinhall, Greta in the firelight. "What in hell are you doing here?"

Kohl nodded excitedly. "Exactly! Exactly the right question! I've been telling my captors for weeks that I have no military connections, that I'm simply a businessman, a government facilitator, a minor functionary! I don't belong in a cage. I should be employed in reconstruction, in reconciliation, where I can help people. It's a tragic waste, my being here."

Hart appeared to consider this. Then he opened his folder. "It says here you looted half the Loire Valley."

"That's an outrageous interpretation! I simply served as an import-export link to Germany."

"That you had a château there and a town house in Paris. That you cut a social swath in Occupation and Vichy circles. That you wore a swastika in your lapel by day and haunted the cabarets at night. That you were a black market profiteer. A womanizer. That you arranged the transshipment of slave labor."

"No!" Kohl shook his head vigorously, anxiously. "No, no, no. Reports spread by the jealous, by my enemies, by captives anxious to save their own skin by spreading false stories— all with no basis in fact. I was simply directed to help with the economic integration of Germany and France. When my presence in Washington became impossible."

Hart said nothing.

"I've tried to explain to your supervisors that I'm a man of business, Owen. A man of vision. A man of science. I cited the Antarctica expedition. That was the true Otto Kohl! Organizing expeditions to explore the natural world! I'd even included an American, I said. An international effort! And then one of your interrogators, a Colonel Cathcart, mentioned you. He said that you'd referred to such an expedition and that you were here, alive, in France. And it was electric, revelatory! A bolt of lightning! I couldn't believe it! And so of course I asked for you: Owen Hart, my old friend, the man who could identify me for what I really am!"

Hart studied the German dubiously. "I could learn nothing about the expedition after its return."

"Yes, it was kept confidential."

"Not even word of my own fate. It was as if I'd vanished. No mention. No credit. No reward."

"Do you think that didn't trouble me? To have recruited you and then such a cruel illness: it was a tragedy. And we wanted, of course, to send your back pay but there were no relatives, no address— "

"How did you know that?"

"But then the entire Antarctic expedition had gone seriously awry and— "

"How did you know that, Otto?"

He stopped. "Know what?"

"That I died of an illness? Earlier you said I died in a heroic aerial rescue attempt."

He frowned. "Did I say that? Did I say illness? I meant that was my assumption, our assumption, it was the natural— "

"We were in Antarctica, not Panama. There are no illnesses there— except perhaps frostbite. So: what did they tell you of my death?"

Kohl appeared to be doing an inner calculus, weighing what Owen wanted to hear. "Well, there was talk of a discovery— a dread new disease. You were one of the casualties. People felt very bad about your death. Drexler declared his intention to return the following season to perform more cutting-edge research. Except…"

"Except?"

"The war. The British navy was blocking the way."

Hart stood, restless, and paced around the small room, Kohl's eyes nervously following. Five years of questions were bubbling in the pilot's mind. He stopped and studied the German narrowly. "So you know of no weapons program arising from the expedition?"

"Absolutely not. I simply met the ship and learned you were missing along with some other crew members. Heiden told me they'd escaped from this disease and crazy whalers, there was damage… it was very bewildering."

"Other crew members? Who else was missing?"

"Well… no one, really. That I knew. Soldiers, I guess. Certainly, the important people were all there: Heiden, Drexler…"

"Greta?"

There was a pause. Kohl gave his interrogator a careful look. "No…"

Hart's spirits sank.

"Not at first, not at the docking. But she came up afterward with Drexler. She seemed quiet, subdued. Hustled off to the station rather quickly. Probably couldn't wait to get off the ship."

Hart leaned forward. "Where did she go?"

Kohl bit his lip, considering. "Don't get me wrong, Owen. I'm hesitating only because of what I heard. There was talk on the ship that… that you and Greta were more than simply colleagues. More than friends. Is this true?"

"Where did she go, dammit?"

"So you were lovers?"

Hart was quiet, looking at the calculating Kohl. Then he leaned slowly forward again, his voice tight. "Why ask questions when you know the answers?"

Kohl leaned away from the American. He was sweating despite the room's chill, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "It's funny how our positions have reversed, isn't it, Owen?"

"Why did you want to see me, Otto?"

Kohl automatically glanced about— Fritz's German glance, instinctive after more than a decade in the Third Reich— and leaned forward himself. His own voice fell to a whisper. "I can help you."

Hart sat back. "That's rich. How can you help me?"

"I have information you want."

"Always the salesman," Hart said, making no effort to hide his contempt. "So, what are your wares?"

"I can help you get Greta out."

Hart went rigid. "What?"

"Get her out. Of the Reich. Germany is losing the war, Owen. Everyone can see that. The noose is tightening. But you—we— could get her out. You and me. Before it's too late."

Hart felt unsteady. "Why?" he managed. "Why would we do that?"

"Because, even though she believes you're dead, she's never stopped loving you. She would escape with you. I'm sure of it. My idea… well, my plan is that you and I will contact her, and then you'll fly us both to safety. That's why I asked for you."

"You can find her?"

"Oh, yes."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Believe it. I know the exact address."

"No. The part about her still loving me. Why would she confide such feelings to you?"

"Because Greta Heinz is my daughter," Kohl said.

Hart jerked, as if struck.

"And," he continued, "Jürgen Drexler is my son-in-law."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Like a wilderness lit by lightning, Germany was a dark, flickering void at night. The necessary wartime blackout robbed it of the illumination of civilization, turning its nocturnal hours as opaque as those of the Middle Ages. From the air where Hart and Kohl flew in a light plane, only far horizons blinked. Artillery and antiaircraft fire, distant flames, the searchlights of probing air defenses— these were the signs that the Third Reich remained inhabited. Somewhere in the abyss below Greta still lived.

Hart had simply left. It was a necessity. The American air force would never permit him to go behind enemy lines to look for a woman. So he'd taken a plane and risked the loss of one empty life in a gamble for another.

Kohl had thought their scheme through. The pair commandeered a jeep, telling Hart's superiors that the wily German was going to lead Owen to a cache of stolen art near Paris in return for the American's plea for leniency. But instead of hunting for Impressionist loot, Hart accompanied Kohl to a forger who supplied them with Reich papers in return for all the dollars he could extort from the American's savings. This was followed by the borrowing of a light plane to allegedly fly the informant Otto Kohl, reputed vessel of critical strategic information, to Third Army headquarters.

"It will work if we move quickly enough," Kohl promised. And it had. Once the fugitives were aloft they turned and streaked low in the night for Berlin, skimming treetops to stay off radar screens. "They'll presume you're shot down and missing," Kohl explained. "If it soothes your conscience, you can play the spy. Your superiors would gladly give up a light plane to get a ground observation of conditions in Berlin."

"How do we get back?"

Kohl exuded confidence. "I have a farm on the outskirts of the capital. We hide the airplane there, contact Greta, then fly to Switzerland. I have access to money— enough to grease the proper palms. The Swiss will help us invent new lives, and we'll go on to wherever we want to go."

"And Greta will come with us?"

"That's up to you, of course."

Hart had gambled everything she would. And yet, he couldn't help wondering about her marriage to Drexler. Should he believe Otto's assurances that it was a loveless union, that Greta carried a torch for her so-far-as-she-knew dead American pilot? Was the relationship that of two people leading parallel but separate lives? He questioned the German more closely. "I never quite understood the hold Jürgen seemed to have on her," he said. "What is the basis of it?"

Kohl stared somberly out the cockpit window, seeming to pluck memories from the inky darkness. "Even before Jürgen," he began, "there was a man. A husband, in fact. An older German biologist at the University of Hamburg. In retrospect, the attraction wasn't entirely surprising: Greta's mother had died in childbirth, and I… well, I was abroad a lot. The girl was raised in convent and boarding schools."

Kohl shook his head wearily. "Her childhood was lonely, Owen. That was my fault, of course."

He went on to explain that the awkward union abruptly ended when Professor Heinz died in an automobile accident. For Greta, it was a crushing blow, and not just because of the loss of his security. She'd curtailed her own studies for the marriage. Its end meant her career as an unproven female biologist in a male-dominated profession suddenly held meager promise. Both her mentor and her academic momentum were gone.

Kohl had come back to Germany from Washington, D.C., to help his daughter decide her future and improve his own connections to the Reich government. He quickly decided she must find a new husband: some bright young official likely to emerge at the top of the new regime, a man who would prove as useful to him as to her.

And so he'd cultivated Drexler, the poster-boy Nazi, who in turn saw Kohl as a quick-witted advisor with friends and connections.

Kohl took Greta to a party celebrating the Führer's birthday and persuaded Drexler to be there too. The young Nazi was clearly smitten; a moth to a flame. Yet she was hesitant. Yes, he was handsome, bright, and ambitious. Yes, his vision of Germany's future was heady, even thrilling. And he campaigned for her doggedly: it was flattering. Women thought him gorgeous.

"He's just a bit cold, Papa," she confided. "I mean preoccupied. I suspect he's already married— to his career."

"All successful men have the mistress of their work! That man could be your future. Our future! He'll open doors for you."

She sighed. "I know. He's an… amazing person. But he doesn't always seem to see what I see, care for what I care for. Sometimes we run out of things to talk about. He's actually a bit awkward."

"With women, perhaps. Not with the people in power."

Then Drexler let slip the coming Antarctic expedition, boasting that he'd been picked to represent its political side. Göring himself was the power behind it! Those who accompanied it would become heroes. And the science team for the voyage was being assembled.

For Kohl, the expedition was an answer to a prayer. It just so happened that he had a brilliant young biologist to suggest for the ship's company. And while her presence as a woman was unusual for a Reich sea voyage, it would give Drexler the time to really get to know her.

Greta was uncertain. What if she and Jürgen fell out? But she was also thrilled. Antarctica! She'd be the first German woman to visit the place. It was heady, momentous. The biologist felt her abilities merited a second chance to establish her professional reputation. She asked the young Nazi if he was recruiting her as a capable scientist or as a woman.

"I'm recruiting the best person I can find," Drexler replied.

The memory of the day Greta received confirmation she'd been accepted for the expedition came back to Kohl now as a gust of wind buffeted the plane. "You should have been there, Owen," the German said. "She was delirious. Never had I seen her so radiant." Suddenly, his face darkened. "The exact opposite of the girl who was returned to me three months later when the Schwabenland tied up at the Hamburg docks."

Hart continued staring straight ahead, though his fingers were beginning to feel moist and clammy on the controls. "She told you about… about us?"

Kohl nodded. "Through her tears. After her narration of the events leading… well, to your death, she went back to being numb. I wasn't sure quite how to deal with her, what to say. But Jürgen was— what's your American term? Johnny-on-the-spot. He made it his mission to distract Greta from her grief. I tell you, the man was a force of nature. He would not be denied. And in time, Greta relented. She had no momentum of her own, no direction. And Jürgen, he is direction." Kohl smiled bitterly. "Myself, I thought: this is the best thing for her."

"But it wasn't?" said Hart. His eyes lowered to check the compass heading. Still on course.

"Jürgen is very complex. Admirable in so many ways, but also, I've come to realize, undeveloped. He is like a child who battles for a toy, only to tire of it once it ceases to be an object of contention. I have no doubt that, were someone to try to wrest away his plunder, he would show his claws, but it is not because he derives much enjoyment from it. My daughter's loneliness is profound."

The dull ache that had resided in Hart's chest since returning from Antarctica now filled him completely, but he said nothing. Germany— dark, wounded— continued to unreel beneath them.

Their plan was hopeless in its sheer simple audacity, the pilot knew. Somehow get into Berlin. Somehow find Greta. Somehow persuade her to abandon her husband. Somehow avoid Drexler's claws. Somehow escape to Switzerland. Somehow make a new life.

Somehow. It was the clearest plan Hart had had in six years.

They flew on and the sky began to lighten. Fires glowed on the horizon and by Hart's dead reckoning they were about twenty miles from Berlin. Soon they'd cross the flak batteries. To be aloft at daylight would be suicide. "Where's that farm of yours?"

"Swing that way. We cross the Autobahn, and then several miles beyond…"

Hart was nervous. Their plane had American markings. "We have to get out of the sky soon or we're going to be jumped by a prowling fighter."

"If we don't get the plane hidden we'll be trapped in Germany. Be patient."

They flew in anxious silence for several more minutes. Then Kohl pointed. "All right. Werder's in that direction. And I recognize my buildings. Beautiful, from the air. You can put down in that pasture."

They bumped down in the dawn light and taxied up to the barn, climbing out stiff and weary. Somewhere a rooster crowed.

"It looks like the Germany I remember," Hart said, glancing about. "Tidy."

"Caretakers come. But not for a few days. Here, help me push this plane into the barn." They rolled it forward, the wings sliding over empty stalls. Another vehicle was already inside under a tarp and Hart peeked. A Mercedes.

"No petrol," Kohl explained. "And a vehicle invites inspection. We'll bicycle. It's several hours into the city."

Hart nodded. "I didn't know you were so athletic, Otto."

"I'm not. Merely cautious. We're in the heart of Nazi Germany."

There were only occasional signs of the war at Berlin's edge. A bomber's burned-out husk had skidded to the edge of a school yard. Silvery strings of chaff dropped by Allied planes to confuse radar were draped on autumn trees like Christmas tinsel. A line of water-filled bomb craters marched across a field to record an Allied miss. As they pedaled into the suburbs they found a checkerboard of normalcy and destruction: here a street retained an aura of prewar order, there a stick of bombs had fallen to splinter four houses and a park. At Berlin's core the ruin became more complete. They passed whole neighborhoods that had been reduced to ridges of shattered masonry, blocks and streets undulating like a series of sand dunes. Rising above this manmade talus were the ghostly ruins of gutted buildings that had not yet completely collapsed, empty window openings lighting apartments that no longer existed.

Kohl wobbled his bicycle around a litter of broken glass and stopped to pant.

"Are you all right, Otto?"

"Not my tailbone. I may never walk again."

The pause made Hart nervous. Passing Germans barely glanced at them but half the men he saw were in uniform. A word from Kohl and he was betrayed. What reassured him was the devastation. Kohl wouldn't wish to stay here, and Owen Hart was his only exit.

"Is she nearby?"

"She was." Grimacing, he hoisted himself back onto the seat. "Pray that your airplanes haven't gotten to her neighborhood." They pedaled on.

Jürgen and Greta had been lucky. The town houses on their tree-lined avenue stood ranked and redoubtable with prewar confidence. A milk wagon trundled reassuringly down the pavement. Normalcy. Kohl pointed. "That one."

It was four stories, as fashionable as a New York brownstone. Jürgen Drexler had done well, it seemed. Confronted by the man's intact home, Hart suddenly felt doubt. It was the kind of house he'd never had and perhaps never would have: strong, secure, stylish. The kind of home a woman would like.

"I can't visit her in his house."

"No, of course not," Kohl said. "That would be dangerous. They have servants and maybe even a security guard, who knows? Jürgen is a Standartenführer now, a colonel, in the civilian branch of the SS. He moves in the highest circles, which means his telephone is probably tapped. But I'll approach briefly. Any staff present should take only casual note even if I'm recognized: they may assume I escaped France and am on routine travels. I'll explain the situation and then leave to do some business, I have some money to assemble in Berlin before we go. Now, as for you. There's a statue of Frederick the Great opposite the Bebelplatz, not far from the Hotel Adlon where you once stayed. Do you remember it? About a mile east of here?"

Hart nodded uncertainly.

"Meet her there in an hour. Understood?"

"Yes, but what if she doesn't— "

Kohl held his hand up, looking back at the imposing town house. Hart noticed now that its windows were blank, covered with blackout coverings. It would be dim inside.

"She'll come."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

King Frederick was another casualty of war. His tricornered hat had been chipped by shrapnel and one of his eyes had become an empty socket. Some of the buildings surrounding the Bebelplatz remained intact but others had folded in on themselves, debris spilling from their pulverized interiors like an avalanche chute. Hart arrived early and, too anxious to sit, paced around the plaza, stepping around fragments of masonry and keeping an eye on Frederick's mounted figure. Passing Germans ignored him, hurrying by on missions of their own. No one had checked his forged papers— the robotic bureaucracy of the Third Reich was beginning to corrode from the prospect of defeat— but his anxiety at meeting Greta had grown. Almost six years! She'd been twenty-eight and unmarried then. He braced himself for a betrayal of memory.

And yet betrayal didn't come. As she approached through the square he recognized her instantly: the walk, the plume of glorious red hair, even the upright bearing of her head when so many faces seemed cast downward. He sucked in his breath. She was as lovely as he remembered and much more stylishly dressed; her erect carriage reflected the assurance of high station. She strode past the ruins in a long wool coat trimmed in fur and in fashionable boots, her heels clicking on the paving stones. A string of pearls was at her neck. Drexler, Hart admitted, was a good provider.

Yet when she slowed and then stopped several feet short of him, looking without expression, Hart noticed something more: a new gravity in her face. A tautness from emotions held in check. Her gaze was so objective— so analytical— he feared for a moment that whatever hold he'd once had on her was gone, erased by time.

She blinked in wonder. "So. It is really you." Her tone revealed nothing.

"Hello, Greta," he said, swallowing. "I told you I'd come back."

Her eyes roamed his face, taking it in. "I thought you dead. And yet here you stand, in the middle of Berlin." She judged him clinically. "You've hardly changed."

"You're prettier, I think."

She gave no reaction to the compliment, looking at him as if he was a phantom. Her detachment disturbed him.

He swallowed and reached into his coat pocket. "I had this made in London in 1939. I've been waiting a long time to give it to you." He put out his hand. Draped on his fingers was a gold chain with a locket. "Please, take it."

After a moment's hesitation she did so. Their fingers touched and she gave a little jerk as if she'd been shocked. Then she held the jewelry, looking at it as if in a trance.

"Open it."

The locket was gold and shaped like a penguin. She clicked it open. There was a word engraved inside: hope. And a dull pebble.

"The pebble is from the cave. I found it in my boot. It's a gift. Like the penguins give."

She looked at the pebble for a long time as if she'd never seen a stone before. He waited, watching her sway slightly in a rush of memory. Then she began to tremble, lifting eyes that were misting with tears. She'd allowed herself, finally, to believe. Her mouth opened. "Oh, Owen." Her voice caught. "It's really you…" And then the space between them seemed to dissolve of its own accord and he was holding her, clutching her through the rich wool of her coat, his face buried in her hair and inhaling her wonderful scent.

"I thought you were dead!" she exclaimed. "I thought I'd killed you, that I'd failed you…"

She wore perfume, he marveled. She dressed up, for me.

And then her cry was stifled as he kissed her, tasting the salt of her tears— kissed her heedless of who was watching, kissed her with the urgent longing of six missing years.

She kissed back with desperate need, aching, and then pushed him away. "Owen, my God. Do you know how many times I've dreamed of such a moment? But not here. Not now. Please."

He glanced around, grinning in triumph. An old woman with a string bag scowled but a younger one smiled in passing, wistfully.

He held Greta by the shoulders, unwilling to let go. "I tried to write," he explained, "tried to reach you, but nothing seemed to get through…"

The tears were running freely down her cheeks. "I thought you'd died!" she repeated. "All these years, not a word, not a whisper! And yet here you are, come back to life, come back to this earthly hell of Berlin." She was taking deep gulping breaths, her breasts rising against his chest, her eyes still wide with wonder. "Come back to me." And then she threw back her head and gave a shout of laughter, suddenly, shockingly, gaily. "And now, at last, for just this one instant I am so happy! My whole life, and all its pain, made worthwhile by this single moment!" She smiled, her face glistening.

Hart tenderly stroked her wet cheek. "Whoa, whoa," he said with a grin. "It's just a pebble. No wonder the male penguins find it so effective."

She shook her head. "Such a different world, such an age ago. Antarctica has seemed like a dream. And a nightmare. And yet here you are, resurrected. How? Why? My God, the questions…"

"Your organism worked, Greta. It worked on me, it even worked on Fritz, but then… We captured your father, and flew… It's a long story."

She nodded uncertainly, bewildered but excited. "It worked?"

"It cured Fritz. I know it did. Then he was killed in the cave. The entrance collapsed."

"My God." Her gaze turned serious, brooding. "We should have tested it more thoroughly. Have you heard that the Allies finally succeeded with penicillin? How many Germans could we have saved in this war?" She shook her head. "Always regret! So many regrets. Well." She looked at the locket she was still holding, deciding, and then looked at him shyly. "Will you put this on me?"

He glanced around with amusement. "Do you dare? Would it raise questions?"

She looked out at the ruined buildings, immensely sad for a moment. "Yes. Of course it would raise questions. But right now I want to feel its weight on my neck. I'll wear it inside my dress and take it off later."

He took the chain and locket and she turned, pulling her hair up to reveal the ivory of her neck. He fastened it. She fingered the penguin a moment, smiling shyly now, and then slipped it down the front of her dress. She shivered. "It makes my heart beat faster."

He smiled. "Greta, I've come to get you out. From Germany and the war."

She was sober. "That's impossible."

"No it isn't. I have a plane. Your father has money and papers."

"Owen, things have changed so much…"

"Otto told me about the marriage. He also said you still loved me. That's why I came, Greta."

Her head lowered. "It's a marriage in name more than practice," she admitted. "I thought I could change him, teach him happiness. He thought he could win me, give me purpose. But… too much had happened in Antarctica."

"So you don't love him?"

"I do… in a way." Her voice was very small. "He was there for me, Owen, when you weren't. Just not in the same way."

He touched her cheek. "I've never stopped loving you, Greta. Never for a moment. I thought I'd have to wait to search for you after the war but then Otto appeared like a miracle and I came in an instant. I've left my unit. I've thrown my old life away. And now I want you to come away with me. You know Germany is finished. The Nazis have made a mess of the world. Your father and I want to fly you to Switzerland. To a new life."

She shook her head, trembling. "Owen, it isn't that simple. There are vows. Duty. Country."

"Greta, if you stay here with Jürgen you'll be killed. Berlin is going to become a battlefield. We can have happiness if we have the courage to grasp it."

She closed her eyes. "I married Jürgen, Owen. Married him. If you'd come back with us, it might have been different, but you didn't. Did you know he even went ashore in the rough seas at the end of the storm to look for you? He said there was no sign— "

"My airplane was there, I was in the cave, there was a collapse…"

Greta shook her head. "I don't know about all that. It was a painful subject for both of us. I didn't want to remember." She glanced around. "My God, leave everything? My work, my home, my husband— "

"For happiness, Greta. You owe yourself that."

She looked torn. "All this is so sudden, so… bewildering. Papa appearing at my door, you back from the dead. I feel dazed." She shivered, collecting herself, then looked at him with fierce hope. "I want to start over, Owen. You must know that. I want to start over far from Germany and far from Antarctica."

"As far as we can get."

She nodded. "But I don't want to hurt Jürgen. I accepted his comfort. I must think about all this."

"Greta, you're all I've ever wanted. I couldn't bear to lose you again."

She sighed, torn. "When would we leave?"

"Now. We'll walk to your house for your things. Then we disappear before Jürgen even knows I'm alive." He put his hand out, fingered the chain of her locket.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I must think." She held him away. "Think for myself instead of for the men in my life: you and Jürgen and Papa." She took a deep breath. "I'll give you my answer tomorrow, Owen. Here, at noon. I'll bring what I need to escape if I've decided to come with you. But you have to wait until then. Hide in the ruins and speak to no one."

"Greta, please! Life doesn't give many chances. We have to go now, before it's too late!"

She seemed to waver, then clenched her fists in resolve. "Are you going to meet my father?"

"Later." It was a groan.

"Tell him noon tomorrow." She put her finger to his lips. "Give me time, Owen. Time to listen to my head and to my heart."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Greta wandered the city's battered streets alone for a while, trying to reassert control over her emotions. She didn't expect happiness anymore. Not after losing her first husband, and then Owen, and then in a different way Jürgen: a man who'd taken her back and then come to regard their soulless union as his own fitting self-punishment, refusing to give her up and taking some kind of perverse strength from the pain of their proximity. She'd traded happiness for the surface accomplishments of home and career, traded hope for resignation, and dully moved through a succession of days. She waited, she supposed, for a bomb to take her.

Now she'd been shocked back into life. Shocked back to longing, to desire, and, yes, to betrayal. The impact of seeing Owen again was enough for her to consider leaving her husband, her home, her country, and the dry possessions of an empty existence. She could almost taste the promised freedom.

Her finger traced the golden chain around her neck, the penguin locket warmed by the skin of her breast. Jürgen had given her gift after gift and become frustrated that his presents didn't help but rather hurt, seeming to add to her self-imposed burden of sin at having let Owen die. She'd hated herself for hating Jürgen's effort. Now everything was turned upside down, her husband again a victim of her romantic confusion. She dreaded going back to their home to face him, dreaded having to decide whether to betray him once again. But autumn dusk was falling on an increasingly dangerous city and her town house beckoned as the only sensible destination. At its steps, she unfastened the locket and slipped it into a pocket of her dress.

"Frau Drexler! It's late, we were worried. Are you all right?"

"Yes, Ingrid." Greta pulled off her coat and handed it to the maid, who slung it over her arm. "I had to walk and think and lost track of time. Is Jürgen home?"

"No, not yet." Of course not yet. As the war deepened Drexler's days had grown longer. He often missed dinner, pleading work. Greta suspected a mistress, or at least the periodic whore, and was secretly relieved at not feeling guilt over that aspect of their estrangement as well. While polite and companionable in public, they slept in separate bedrooms in the too-large, echoing town house, rattling about while tens of thousands remained homeless from the bombing. The house's size allowed them to avoid their marriage.

"I won't be requiring a formal dinner tonight, Ingrid. I'm feeling a bit under the weather, and will just take a bite in my room. Tell Herr Drexler I retired early."

"As you wish. Today's caller, he— "

"Disturbed me, Ingrid. A face from the past. Please don't mention the visitor to my husband."

"As you wish." She bit her lip.

Ingrid confided that instruction to Arnold, the cook, as she collected a light dinner. "I think the Führer would say a German wife doesn't keep secrets," she commented disapprovingly.

"I think the Führer would say the German servant does what she is told," he responded.

Greta distractedly paced her suite, struggling with her emotions. Why hadn't she just run away with Owen? Why come back here to torture herself? Because she did retain some feelings for Jürgen, she told herself. For his loyalty, and for the pain of his disappointment when he realized she'd never love him as he loved her.

She sat on her bed and stared numbly at her open wardrobes. What would she take if she left? Practical clothes. Some money, but not all of it: she couldn't do that to Jürgen. Not much more than a shoulder bag to keep from arousing suspicion. The resulting narrow choice was daunting and yet it was odd how little the clothes meant to her now that she contemplated giving them up. They seemed like an anchor she could finally cut loose from. The problem was deciding to take anything of this past. She lay back on the bed, thinking of Owen, wishing she'd kissed him longer, wishing he were beside her now, wishing they'd never met and she didn't have this monstrous choice…

She awoke with a start. She'd fallen asleep. It was dark, the house quiet. Groggily she sat up and turned on a light. After midnight. There was a tray of untouched food that Ingrid had left on the night stand. Her bag and clothes were strewn next to her on the bed. She got up, went to the door, and opened it quietly. Downstairs was dark, the house filled with shadow. Everyone must be asleep. She closed the door again, restless, her mind churning. Perhaps she should draw a bath to relax.

She shed her clothes on the cold tile and waited impatiently for the tub to fill. Idly, she stooped to retrieve the locket from her dress pocket. The penguin would go in her shoulder bag until she and Owen were safely away. She opened the piece again and looked at the pebble, smiling to herself in remembrance: her fear of the cave, the frightening and strange lake, their lovemaking on the rough woolen blankets. Impulsively she closed the locket and slipped it on, looking at herself in the bathroom mirror. It hung just above her breasts as if nesting between two hills, its glow fueled by her own warmth. She studied herself critically, turning to look at her back, the swell of her hips. Would Owen still think her attractive? He'd told her she was pretty. She'd liked that. No one had told her that in a long time.

She went to the tub, shut off the taps, and carefully stepped in. The water was hot, her feet tingling after the chill of the tile floor. She stood a moment in pleasure as steam rose to dew on her hair, the down of the soft delta between her thighs curling slightly. Then she lowered herself, gasping gratefully, and lay back, floating in the heat. She felt herself calm as the warmth crept inside her. She looked down. Her breasts floated like twin icebergs, the penguin swimming between them, and the image brought a smile. Meeting Owen already seemed like a dream except that here was tangible evidence, smooth and hard. For nearly six years he'd carried this jewelry! It was an amazing thought.

She soaped a sponge and squeezed. A glacier of suds slid down from her neck to melt into the Southern Ocean. Greta, the white continent! She let her knees break clear of the water. Atropos Island! Her lap was the volcanic caldera and the cave, well, she knew where that was… She felt herself there. It was as if her body was awakening from a long slumber. Faintly embarrassed, she pulled her fingers away.

Her mind had hibernated as well, she realized. Owen's reported death had destroyed her interest in Antarctica. She'd published no papers and written no reports from the voyage, which was veiled in official secrecy anyway. It was beginning to come back to her now: the whales, the krill, her microscope, the hideous petri dishes and their spawn…

She hugged herself. Think of Owen, she told herself. Think of his strong hands, his mouth on your throat.

The whales! The war had severely curtailed research of the natural world. Her university supervisors remained condescending and opportunities to collect new specimens had been shut off. It had become impossible even to keep up with developments in biology. And after the inevitable German defeat, what then? It would not be easy for the country's scientists. In America, however, science would explode. Could she reconstruct a career? The possibility intrigued her.

She was going to leave with Owen, she realized. The decision had been made. She was planning a future, something she hadn't done in a long time.

Then the lights went out.

Startled, she sat upright. It wasn't unusual to have the power fail during the raids. And yes, there it was, the mournful wail of an air raid siren prodding at the sleeping city in the night. Damn. She'd never been caught in the bath before, and it was disorienting. She stood, water streaming off her. Doors were slamming as Arnold and Ingrid and Jürgen hurried downstairs.

She was so tired of retreating to the cellar in the night. But then that was the point of the raids, wasn't it? To make Jerry tired.

She lifted one foot out of the tub, put her weight on it, and slipped, coming down with a crash. Water sloshed out with her, spilling across the floor. "Clumsy, Greta." She fumbled in the dark for towels. It felt comical to be mopping naked on her hands and knees in the dark. The siren droned on.

She stood finally, sore, and felt her way to the bathroom door. Her bedroom was just as dark. She groped toward the end table with her arms outstretched, scolding herself, planning to find the oil lamp and matches so she could have light to get dressed.

Then the door burst open.

"Greta!"

It was Jürgen. He was dressed in hastily pulled on trousers and a sleeveless undershirt, holding a lamp. Instinctively she used her hands to cover what she could of herself and they both froze a moment in surprise.

He hadn't seen her nude in years. He stared, his intended statement choked off.

"What are you doing here?" she managed. "You should be in the cellar."

"So should you." He closed the door behind him and stepped forward, emboldened by their words. "I was worried when you didn't come. I thought perhaps you hadn't awakened with the sirens." His voice was hoarse. His eyes roamed her.

She didn't like it. She turned and briskly lifted her bed's comforter, heedlessly spilling her bag and clothes on the floor. She pulled it around her, standing straighter. "This is my room. You never come to my room."

He set the lamp on a table, aroused now, irked at her covering. "Our room. We're married, remember?"

"My room. You know you keep to your own, that was your decision as much as mine. My goodness, you frightened me, storming in like that. The bombers caught me in the bath. I nearly broke a leg."

He was looking at her hungrily, sadly. She looked away. It made her uncomfortable. Guilty. "We'd better get to the cellar." She limped to a dresser and pulled out a nightgown. "Please don't watch." Surprisingly, he obeyed. She dropped the comforter and swiftly pulled the bedclothes over herself while his eyes cast impatiently about the room. They came to the heap by the bed. A look of doubt appeared. When she tried to move past him he caught her arm.

"Wait." He pointed to the clothes and bag. "What's that? Are you going somewhere?"

She looked at the heap as if surprised it was there. "I'm simply sorting clothes."

"In the middle of the night?"

"Jürgen, I fell asleep!" They could begin to hear the stuttering pop of antiaircraft guns. "Hurry, we must go." She pulled but his grip tightened.

"A bath too, in the middle of the night?"

"To help me get back to sleep! Stop holding me!"

He seized her then by both shoulders, yanking her close. "I'll hold you all I wish. I'm your husband, dammit!"

"Jürgen!" She twisted in his grasp. She couldn't stand this intimacy, not now, not this night. "If you don't let us get down to the cellar we're both going to be killed!"

He bent then to kiss her, roughly, angrily, and she turned her face away. "Stop it!" Pulling one arm free, she slapped him, the impact stinging her palm. "Get control of yourself!"

For a fraction of a second he looked shocked. Then he instinctively shoved. She went flying backward, slamming down on her bed with a whoof.

They glared at each other, panting. Somewhere they heard the dull concussion of falling bombs. Finally he nodded, sneering. "Fine. Find your own way to the cellar. Live alone, frigid. Like an ice queen." He picked up the lamp and moved toward the door, stopping to contemplate her. "You know, I've given you everything, Greta. In return for nothing."

"No," she said without thinking. "I lost everything."

"Bitch." He seized the handle to go out. Then he stopped, hesitated and swung about again. "What did you say?"

She was silent.

"What do you mean you lost everything? When? What are you referring to?"

"Jürgen, just go."

He was suspicious now. He raised the lamp, peering at her. "What's that?"

Her heart began to accelerate. "What's what?"

"That thing. On your neck." He walked into the room again, striding toward the bed.

Instinctively her hand went up to her throat. She'd forgotten she was still wearing the locket. "Just some jewelry." She grasped it in protection. "Leave it alone."

His hand fastened over hers, the powerful fingers prying hers open. Then he grabbed the locket and yanked, the chain snapping. He held it up. The golden penguin swung rhythmically in the dim light.

She stared at it dumbly.

"A penguin." He said this flatly, considering. "Shades of Antarctica. An odd choice, given our history. I don't recall giving you this."

She was flushed, her skin prickling. She hoped he couldn't notice in the lamplight. "I found it myself. In a shop two Christmases ago, when we went to Bavaria."

"Really?" He snapped it open. "Hope," he read. "Now there's an appropriate sentiment for this stage of the war." He turned the locket over and the small pebble fell into his palm. "And a piece of grit left inside! Sloppy, no?" He tossed it onto the carpet where it was lost in the dark, watching the frantic flicker of her eyes. "Yet I don't remember this piece. And I remember everything."

The thud of bombs was growing in volume. She closed her eyes. "Jürgen, please, let's go to the cellar where it's safe."

"This wouldn't have caught my attention except for the visitor you had today. Some mysterious older man. And then you put on your outdoor coat and disappear in a hurry, not returning until dark. Why was that, Greta?"

"I think you're mistaken."

"Not according to Ingrid." He smiled thinly. "Ingrid, who knows better than to keep secrets from me."

"Ingrid is a silly gossip who exaggerates."

He laughed. "I think it's called telling the truth, my dear."

"If she is talking behind my back I want her fired!"

"When you have no power, Greta, everyone betrays you. Everyone." He dangled the penguin in front of her face. "A mysterious visitor, a new bauble, the disorder of packing. My darling wife, what is going on?"

Another bomb, closer this time. The window rattled.

"How dare you pry into my private business!"

"How dare you keep things from me." He swung the penguin again from his fingers, studying her carefully. She watched as if hypnotized, thinking desperately. She dared not betray Owen.

"It… it's from my father," she finally stammered. "He came today. A quick visit as he passes through." Ingrid, she knew, might have passed on a description that Jürgen would recognize as fitting Kohl.

"Ah." He flipped the piece up and bunched it in his fist, then looked hard at her. "Otto in Berlin? How surprising. I thought he'd disappeared in France."

"He just showed up. I was startled. He gave the locket to me. He said he got it in… Paris. That it reminded him of me, of the expedition. He's worried about the bombing and invited me to… to accompany him on a trip. A business trip. I was going to ask you about it at breakfast."

Drexler's face was impassive. "I see."

"There's no secret, Jürgen…"

"Ingrid thought there was."

"You know how she jumps to conclusions— "

"Silence!" He probed. "And were you going to come back from this trip?"

She looked at him then a long time, summoning her courage. This was the point of no return, wasn't it? This was the time to finally tell the truth, to him and to herself. "No. I'm leaving you, Jürgen." She tried to keep her voice steady, but it caught. He still thinks Owen is dead, she reminded herself.

"So." His face betrayed the hollowness that Antarctica had left in their relationship. "You're leaving me. Here, now, at a time when Germany is in such crisis."

"I don't love you anymore." Her voice was a whisper but she realized suddenly that the statement was true. "I never learned to love you as a wife should and I want to get out from under the threat of the bombs. There's nothing in our marriage to hold me here. Papa knows that. He's known for a long time."

Drexler looked as if he was in physical pain. "When? When will you leave?"

"Tomorrow, I think."

"My God. How long have you been planning this?"

"I haven't planned it. It… just… happened. I'm sorry, Jürgen. You should leave Berlin too. But not with me."

"I can't abandon the Reich." His tone was still stunned. "I'll never abandon the Reich. You know that."

She nodded. "I know. And I won't sacrifice my life for it. Not anymore. I want my life back, Jürgen. I want me back. We each thought we could change the other and we failed."

His eyes roamed the room as if looking for a clue. "But I still love you." It was plaintive. There was another boom and the window rattled nervously. The bombs were getting closer.

"I'm sorry, Jürgen. Please, let's go to the cellar. If that window shatters we could be hurt."

He nodded but didn't move. "Is this why Otto sneaked back? To get you?"

She shrugged.

He was thinking aloud. "Yet why would a coward like Otto Kohl risk coming back to Berlin? To fetch a daughter he's ignored his whole life? Somehow I doubt it. To fetch some ill-gotten money? His war profiteering? That, I could understand."

"Jürgen, the bombs…" There was another explosion, nearer, and the window rattled again.

"And how did he get here?"

"Jürgen, I don't know. Please…"

"And he buys you jewelry…?" He looked at the penguin, puzzled. Then he slipped it in his pocket. "Well. Would you have informed me at all if we hadn't had this little confrontation? I doubt it. Left even a note? Probably not."

She cast her eyes downward.

"I might have followed, you know."

"Jürgen, please. This is hard. I don't want to hurt you. Just let me go."

"Ah, of course. Just say goodbye to six years of marriage. Poof! Well. It's charming, this little reunion of yours with Papa, but I feel left out— as I'm sure you can see. Otto Kohl magically materializes? Very odd. I think I want Otto to come for dinner tomorrow night. My curiosity has been aroused. We'll discuss the future then, yes?"

Greta swallowed and nodded. She'd be gone by then.

"And you'll let me go?"

Another bomb went off, and he stood. "I've never wanted a woman who doesn't want me." His voice was strained as he said it. "Hurry then! Let's go to the cellar."

The next morning there was a stranger in Greta's kitchen. He wore a black SS uniform and was reading the newspaper as if he owned the place. His chair was positioned near the rear door.

"Who's this?" Greta demanded.

The security policeman gave no answer. Ingrid, making an elaborate show of polishing the teapot, glanced at the man as if noticing him for the first time. "Your husband invited him here for your security," she said. She avoided Greta's eye.

"I need no special security."

"Herr Drexler said you do." Now the maid looked at her smugly, as if this had been just what she expected. Greta could have strangled her.

"Oh really? And where is Herr Drexler?"

"He's gone out."

"Then I'm going out too." She marched to the front foyer to fetch her coat. There was a second SS man there, his chair by the door. He watched her impassively as she put the coat on, saying nothing. When she moved toward the door he stood politely, braced.

"I'm sorry, Frau Drexler. Your husband has deemed it unsafe to go outside today. We've been asked to ensure your protection in this house."

"Nonsense. I have an appointment. Get out of the way."

"I'm sorry, Frau Drexler."

She hesitated. "Am I a prisoner in my own home?"

"I'm sorry, Frau Drexler. May I take your coat?"

She stood in the foyer, frightened and furious. The night had been dreadful and she was tired. Jürgen had said nothing more during the air raid but appeared to be brooding. Instead of going to his bed after the bombing he'd gone to his study and began working the telephone, searching for intact lines. She'd been furious with him for keeping her locket but feared that an argument over the jewelry might betray Owen. So she'd gone to her own room but couldn't sleep, worrying how much he'd guessed. Their own telephone had rung early in the morning and Jürgen answered immediately. Now he was gone.

If she missed the noon rendezvous, Papa and Owen might dare come here…

Did Jürgen really think her so hapless?

She surrendered her coat to the sentry. "Well. In that case." Greta retreated to the dining room and ate breakfast alone. What did Jürgen know? What would Jürgen do? She went to the study to check the cache of Reichsmarks and gold coin they'd stored for an emergency. It was gone, of course.

She had to act before he did.

"If I am to be a prisoner in my own house," she announced loudly in the kitchen, "then I'm going to take a nap. I barely slept last night." Ingrid and Arnold avoided her defiant gaze. They knew something was seriously wrong. "You two," she said, pointing at them, "had better dust and polish thoroughly for once. My father is coming tonight." Arnold shot Ingrid a sour look. "I'll check on your progress at noon."

She packed hurriedly, her mind set and her indecision gone. Underwear, a pair of trousers, a sweater. She wore a wool dress and the boots from yesterday, plus her strand of pearls. Maybe they could be hocked if the couple needed money. She found the pebble on her bedroom carpet, wrapped it in a fragment of ribbon, and slipped it inside her bra. "Hope," she whispered to herself, touching the bump.

She glanced about her room but felt no nostalgia. It had been a cell long before this morning. Shouldering her bag, she slipped out of the bedroom and locked the door behind her. Then she climbed to the fourth-floor servants' quarters and went to the attic hatchway, reaching up to pull. A ladder descended. "Goodbye, Jürgen," she whispered. She climbed and closed the hatchway behind her.

The attic was dark, illuminated only by the small portholes of round dormer windows on the slanting slate roof. Unlike the rest of the house they weren't covered with blackout coverings because there were no electric lights. The floorboards were thick with dust and littered by mouse droppings. She'd seen workmen use the attic to reach the roof for repairs.

She went to the small dormer windows. The front one appeared to be painted shut but the rear had a latch, she saw. She moved the lock open and pushed. The window didn't budge. She shoved harder. Did she need some kind of a tool? She felt foolish in her ignorance; what if she'd had to escape this way someday because of a fire? She considered, then put her shoulder bag to her shoulder and ran against the window. It popped open with a bang.

She waited a moment. No sound from below.

She looked out. The overcast was breaking up, the air cold. The slate roofing tiles looked steep and slick. She was on the rear side of the town house and beyond the lead gutter was a dizzying drop of three and a half stories to the small garden below. Pulling herself out a bit, she looked up. The peak of the roof was about a body's length away and led to the flatter roof of the Haupsteds' next door.

She could hear the faint sound of the telephone shrilling. What if it was for her?

There really was no alternative.

Using her arms she boosted herself out through the window and balanced awkwardly on the sill, facing the roof. Leaning against the slate without looking down, she stepped precariously up onto the top of the small dormer roof. Slowly she stretched upright, her hands sliding up the tiles of the main roof, the pebble between her breast and the slippery slate. Not quite far enough. She pushed up on the balls of her feet, feeling her toes begin to slip as she stretched frantically. Finally her fingers closed over the ridge. Yes! She pulled, scrabbling with her knees, and got her torso and then a leg over the ridge. Then she was straddling the roof, breathing hard.

She looked down at the street. The tree branches were a lacy net. A municipal worker was sawing one off, his obscuring hat like a saucer. He would black market the wood as fuel, she suspected.

She hiked herself along the roof peak until she reached the Haupsteds', where she could shakily walk on the flat crown of their mansard roof. There were four roofs to the corner, two ridged like her own. One by one she mastered them, moving as quickly as she could, remembering her climbing in the cave. At the end of her block was an iron ladder leading to a balcony below. She waited until the residential street was empty of traffic, climbed down, and then dropped from the balcony, hitting the street cobbles and slightly twisting an ankle. She glanced about. No one seemed to be peering through the curtains of the surrounding houses. At the corner she looked again. There was only the wood thief on her own street. She would have confronted him if she had time. Instead, she took a deep breath. Freedom! Limping slightly, she headed for the Frederick statue. Just once did she look back at her home.

She smiled at the thought of the SS sentries sitting arrogantly in her entry.

As she walked away the tree trimmer straightened to watch her disappearing form, then dropped his saw, climbed down, and ran lightly up to her front door, giving a quick knock. It swung open and an SS sentry looked out.

"You can tell Colonel Drexler she's on her way," he said. "Gunther will pick up the tail on the avenue."

The man nodded. "He's already arrested his father-in-law and found an airplane with American markings. Amazing what one learns about one's relatives, no? Kohl is beginning to talk."

The SS agent threw off his hat and began peeling the coat and baggy pants that concealed his uniform. "Foolish woman."

"She doesn't appreciate how lucky she is, married to a powerful Standartenführer."

"Yes. And if she's married to Colonel Drexler, she should know there's no escape from the Reich."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Greta arrived at the statue first and hunched on a bench in the Bebelplatz. She was wary of the people passing by but no one seemed to take notice of her. She glanced over the damaged buildings at a sky that seemed to promise escape. Smoke was hanging on the horizon from the previous night's raid but pale sunlight shone above it. An autumn sun, low, like Antarctica's. It was quiet in late morning. Birds had disappeared from Berlin's plazas as completely as cars and trolleys had left its streets. They'd flown away as she planned to do. For a moment she smiled, remembering the world as it had been. Still, it was difficult to relax. A policeman strutted aimlessly near some chipped steps. "Hurry, hurry," she whispered.

And then Owen came as promised, striding across the plaza with an open, swinging gate that advertised him as an American to anyone with reason to suspect. The walk was reckless; she would have to teach him circumspection. Yet it made her chest ache with fondness to see that easy freedom. It was the manner of the place they were going to, she hoped. He looked grimy and unshaven but triumphant at seeing her again, knowing that her bag announced her decision. So she jumped up and hurried to him, her cheeks flush from the cold. They kissed quickly, Greta instinctively glancing around.

Hart laughed at her. "The German glance, Fritz called that."

"If you lived here, Owen, you too would learn to look over your shoulder. It's a good habit to get into." She hesitated, embarrassed. "Besides, there's danger. I told Jürgen I was leaving with my father. He sent soldiers to keep me at home and I had to escape across the rooftops."

"Jesus Christ. Were you followed?"

"I don't think so. But one can never be sure."

Hart looked worriedly around the plaza. "You're right. I'm learning the German glance." Then a thought grabbed him. "Where's Otto? He met me last night and promised to be here. Do you think Jürgen has had him picked up?"

"Anything is possible," she said, frowning. "What if he doesn't appear?"

"Then we'll have to fly without him."

Her eyes scanned the people passing to and fro, looking for some glimpse of Kohl. "I wouldn't like to leave my father in this city. Not with the enemy approaching. Not with my husband."

"Does Jürgen know about Otto's farm?"

"I don't know. We've never visited. I think we should go to the plane."

Hart considered. "I trust your instincts…"

The thought was cut short by a rising, mournful wail. The people around them stopped in mid-step and squinted at the sky, then broke into a hurried trot. Another air raid.

"Damn," Hart said. "Bombing weather."

They could see nothing yet. The American bombers flew so high.

"We'd better go to a shelter, Owen. It doesn't make sense to risk the raid. Maybe my father will find us down in the U-Bahn."

Hart shook his head with amazement. "Now I'll be able to say I was bombed by both sides."

A Friedrichstrasse subway station was nearby. They joined a stream of people clattering down the steps and complaining in a babel of languages swept up from across the Nazi empire. The city was full of slave laborers, mistresses, collaborators, and opportunists: Slavs in padded jackets, blond Danes, smartly dressed French women, dark and thin Italians who looked cold and miserable in their doomed embrace with Germany. Despite the variety everyone looked gray and tired. The station was gloomily lit and crowded, smelling of sweat and fear. The sirens went on and on.

Hart pulled Greta into a corner of the waiting platform and they sat on the concrete, hugging each other. "How long do these last?"

She shrugged. "An hour. Sometimes more. You get past caring. Time loses its meaning."

"I wish your father would come."

He held her in silence for a while, stroking her hair. Her eyes shut and she leaned into him. They began to hear the distant bang of antiaircraft guns and then the heavy tread of bombs. The lights in the tunnel began blinking. A few people moaned and a baby began to cry. Its mother's anxious lullaby echoed in the enclosure. The baby cried harder.

The bombs came closer, a giant walking, and the shelter quaked. Dust filtered down from the ceiling. A light popped, casting the enclosure into half gloom.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. They were shining. "In nearly six years I've never been so happy," she whispered. A bomb hit close and a few women screamed. Greta reached up to touch his face and then kissed him again, long and deep this time. It was a kiss with hunger in it. He kissed her back with urgency and wished irritably that they were already alone.

Then she curled into him, nesting. "I've been lonely, Owen. Empty. Somehow my husband never became my friend."

He hugged her closer. "Was he cruel?"

She sighed. "No. He struck me once at the beginning, when he was frustrated, and then stopped in embarrassment. Later he treated me like a piece of china. We could never achieve the right tone with each other and that was partly my fault, I think: in my sorrow after Antarctica I let him be the solution to my future without caring what kind of future it was. He knew he'd won me, or captured as much of me as he ever could. And decided, apparently, that that was enough."

"For God's sake, why did he marry you?"

"I don't know." She closed her eyes. "He desired me. He hoped I could give him what he needed, even though neither of us ever understood what that was. And he simply can't stand to lose. There's something wrong with him, some fundamental insecurity. Once I agreed to marry him he seemed strangely satiated: as if marriage for him was not the beginning but the end. The relationship itself was inconsequential."

"Jesus."

They were silent for a while. "Did you ask for a divorce?"

"I asked if he wanted one. He told me fate had brought us together and that the future would reveal our purpose for Germany. It's insane! Always for Germany!"

"So what did you do all day?"

"I continued marine research but it was increasingly difficult. Biology was engulfed by the war and my colleagues made me uncomfortable: the Reich wants its women at home. So I made a domestic effort as well: socialized with the other empty wives, read, thought of you. I waited for life to play itself out."

Hart looked pained. "I'm sorry I didn't get back. The storm came, we sought shelter in the cave, and then part of it collapsed. Something triggered an earthquake. Fritz died, and by the time I got out the island was empty. The Schwabenland was gone and we couldn't find it. Even the Bergen was gone."

"Jürgen blew it up."

"What? Why?"

"To pretend Germans got to the island first. To rewrite history." She thought for a moment. "We could hear the roar of the explosion even outside the crater. Could it have been powerful enough to have caused your cave-in?"

He looked surprised. "I'd never guessed that. Maybe that explains it." He shook his head. "Fritz told me to come back to you, you know. He told me not to give up."

She swallowed. "It's so strange how our lives have intersected. Sometimes I wonder why God brought the three of us together. So much pain, so much lost time… And I'm not surprised you didn't find the Schwabenland. Did you know that we went east before we went north?"

"Still exploring, despite that hull patch?"

"Because of it. Captain Heiden said he wanted a following sea while he improved his repair. After a day we turned north. The leak was so well under control by then that we didn't stop until we got back to Germany."

"Do you think Jürgen…?"

"Went that way to avoid you? I don't know. Subconsciously, perhaps. By that time I think we were all acting more than thinking, and reacting more than acting."

"God, what a mess." He was quiet for a while, remembering events in his mind. "Will you miss him?"

She leaned back against the tile wall of the station platform. "I'll think about him. I can't help that. And while it will be a relief to escape his fervor, I can't help but respect his commitment. So few people have that."

"Look at the horror outside. He's committed to the wrong things."

She closed her eyes. "I know that. But he was also committed to me."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry for what none of us could avoid."

He kissed her then, aching to be alone with her, imagining her enveloping him. The bombs marched this way and that, rattling their shelter.

Then he became dimly aware that there was a commotion in the crowd, that people were complaining. He straightened to glance around. A group of men were trying to walk across the densely packed platform, stepping or stumbling on huddled bodies to cries of pain and anger. "Sit down, sit down!" some of the shelter dwellers yelled.

One of the trench-coated figures flashed some identification and the complainers grew quiet. The intruders' eyes were sweeping the crowd like radar. Then one pointed at the couple. The finger was accusatory.

"Police," Hart said quietly, standing up. "Gestapo, maybe." He glanced around the station. "The bombing could actually give us cover to get away if we can reach the surface. Do you want to risk it?"

"Of course. I'm not going to be trapped down here."

He grabbed her hand and they started for the southern U-Bahn entrance, away from the one used by the approaching police. It was like wading in deep water. Someone grabbed Greta's leg by the ankle and she turned and stomped on the man's hand, setting off a howl of pain. Then they lurched ahead again.

Hart looked back over his shoulder. "I think we can beat them."

They were nearing the exit when there was a clatter on the tile stairway and a flurry of black boots came into view, descending the south entrance like pumping pistons. An SS detachment was cutting them off. There was a civilian in their midst.

"Damn," Hart said. "It's your father."

Kohl looked pale. As the soldiers reached the platform he was pushed toward the couple, his face bruised and his suit jacket torn. An SS man pointed and Otto nodded miserably. "I'm sorry, Greta."

Hart swung around. The police were still coming from the other direction, the crowd parting from the authorities like a biblical sea. Greta pulled at Owen. "The tunnel! The trains are dead with the electricity cut. If we can reach the tracks we can run to the next station."

The Germans were fanning out to block them. Pistols were being drawn and someone began screaming. The squeeze of the crowd was like being mired in quicksand.

Then Otto whirled, turning in a circle like a dervish with one hand thrown out. Paper spouted from his fingertips and the crowd erupted into frenzy.

It was money! Some of the Reichsmarks that Kohl had collected! "Run!" the German shouted. The SS leader savagely struck Greta's father across the face and he went down in the tumult. "Run!"

The couple bulldozed toward the edge of the platform. The air was filled with fluttering bills, confused oaths, and people springing to catch the notes. The police were shoved this way and that like boats in a storm, their leader howling in frustration.

The platform ended at a brink of darkness that hid even the tracks.

"Always with you it is some cave," Greta said wryly.

"Only because I enjoyed the last one."

"Halt!" There was a bang and something hot and angry buzzed near their heads, whining off tile on the far side of the tunnel. They crouched.

"Do you have a gun?"

"Yes." He glanced backward. "In France."

She gripped his hand and launched them into the blackness. When they sprawled on the cinders something squealed and Greta lurched up and kicked out. A tunnel rat scuttled away. A German mark fluttered down past them.

There was another shot and again a bullet bounced off the tunnel.

"Greta, come on!"

"Wait." She stooped, picked up a handful of rock cinders, cocked her arm, and threw. The aim was imperfect but the effect was like hitting a wasp's nest. Several people yelped and a fight broke out. The platform crowd became even more agitated with shoving people. The police were stuck in greed and anger as if gripped in tar.

"You throw like a girl," Hart judged. "Perfectly."

They began trotting past the stunned faces of Berliners peering down at them, uncertain what to make of the excitement. The rumble of bombs overhead added to the confusion; none of the shouts could be clearly heard above the background thunder. Then they were in the tunnel and it was black. She kicked out again.

"Are you all right?"

"Except for the damned rats. They've gotten fat and bold with the war. Don't stop." She pulled at his hand, her palm slick.

The air was dusty. In the lulls between explosions they heard hurrying boot steps and the confused shouts of their pursuers. Jutting his arm out blindly like a football player to avoid a collision with an unexpected wall, Hart broke into a trot, Greta following.

Suddenly there was a series of pistol shots and the pair fell flat for a moment. A riot of bullets pinged around them.

"Stop it, you fool!" someone yelled, the sound echoing. "You'll hit the police coming from the other end!"

"Are you hit?" Hart asked anxiously.

"No, but I'm scared."

"Me too."

They got up again and staggered on. The pilot looked for an emergency exit but could see nothing. Slowly he noticed light glowing from the next station ahead and saw blocking figures on the track, silhouetted against the illumination. "Damn." The pair of fugitives were still hidden by the dark but appeared to be trapped. Hart let go of Greta's hand for a moment to grope in the gloom. "We've got to find another way out," he said desperately, feeling along the ribs of the wall. "A door, a ladder."

As if in response there was a roar and the tunnel air cuffed them, knocking them down. Hart managed to roll on top of Greta as a blast of heat pulsed by, followed by a spray of rocks and dirt. Smoke choked the air and yet the blackness had given way to a brighter light. The pilot blinked. An American bomb had hit a weak point and punched into the tunnel where it joined the next station, replacing the waiting police with an avalanche slope of new rubble. The escarpment led upward toward a smoky sky.

"Come on!" Greta grunted, shoving Owen off herself and getting to her knees. "We can get out that way!" They both were shrouded in dust, her fine coat torn, her strand of pearls spilled like tears along the tracks. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead.

"God, I love you," he breathed.

"I love you too."

They began clambering up the collapsed tunnel ceiling toward the light, her hand in his. The noise of the air raid was much louder with the ceiling gone, an arrhythmic pounding that seemed to reverberate in their bones. As they emerged he saw the sky far above was freckled with black puffs of flak. There was an unnerving rattle as spent bits of metal from antiaircraft fire rained down on the city like hail.

They clambered out, the crater separating them from the shelter they'd nearly been trapped in. They just needed to run the other way. An apartment building adjacent to the gaping bomb crater had caught fire, its smoke serving as a screen.

"My ankle," Greta gasped. She was limping. Hart draped one arm across her shoulder and they began staggering, passing by two bodies sprawled on the cobblestones. He soon decided she was too slow and scooped her up in his arms to begin a stumbling run. He could see little and was terrified that all he was going to accomplish by coming to Berlin was getting Greta killed. Was the frequency of explosions lessening? He emerged from the smoke…

And slowed, then came to a stop. "Hell." Striding from the entrance of the next station was Jürgen Drexler, holding a pistol. Greta saw him and then clutched Owen's neck and buried her face in his chest.

Hart turned to go back the other way but SS men were emerging from the crater, smoke blowing through their blond hair. They had guns too.

It was over.

Drexler stopped a dozen feet away and lowered his automatic a moment, staring at Hart in amazement. "You're alive …" He blinked twice, as if not believing his senses. "But how?" A moment passed, then: "Ah, now I'm beginning to understand at least part of this."

Hart gently put Greta down. He didn't want her to get hurt.

"Jürgen, please," she entreated, still leaning on Owen. "Just let us go."

"You lied to me, Greta. You lied about the locket. You lied about running away."

"You told me Owen was dead," she countered. "Said his plane was missing."

"I truly thought he didn't make it, and was quietly glad. But it appears the joke is on me. How long have you known he was alive?"

"A day."

"And that quickly you decide to leave me?"

She looked at him unhappily. "I never had you, Jürgen. That's been the problem. You never let anyone have you. You never let anyone get inside… your spore coat."

He started at her choice of words and examined Hart more curiously then. "You knew what I was like," he objected, obviously thinking about more than that. Clearly, the wheels were turning. He looked Hart up and down. "How did you survive the disease?"

"The antibiotic worked," Owen said, shrugging. "Greta was right. You should have had more faith, Jürgen. You might have saved all of us a lot of pain."

Jürgen nodded thoughtfully. That calculation again. "Perhaps I can learn from my mistakes." He looked at Greta. "That slime was effective then?"

"Evidently," Greta said, impatient with the discussion. What did any of that matter now?

"And this organism. Could it have been reproduced? Manufactured?"

Greta seemed puzzled by his intensity. "We'll never know."

Hart glanced about. The bombing had stopped and the sirens were sounding an all-clear. Emergency workers were spraying water into the burning apartment building and Berliners were emerging from the underground stations. "Look at this mess, Jürgen," he said. "Berlin is a charnel house. Why don't you just put that pistol down and come with us? I'll fly you out too. It's time for everyone to start over."

Drexler looked at him with amazement. "Fly away with the adulterers?"

"We're not adulterers!" Greta protested. "We just— "

"Shut up!" Drexler roared. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

Greta looked like she had been slapped.

"Do you think I'm an idiot?" he hissed, struggling to control the volume of his voice so his men could not hear. "Do you think I don't know your dreams have been filled with this ghost come back to life? And now I'm to go with you? Abandon my country and my career, shake hands and let this man steal my wife?" He shook his head. "Listen to me, Greta. You've betrayed me. Betrayed me. If not physically then mentally: many, many times. As a result, the days of my being the proper husband are over. Over! Understand? From this moment we have a new relationship, a relationship defined by the needs of the state. Both of you are in my power now. The Reich's power. Your only chance— your only chance— is to obey every command I give you."

There was a momentary silence while Hart shot Greta a look. It said: stay calm.

Drexler drew a few steps closer to the couple. "So… now that we understand each other, I have a question for you, Hart."

"Only one?"

"If you were well," the SS colonel said, scowling, "why didn't you fly back to the Schwabenland ? Why didn't you come off the island?"

"I was trapped in the damn cave. By a cave-in probably caused by your erasure of the Bergen. By the time I got out, you'd left. I flew, and stumbled on the Norwegians."

Drexler looked at him with genuine surprise. "You were in the cave when that avalanche occurred?"

"And so was Fritz. He died. And if you triggered the collapse, then you killed him."

"That's absurd. I had no idea anyone was in the cave to begin with. You can't blame that on me. And what the devil were you doing there?"

"Getting out of the storm."

"My God." Drexler shook his head. "The ironies of history. And now the cave is sealed, cutting off the source of the wonder drug. Pity." Suddenly his eyes narrowed. "But there's a problem with your story, Hart. You're here, after the avalanche. How did you get out of the cave?"

The pilot started to answer and then stopped. Now it was his turn to calculate. "Indeed. How did I get out, Jürgen?"

Drexler studied the pair speculatively. More police were arriving. With them was a bleeding and wincing Otto Kohl. His complexion was gray.

"Ah, the man who betrayed his daughter," Drexler greeted. His gaze swung to the agents. "We're discussing a matter of state security," he addressed them. "Leave him here a moment. I'll be with you shortly." Reluctantly, the men backed away.

Kohl looked at the ground. "I'm sorry, Greta. They made me tell them where you'd be." His voice was subdued. "They went to the farm and found the plane."

"It's all right, Papa." A tear ran down her cheek. "Jürgen learned that you were in Berlin from me. You did your best in the shelter."

"Throwing away money." A wry grin. "That was hard, for me."

"How touching," Drexler interrupted. "Otto, we were just discussing the fate of your family. The question, it seems, is whether I should put all of you up against that wall, hand you over to the Gestapo, or find a use for you."

"You'll do what you wish. We all know that."

"Exactly. That's why you've always been useful, Otto. You're a man who grasps reality."

"And the reality is that the war is lost. Everyone knows that. So take me if you must but let those two go. Let someone salvage something."

"That's where you're wrong, Otto. Victory can still be ours, I'm beginning to think. If you help."

He looked suspicious. "What do you mean?"

"You remain, I believe, a close personal associate of Reichsmarschall Göring, isn't that correct?" The title reflected Göring's military promotion.

"Our formal relationship has been in abeyance…"

"And your informal one?"

Kohl bit his lip.

"Don't think I'm unaware my father-in-law was a key facilitator in Göring's shopping expeditions in Occupied France. Two patriots, united by greed. And because of that, Otto, you may still be of some use to me. Because I need your help to see the Reichsmarschall again. Now. An emergency. He'll listen to you?"

"Possibly."

"You can get me to him?"

"I don't know. You remember he was less than satisfied with our expedition. But that was a long time ago. Why should he see you now?"

"Because the expedition he was disappointed in may turn out to have held promise after all. Promise at a critical juncture of the war."

Kohl looked skeptical. "And what do I get for this help?"

"Your life."

He barked a bitter laugh. "My life? Here? To do what, learn Russian?"

Drexler gave a thin smile. "And an exit. You can leave as you wished."

"With my savings, of course."

"No, that part is gone. Your property is now the property of the state."

"What! That money is mine! I'm an honest German businessman— "

"Nonsense!"

"That's my life's work, Jürgen. My life's work! I'm not going to surrender that now. I'd rather be shot."

"You may not have the luxury of being shot!"

"You may not have the luxury of getting to Hermann Göring."

They stared at each other, Drexler heated, Kohl implacable. Finally Jürgen grimaced. "All right. You can have back what we seized. If everyone cooperates. Including your daughter."

"Cooperates with what?"

"That's what we're going to talk to Göring about." He raised his voice to speak to the nearby soldiers. "Johann! A holding cell for each of these!" He pointed to Owen and Greta. "And Abel!" The man came over quietly and Drexler bent to whisper to him. "Get me in touch with Maximilian Schmidt."

Hart looked at him curiously. "What are you up to now, Jürgen?"

"Why, Owen! Didn't I tell you once that from crisis comes opportunity?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Karinhall seemed to have crawled under a blanket, hiding from the sky. Its gingerbread rooftops were tented by camouflage netting, the disguise supported by stripped firs and a spiderweb of cables like the rigging of a circus tent. Hermann Göring's aerial armada had been dissipated in a thousand far-flung battles and now the onetime lord of the air had to pretend his castle had sunk into the ground, lest Allied warplanes find it. The lawns around the great house had been torn up by the treads of military vehicles and its trees shaded a protective camp. Antiaircraft guns nested in sandbag emplacements, barrels jutting upward. With this humiliation had come the evaporation of much of the Reichsmarschall's influence in Nazi Germany. Hitler's designated successor was only rarely summoned to councils of war.

As Germany's fortunes worsened, Göring's mind had escaped to a habit of mindless acquisition as distracting as drugs. Accordingly, it wasn't that difficult for one of his mercantile agents, Otto Kohl, to get through to the Reichsmarschall once again. Otto, back from oblivion! The reminder of heady plundering in France! And so the German facilitator once more came to the estate at dusk, Karinhall's lights hidden now behind blackout paper. Drexler and Schmidt shared the rear of the staff car attired in full-dress SS uniforms. Kohl was in a business suit retrieved from his farm outside Berlin, his forehead still bandaged from the scuffle in the air raid shelter. The promise of his eventual escape from Germany was shadowed by fear that Drexler would somehow betray him once they saw Göring. He was trying desperately to guess Jürgen's game, displaying a bluff heartiness he didn't feel.

"So here we are again!" Kohl exclaimed as the staff car grated to a stop in the gravel outside the entrance, the door flanked this time by sandbagged sentry posts with machine guns. "It brings back memories of a happier time."

Drexler looked out at the huge dim house. "It brings back memories of how far we've fallen, Otto," he replied. He was in no mood to reassure his father-in-law. "We're in desperate times. So you're going to have to charm desperately: for your daughter's sake."

"If it was up to me she'd be out of Germany and safe by now."

"If it was up to you I'd be cuckolded by an American flyboy living on the loot you plan to pirate out of Germany!"

Kohl sulked. "A fine mood you're in on this critical evening."

"The eve of Götterdämmerung," interjected Schmidt to break off the squabbling. "The Twilight of the Gods. Time for the unsheathing of the sword."

Kohl looked skeptically at this somber companion. "I'd no idea you were a man of literary allusion, Max."

"I'm not a man of literature, Otto." The doctor extinguished his cigarette before stepping out of the car. "I'm a man of will."

Guard dogs produced a volley of ferocious barking as the men stepped from the vehicle, prompting the trio to hesitate at the bottom of the steps. Then a harsh command silenced the animals and a Luftwaffe captain trotted down the granite to greet them. They were escorted into Karinhall's shadowy foyer where sentries briskly checked for weapons. There was no apology. The bomb attempt on Hitler's life the previous summer had tightened security procedures throughout Germany.

"This way, gentlemen," the Luftwaffe captain directed.

The large banquet table was covered by white sheets, suggesting it hadn't been used for some time. Oil paintings and tapestries had been taken down from the walls, leaving ghostly imprints. The pictures were stacked next to wooden crates for shipping to underground safety. All of Germany was burrowing.

The library was less changed, its books no more read now than they'd been six years before. A fire burned and they could see a figure in a high-backed chair, his back to them. "Your guests, Reichsmarschall."

Göring waved over the top of the chair. "Yes, bring them in." He sounded slightly impatient. "Come, come, gentlemen. No ceremony here."

They stood before him. Göring was in a silk dressing gown, one slippered leg up on an ottoman. "The damn gout." He'd aged, his face lined and pale, his eyes sunken, and he appeared to have lost some weight. His presence had shrunk as well; he no longer seemed to automatically dominate the room, let alone an empire. Still, the Reichsmarschall's gaze retained a cold gleam of calculation. He studied his guests with a half smile, taking in the uniforms and the folder under Drexler's arm. "Very military." He gestured to three chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of his own. "Please, please, be seated. Memories of '38, no?"

"I'm honored you remember, sir." Drexler bowed.

"Oh, I remember. How we had to put a lid on the entire affair."

Drexler hesitated. "And now may be the opportune time to unwrap it."

They sat.

"It's good to see you well and safe, Reichsmarschall," Kohl offered.

"Yes, and you too, Otto." He grinned impishly at his old friend. "And what have you brought me this time?"

"Just myself, I'm afraid. I narrowly escaped from France. Just me and my… friends, here. With their interesting proposition."

Göring grunted his acceptance. "Well, you did splendidly in France for as long as you could. This champagne," he said, pointing out the bottle to the two others, "was in a shipment Otto shopped for me. The man has extraordinary taste." An orderly stepped forward and began pouring. They sipped. "Do you agree?"

"Otto has always known how to live," Drexler noted. "Who to know. And how to please them."

"Indeed! And now instead of Impressionist paintings or vintages from Bordeaux, he brings me you two. And I do remember our little mission to the bottom of the world. What an opportunity you had!" He shook his head. "Ah, the promise of that time, now lost. It's tragic, no?"

Hesitantly, his visitors nodded.

"What depresses me about the march of events is that I am at heart a builder, not a destroyer. A builder! What dreams we had of what we would build in our new world! Now I have to hide under that vast damned blanket overhead and bear insults and complaints from oafish idiots like that bunker worm Bormann. Even the Führer mocks me! Well. It wasn't I who decided to take on the entire world at once." He sipped again.

"Do you still believe in victory, Reichsmarschall?" Drexler finally asked.

Göring regarded the SS officer with small, dark eyes. "Of course, Colonel Drexler. My belief in the Führer and his destiny is unshaken. The superweapons, our secret plans. It's only a matter of time. God will not desert us in the end, no?" It was a rote affirmation.

"Perhaps he's already sent us a miracle."

"Really?" Göring drained his glass.

"Yes. Which is why we're here, Reichsmarschall. Why we asked our friend Otto— my father-in-law— to expedite our visit."

"You're related!"

"Yes. I'm married to Otto's daughter, Greta, the woman who accompanied us to Antarctica."

"Ah. I remember her. Lovely girl. I always remember the women!" He barked a laugh, stopping when no one joined him. "Then I heard nothing more. But of course, you'd claimed her and hid her away! Well, here's to happy marriage!"

Drexler smiled thinly and lifted his glass. "Indeed."

Kohl studied the fire.

"And your miracle?"

Drexler leaned forward. "From an unlikely source we suspect we've found a potential key to victory. It's a long shot, I admit, far from assured. But desperate times deserve desperate remedies, no?"

Göring looked skeptical. "Not if they drain away valuable resources."

"One submarine," Drexler said. "One submarine and I— we— can win this war. Or at least force a favorable armistice. But we need your backing to do it, Reichsmarschall. And if we succeed you'll be the leader who saved Germany."

Göring laughed. "You're going to win the war with one boat? It's too bad you didn't join the navy in '39 and save Admiral Dönitz a lot of trouble!"

Drexler smiled. "We only need the U-boat for transport. To return to Antarctica and fetch something potentially powerful enough to reverse our fortunes."

"Ah. You're referring to your microbe again."

"Yes, Reichsmarschall. You remember our discovery. A weapon so powerful, so swift, so deadly, that it will force our enemies to sue for peace. A weapon easy to multiply and easy to deliver in these difficult times."

"But we knew of this weapon in 1939 and didn't return for it. As I recall, it was deemed far too hazardous to fool with. Plus, the war intervened."

"Correct. But circumstances may have changed in our favor." Drexler turned to Schmidt. "Doctor, can you review for the Reichsmarschall exactly what this microbe is capable of."

The Nazi doctor sat straighter at this cue. "First, it appears to be highly contagious, needing no third organism like a rat or a flea or mosquito for transmittal. It develops in the lungs and is spread by coughing, sneezing, even breathing. Second, in its dormant state it's extremely stable. It encases itself in a coating, or shell, that allows it to survive extremes of temperature, humidity— even a disturbance such as the detonation of a shell or bomb. This hardiness makes it easily deliverable. Third, it can kill with unprecedented swiftness. In as little as twelve hours from infection, individuals become incapacitated. Death of virtually one hundred percent of those exposed follows in a couple days. It's far more lethal than the more familiar bubonic or pneumonic plagues or anthrax. In all my years as a doctor I've never seen anything like it."

Göring pursed his lips in consideration and then slowly shook his head. "Which is why trying to harness it would be opening a Pandora's box. When you play with a witches' brew like plague, it can bounce back at you." He nodded significantly at Drexler. "As those mountaineer troops of yours learned too late."

Drexler put up his hand. "Conceded. But I discovered something else on that island, Reichsmarschall. An underground organism which some on the science team speculated might neutralize the microbe's effects."

"How is that significant?"

"Because when opening Pandora's box, one must possess immunity from its effects, as the Spaniards did from the European diseases that destroyed the Aztec and Inca empires."

"Obviously," Göring said impatiently. "So if you found a cure, why didn't you bring it back with you?"

"The expedition was in crisis. Men were dying, the ship in danger. The antibiotic's effectiveness on humans had not been fully demonstrated. After a futile effort to reach the SS squad during which our small supply of the antibiotic was depleted, the cave where the substance was found was blocked by a cave-in. For safety reasons we had to destroy the microbe as well; with the limited containment equipment we had, there was no way to ensure nonexposure. But now— "

"How has anything changed?" Göring said, tired of Drexler's obliqueness.

The SS colonel played his card. "Sir, just two days ago we made a remarkable capture that set our thinking on an entirely new course. Do you remember the American pilot, Owen Hart? He was here, at Karinhall."

"I remember the name, from the reports. Not the face."

"He was one of the mission's casualties— we thought. But it turns out he survived the microbe after all. Not forty-eight hours ago, he made a secret flight to Berlin to contact my wife. Once in custody, he admitted he'd survived the disease after ingesting the antibiotic. He's living proof a cure exists."

Göring frowned, idly twisting one of the rings on his left hand. "Contacted your wife?"

"Yes. You see it's Greta, my wife, who did much of the pioneering work on these discoveries in Antarctica. Hart, now an officer in American Intelligence, was apparently given a mission by his superiors to abduct Greta and force her to use this biology against us. Fortunately, her loyalty to the Reich allowed me to foil such a plot." He glanced sideways at Kohl. The German businessman swallowed and nodded in faint support.

"My point," Drexler went on, "is that we may be in a biological arms race. And the fortuitous arrest of Hart gives us the upper hand. If we could return to Atropos Island, we could collect enough disease spores to culture and grow the microbe. We could also collect the antibiotic organism and begin reproducing that as well. We then destroy the source of both, strike before the Americans, and force an end to the war."

"Your wife will help with this?"

"Of course. Her loyalty to the Reich and myself is beyond question." The other two sat as if made of stone.

Göring folded his hands and rested his chin on them. "Infection, plague— this isn't the kind of war I like to fight. How many millions do you intend to kill?"

"How many tens of millions have already died?" Schmidt responded. "The nation that can force a successful conclusion to this war before the last, greatest battles will have performed a humanitarian deed. We will have saved lives."

Göring tapped his fingers, considering. "This is fraught with difficulties."

"And it seems foolhardy to involve my daughter in this dangerous scheme," Kohl interjected worriedly.

"She's necessary," Drexler said with irritation. "The risk is acceptable to save Germany."

"You want to take your wife with you?" the Reichsmarschall asked. "She'll go?"

"If I explain the need."

"Well. Remarkable woman. Still, Otto is right. This is an extreme gamble."

"At this point it seems a gamble Germany must make."

"Yes." Göring thought, then pointed to a clock. "The key problem, of course, is time."

Schmidt nodded. "Time to get to the island, time to get these organisms, time to mass-produce them. With the Allies pressing, it will be difficult."

"But here, gentlemen, I have information that may make your task less hopeless than it seems." Göring paused, considering, then winked. He enjoyed demonstrating that he still occasionally played a part in the Reich's inner councils. "This is most secret, of course, but Germany is not as finished as the enemy believes. The Fatherland is going to strike back this winter, hitting the Americans and British where they least expect it. The Führer is confident this will bring victory. I'm less so but am confident our offensive will prolong the war. Enough perhaps to enable you to deliver us some kind of a miracle." He pondered. "This will require just a single submarine?"

"To win the war," Drexler promised. "When we return we'll need biological facilities to mass-produce both the disease and its antidote. A laboratory— perhaps located in a mine— should suffice. Germs are far cheaper than tanks or airplanes."

Göring laughed. "Our mines are getting crowded, so much has been moved there! Still, it would be nice to be in control of events again. Well." He seemed to have regained some of his old energy. He boosted himself to his feet, grunting a bit in pain. "Let's discuss the details of this further over dinner, Jürgen. I agree with Otto that the odds are stacked against us, but the idea of having an option of last resort intrigues me. We'll determine if this is truly feasible and you can tell me more about Antarctica."

"I'd be delighted, Reichsmarschall."

"Open it."

Drexler stood before the steel door in immaculate uniform, his jackboots shining and his pistol freshly oiled. With a clank the steel door was unlocked and hauled open by a thick, brutish SS guard, his arms roped with muscle and his head jutting forward. An animal set to guard animals. Drexler stepped through, the guard throwing on the light from an outside switch.

Greta jerked awake. She was on a bunk, huddled for warmth. The cell was otherwise bare except for a steel bucket. Drexler carried in a camp chair and sat. "Hello, Greta."

She sat up, blinking in the harsh light. She looked disheveled, exhausted, and very small. It was painful to see her in such surroundings. Humiliating. Yet it's necessary, he reminded himself. Necessary for her to understand how desperate their situation really was. Show no emotion, Drexler told himself. Feel no emotion. Every time you've surrendered to your heart, you've regretted it. Still, he found it difficult to begin.

It was Greta who finally spoke. "So, you've come to look? Does this please you? What you've done to keep me in Germany?"

Her sarcasm shattered his hesitation. It was he who was in control. "Do you think I enjoy seeing you like this? My wife jailed for trying to run away with an American Intelligence officer? The Gestapo is actually becoming suspicious you may have revealed key information to the enemy. I've spent all my political capital keeping this arrest quiet to protect both our reputations. Your impulsive selfishness has nearly destroyed me, Greta. Ruined me."

"All I wanted was to be let go."

"You know the Reich can't do that. The only debate your keepers have is how slowly you both should die. This is the reality of war, Greta: this cell is your situation without my protection, without my fine home, without my life and career and connections. Wake up! Because what can happen in a place like this is indescribable. All that stands between you and that is me."

She closed her eyes. "Where's Owen?"

"Waiting for your decision. Waiting for you to rescue him."

"What decision?"

"I ask you to look at your situation." He leaned toward her. "An American Intelligence officer in the heart of Berlin. A spy, by any nation's definition. A German woman consorting with him. Both of you could be shot, certainly. In fact, I've been working very hard to keep you from being shot."

"It would be a relief to have it over."

"I'm sorry to hear you say that. For Hart, though, it won't go so quickly. The Gestapo will have questions for an American spy. Inquiries that will take days to complete. By the end, he'll be begging for a bullet."

She looked him up and down, as if seeing him for the first time. "You came here to tell me this?"

"No, of course not. I am your husband, Greta. Our relationship has of course changed: I'm hurt, I'm angry. But despite your betrayal I still came here to help you. So you can help me."

She looked wary.

"I need your help, Greta." He nodded solemnly. "Germany needs your help. No, I don't want to see you dead. I might like to kill Hart but I can't afford to see him dead either. Because somehow he found his way out of that sealed cave, which means he can find a way back in. Accordingly, I want to offer you both a chance at redemption. A chance for us to work together again for a common good."

"What chance?" Her tone was skeptical.

"To return to Antarctica."

She had a sharp intake of breath. "No! That's where all this started!"

"To develop your cure, Greta. I didn't think it a real possibility until I saw Hart. And the need was not entirely apparent to me when we first visited Atropos Island. But the war has brought it home. What if we had a new antibiotic? It would make all the difference in our hospitals."

"Jürgen, there's a war on! We can't get back to Antarctica."

"But we can. On a submarine. The Reich is willing to make one available."

"But the time, it's so late in the war…"

"This war may go on longer than you think."

Her eyes became skeptical. "No. You're going for the microbe."

He shook his head, considering his words carefully. "I'm afraid Dr. Schmidt was one step ahead of both of us, Greta." He kept his gaze dead level with hers, trying to communicate the utmost sincerity. "I assumed all the cultures were destroyed, as you said, but it turns out Schmidt quietly created some of his own cultures, borrowing from your dishes."

"What?"

"He brought the disease back to Germany and it's been tested in the camps," Drexler lied. "The Reich is desperate, and may be forced to use it. All this came as a complete shock to me. Göring shares my fear but there is growing pressure coming from the Führer's headquarters: Bormann, maybe other advisors, I don't know. So the Reichsmarschall wants us to return to Antarctica to get an antidote as a safety valve. To get your antibiotic. To save lives, not take them." He watched her closely to see if she saw through him.

"You just want the drug?"

"Yes."

She looked confused, tired, hopeful. "If I helped you'd let Owen live?"

"I need Hart, to help get us back into the cave quickly. I can't risk the chance he'd lie in directing us on such a dangerous trip: I need him there to show us. And I need you to persuade him. I need you to help gather and culture the compound. I need you both. Just as you now need me. A partnership."

She shook her head in wonder. "The three of us returning again?"

"Greta, we're all in desperate straits. Do you think this is what I want, you in a prison cell? That's no victory. But Hart's appearance perversely means we can do something together to produce a good in this war. In partnership with my wife, even if she no longer loves me. We've all made mistakes, Greta, great and terrible and bitter ones. And I thought Hart's return was the worst mistake of all. Then I realized he's a sign of new opportunity, a chance to try again. It's late, very late. But not too late, perhaps."

"Jürgen…" It was a groan as she tried to sort out his motive.

He took a breath. "The war will end someday, in victory or defeat or stalemate: who knows? And then there'll be an accounting of what was done on all sides. I want that accounting to include a miracle new drug. A drug that we discovered. This is our chance to salvage something from catastrophe, Greta, regardless of what happens between you and me. Something that will be remembered in the postwar world. So come with me to Antarctica to do the expedition over, more completely this time. To correct the mistakes of the past. To succeed instead of fail."

"And afterward? You and me and Owen?"

"Your heart is your own. I've learned that. To be honest, I still hope to change your mind. But go where you will, with him if you must. My mission is for Germany. Do it and we'll all be saved."

She closed her eyes. "What do I have to do?"

"Convince him, Greta. Convince him he must cooperate."

"To save his life?"

"To save his. To save your father's. And to save yours."

She looked at her husband, her eyes sad, contemplating a return to the island. Finally she nodded. "I'll talk to him."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Greta inhaled the night air of the harbor. Northwestern Spain was cool in November but still warmer than Germany, its sky ablaze with stars. Smells both sweet and odorous wafted from the port of Vigo, the scent of sea and forest and fishing quay a heady reminder of better times. For two weeks she and Owen had been locked in a sterile world without windows: a succession of cells, paneled trucks, and then an airplane, its viewing ports taped over with blackout paper. They'd been kept more than twenty-four hours at opposite ends of a frigid metal hangar in Switzerland, sleepless and cramped on its hard concrete floor. Now, still stiff from the long journey, she had a moment's respite on the edge of the Atlantic in a nation that still granted refuge to Nazi ships.

A few lights twinkled on the water and music drifted from the whitewashed buildings stacked around Vigo's natural amphitheater. This is what life is like without war, she remembered. It was only a glimpse. Stone steps slick with seaweed led to a landing being approached by a motor launch. Across the bay was the low dark shadow of a U-boat. An impatient Schmidt was already down the steps, his gaunt silhouette identified by the glow of his cigarette. He'd not so much as glanced at the beauty of the harbor.

Despite being within fifty feet of her husband and her father and the man she loved, Greta felt helplessly alone. Jürgen had been warily polite, Otto had been kept separate, and any contact with Owen was prevented by the squad of granite-faced SS troopers that had flown with them out of Germany. The isolation hurt. She didn't think she'd survive to stand on a temperate shore again, and before being sealed into the submarine she wanted to share this final moment with the man she loved. For just that reason Drexler wouldn't allow it. While he needed both Owen and Greta to accomplish his plan, he didn't need them together. Not yet.

The pair's last conversation in Berlin had been hasty and anguished. Drexler had reluctantly agreed to allow his wife to go into Owen's cell alone to persuade the pilot to come on the new expedition. But the SS colonel was hammering on the door and hollering "Time!" long before they'd said all they needed to say. Greta had presented the cruel choice— Antarctica or a painful death— quickly, never doubting that Hart would agree to come. "It's all right," he'd assured her. "I know I'm not done with that place yet. Or this war. And I have an idea." But she wept when he agreed, hating herself for asking him to come and yet enormously relieved that he'd do so.

Now Owen remained caged inside a Spanish truck, waiting for transfer to the submarine. Her father stood morosely next to a decrepit warehouse, watched over by a yellow-haired giant named Hans. And Jürgen was brisk and confident, reanimated by what he clearly saw as a second chance to make his mark in the Reich and work together with Greta.

He still wore his formal black uniform to emphasize his authority. Now he watched the motor launch from the U-boat putter to the stone steps of the quay. The submarine commander who climbed out of the boat declined to return Drexler's Hitler salute, instead coming wearily up the quay steps in worn sweater and stained officer's cap and offering a brief nod at the top. He looked tired, his eyes red from long hours. "Colonel Drexler? Captain Joachim Freiwald, commander of the U-4501."

"Greetings, Captain. You're the skipper of a very new submarine, I understand."

"So new I would swear the paint is still drying. I'm sorry for not being on shore to meet you but the timing of your arrival was unclear. And our orders were quite sudden. We ran the Atlantic gauntlet from the shipyards at Kiel and have been scrambling to provision since our arrival in Spain. All for an ultimate destination we've yet to be informed of." He looked at Jürgen quizzically.

"I'll inform you of our mission once we're at sea, Captain. The haste is necessary, I'm afraid. The war is at a critical stage and we're under a tight deadline."

Freiwald looked uncomfortable. "My orders from U-boat Command are less than clear. Only to take on an unusually large number of added personnel for an unusually long voyage. I've radioed for clarification of my instructions."

"There's no need. I take my orders from Berlin." He pointed to his SS contingent. "These men take their orders from me. And so do you, as these papers will make clear." An orderly handed over a folder. "We can't afford to waste time with jurisdictional confusion so I had these orders drawn up making clear my authority. And I'm in a hurry. I want us underway before dawn, Captain."

Freiwald looked surprised. "I understood our departure date as tomorrow night, Colonel. Some of my men are in town on leave."

"Your directive has just changed. Your men's shore leave must be canceled. Our success depends upon speed."

"Colonel, we've been working ceaselessly to commission and then provision here in Spain. My men haven't had any rest since— "

"Tonight, Captain. Time is of the essence. They can go ashore after we win the war."

Freiwald pursed his lips and opened the folder. There was enough illumination from a warehouse floodlight to make out the signatures and stamps. He closed it, his face a mask. "Yes, Colonel. Departure at 0300 hours."

"You can reassemble your crew?"

He shrugged. "I know where to find them. The amusements of Vigo are limited."

"Good. Next, the biologist accompanying us is a woman. My wife, as a matter of fact, though that is irrelevant to your treatment of her. Her expertise is critical to this mission and as a woman she'll need a private cabin. You'll arrange this, please."

The skipper blinked. "Submarines are cramped, Colonel, even our new Type XXI. I have a cabin, and there's the first officer's compartment. It has only a single bunk— "

"That will be satisfactory. I won't be sharing her quarters. My apologies to the first officer but I'm sure he'll understand. Now, I also want a compartment reserved for my nine Schutzstaffel soldiers and myself: perhaps the forward torpedo room. You'll reassign your crew accordingly."

"But— "

"And the laboratory space, it's been cleared?"

"That necessity has made storage tight and those cages— "

"The heavy weather gear has arrived?"

"Yes— "

"And we also have a prisoner. An American Intelligence officer, with critical information for our success. Where can we confine him?"

Freiwald looked even more confused. "Nowhere, Colonel. A submarine has no brig."

"Then just lock him somewhere. To a pipe or bunk."

The captain frowned. "Is he a threat?"

"Potentially."

"Colonel, that won't work. Not on a long sea voyage. He'll be in the way if chained to one place and it won't be good for morale. Submarines are more… casual than what you're accustomed to in Berlin."

"What do you suggest, Captain?"

"Where can he go? What can he do? Believe me, he'll never be alone in the confines of a submarine, especially with so many extra soldiers on board. We simply watch him."

There was a dissatisfied grunt. "Very well. Just keep him away from the woman. My wife, I mean. He's not to talk with her."

Freiwald looked more baffled than ever.

"That will be all for now. You can begin transporting my men and their gear to your ship."

"It's called a boat, Colonel."

But Drexler was already walking away.

Otto Kohl watched the submarine commander's discomfiture from a distance, secretly amused at the obvious friction. The U-boat chief had just been given a short course in the way Drexler briskly arranged the world to fit his own designs. Kohl had expected to be allowed to stay in Switzerland but Jürgen had ordered him to continue on to Spain. For a while Kohl had feared being impressed into the submarine as well, but there was no sign of that. Instead he had to stand like a penitent schoolboy in the shadow of a gigantic SS goon, watching his only child standing alone nearby, depressed and probably afraid. Her isolation shamed him.

Drexler, in contrast, looked positively jaunty, as if embarking on a pleasure cruise. It occurred to Kohl that his son-in-law had quite possibly snapped. The Nazi strode up.

"This is where we say goodbye, Otto." He kept his hands clasped behind his back. "You're a lucky man to wait out the war here."

"Simply a sensible one." Deciding to try one last time, Kohl gestured toward the hills of Spain. "It could end for all of us, Jürgen. You're beyond the reach of the dying Reich. Make a separate peace and just go. You've done enough."

"You still don't understand people like myself, do you, Otto?" Jürgen's voice had the disdain of pity. "That some things are more important than one's own brief spark of existence. That there are such things as country and duty and honor. That sometimes the individual sacrifices for the many."

"In the right cause."

"Your Fatherland's cause is the right cause. Always. You no more choose your Fatherland than you choose your family. And you no more abandon your Fatherland than you abandon your family."

Kohl was quiet. He was abandoning both.

"Destiny has put me at this harbor," Drexler went on. "Destiny has given me the chance to reverse the tide of war. God led me to that island as surely as if he'd erected signposts, and you and Owen Hart fell out of the sky like trumpeting angels. I thought it a nightmare, at first. Then I realized it was the solution to all my problems."

God, what a grandiose, self-important fool. "No one knows what God intends," Kohl warned quietly. "If you must take this risk, then do so, Jürgen, but please … I beg of you. Leave my daughter behind. You don't need her."

"Ah, but I do. Do you think Hart would help me without Greta as leverage? Besides, your daughter is a remarkably intuitive scientist. Time is of the essence with the Allies knocking on the West Wall. I'm counting on her ingenuity to give us a head start on our plans. And besides, I need her for one more reason."

"What's that?"

"You."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you really think I trust either one of you? That I'm relaxed about turning Otto Kohl loose to run around Spain while I carry out a secret mission to Antarctica? No, she's my guarantee, dear father-in-law. You won't do anything foolish because if you did, it would endanger her: if we fail, she'll be the first to suffer the consequences."

"You can't make Greta hostage to my behavior! That's not our agreement!"

"Exactly. I agreed only to let you go, but we said nothing beyond that. Now I've filled in the blanks."

"Filled it with blackmail!"

"I learned from the master."

Kohl fumed. "It's not as if I was going to talk anyway. I'm no traitor."

"Then you should welcome this arrangement. We're allies."

Kohl wished he'd never met Jürgen Drexler. "When do you return?"

"In less than two months, I hope. By that time you should know Vigo like a native."

"I'm not about to sit waiting in this runt of a port. Barcelona, perhaps. Or over to Lisbon, in Portugal. I have the money to go where I wish now." He gestured toward the two leather satchels on the dirt near the truck, watched by an SS guard. They were stuffed with currency, gold, and bank certificates that Kohl had assembled in Switzerland after they flew there from Berlin to refuel. "If I have to waste my time for two months, it shall be in some comfort," said Otto. He moved to pick up the satchels.

Drexler put a hand on his arm. "No, Otto. There's one other amendment to our agreement."

"What's that?"

"You'll get your money, as I promised. But not until our safe return. Just one more reason for you to wish us a bon voyage. It goes on the submarine with me."

"What!"

"You'll be issued enough pesetas to keep you at Vigo's finest for two months. And to light a lamp for our homecoming. But you go nowhere else if you care about the fate of your daughter. Early in the new year we'll have a family reunion. Then you'll be a rich man and I a powerful one. Not before."

"That's outrageous! That money is mine!"

"Think of me as your banker."

"Jürgen, you son of a bitch…"

"There, there, Otto," Drexler said, smiling. "We mustn't have acrimony among family members." He nodded toward Greta. "Now, say goodbye to your daughter. Tell her how important her cooperation is. Kiss her cheek, for me." He was in a good mood.

Kohl struggled to master his composure. He watched Jürgen nod to a guard, who hoisted the satchels and carried them down the quay steps for transport to the submarine. Then, resigned to the loss, Kohl went to speak briefly to Greta. She touched his hand before an SS guard escorted her to the launch as well. Next came Hart, his hands cuffed. The boat pulled away with this first load.

Drexler came back beside Kohl. "Was it a warm send-off?"

"She told me she didn't expect to come back."

"Ah. Well. She always underestimates me."

"And you me," Kohl said. "I'm not your puppet, Jürgen. I refuse to be any man's puppet anymore."

"Of course not, Otto. You're lord of Vigo. The newest Spanish don. And with patience, you'll have your new life."

They watched the motor launch aim for the waiting submarine. They could see Greta looking back at them, her expression invisible. Then she melted into the dark and Drexler put his arm around Kohl's shoulder and guided him to a waiting car. The German sulkily got in and Drexler bent to the open window.

"Your daughter and your money are safe with me. I think the stars promise luck for us, don't you agree?"

Kohl looked straight ahead. "Goodbye, Jürgen." When he said nothing more, Drexler shrugged and the car pulled away.

Otto half expected a detour and a quick bullet on the drive into town but it didn't come. A mistake, he thought. If you knocked down a person, you finished him. He suspected Jürgen didn't quite have the stomach required for his schemes.

Kohl was escorted to a hotel room with a view of the dark harbor. "Your accommodations have been paid for," he was informed. From the balcony of his room he could see the light of the motor launch as it ferried back and forth. The submarine was too low and dark to be visible.

Kohl sighed, sat on his sagging bed, and contemplated the ruins of his life. Then he took out the object Greta had pressed into his hand. "Keep this safe for me," she'd whispered.

It was a scrap of soiled white ribbon. He unwound it to find a pebble inside, dull and brown. He supposed it had something to do with Owen. With it was a scrap of paper, carefully inked.

"The issue is greater than us, Papa. You must stop this boat."

Kohl lay down on his bed. For the first time in many years, tears fogged his eyes. He was frightened at such sentiment.

For reassurance he felt the lining of his jacket where he'd sewn some currency inside. Then he considered what to do.