Stealing Trinity

Chapter 1

Colonel Hans Gruber stood facing the stone wall at the back of his office, drawing heavily on a cigarette, a thick French wrap that filled the air around him with fetid gray smoke. On another day, in another place, he might have wondered if the acrid swill would bother the officers about to join him. But deep in an unventilated Berlin bunker, in April 1945, it was pointless. The bombing was mostly at fault, the Americans by day and the British by night, stirring the dust, bouncing the rubble, and creating more of each. Always more. Then there were the constant fires. Ash swirled in the air, at times indistinguishable from the snow, and subject to the whims of a bitter wind that somehow redistributed the mess without ever driving it away.

Gruber remained motionless, his tall, cadaverous frame hunched in thought, as fixed as the stony gargoyles that had once held watch over the building above. He stared blankly at the wall, glad there was no window. The Berlin outside was no longer worth looking at, a place unrelated to that of his youth. Even two years ago there had been hope. From his old office, he had looked down Berkaerstrasse on sunny mornings to see vestiges of the old city. Mothers pushing prams, stores still stocked with vegetables and thick sausage. Now he sat in a hole in the ground, praying for rain to dampen the ash, quell the fires and, most importandy, to hide the city from the next squadron of bombardiers.

A knock on the door interrupted Gruber'S miserable thoughts. He turned and stabbed the butt of his smoke into a worn ashtray on his desk.

"Kommen!"

A corporal ushered in two guests. In front, Gruber noted without surprise, was SS Major Rudolf Becker. He strode with purpose and was in full regalia — black overcoat, shining jackboots, skull insignia, and a wheel hat tucked tightly under one arm. Behind him came General Freiderich Rode, the acting number two of the Abwehr, the intelligence network that answered to Germany's Armed Forces High Command. Rode's appearance and carriage were very different, a thick-necked jackal to Beckers strutting peacock. He was a working soldier, boots scuffed and trousers wrinkled, a square face carved from granite. His bulldog neck was shaved close, disappearing into the thick collar of his jacket, and the eyes were wide-set and squinting — eyes that might be looking anywhere.

"Gentlemen," Gruber said formally, "please have a seat. Corporal Klein, that will be all."

Both men sat, and the corporal struggled to shut the solid door — something had shifted in the bunker's earthen support structure and it hadn't closed normally in weeks. With privacy established, Gruber sat at his desk facing two men who looked very tired. The room fell silent as he reached into the bottom drawer and pulled out a half-empty bottle of vodka, then three tumblers.

"It's Polish. They cook it in spent radiators, I'm told."

Gruber's guests showed no amusement. They were no doubt wondering why he had called them here. If they hadn't been good friends, they probably wouldn't have come. Rank was becoming less relevant with each passing day, and an unexpected summons to the headquarters of the Sicherheitsdienst, or SD, was enough to make anyone nervous. It was the Nazi party's own intelligence service, run by some of the most desperate men in an increasingly desperate regime.

Gruber poured stout bracers and issued them around. No one bothered to toast anything — for three German officers a certain sign of lost hope — and three heads snapped back. Gruber set his glass gingerly on the desk and studied it before beginning.

"Have either of you made plans?" There was no need to be more specific.

Behind closed doors, Major Becker of the SS softened, his tone weary. "I have access to a boat, up north. But it will have to be soon. Ivan has crossed the Oder."

Rode said, "There is talk among the general staff of a convoy to the south. But I do not think big groups are good. Those who make it out will be alone, or in very small parties."

"I agree," said Gruber. He had his own escape, but wasn't going to share it, even with his most trusted peers. "How is our Fuhrer holding together?" he asked, addressing Rode, who still attended the occasional staff meeting in the Fuhrerbunker.

Rode shrugged. "The same."

Gruber knew, as did all who had seen Hitler in the last weeks, that their leader's mental health was deteriorating rapidly. He was despondent one minute, then bubbling with optimism the next as he ordered nonexistent divisions into battle against the advancing pincer. His field commanders were no help, making empty promises to avoid the Fuhrer's wrath, each hoping to buy enough time to escape his own last-minute firing squad. Lies to feed the lunacy — and yet another multiplicand in the calculus of Germany's misery.

A rough, wet cough erupted as Gruber reached into his pocket. He extracted a silver cigarette case and plucked out another of the harsh French Gauloises. His doctor had advised him to stop, but Gruber decided it would be an improbable fate at this point to die at the hand of tobacco. The others sat in silence as he lit up, stagnant gray smoke curling up toward a ceiling stained black.

"Gentlemen, our immediate future is as clear as it is untenable. Within certain obvious constraints, it is up to us to plan for the future of the Reich." Gruber let that hang in the air for an appropriate amount of time. "Of course, the first priority is to establish ourselves in a safe place. This will require patience. The world will be in a state of confusion and recovery for many months, perhaps years, and this we must take advantage of."

"Our network in Italy remains strong," Rode suggested. "And Spain is possible."

"No, no. These might be good staging points for our departure, but Europe is out of the question for the near term. We will need a great deal of time to reorganize."

Becker added, "And a great deal of money."

"Yes, indeed. But here we are fortunate. Our Swiss friends are competent and extremely discreet in these matters. Considerable funds will be at our disposal. We will have the money, and we will take our time. But there is one particularly pressing matter."

Gruber stood and flicked his cigarettes spent ashes carelessly on the stone floor. "It concerns an agent of yours, General. Die Wespe."

Rode's eyes narrowed to mere slits. It was his signature stare, the mannerism that combined with his physical presence to wilt peers and underlings alike. Gruber, however, ignored it freely, in the same fashion that he ignored the flag-grade insignia on the man's collar. The structure of command was becoming increasingly fluid as a new order emerged.

"How do you know about Die Wespe?"

Gruber waved a languid hand in the air to dismiss the question as immaterial.

Becker asked, "Who is this Wespe?"

"He is a very special spy," Gruber said, "a fat little German scientist who works with the Americans." He shook his head derisively, still amazed that they could allow such a stupid breach. "He holds information that is vital to our future."

"Vital?" Rode scoffed. "I suspect it will be worthless." He turned to Becker. "The Americans have spent years and an incredible amount of money pursuing wild ideas. We explored the concept ourselves. Heisenberg, our top physicist, headed the effiSh. It came to nothing."

"We undertook a token project," Gruber agreed, "and it was a failure. However these academic types are a difficult breed. They consider themselves above the world, and some have a reputation for — conscience."

"Sabotage is what you mean," Rode countered.

"There were rumors. At any rate, our own work in the area has been feeble."

Becker asked, "What does it involve?"

Rode took a minute to explain the incredible details. He then added, "But it is only a whim on the chalkboards of certain scientists, a paper theory. Nothing has been proven."

The SS man, who knew his weapons, agreed, "I cannot imagine such a thing."

Gruber hedged, "Indeed, the concept has not yet been tested. But Wespe tells us this will come soon. Within months, if not weeks. Is this not true, Freiderich?"

Rode nodded.

"And if it should work?" Becker asked.

"There lies the significance. If it should work, my friend, those with the knowledge will control the future of our world."

Becker said, "And you think we should strive to acquire this knowledge?"

"We must have it!" Gruber paced with his hands behind his back, his angular frame leaning forward. "And it is still within our grasp."

"But are you not aware?" Rode warned, "Our agent in America, the only contact with Wespe, has been lost. He was uncovered, killed when the Americans tried to arrest him."

"Precisely," Gruber said, "which is why I have called you both here today. We must reestablish contact with Wespe, at any cost."

Rode blew a snort in exasperation, "Our networks are finished. Most of our agents have been captured or killed, and some have certainly talked under interrogation. Everything must be considered compromised."

"Agreed. Which is why we must start from the beginning." Gruber took a seat at his desk, coughing again, his lungs heaving to rid the spoiled subterranean air from his body. Recovering, he made every effort to sit erect and display strength, not the weariness that pulled straight from the marrow of his bones. Four thin file folders sat neatly stacked on the desk in front of him. Gruber split them, handing two to each of his compatriots. They were numbered for reference, simply one through four.

"We need someone fresh, someone unknown to your service, Freiderich. But, of course, there are requirements. This person must be absolutely fluent in English, and preferably has lived in America." Rode and Becker began to study the dossiers as Gruber continued. "These necessities limit our options, especially given that this person must be absolutely committed to our cause."

Gruber let that hang. He fell silent, allowing Rode and Becker a chance to take in the information. After a few minutes, they swapped files.

"There must be more information than this," Becker insisted. "Here there are only a few pages."

Gruber shrugged. "We are Germans, so of course volumes exist on each. I have taken the liberty of condensing the information."

Rode finished, and said, "You suggest that only one of these men be dispatched. If the matter is truly so urgent, why not enlist them all?"

"An intriguing thought, Freiderich. One which I entertained myself. But consider. Whoever we send must have enough information to contact Wespe." Gruber set his elbows on the desk and steepled his hands thoughtfully, as if in prayer. "Let me put forward a bit of wisdom from a friend of mine, a pilot in the Luftwaffe. One day, relating his flying experiences, he told me that he would prefer to fly an aircraft with one engine as opposed to two. He thought it safer. This seemed strange to me until he explained — an aircraft with two engines has twice the chance of a power-plant failure." He gestured toward the folders. "Sending them all would increase the probability of making contact with Wespe. But a single failure ruins everything."

The two men facing Gruber gave no argument to the logic.

"So the question becomes, which?"

Becker, the major, looked at Rode, perhaps deferring to rank, even though it held little substance here.

"Number two, without question," Rode said.

Becker nodded in agreement. "Number three is in the hospital, with injuries that might take time to heal. Four has been in Germany for a very long time. I suspect he might be too far removed from America. And number one, the Gestapo sergeant — he sounds like a killer, but perhaps more an animal."

"This one I know personally, and I would be inclined to agree," Gruber said. "But at least he would be true to our cause."

"Do you have reason to doubt number two?" Rode asked.

"No. His record is clear, although … something about it bothers me."

"I did not think anyone escaped the Cauldron on foot," Becker said, referring to the siege of Stalingrad, where Paulus's entire 6th Army was lost.

"Yes. I double-checked that. He is, as far as I know, the only one. He walked into a field hospital nearly a week after the surrender— von Manstein's relief Group. It was over fifty miles from the city. And in the middle of winter."

Rode said, "He is highly intelligent, and has fought for the Fatherland time and again. His performance reports are adequate. So what is it that you don't like about him?"

Gruber hedged, "I can't say, exactly. He grew up in America, but his father brought him to our cause at the outset of the war. Yes, he was brilliant academically, having studied architecture at the American's elite university called Harvard. But given that, his military ratings have been something less. Adequate, as you say, but nothing more. He has seen some of the fiercest fighting of the war, yet only recently found the rank of captain."

Becker said, "But any man who could walk out of the Cauldron — he is a survivor. This we need more than anything."

A distant rumble announced the arrival of another wave of American B-17s, and Gruber heard the plaintive wail of the airraid siren.

"Where is he now?" Rode asked.

"He is assigned as a sniper, attached to the 56th Regiment."

"If this mission is as critical as you say, we must make the right choice. Let's send for him. Then we can decide."

"Yes," Gruber nodded thoughtfully. "But perhaps I will go find him myself." He gave a shout of summons, and Corporal Klein shouldered his way in against the warped door.

"When the raid has ended I will require a staff car."

The corporal shrugged. "We have none of our own, Herr Oberst. The last was taken this morning by a group of Gestapo officers. I can get on the phone —"

"Find something, you idiot!" Gruber shoved the files across his desk. "And secure these back in the safe."

Corporal Klein took the folders and headed out.

Chapter 2

The 56th Regimental Headquarters was easy enough to find, crammed into the rooms of a crumbling old school. From there, Gruber's difficulty began. No one seemed to know the man he sought. Captain Alexander Braun was recently attached to the unit, and here, organization was clearly beginning to deteriorate. The adjutant had lost all the regiments paperwork in a fallback two weeks ago. The commander, an old-school Prussian with a shell-shocked gaze, was limited to muttered frustrations about his units lack of fuel and ammunition. The soldiers themselves were mostly silent, a few bantering halfheartedly about drink, cigarettes, and women — the pursuits of those who expect life to be brief, Gruber mused.

He searched for twenty minutes before being directed to a grizzled sergeant who sat cleaning his weapon at a schoolboy's desk in a corner. As Gruber approached, the man eyed the unfamiliar, well-fed headquarters officer. Gruber let his rank insignia suffice for introduction.

"I am searching for Captain Alexander Braun."

The sergeant shrugged, then spit on a rag and polished the shoulder stock of his disassembled weapon. Gruber was in no mood for interservice trifling. He moved closer and hovered, his holstered Lugar obvious in its message. There were Russians to the east and Americans to the west, but here, in the last crumbling corners of the Reich, lay some of the most dangerous men.

The sergeant, who had himself likely not seen a cleaning in weeks, put down the rag and set the butt of his weapon on the ground. "Braun. Yes. He is out on sniper duty."

"When will he be back?"

"I cannot say, Herr Oberst. He has been out for three days."

"Three days! How can a sniper team operate for such a length of time?"

"Captain Braun has set his own rules in his short time with us. He comes and goes as he pleases. And he always sends his spotter back. A lone wolf, you might say."

Gruber's eyes narrowed, considering this. "But is he effective?"

"As a sniper?" The sergeant cocked his head indifferently. "He claims many kills, but without a spotter to confirm them — who can say?"

"I must talk to his spotter. Is he here now?"

The sergeant smiled.

The journey to the front was amazingly circuitous. The sergeant led Gruber through a never ending maze of broken stone and twisted metal. At times they paused for no apparent reason, ducking into a bomb crater or behind a wall. Gruber had not been this close to the enemy since his days in France during the Great War. He recoiled as his basal senses registered long-forgotten details — the staccato echoes of gunfire, the pungent smell of cordite interlaced with death.

The sergeant moved in quick bursts, running, crawling, jumping past exposed openings. Gruber's heart raced as he mirrored each movement, knowing that the second in line had to be quicker than the first. The Russians also had snipers.

They passed a perfectly good truck that looked like it had just rolled out from the factory, probably stilled for lack of fuel. The sergeant stopped behind the burned hulk of a Tiger tank, and he pointed to a collapsed structure. Even in ruin it maintained a height of three stories. Fallen sections lay at odd angles, and the surviving walls were carved stone, ancient and ornate before the bombs had done their work. By the architecture, and the heavy granite cross lying in the street, Gruber could see it had once been a church.

"This is the place," the sergeant said. He peered once around the corpse of the tank and darted into the ruins. Gruber followed, half expecting a shot to ring out as he covered the last few meters through no-mans-land. Once safely in the remains of the building, the sergeant eased his pace. He led over piles of stone, and weaved among rows of shattered wooden pews, finally stopping in a corner where the perpendicular wall joint seemed to have held. A thick rope led somewhere above, and the sergeant yanked it three times before rappelling upward. He reached a landing of sorts, twenty feet up, and motioned for Gruber to follow.

Gruber hesitated, then grabbed the rope and clambered his way up, slipping now and again as his feet scrambled for purchase in the pockmarked wall. Out of breath, he reached the landing, a darkened slab that gave way to what looked like a small cavern. There, a single room lay solid and intact against the church's collapse, a cloistered retreat in better times. The place would be indistinguishable from the outside, as if God had spared a small refuge in the house of worship, an invisible sanctuary where His work might still be done. But as Gruber's eyes adapted to the shadows of the place, he realized he would find no men of God here.

There was little more than a silhouette at first, just back from the lone window. A man sat casually in a chair, his legs stretched out to rest on a box, the boots crossed indifferently. At his side was a table with thin, delicate legs, and on that a bottle and a glass, both shaped to hold wine.

"I see you have brought a friend, my sergeant." The voice was deep, strangely relaxed.

"Yes, Captain. This is Colonel Gruber, of the SD. He insisted on seeing you."

The man rose and sauntered toward the newcomers. As he came closer, Gruber was not disappointed in what he saw. Braun was tall, approaching Gruber's own height, and thin, like most everyone these days, but wide at the shoulders. The hair was blond, well trimmed, and the uniform strangely clean and pressed, out of place in such a dusty warren at the front. He moved languidly, and as he stopped in front of Gruber, the junior officer did not bother to come to attention.

"You are a hard man to find, Hauptmann Braun."

Braun shrugged. "Here, this is a good thing."

Close in, Gruber saw the scar — perhaps two inches, straight back along the right temple and disappearing into the hairline. It had been in the medical records, a noted wound, but no explanation. Braun held out an arm, inviting him ahead.

"Can I offer you a glass of wine, Colonel? It is a true Bordeaux, I can tell you. The priests here were doing God's work in style." He poured a glass and offered it, seeming more a landed baron socializing after a fox hunt than a sniper laying in wait.

"No, thank you," Gruber said.

Braun shrugged and put the glass to his own lips, allowing it to linger as he savored the contents. He then began to drift across the room, his free arm arcing out to their surroundings. "This church was once one of the few balanced edifices in Berlin." He directed Gruber's attention above. "The pointed arch is firmly Gothic, yet the carvings are high quality and detailed, reflecting Italy and the Renaissance. Here it was done well, probably thanks to timing — perhaps the late sixteenth century, before the Thirty Years' War." He took another sample across his lips. "You'd be amazed at the degree to which architecture is influenced by history, Colonel, the unpredictable path of events. Do you know why our entire city now smells like a sewer?"

"Not exactly."

"Decades ago our engineers thought it efficient to integrate water and sewer lines directly into the structures of our bridges. This was before the era of mechanized warfare, before anyone could imagine that aerial bombardment would target lines of transport. Now you see the result." The sniper's eyes drifted to the ceiling in contemplation. "War and uprisings. Famine and plague.

The source of commission for a building might be private, church, or state. Everything has its effect. Here, time was taken. You can see it in the end result."

"I see no more than a decorative pile of rubble, Captain."

"Indeed. The treasures of a thousand years have been trampled in this war — which only further proves my point. Yet for a brief interval in our militant history, this place was a masterpiece. There was one man with insight, with the character to bring it to realization. This kind of talent has not often prevailed in our design of things."

"The Fuhrer has a talented architect."

Gruber watched closely and saw the reaction, a veiled smile.

"Albert Speer? He certainly has talent, but I would place it more in the category of propaganda than design. Grand monuments to feed grand egos."

"And you, Captain? You have this trait, this gift of vision? Perhaps when the war has ended you will help oversee the rebuilding of our cities."

The sniper-architect seemed to ponder this. "No, Colonel, I think not. We Germans are very exact in our measures and drawings, but beauty requires a very different kind of effort. When our country is rebuilt, there will be a lack of money and patience to do it properly, with style. The Berlin to come will be square and efficient. Nothing more."

Gruber weighed this silently, then noted the rifle leaning against the wall near the window. "Have you had any luck today?" he asked, pointing loosely to the gun.

"If I had, I would not still be here. One shot, then —" Braun snapped his fingers in the air, "one must not linger."

"Of course," Gruber said.

"There was a small unit, perhaps a dozen men. They settled their equipment behind a wall," Braun gestured out the window, "about four hundred meters away. They went off on patrol, but soon will return for their things."

"And then?"

Braun took the last of his wine before setting down the glass.

The ease that had enveloped him seemed to fade. His eyes narrowed and Gruber met his gaze, wondering what he must be thinking.

"What is it that you want, Colonel?"

There was the answer, Gruber thought. Full colonels of the SD didn't make house calls to captains on the front. Not without a damned good reason. Gruber started to speak, but then paused and looked at the sergeant, who was still back by the landing. Braun jerked his head to one side, and the sergeant turned and disappeared down the rope. Gruber spotted a chipped teacup on the floor. He picked it up, blew off some dust, and charged it generously from Braun s bottle.

"The war is nearly done, Captain. Given this, there are plans to be made for the future of the Reich." He was glad to see Braun remain impassive, nothing in his face to suggest what most Germans would now say: Hasn't the Reich done enough? "There will be an effort to regroup — in time. But we have one critical need." Gruber took a slug from the cup, no time taken to evaluate merits, but rather gulping as one would a beer. "There is a spy, a man with vital information that we must have. Unfortunately, contact has been lost. Our networks are finished —"

"In America!" Braun broke in. He beamed a satisfied smile. "That is it! You need someone who can pass as an American. Someone to retrieve your spy."

"Or at least his information."

Braun seemed to consider this before asking, "You can get me out of Berlin? Even now?"

"I think so."

"And where in America would I have to go?"

"This I will not tell you. Not yet." Gruber took another hard swallow from the cup. "First I must be convinced that you are the right man."

They eyed one another, two poker players searching for truth in their adversary's facade. A short, shrill whistle from below broke the standoff.

Braun raised his hand to command silence and eased to the window. Only a small opening remained at the fallen frame of splintered wood and brick. He picked up a tiny spotting periscope and eased it into the opening.

"Our Russian friends have returned," he announced. "Would you like to see, Colonel?"

Gruber crossed to the window and was nearly there when Braun threw an arm to his chest like a lion striking a gazelle, pushing him to the side.

"The light, Colonel. It comes in here." He waved toward a shaft of dank illumination. "Not much, but one mustn't get caught."

Gruber nodded. He approached the window at an angle and took the periscope. After some searching, he found a group of ten Russians milling about behind a wall. Some were eating from tin cups, while others paced and rubbed their hands against the cold. The wall was tall enough to protect them from ground-level fire, but Braun had found enough elevation to see a bust of all who were standing. They seemed quite far away.

"How many can you take from here?" he asked.

Braun prepared his rifle. "One, Colonel. Never more than one. That way I can survive to shoot another day." He paused. "But then — will I have another day?"

Gruber looked again through the periscope, offering no reply.

The captain smiled. "This will be my last, I think. And for that, I will give you the honor. Which should I take?"

Gruber looked back at Braun. He had moved to the other side of the opening, their faces only inches apart. His blue eyes bored into Gruber, striking at his soul.

In a voice barely above a whisper, Braun said, "You are now God, Colonel. Who do I kill? The one with the fur hat? The one who limps?"

The eyes still penetrated and Gruber turned away to reference the scope. "There is an officer, near the back. That would be best."

"Best for what? For the Reich? I think not."

"What do you mean?"

"If I shoot the officer, someone will take his place. And if he was a good officer, they'll all want to kill more Germans. If he was a bad officer, they would thank me. But neither case helps our cause."

Gruber threw down the periscope. "Then who the hell do you shoot?"

Braun was now standing just back from the window, in a shadow, steadying the rifle on a shattered armoire. "For the Reich, Colonel, I will assist you. I should shoot whoever moves in front of the officer."

"What?"

"Whoever moves in front will have a hole in his head. Just another dead soldier to join the millions of others. But your officer," the rifle fell steady, "he will find the man s blood on his face. And tomorrow, the brains in his canteen cup. These things, my Colonel… these things make for a very cautious leader. A man who has many … second.. thoughts."

Braun's stillness was absolute. The eye Gruber could see was closed, but he imagined the other, pale blue behind the sight, piercing an eagles stare at a helpless prey. The calm was shattered by the crack of the shot. Gruber flinched involuntarily, and before the echo could reverberate back off the rubble outside, Braun was bolting toward the rope.

"Come," Braun called jauntily, "we must not loiter!"

Gruber hustled to follow, reaching the rope as the sniper, gun slung onto his shoulder, was about to rappel down. "But shouldn't we take one look, to see if you scored a hit?"

Braun paused for an instant, a bemused look on his handsome, scarred face. "What do you think, my Colonel?" Then he disappeared down the rope.

That evening, Corporal Fritz Klein watched as four men entered Gruber's office. The three who had been there this morning were joined by an army captain, a tall blond man who seemed strangely at ease. They met for three hours, summoning Klein only once to bring them coffee. When the gathering ended, he came to attention at his desk.

General Rode and Major Becker strode past to the hallway, ignoring him. Next came the captain. He had an unlit cigarette in his hand, and after a brief pat of his pockets, he raised an engaging eyebrow. Klein found a book of matches on his desk and offered them up. The captain lit his smoke, nodded appreciatively, then flipped the matchbook back on the desk before disappearing.

Colonel Gruber was the last to emerge.

"Corporal!"

Klein stiffened.

"These will be destroyed. Immediately!" Gruber dumped a short stack of files on his desk.

"Yes, Herr Oberst."

"Then destroy the rest. Burn them all."

Klein looked over his shoulder into the walk-in safe. The steel door was ajar, and six sturdy cabinets sat filled with what must have been a ton of classified documents.

"But sir, to incinerate them all will take—"

"Stay all night if you must!" Gruber shouted. "But do these now!"

The colonel rushed back to his office and Klein stood frozen, realizing what this meant. The end was getting very near. He locked up the vault, which could not be left open in his absence, collected the stack of files on his desk, and headed down the hallway.

The incinerator was in a separate room, three doors down. It was always stoked these days, if for no other reason than to counter the bunker's cool dampness. The heavy iron receptacle was built into the wall and glowed at the edges. Klein used the hooked heel of a poker to swing the heavy door open. Inside, the embers glowed white hot, and he tossed in the top two folders, which were clearly standard personnel files, titled with names and rank. He used the poker to adjust their burn before tossing in another, not bothering to note the name. He stirred again as manila and paper turned to cinder, and Klein reflected on the prospect of staying up all night doing the same. Not great duty, he reckoned, but a lot of grunts stuck in freezing foxholes right now would be glad to trade.

Klein looked at the last two folders in his lap. One was yet another personnel folder, but the final one was different. Not a person, but a mission or code name of some sort. Again, Gruber's words came to him. Troubling, desperate words. Burn them all! Corporal Klein looked back at the room's open door. Someone could come at any minute. Someone from another office, perhaps executing a similar command from their own colonel. Burn them all! But certainly he would hear anyone approach, heavy boots stomping across the cold, stone floor.

Klein opened the top file and scanned it. He saw a photograph of the army captain whose cigarette he had just lit. A few facts about the man's background were underlined. He shifted to the other folder, a mission dossier of some sort. Code names, contacts. He began at the top, but then footsteps stole his attention away. They were getting closer, but still down the hall. Looking again at the papers, one code name seemed to recur, in bold type again and again. The steps came near, and with a flick of his wrist Klein sent both files spinning into the fire.

"Hey!" said a familiar voice from behind. Rudi, the overweight sergeant from across the hall, tossed his own stack past Klein and into the inferno. "Something else to keep you warm, dumbass." He cackled and left.

Corporal Klein knelt at the open incinerator door and gave things one more jostle with the poker. Strangely, he saw the name a last time, the bold type slowly giving way as flames licked it into oblivion.

He wondered what the hell it meant. Manhattan Project.

Chapter 3

The Third Reich, designed to last a thousand years, in fact collapsed after twelve. On April 30, 1945, Adolf Hitler committed suicide in his Fuhrerbunker. Admiral Karl Donitz was named as successor, but there was little to inherit. Sporadic pockets of resistance continued across Berlin, yet the Nazi chain of command had been shattered, and it soon became clear that the only remaining task of consequence was the formal surrender.

With few exceptions, the populace of Germany shifted its mind-set — from that of fighting a war, to mere survival in the face of a new order. Guns and ammunition were discarded, replaced in the hierarchy of needs by bread and potable water. Military uniforms and identification papers were burned or buried, and civilian replacements bought, stolen, and forged. Indeed, across Europe, millions of people, both victors and vanquished, began the awkward transition to a new life.

It was under camouflage of these distractions, two days later, that Major Rudolf Becker's boat departed at midnight, right on schedule. It was a tiny craft, eighteen feet of oak that looked like it might have been bent into shape a millennia ago. Black tar was slathered along the creases and joints, and there seemed precious little freeboard above the cold Baltic that was, at least for the moment, calm. The small German motor ran smoothly, though, as the boat pushed away from a rocky strand of coastline north of Rostock.

Becker was joined by three other SS officers and the boats captain, a weathered old Bavarian who had spent the war smuggling for whoever had the most money. The plan took them to Sweden, for a join-up with an emerging association of former SS men who had already coined their name — ODESSA.

The hopeful plans were good for thirty miles. Near the midpoint of their crossing, a thick fog set in. The group didn't see the larger boat approaching, but rather heard it first. When the huge silhouette appeared it was ominously close and headed right for them. The junior SS man, a lieutenant, reacted badly. He pulled his service pistol and fired five shots into the air. As a warning, the act was as impotent as it was rash. The little boat's captain gunned his tiny motor and screamed for the lieutenant to stop, but the damage had already been done.

Aboard the larger vessel, a 110-foot passenger ferry running mostly legitimate business, the Danish captain was high and alone in the wheelhouse when he saw the muzzle flashes, slightly ahead off the starboard bow. He leaned forward to the salt-rimed windshield and barely made out the silhouette of a tiny craft sitting low on the water, headed north.

Having run this route through most of the war, he knew the waters well. And he suspected he knew who might be firing at his ship from such a tiny craft. The captain considered that his few passengers were below, insulating themselves from the cold. He considered that his boat was high at the bow — a slight turn to starboard would shield the wheelhouse from anything more. And he considered his brother, who had been strung up with piano wire by Nazi thugs, unjustly labeled as a partisan. The ferry captain gave a half-turn to the wheel and bumped the throttles forward ever so slightly.

The collision was little more than a shudder to the ferry. Underneath, the tiny runner splintered into a hundred pieces. After the collision came the propellers. Major Rudolf Becker was the only one to survive both, but the miracle was short-lived, as he was also the only one who could not swim.

General Freiderich Rode was the next to try. From a safe house near Stralsund, he kept a midnight rendezvous with an Fi-156 Stork. The utility aircraft was every bit as ungainly as its name implied. Long wings and landing gear sprouted from a boxy fuselage, and the craft flew so slowly that it could be landed backward in a stiff headwind. Despite this lack of elegance, the Stork was very good at what it was designed to do — take off from unimproved strips in 150 feet, and land in half that. It was the perfect vehicle for covert insertion and extraction.

Rode had also chosen the northern route — across the Baltic, then into an isolated sector of neutral Sweden. It had already proven successful on two previous occasions. Unfortunately, this time there were delays. Engine difficulties, according to the pilot, who by default had become his own mechanic. The crafts airworthiness in question, Rode brooded through the predawn hours as the man turned wrenches and hammered against the contraption.

Nearing sunrise, and with gunfire in the distance, the pilot gave up his tinkering. He announced to Rode that he was ready to try, although with the discomforting logic that ditching along the Swedish coast would be safer than staying in Germany to surrender to Ivan.

In fact, the Stork flew, but unusual headwinds slowed the trip. For a craft that cruised at only ninety miles an hour, forty in the face was a daunting handicap. The pilot kept the manifold pressure as close as possible to the red line, and the lights of Malmo came shortly before sunrise. The pilot pointed out the vague Swedish coastline to his passenger, who sat in the rear. Rode s outlook brightened considerably.

It was a pair of early risers from the Royal Air Force's 609 Squadron who spotted the Stork just at dawn. The two-ship of Spitfires eased up to the transport from behind, and the flight leader edged forward to be in the pilot's lateral field of view. He saw the Stork pilot clearly, and tapped his headset to suggest that a bit of radio contact would be in order. Instead, the Stork pulled down and headed for the dirt.

The flight leader shook his head with disbelief. Heaving a sigh, he sent his wingman to a covering position and armed his guns. He also double-checked that his gun camera was turned on. With three Messerschmitts and a Heinkel to his credit, he had nearly finished the war one victory short of becoming an "ace." Now, fortune had interceded. An unarmed enemy utility aircraft presented little challenge, yet, by trying to evade, the craft had fallen well within the Rules of Engagement. And as they said around the squadron, "A kill's a kill."

Little maneuvering was necessary. Two hundred rounds later, the boxy gray Stork pancaked hard into a foggy valley below. A brilliant incendiary flash stabbed through the mist for an instant before being swallowed by the low clouds. The Spitfires circled for a minute to confirm that there were no parachutes, then the flight leader arced his two-ship toward home. There he would make his claim.

Colonel Hans Gruber came the closest. Traveling with a young woman and a bodyguard, he departed a monastery just outside Vienna in the early morning, heading south. Hoping to blend in, his little group wore workers clothing, old and in need of a wash. Neither of the men's faces had seen a razor in two days.

Unfortunately, the car, a dusty but still magnificent Hispano-Suiza, was altogether too conspicuous, and they ran afoul at the first roadblock. The Russian troops had no complaints with the fine counterfeit documents, nor did they notice that the occupants' polite answers were accented not in Austrian, but something farther north. The soldiers did, however, take exception when the nervous, heavyset driver pulled out a Lugar and plugged the nearest man in the chest before trying to race away.

The rest, a contingent of battle-hardened veterans, were quick to their Kalashnikovs and sure of aim. The Hispano-Suiza made no more than ten meters before its two left tires were shot out. The car skidded abruptly into a ditch, but the soldiers took no chances — they'd all made it this far, and with one of their brethren already lying in a pool of blood, they kept at it. Their weapons blazed until nearly spent of ammunition.

The soldiers approached the smoldering mess carefully, and one of the men pulled out his last grenade, icing for a ghastly cake. He was about to lob it through what had been a window when the authoritative voice of his lieutenant called clearly.

"Wait!"

It was a word that Colonel Hans Gruber, wounded and writhing in the wreckage, would later wish he had never heard.

Chapter 4

U-801 cut a rough line through the North Atlantic, choppy ten-foot seas washing across her dull black deck. Alexander Braun stood atop the sail — the boat's hardened oval watchtower — straining to see through the blackness that was amplified by a thin overcast above. The wind was out of the west, perhaps ten knots, but added to the fifteen-knot headway of the boat, and a temperature in the forties, it made for a brisk experience.

Two other men were also stationed atop the sail, the assigned lookouts, one to port and one to starboard. They'd started their shift thirty minutes ago, but neither had yet found a word for Braun. He wasn't surprised. It was part of the reason he was up here to begin with — to escape the crew, who were not enamored with the stranger who wore civilian clothes. Nine days ago they had plucked Braun out of a raft just off the Baltic coast, an orphan rescued from a war that was going badly in every quarter. From there, U-801 had followed the balance of her orders and churned west.

She was a Type IX, a long-range variant, and each day her course remained steady, the longitude increasing. Aside from the boat's captain, no one knew the precise destination, but it mattered little. Everyone understood that they were getting dangerously close to the well-guarded shores of America — carrying no torpedoes, little food, and perhaps not enough fuel to make the return leg. The risks were enormous, and with the war nearing its end, the hardened crew of U-801 wanted only to go home.

Footsteps clanged up the metal ladder from the control room below, and Braun turned to see the captain appear. He was a young man, only thirty Braun had discovered, though the war and weather had given him ten years more. He sported a scraggly beard, as did most of the crew, and his teeth were a sailors, yellow and rotted from years of rough coffee and neglect. He sauntered ahead against the breeze and took up a post next to Braun at the forward rail.

"So, Wermacht, we are nearly there."

Braun had never volunteered a name, and the captain had never asked — probably guessing he'd not get the truth. He simply addressed Braun as "Wehrmacht," an unclassifiable specimen of the German war machine. And it always came in a pointedly derisive cadence.

"One more day beneath the surface," the captain continued, "and we will be rid of you."

Braun responded, "And I will be rid of you."

The captain grinned. "The seas, they have improved. Better than the first night."

The man was goading him. During daylight hours, the boat was forced to run submerged, to avoid being spotted by ships or patrol planes. But at night she surfaced to vent and charge the batteries, and also because, there, her speed was eight knots better. On the first night of the voyage a weather front had moved in, rocking the boat mercilessly. Braun, having not been to sea in years, had retired to his tiny room, and the crew clearly found amusement in his mal de mer. The next day Braun had recovered, and it had not been an issue since, but the captain still prodded.

"Have you taken any messages tonight?" Braun asked.

The captains humor faded. "No. Our request for refueling on the return leg — it has not been answered. This is very unusual."

A rogue wave slapped audibly against the boat, and both men ducked their heads as salt spray flew over the rail.

"I expected them to deny it. But not even a reply."

"Are you sure the radios are working properly?" Braun asked. He knew the boat was tired. Her hull was pockmarked with dents, as if the ship s provisions were regularly dropped aboard from a great height. And the crew seemed to spend most of their time on repairs, often makeshift jerry-rigs to skirt around the shortage of spare parts. Every time they surfaced, a bucket-line detail emptied out the bilge. The engine fuel was being filtered through old underwear.

"Our radios are fine. We are just beginning to capture the broken signal of a Canadian radio station. No, it is not our gear."

"The end — it can only be a matter of days now," Braun said pensively.

"Yes. Which leads me to the question — should we continue?"

Braun himself had given the question much thought. He was to be dropped in a raft three miles off the coast of Long Island, with clothes, identity documents, and ten thousand American dollars that would allow him to immediately blend in. If the war should end before they arrived — or if it had already ended — what were his options? U-801 would return to Germany for surrender. The crew would be vetted, and some would undoubtedly point their fingers at the man who claimed to be a military officer, but was certainly a spy. The Allies would be most interested, and jail time was possible. Of course, if it was the Russians doing the questioning, there would be nothing beyond a single bullet in Braun's future. Returning to surrender was not in his best interest.

"My mission is of vital importance," Braun insisted. "Your commander made this quite clear, did he not?"

The captain laughed. "Of course. But then, my commander is an idiot who has not been to sea since the last war."

Braun cursed inwardly at his error. Here was a man who had survived by thinking independently, making it through four years in a combat theater where 70 percent casualties was the grim fact.

He would not be cowed by threats from superiors when there were far more immediate dangers in the skies and waters all around.

Braun smiled. "You have not seen an idiot until you've met my own commander. Now there is a bastard. But all the same, I must get to America."

"For our Fuhrer?"

"No, Herr Kapitanleutnant. For our country."

Chapter 5

Major Michael Thatcher pedaled his bicycle briskly at the shoulder of the Surrey road, the morning chill offering its usual incentive. His small, wiry frame gave minimal aerodynamic resistance, and he kept his head down to maximize the effect. The trip from his cottage to Handley Down was a matter of eighteen or nineteen minutes depending on the wind and, to a lesser extent, the condition of the road, which had a nasty tendency to deteriorate under heavy rain. Thatcher himself was not a variable.

His legs churned in steady time, notwithstanding the uneven gait — his left leg, artificial from the knee down, had never mastered the upstroke. Thatcher spotted Handley Down right on time as he rounded the last bend. Typical of the English country manors of its era, it was shameless and unrestrained, an overbearing statement of class and station. Huge fortress walls stood guard on all sides, protecting the forty-odd rooms that lay within. The place had been requisitioned for the cause in 1940 and, approaching the gated entrance, Thatcher tried to imagine what it might look like in another year's time. Minus the drab olive jeeps and sodden sandbags, it would revert to its proper owner, Lord somebody-or-other, and the offices and holding cells would be smartly reshaped back into dens, libraries, and servants quarters. The crater near the stables had a number of possible uses, but would likely be filled in and smoothed over out of respect for the crew of the B-17 that had smacked straight in last August. Only then could the gentry return and the parties begin.

Thatcher slowed as he approached the perimeter gate. Six months ago he would have endured a stern challenge from the guards, but now, with things winding down in Europe, the mood had lightened considerably.

"Mornin', Major," a corporal called out as Thatcher approached, his lazy salute an apparent afterthought.

Thatcher braked to a full stop and balanced the bike by his good leg. His return salute was crisp. "Good Morning, Thompson." He looked into the tiny shack that served as shelter for the guards. It was empty. "Where is your second?"

"Ah … well that would be Simpson, sir. He's gone for our morning tea."

"Corporal, this post is assigned in pairs. It is a dereliction of your responsibilities to —"

Thompson interrupted, "Here he comes now, Major."

A chunky enlisted man waddled up the path from the main house, a battered teapot in his hand and a stupid grin on his face. Thatcher frowned and issued a firm warning, "We're not done yet lads, do you hear?" He pushed off and covered the last hundred yards to the house, knowing the two guards were probably enjoying a laugh at his expense.

He leaned his bicycle against a young beech tree and secured it with a chain and lock — the law was clear on securing all forms of transportation, and no caveat was made to exempt military installations. Thatcher entered Handley Down through its grand main entrance. Two massive oak doors, no less than twelve feet high, stood guard at the columned portico. On the wall next to these stalwarts was a poorly stenciled sign that read: combined services detailed interrogation centre.

Thatcher heaved his way through the doors and into a voluminous lobby that swallowed all comers. Large enough for a small-sided football match, it was another study in contrasts. The Italian marble floors were scuffed and encrusted with streaks of mud. A fine table held a lovely bouquet of roses, the vase a dented metal canteen. The walls were adorned with decorative columns and fine paintings that depicted past lords and ladies of the house, yet accenting this was a drab collection of army posters encouraging everyone to keep their lips sealed and buy bonds to support the war effort.

Thatcher strode to the familiar hallway, no attempt made to mask his limp. There had always been an unevenness about him, even before the air crash. His brown hair was typically askew, his nose had been broken more than once in a series of childhood skirmishes, and one leg had always been somewhat longer. The injuries he'd picked up from the ditching of a Lancaster bomber had actually leveled things on that count, though standing straight he was now often told that one shoulder drooped. None of it bothered him.

Thatcher paused to study a large cork bulletin board at the hallway entrance. Only months ago it had been strictly business — security directives, status reports, and detail assignments. Now the thing was dominated by situations wanted, job postings, and get-rich schemes. Everyone was moving on, it seemed, ready to put the war behind.

He navigated to his own wing and turned into the office labeled: colonel roger ainsley. Inside was a neat, orderly place. In better times it had served as the library. The walls were lined from floorboard to ceiling with books, rich and scholarly volumes that held no relevance whatsoever to the business at hand. The place held a harsh odor, a hundred years of cigars, brandy, and varnish mixing defiantly.

"Roger, we must do something about the security situation!"

Roger Ainsley looked up from his desk. He was a large man of indeterminate shape, a few extra pounds softening all his edges. His hair was prematurely white and thin, and a set of metal-framed reading glasses completed the grandfatherly appearance. In spite of a two-grade advantage in rank, he allowed Thatcher the familiarity of first names.

"Good morning, Michael. And yes, I know. We had this discussion last week."

"Lax, I tell you! I saw the breach in the fence as I was riding in. It's been over two weeks since that car skidded through and nothing's been done."

"I'll see to it, Michael. Coffee?" The colonel pointed to a pot on his desk. "You should have come last night. The rugby squad were spot-on in their debut. Quartermaster Harewood had a memorable try, although it was at the expense of three teeth and a fractured mandible."

Thatcher ignored the match report. He was in full mood. "This impending victory in Europe is having a positively corrosive influence on standards here. Our battle is not over! We're holding nine high-ranking Nazis, and it's imperative we get every useful scrap out of them. If any should manage to escape—"

"Eleven," Ainsley interrupted.

"What?"

"Eleven. Two more came in last night."

"Who are they?"

Ainsley shrugged. "That's always the question, isn't it? They were captured two days ago trying to leave Berlin. One had information regarding a freighter that was scheduled to sail from Rome to Cartagena, Colombia. Rather ambitious, if you ask me."

"Have we talked to them yet?"

"Phelps took one — he got name, rank, and a sworn statement that the other man worked for Gruber in SD headquarters."

"You're joking!" Everyone here knew that Colonel Hans Gruber was a senior officer in the Operations Directorate of the SD.

"This fellow is apparently only a corporal, mind you, but if it's true—"

"Can I have a crack?"

"I thought I'd give him to you."

"Capital," Thatcher said. "It's been two weeks since we've had any fresh blood. I'll see him straightaway. And I'd better take that coffee. You know how the new ones are — if they're of a mind to talk we could be at it all day. And he might have something I can follow up on." Thatcher was an interrogator, but he had also become the unit's bloodhound — when questioning divulged the whereabouts of important war criminals, Thatcher was sent to track them down. It had happened four times so far this year, and he'd found them all, although one was already in a pine box. "Have him brought to room three. And get Baker to stand watch, the big lad. That always intimidates—"

"Michael—" Ainsley interrupted, his voice thick in exasperation.

Thatcher lost his thought, seeing concern on his commander's face. Ainsley got up, went to the heavy oak doors, and eased them shut. Thatcher wondered what this was all about.

Ainsley spoke in a quiet voice, "Michael, I know you'll do a bang-up job on this, but there's something that's been bothering me."

"What? Have I cocked up? If it's about that Lieutenant I rousted yesterday over the condition of his sidearm—"

"No, no. Tell me — what day of the week is it?"

"Day of the week?"

"Yes, tell me what day it is."

"Well, I suppose it's Thursday." He watched Ainsley frown as he sat back at his desk. "Or perhaps Friday. What the devil does it matter, Roger?"

"What time did you leave here last night?"

"Around midnight, I suppose."

"And the night before?"

"Perhaps a bit later. I've been keeping the same hours for a year."

The colonel steepled his hands thoughtfully under his chin. "This war has hit you harder than most of us, Michael."

"Nonsense. I've recovered fully. My leg—"

"I'm not talking about your leg." Ainsley had turned things around, and now he was the one steeped in stony seriousness. "Have you given any thought as to what you're going to do?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Afterward, Michael. After the war."

In fact, he had not. Not really. Before the war Thatcher had been a happily married man, well on his way to becoming a solicitor. Two years remaining at King's College, Cambridge, and a lifetime to spend with Madeline. Then the damned war had taken it all away. It was strange to even imagine going back to school, yet he could think of nothing else to say. "I suppose I'll go back and finish my law studies."

"Have you contacted them?"

"No. How can I without a schedule? Roger, we'll be chasing down these scoundrels for years. There's so much to be brought to light. You saw those photos last week, the classified ones of this Dachau camp. It was barbaric! They must be brought to justice, and it's our job to shoulder."

"It's our job to chase down and interrogate suspected high-ranking Nazis. Right now we're having a field day. But, Michael, I went to a meeting yesterday. For the moment this is between the two of us — but Handley Down is to be closed in early September."

"What? That's only three months! How can we do our job in that amount of time?"

"You know we're not the only ones. There's Kensington Palace Gardens and, of course, the Americans and the French."

"So we'll be transferred?"

The pause was deafening. "It's not out of the question, but even then — six months, or a year. You and I will soon be demobilized. I'll retire, but you're barely thirty years old, with the balance of your life ahead. Michael, you were a man on the rise before the bloody war. You must go back."

Thatcher's crooked shoulder sagged and he stared at the floor in thought. Go back? Go back to what? The university seemed like a lifetime ago, and if he did return it would be without Madeline. Would the memories be insurmountable?

"I know how much this work means to you, Michael, but you must move on. You must!'

Thatcher stood slowly and spoke in a quiet voice, "Of course youre right, Roger. Someday I'll return to finish my studies. But until that time there's work to be done."

Prisoner 68, as he was internally known, was already in the interrogation room. It was a spartan place, one of the few rooms in Handley Down that could be made so. Formerly occupied by one of the lesser servants, the color scheme was institutional gray. A single table divided three chairs — one versus two, subliminal reiteration to the prisoner that he was outmanned at every turn. Baker's hulking figure loomed near the only door, and dim light came by way of a lone bulb hanging naked from a wire.

Number 68 had been sitting in place for thirty minutes, long enough for him to understand that prisoners and guards might have their time wasted, but interrogators were far too busy to bother with punctuality. So far, under the watchful eye of Baker, Number 68 had been calm as he sat with his manacled wrists crossed on the table.

Thatcher crashed through the door and bustled in, Baker springing to rigid attention. It was a mockery of the military bearing normally shown around Handley Down, but served as a clear message for their guest — this was an officer not to be trifled with. Thatcher carried a thick file under his arm and he took a seat without making eye contact with the prisoner. He opened the file like a book and began sorting and sifting through the pages, as if an encyclopedic dossier already existed on the man facing him.

In fact, most of the pages were blank, and what they really had would fit on a single page with room to spare. Number 68 was supposedly Corporal Fritz Klein, secretary to a top Nazi spy-master. If it was true, more documentation would confirm these facts in time — the Nazis were sticklers about records — but it might take months or even years to sort through all the captured information. Thatcher paused at a paper here and there, narrowing his eyes critically like a doctor regarding the chart of a terminally ill patient. He finally slapped the file down on the table and addressed the prisoner.

"Guten Morgen."

The prisoner nodded. He stared at Thatcher with dark eyes that held firm. He was rather heavy, of medium height, and his skin had a vibrant, healthy hue, absent the pallor and perspiration usually seen on the first session. Number 68 seemed to have a purpose. Thatcher wondered if the man might have been involved in interrogations himself. He poised a pen over paper.

"Was ist dein name?"

No answer, but an easy shake of the head. Thatcher continued in fluent German.

"Your unit and service number?"

Nothing.

"Do you wish to say anything?"

The man sat in silence. Nearly half did on the first session.

Thatcher put down the pen and leaned back in his chair. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed, then refocused on the German with a piercing glare. It was no act. "Why don't we get things straight right now. You are here to answer our questions, and you will do so until we are satisfied. Whether it takes ten days or ten years is of no consequence to me. We will eventually find out everything. If you have committed crimes, your degree of cooperation will be considered when punishment is assessed. I will ask once more. Do you have anything to say?"

The German nodded once. With two index fingers that were chained in close proximity, he pointed toward the pen and paper on the table. A thankful Thatcher poised again to write.

"Manhattan Project."

The German's accent fell hard on the English words, but there was no mistaking them. Thatcher looked up quizzically and Number 68 again gestured for him to write. Reluctantly, Thatcher did, only to be rewarded with more silence. The prisoner was done for the day. Thatcher took the paper and crumpled it into a ball as he rose. He strode from the room, Baker again steeling to attention as he passed, and slammed the door shut.

Alone in the hall, Thatcher paused. At first he had thought Klein, if that's who he really was, was going to be the defiant, silent type. But a bloody gamesman. Unusual, but good. They had agendas, deals to make. In a matter of days this one would be offering everything for a price. And then the words came to Thatcher's mind. Manhattan Project.

He wondered what the devil it meant.

Chapter 6

The day's run had been without incident. U-801 ran quietly at ninety feet, her black hull easing closer to the coast of Long Island. Braun had divided his time between the navigation table, monitoring a plot of the boat's course, and below in his quarters preparing his gear. He was eager to get the drop over with before anything changed, any message or scrap of information that could take away the legitimacy of the ship's standing orders. If Germany surrendered, the Kriegsmarine would recall the fleet. And Braun would lose control of his destiny.

Shortly after dark, U-801 began her final approach. She rose to periscope depth where the captain confirmed that conditions were adequate. Scanning the surface, he addressed Braun, "The seas are light, Wehrmacht, but a low moon in the east will give some illumination."

He moved to the chart table to join Braun, who was dressed for his mission — khaki pants, heavy shirt, wool sweater, and workman's boots. The ensemble was worn, but clean and serviceable, the labels all authentically American.

"We will soon be in place," the captain said, pointing to a drop zone circled on the chart, just off the eastern end of Long Island. "You are ready?"

"Yes. How long will it take for your men to deploy the raft?"

"We will be on the surface no more than three minutes."

Not much of an answer, Braun thought, but it conveyed the idea. He would climb up the sail, then back down onto deck while a raft and oars were stuffed up through the forward hatch. With any luck the thing would land upright in the water. From there, Braun was on his own. U-801 would seal her hatches and submerge, leaving him to negotiate the final, most dangerous miles.

With the drop imminent, the control room of U-801 took on a surreal air. Red lights basked gauges, instruments, and faces in a bloody hue. The crew fell silent, and the scents of the submarine seemed to magnify. Oil from machinery, brine from the bilge, and the sweat of fifty sailors. All mixed regularly in the damp, stale atmosphere, but now it was traced with something else, something Braun recognized from the rat holes of Stalingrad — fear. The tang of the unexpected.

The crew stood at their stations, grasping wheels and levers, but all eyes were locked on the captain. On his command, U-801 started to rise. Just short of the surface, the boat leveled and the skipper turned once more to the periscope, scouting for any last sign of trouble. Apparently satisfied, he gave the final order.

"Bring her up!"

Compressed air hissed into the ballast tanks, voiding water and providing enough buoyancy to bring 900 tons of warship back to the crew's natural surroundings.

"Captain!" The shout came from the aft passageway. An ordinary seaman from the radio room stood waving a paper.

"Not now!" the captain ordered.

"Captain, please!"

The crewmen stared down the sailor, but the skipper eyed the man with interest. Braun knew what he was thinking. No one would interrupt at such a moment without good reason. The captain nodded and the sailor scurried to hand over the message. The boat's deck pitched forward slightly, and a gentle rocking motion told everyone that U-801 had surfaced.

Braun watched intently as the captain's face cracked into a weak smile. He looked up, his eyes darting between crewmen before making the announcement. "Gentlemen, our war has ended."

There was no cheer, no refrain of joy as would certainly have been the case on an American or British boat, but the relief was palpable. Some bowed their heads, perhaps in thanks to whatever god had delivered them this far, while others grinned at their buddies, open hope that a better life might soon lay ahead.

"Germany has conceded unconditionally," the captain continued, "and we are to return immediately to Kiel — to surrender our boat." Unease stirred as the crew swallowed the bitter order. The captain said, "I think, perhaps, it would be appropriate to take a moment to remember our fallen brothers-in-arms."

He dropped his chin to his chest, and the crew followed suit. Braun went along with the motion. After a very short minute, the skipper ended the exercise. "And may God have mercy on their immortal souls."

"Captain," the helmsman broke in, "shall we rig to dive?"

The captain looked disdainfully at Braun. "Ah, I almost forgot. My friend, any previous orders are now certainly overridden by this bittersweet news. Do you not agree?"

Braun met the skipper s gaze coolly. "I do not. We have come this far. I must still undertake my mission."

The captain seemed amused. He strolled toward Braun, who held his ground, and the two exchanged a hard stare. The tenuous authority of Braun's orders, his only control, was now lost.

"Captain," the executive officer insisted, "we are exposed! Request permission to dive."

"Yes! Yes! The war is over, but there might be a destroyer captain about who has not gotten the news." He smirked and gestured to the ladder. "Still, we must not take lightly the sacrifices of our other services. Standby to man the deck!" he ordered. "U-801 will complete her last mission. Prepare the raft at the forward deck hatch." The captain turned to Braun. "The coastline is three miles off," he grinned and pointed to starboard, "that way."

The pressure door above opened and residual seawater splashed down the ladder. Braun moved for his gear, but the captain stepped in the way.

"No, my friend. We have brought you here at great risk. Your things will stay with us — a reward, of sorts, for our efforts."

The two men glared at one another. A half dozen crew members took their skipper's lead and eyed Braun menacingly. The duffel, wrapped in oilskin, contained everything he needed — documents and uniforms to run his cover as a soldier, a Lugar 9mm, and 10,000 U. S. dollars. For a brief moment he wondered how they knew. But then Braun understood. He should have anticipated it. At the beginning of the voyage, when he had tried to hide the money in the nooks and crannies of his stateroom, he'd found three bottles of liquor and an indecent book. Nothing could be hidden here without the crew's knowledge. It was their territory, every inch, and they would have been intensely curious about anything Braun had brought aboard. It was the money they wanted, a rare chance at spoils for the vanquished.

"All right, keep the money. But I must have the rest." Braun reached for his bundle, but the captain kicked it away. He knew about the gun as well.

"Go now, Wehrmacht! Before I lose my benevolence!"

A stocky sailor, built like a squat stone pillar, brandished a heavy wrench. Braun considered his options. He could easily take the captain, and perhaps a few others, but the odds were extreme. There was no way to get his gear topside without unacceptable risk. Even then it would be pointless without the raft, to be delivered on deck through a separate, forward hatch. Braun put a hand to the ladder. His pale blue eyes focused on the captain, yet fell obscure, a fog covering what lay behind.

"Until we meet again, Captain." With that, he climbed to the sail.

Above, the salt air hit with its customary raggedness, an altogether different realm from the smooth darkness of twenty fathoms. Braun searched across the black sea. He could just make out lights along the coast. It looked farther than three miles, but judging at night was difficult. Forward, the deck of U-801 stretched out before him. He could just see the outline of the forward cargo hatch. It would open at any moment to disgorge his salvation, the raft and oars that would carry him the last miles to America.

Then Braun heard it. At his feet, the solid clang of the hatch closing. A churning astern as U-80Ts screws were engaged. Bastards! The boat eased forward, and her bow planes extended with a downward tilt.

Braun scampered down from the sail and ran forward to the cargo hatch. He stomped on it with his boot, the rubber sole thudding against a steel fortress. The boat picked up speed, and soon foamy water began to churn over the top of her black hull. When the water reached his knees, he succumbed to the futility. Braun jumped as far as he could, hoping to clear the twisting screws. The water was cold and hit like a shot of electricity, but for the moment only one thing mattered — kick, swim, get clear!

With his head down, Braun pulled for all he was worth. The water transmitted a throbbing pulse to his ears, closer and closer. His body twisted against waves and whirlpools that seemed to pull him toward the spinning propellers. He went under, tumbling, not sure which way was up, which way was clear. Then, finally, he surfaced. He shook his head to clear the water from his face and saw U-801 slip down and disappear into a maelstrom of foam. The sound of her engines faded and the seas quickly reverted to their standard, uniform chaos, no traces left to betray the steel black monster lurking just below.

Treading water, Braun scanned the horizon for the shoreline he had seen only moments ago. It was hopeless. The gentle waves that had caressed U-801 now seemed huge. Braun rose and fell on the swells, yet even at the crests he was too low to make out the horizon. He had to act fast. With water so cold his time was limited. There was only one reference, the moon, still low to the east. As long as he kept it at his back, he would be moving in the right direction.

Braun began swimming at a brisk pace, but quickly realized his problem. The clothes were impossible, dragging like a sea anchor. He curled down and took off his boots, then tore away the heavy jacket. He tried again, but progress was still impeded, and when he stopped a breaking wave caught him flush in the face. Braun coughed and spit out the briny mess. He cursed inwardly. He had survived far too much. It will not end here, he thought. Not like this!

He reached down and frantically stripped off everything — shirt, pants, briefs, and socks — until he was naked, save for the Swiss-made timepiece strapped to his wrist. Now the water seemed colder still, and for a moment Braun despaired. But he knew the one thing that would save him. He could just make out the second hand on his watch. One minute.

He took a deep breath and fell back, floating fluidly on the churning sea. Above, he saw the stars in their familiar patterns, an unmoving reference against the roiling ocean. It was the same constant he had found in the skies over Stalingrad. There, on clear nights, the black stillness above was the only thing to hold against the chaos of bullets, knives, and explosions all around. Time and again over the last years he had watched men panic in the face of such trials. He'd seen them throw their guns down and run screaming from foxholes, seen them rush suicidal into enemy onslaughts, perhaps hastening what they saw as inevitable. He had watched men who were not on regular terms with God fall to their knees and pray for His intervention.

Braun, however, had always been the provider of his own salvation. This was where he differed from other men. Purging the cold, purging everything, he closed his eyes and set his mind to a blank. He soon acquired a tranquility that mirrored the heavens above. It was his advantage, a mental structure that always held form and foundation. He would waste no thoughts on cursing Colonel Gruber or the captain of U-801 for bringing him here. He would not brag inwardly that he would win, or that he had never been beaten. He simply fell calm. Braun allowed his limbs to float freely in the ocean's cold, aqueous womb. His mind acquired order and a singular, absolute constant fell into place — the task of swimming a few miles in the correct direction through a freezing ocean.

He noted the time, referenced the moon, and again started off. His arms and shoulders did the work, stroking at a firm, rhythmic pace as his mind considered the variables. How far was it to shore? He was a strong swimmer, but the cold would take his strength. Would he have an hour? Two? The winds were light, but what about the current? Sourced from the south, he decided, the Gulf Stream flowing up along the coast. Perpendicular. He hoped it was so. A knot or two against him would double the task. Braun concentrated on his form, and his muscles filled with blood from the exertion. It felt good, but he realized that the warmth his body manufactured was ultimately no match for the oceans cold. There were limits. Even he had limits.

The breaking waves were merciless. He sucked in seawater, coughed up brine and bile. Every few minutes he paused to reference the moon, rising steadily behind him. He went for nearly an hour when, at the crest of a wave, he thought he saw a light on the horizon. His spirits rose. But on the next rise he saw nothing. Braun returned to pulling through the water, his limbs straining with less authority now. Had it been a light on shore? A low star? Or perhaps a boat? He felt the first cramps in his back. Yes, a boat would do nicely. A fisherman. He could make it work. Somehow. He looked west again, but still saw nothing. It was very cold.

He ignored his watch now, and Braun's mind began to drift — odd, directionless thoughts. Minnesota, Cambridge, the steppes of Central Russia. Useless thoughts. Had it been another hour? Two? What did it matter — he had the rest of his life. The cramps forced him to adjust his stroke. From an overhand crawl he shifted to the breaststroke, but with the seas in his face it was impossible. He went to a sidestroke, alternating, and made far less headway. Soon his legs began to cramp, and Braun began to shiver. His teeth chattered uncontrollably against the temperature drop. He knew what it meant — his body was nearing the end of its ability to function. This, too, he had seen in Russia, but always in others. Braun had never been this far himself.

Still no lights. His mind began blanking. The waves seemed bigger. Or was he simply moving lower in the water? His right leg seized, the muscles rigid. Headway was nothing. Just stay up!

Waves slapped mercilessly, and then suddenly all was calm. His surroundings fell still and dark, shrouded like an overcast Russian sky. And with the last vestige of consciousness, Alexander Braun realized he had gone under.

Chapter 7

Michael Thatcher strove desperately to find the virtue of routine. When he woke at five thirty, his customary hour, the first stop was always the washbasin. He stirred shaving cream in a cup and was about to apply it to his face when he paused to regard the image in the mirror. Five o'clock shadow notwithstanding, the face staring back at him was a sad sight. His thin, narrow features seemed to strain along the vertical axis, as if some great weight was pulling everything down by the chin. Dark circles lay under murky, tired eyes. And his brown hair was too long, tousled, and untidy. I've let myself go, he thought. Or perhaps Roger is right. I've been working too hard.

After shaving, the tide continued against him. Laundry had been piling up and there was no clean underwear in his top drawer. Thatcher eventually found a pair wedged in the gap between his dresser and the wall, and he thought they looked clean enough after he'd shaken off the dust. Once dressed, he placed a pot of water on the stove.

He had spent the previous night with Mr. Churchill on the radio, finally hearing the words the country had been waiting years for— "The German war is over. God save the King!" He had been tempted to go down to the Cock and Thistle for a pint — the place must have been riotous. But he'd been tired. Very tired.

That's what war does to you,Thatcher had reasoned before falling asleep in his best chair.

This morning things seemed strangely unchanged. There was no brilliant sunrise — an early morning drizzle tapped against the windows — and the same stack of cases would still be scattered over his desk, oblivious to the formal surrender. Thatcher was pouring his morning tea when the telephone rang. Roger Ainsley sounded weary.

"Michael, I need you here right away."

Thatcher was taken aback. Roger worked hard, but never found his way to the office before daybreak. "Can I ask what this is about?"

"It has to do with Number 68.1 can t say anything more."

"I see. I'll be right in."

Thatcher turned off the stove and donned his uniform, wondering what had happened. Roger sounded in a state. Had Klein done himself in? It had happened once before, an SS major who'd certainly been up against the gallows. But Klein was a nobody, a corporal. He might have useful information, but the man hardly seemed a war criminal. Thatcher remembered the results of his questioning — Manhattan Project. More than ever, he wondered what the devil it meant.

Thatcher stepped into Ainsley's office twenty-five minutes later, his boots muddied and his uniform peppered with moisture from the early morning drizzle. He saw Ainsley flanked by a pair of serious men. One was tall with angular features, and wore the uniform of a U. S. Army colonel. He stood rigidly for the introduction. The other looked a civilian, a slight man with close-cut reddish hair that receded on top to reveal a freckled scalp. He swam in a tweed jacket, and held a casual stance. A cigarette dangled loosely from two fingers.

"Major Thatcher," Ainsley said in an uncharacteristically formal tone. "These gentlemen would like a word with you. This is Colonel Rasmussen of the U. S. Army Intelligence Corps."

Thatcher exchanged pleasantries with the officer.

"And Mr. Jones is a representative of the United States War Department."

The civilian offered a soft handshake, then retreated to the side and leaned against a bookcase. Thatcher decided that the man was trying to imply, by his aloofness, that he effectively outranked the colonel.

"Gentlemen," Ainsley began, "Major Thatcher here is an interrogator. Hes also our tracker — when we find reliable evidence of important Nazis on the run, we send Thatcher to hunt them down. He's quite good at it."

"I see," Rasmussen said. "Yesterday, Major, you interviewed Number Sixty-eight?"

"I did."

"And what were the results?"

"Well, the only thing I got was this phrase — Manhattan Project. The prisoner clearly thought it would mean something to me. It didn't, so I asked around a bit."

"Who did you discuss this with?" Rasmussen asked.

"A couple of the officers here. I also made a call to a friend in intelligence at SHAEF," Thatcher said, referring to the Supreme Allied Headquarters.

"A Major Quinn?" Rasmussen suggested.

"Yes, that's right. He's an old acquaintance, and always knowledgeable."

"Why did you feel the need to ask someone in our intelligence services about this?"

Thatcher thought it was obvious enough. "The name of course. Manhattan Project."

The American officer clasped his hands behind his back. "I see. And was anyone able to shed light on this name?"

"No. Not yet. Is it something important?"

"Nothing vital. A shipbuilding project in New York. But it is classified. We'd like to find out what else Number Sixty-eight knows."

Thatcher's voice was edged in skepticism, "This project is nothing vital, but you've rushed over straightaway in the middle of the night — just in case there's something more?"

Rasmussen frowned and Ainsley stepped in. "We'd like you to interview Sixty-eight again. Really press in and see if he has anything else. We've confirmed his identity." Ainsley tapped a folder on his desk. "Just as we thought — Corporal Fritz Klein."

Thatcher recognized the German Army personnel folder. "Where did you get that?"

"Berlin. We pulled it out of the Wehrmacht's records."

"Berlin? That usually takes three weeks. We got it overnight?"

The man called Jones finally entered the match, his tone impatient. "Major Thatcher, we're asking for a little help here. I know you're an investigator by nature, but let's remember who pulled Europe's ass out of this fire."

Thatcher bristled and was ready to lash back when Ainsley again turned referee. "Michael, this comes straight from Whitehall. Let's see that it's done. I've already arranged for Sixty-eight to be brought to The Stage."

Thatcher knew what that meant. The Stage was a unique interrogation room, the only one with a mirrored viewing area. Ainsley and the Americans would be watching. He was being steamrolled, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Thatcher locked eyes with Jones like a prizefighter staring down an opponent.

"All right then. Let's get on with it."

The brightness was incredible. Braun opened his eyes and squinted severely against the brilliance. The sound of the ocean remained, echoing in his ears, yet when his hands clawed there was no longer water. Something firmer, yet still liquid through his fingers. Sand.

He shielded his eyes for relief and slowly began to see, slowly began to remember. U-801. Swimming, gasping, breathing. Just barely breathing. And then sinking, falling slowly, helplessly until his feet finally hit something. Push! Push back up! At last another breath. Then fighting the waves until he could stand, crawling the last few meters. The cold had been next. Not like Stalingrad, but the same vital thoughts. Keep moving. Find protection, warmth.

Braun's vision focused more clearly. He registered dunes and outcroppings of long grass. He was in a recess dug into the side of an embankment — a bed of coarse sand and a blanket of strawlike grass to break the wind and absorb the rays of the sun. He tried to move, only then remembering that he was still naked. Rising, the sand and grass gave way, exposing his body to a steady breeze.

Braun stood tall. He stretched as he looked out across the ocean. He had prevailed. Just as he had over the steppes of central Russia. And the bastard captain of U-801. And Colonel Hans Gruber. He had survived them all, and here he stood, thrown onto the shore of America as if reborn. To hell with Russia, he thought. To hell with Gruber and his derelict Nazi partners. After five years, Brauns war was done. Finally done.

He walked slowly to the shoreline and stood at water's edge, his feet sinking into soft sand. He checked his watch only to find the hands stilled, beads of salt water rolling aimlessly under the crystal. Braun unlatched the useless thing from his wrist and dropped it into the surf at his feet. The rebirth was now complete.

Braun would never believe in God — not after what he'd seen — but he did believe in Providence. He had been delivered to this shore on a quest commissioned by three wretched Nazis. Men who would today be running for their own lives, assuming they'd even managed to escape Germany. Braun had been sent on a mission for the salvation of a Reich he cared nothing about, washed ashore without even a shirt on his back. They had given him a few scant pieces of information — the time and place for a rendezvous, and the code names of an agent and a project. It was a mission he had never intended to complete, and now, with the principals of the fiasco certainly routed, Braun was free. But free to do what?

This was the thought that had stirred ever since he'd learned he was headed to America. Could he return to finish his work at Harvard, the study of European architecture? What was left but a continent in ruins? Yet something of his old life must remain. It had been good, nibbling at the edges of a social station he'd never before imagined. Evenings with his friends at their private clubs in Boston, summers at the ocean. Braun had hung to the coattails of a pleasured existence until his damned father had yanked him away.

And then the nightmare, five years of doing what was necessary to stay alive. Looking out across the ocean, he smiled. What did the Americans call it? The silver lining in the cloud. Five years ago Braun had seen the life he wanted, yet had no idea how to acquire it. Now, for all the suffering, the war had taught him much. He would take what he pleased, by any means necessary. And he knew precisely where to start.

At the water's edge he paused to look left and right. There was nothing but empty beach in either direction, two barren, opposing pathways that might lead anywhere. The immediate choice seemed natural. Just as in the Cauldron, Braun turned west and began to walk.

Forty minutes later he had taken up an observation position. Hidden in a dense outcropping of bushes, Braun watched sporadic traffic along a two-lane road. Across the street lay a diner, host to only two cars at the early afternoon lull. He found himself critiquing the structure — it was probably no more than twenty years old, yet the wood frame had already begun to sag, and the shingled roof needed repair. The Americans built things quickly, but rarely to last.

Minutes earlier, a vagrant had trudged by, an old tramp with grey stubble across his face. The clothes were tattered, the gait unsteady. Easy prey, but hardly satisfactory. Braun needed three things — clothing, money, and, if possible, transportation. The tramp would provide only one, and that marginal. As he waited, scents from the diner drifted across the road. Hunger pulled at Braun's stomach, but it was a well-ingrained task to force the urge aside. How many men had he seen die from such simple impatience?

The answer to his problems presented itself in a cloud of dust and black diesel smoke. A large delivery truck creaked to a stop on the near shoulder of the road in front of him. The driver, a chunky, middle-aged sort dressed in workman's clothes and a flat cap, climbed down from the cab and trundled across the street to the diner.

Braun studied him as he had come to study all men. Size, strength, carriage. The driver did not wear glasses. There was muscle in the mans shoulders, but also thickness around his belly. His hands were small and thick, the fingers like fat sausages. His gait was compact but even, nothing to indicate infirmity. He would be strong, but stiff and immobile. His hair was long enough — it could be grabbed and held if necessary. And he wore suspenders. No man with experience would ever go into a fight wearing straps so close to the throat. But then it dawned on Braun — for the first time in years, his adversary would not be expecting a fight.

The trucks engine was left to run, suggesting a short stop. A call of nature? Braun wondered. Or perhaps a cup of coffee? Either way, the opportunity was clear. Taking the truck directly was not an option. The driver would report it missing within minutes. Braun checked left and right along the road, making sure no other traffic was approaching to see a naked German spy crawl from the woods. He edged out of the weeds and climbed to the running board of the truck's passenger door. He saw two seats in the cab, but nowhere behind them to hide. The passenger door was unlocked, and he noted a tire iron on the floor between the two seats. His tactics evolved.

The driver emerged from the diner five minutes later. He carried a thermos in his hand and Braun adjusted his mental blueprint. He would have to deal with that first. It was heavy, and no doubt filled with some type of scalding liquid. He stayed low behind the passenger door as the driver's side opened, then slammed shut.

He counted to three before throwing the door open. Braun lunged into the passenger seat and spotted the thermos on the floor. He swatted it aside and scanned for any new threats. The pause was designed to give the driver a good look at the hostile, naked man who had just violated his coffee break. His reaction was as rash as it was predictable. He lunged for the tire iron, head low, right arm extended. At the bottom of this motion, Braun brought his right bicep up under the man's neck, pinning him helplessly and keeping the hand with the iron bar locked uselessly beneath. He then completed the constriction from behind with his left, and one vicious twist ended the affair in a crunching noise. The driver slumped toward Braun, his ear lying unnaturally against his shoulder, the eyes bulging in terminal surprise.

Braun shoved the man to the floor on the passenger side and removed his shirt, sliding it over his own shoulders. He would tidy up later, but for the moment he had to drive, before a waitress came trotting out with change, or some other complication. He assumed the driver s seat, donned the dead man s cap, and put the truck into gear.

Chapter 8

When Thatcher entered the room, Number 68 was again sitting quietly, his manacled hands resting on the table. Today the guard was outside the door, yet another irregularity to fuel Thatchers curiosity. He took a seat opposite the prisoner and eyed him directly. Today s offer had already been set, Ainsley the architect, but with the approval of the Americans. Thatcher s job was to make it convincing. As he began in German, he wondered if Rasmussen and Jones understood the language. He suspected they did.

"Corporal Klein, this will be your last meeting with me. We are very busy, as you can imagine, and we can't waste time with someone such as yourself." He paused before his strike. "You were an aide to Colonel Hans Gruber in Abwehr Headquarters. Given this, you may have come across valuable information during the course of your work. Today you will dictate to me anything of possible value regarding matters of intelligence and war crimes. In exchange, I am authorized to make the following offer. You will stay in our custody for a period of two months. During this time we will verify the evidence you give. If it proves accurate and true, we will deliver you to your hometown of Wittenberge with the sum of one hundred British pounds in your pocket. From there you will be free to make your way in whatever existence you can find. This is a singular and immediate offer." Thatcher added a glare to make sure he was clear on the next point. "It will not be made again."

The lack of alternatives to the offer was quite intentional, and Thatcher watched the young man fidget, his fingers prying together. Yesterday's calmness and confidence were gone.

He continued, "If you wish, I will leave the room for five minutes while you decide."

More fidgeting, then Klein spoke. "What guarantees do I have that—"

"None" Thatcher interrupted, not allowing any east-west into the conversation. "You can agree to our terms — or not."

The corporal's eyes glazed as he no doubt considered a million things. Home. Prison. The unknown. Predictably, he relented. "Yes. All right."

"Good. We will begin with what we have. You are Corporal Fritz Klein?"

"Yes."

"You were assigned to work for Colonel Hans Gruber?"

"Yes."

"Yesterday you mentioned something called the Manhattan Project. You obviously think it is important. Why?" Thatcher poised a pen over his notepad.

The prisoner arranged his thoughts. "Colonel Gruber held a meeting on his last morning in the office —"

"When?"

"April twentieth, or maybe the twenty-first."

"Who was present at this meeting?"

"Yes. This I remember. General Freiderich Rode and a Major Becker of the SS. They discussed a mission, I think, but I did not hear the details. The meeting was short, yet re-formed later that day, with the addition of a captain from the army. Immediately after this second gathering, I was ordered to destroy all the files in the office. But my first priority was to eliminate five folders — the Colonel was very specific on this point. I think they related to the meeting."

"And this was when you came across the words — Manhattan Project?"

"Yes. The first three files were personnel folders. I did not see the names. Of the last two, one involved this secret project. There is an agent — in Mexico, I think. Code name Die Wespe."

Die Wespe, Thatcher thought. The Wasp. "This agent, is he American?"

Klein shrugged. "I remember nothing else. There were only moments to look."

"What about the final file? You looked at this one as well?"

"Yes, briefly. It was a personnel dossier on the army captain. He lived in America before the war — this was circled — and he attended university there."

"Which one?"

The prisoner frowned in concentration and Thatcher scribbled away, increasingly sure that the man was giving all he could. "Harburg.. Harbor. Something like this."

"Harvard?"

"Harvard! Yes, that was it," Klein said.

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Thatcher wrote down the name and circled it idly. Not that he would forget. Klein probably had no idea that Harvard was among America's most elite institutions of higher education. It was also, like Oxford and Cambridge, academic territory reserved for the children of the very wealthy and privileged. He thought it curious that a man from such a background might end up as an officer in the Wehrmacht.

"Give me a physical description of this man."

"Tall, strong build, blond hair. He wore a sniper's badge. And there was a scar — here." Klein pointed to his temple. "I also remember his name."

He motioned for the pen and paper with his cuffed hands, and Thatcher slid them over. Klein wrote the name, then proudly turned it toward his interrogator. Alexander Braun.

"There is one other thing" the prisoner added. "I saw a strange classification, a note handwritten on the cover of the folder. We file by a single letter, then a number. This one said 'U-801:"

"Why do you find this strange?"

"Because the U file doesn't go that high. Maybe fifty is the highest. And Braun starts with a B."

"So perhaps Braun was not his true name?"

"It is possible."

Possible, Thatcher thought. So much was possible.

The interview lasted another twenty minutes. Convinced that Corporal Klein had given his all, he released the man to the custody of the guard. Thatcher quickly made his way out of The Stage, wondering if the Americans were still watching.

As he walked down the hall, the word Roger Ainsley had spoken yesterday suddenly came back. Demobilized. Thatcher wondered how long he had. Might this be his last case before heading back to university? Civil Law and Procedure. The Rules of Evidence. How trite it all seemed in the face of a world turned upside-down.

Of course, someday the world would right itself. Thatcher only hoped he could do the same.

Chapter 9

The meeting reconvened in Ainsley s office an hour later, a round-table discussion of the slim facts. As earlier, Jones sequestered himself from the conversation, staring out the window with a brooding expression that mirrored the slate gray sky outside.

"Not much to go on, but he was very consistent," Ainsley said.

"Yes," Rasmussen agreed. He seemed to look to Jones for guidance. "It all sounds pretty sketchy. I'm not sure if it's worth pursuing."

"I found it compelling," Thatcher disagreed. "We should have another go tomorrow. I'd like to try to jog his memory on this Braun fellow. We know where he went to school before the war. If I called there and—"

"No!" Jones broke in. "No. We're done here." He moved to the coat rack. "Colonel Ainsley, there is no need to pursue this matter any further. Keep Klein in solitary until we approve his release."

"We told him he'd be released in two months," Thatcher countered. "And surely solitary can't be necessary."

"Keep him isolated until we tell you otherwise. It might be two months or two years."

"But we agreed—"

"Major" Jones cut in again, "that man is a Nazi!"

"He's a soldier"

"Soldier or not, he's locked down. And I will also require the two of you to maintain absolute silence about this."

Thatcher limped over to Jones and stood in his face. "You'll require us? What the bloody hell does that mean?"

Jones shrugged his baggy coat over his shoulders and said, "It means that by the end of the day you will have very specific, written orders relating to this matter. Drop it and zip your lips. That's it!"

The civilian strode out the door, Colonel Rasmussen tagging along behind.

Thatcher bristled. "Who the devil does he think he is?"

In a practical sense, Thatcher and Ainsley found out three hours later. The orders came straight from the War Office. Isolate Klein indefinitely, and don't breathe a word about any of it.

Ainsley broke the news to his friend over an ale at the Cock and Thistle.

"This has come from the very top, Michael. We must honor it."

Thatcher studied his Guinness. "Bloody eejits! It doesn't make sense, Roger."

"What do you mean?"

"If this Manhattan Project is such a minor issue, why all the huff?"

"So there's more to it. The Yanks want to investigate the matter themselves."

"But they're not! That's what doesn't follow. If it was a breach of some critical program, they'd be grilling poor Klein six ways. Instead, they order him locked down, tell us to shut up, and disappear."

Ainsley shrugged and took a long pull on his mug.

Thatcher continued, "It's something terrifically important, I tell you. Braun, Wespe, and this Manhattan Project — it all goes beyond the war."

"Our hands are tied, Michael." Thatcher didn't respond and Ainsley gave him a stern look. "Tied, I tell you!"

"Of course, Roger."

A hard silence fell. Thatcher looked to the wall at the back of the bar. There were two dozen photographs of young men and women. They were nailed into every space, a makeshift memorial to the locals who had given their lives for the cause. Each would have had families, friends, comrades-in-arms. So many, Thatcher thought. So much suffering. He paid for the round and told Ainsley he was going home.

They both knew it was a lie.

It wasn't so strange, Braun thought, being a spy. In a way he felt like he'd been one his entire life. He had taken a gunfighter's seat in the posh restaurant — his back to the wall and with a commanding view of the entrance. It seemed a natural precaution.

He'd only been in America for thirty hours and, though exhausted, everything was falling well into place. The truck he'd stolen yesterday in Westhampton was now parked amid a half dozen similar rigs at a roadside restaurant, this one far busier than the place where he'd first found it. The choice of the truck had been fortuitous. It was a mover's truck, delivering the worldly possessions of some well-to-do family. Braun had stuffed a suitcase with clothes, which were far better in fit and quality than the squat driver's, along with a considerable collection of jewelry. The driver himself, minus eighteen dollars that had been in his pocket, was now folded neatly into a large trunk at the front of the trailer, and the rear doors secured by a padlock.

Next had come a bus ride into the city, and a night in an anonymous hotel in the borough of Queens. This morning, an inexpensive breakfast prepared him for the riskiest maneuver — quietly exchanging the jewelry for cash. Claiming it to be an inheritance, Braun split the collection and pawned it at three different shops. He allowed the merchants a steep premium for cash, knowing the magnitude of the bargain would suppress any unease about the source of the goods. In the end, he pocketed three hundred eighty dollars — more than he'd ever had in his life.

Only now did he allow himself the luxury of a good meal. In spite of being famished, he lingered for twenty minutes over the menu, studying the offerings like a fallen priest in a whorehouse. It was the waiter's description of the chef's selection du jour that sealed things. Preceded by a generous salade assaisonnee and a glass of Chablis, the rack of lamb proved sumptuous, the meat literally falling from the bone. Braun lingered with each bite, pausing, appreciating.

As he did, he watched those around him. Amid dark wood trim and velvet seats, middle-aged businessmen sat at their regular tables. They mingled in clusters or, in a few cases, were paired cozily with much younger women. Martinis came and disappeared in a constant flow. Braun found it all entertaining, and he imagined that in both groups the lies flowed as freely as the alcohol. It occurred to him that the men seemed quite confident, sure of themselves in these gilded surroundings. He doubted a single one had ever killed a man. It made him feel like a wolf among sheep.

The fine meal was a pleasure he had not experienced for nearly five years, and he left nothing but a scattering of bones picked clean. Braun winced when the bill came. He paid, allowing a nice tip, and headed outside into the warm sun. There, he practiced his new trade.

Braun walked to a corner, turned, and ducked into a shop. He studied the scene out the front window. The lessons had been rushed. On leaving Berlin, he'd spent three days in a safe house before boarding U-801. There, his instructor was Frau Schumann, a graying woman of about fifty who had probably been attractive in her time. She'd given Braun a crash course in the arts of deception. How to build a radio from commonly available parts. How to work with invisible inks and simple codes. Her particular quarter of expertise was an adult version of the child's game of hide-and-seek, the nuanced mechanics how to see but not be seen, how to follow but not be followed. He found her information useful, steeped in an unsavory brand of practicality. Braun took to it naturally. Frau Schumann was pleased.

She had kept him busy for sixteen hours the first day, and at the end she shared a little about herself. She had worked for the Abwehr in Spain, Italy, and France. She spoke seven languages. Her husband had died in the Great War, a victim of the gas. Braun listened politely.

The second day had lasted twelve hours. She then tried to seduce him, which he allowed. The final days lesson lasted ten hours and, after a pleasant dinner, Braun had put a bullet in the back of her head as she stood washing dishes. Those had been his instructions — Gruber wanted no possible trace of the spy sent for Die Wespe. Braun suspected it was also another part of his education. A final exam, as it were.

Now, as he walked out of the shop, Frau Schumann's words echoed. Crowded places are best. Know every exit. Listen freely, look sparingly. It all made perfect sense.

Chapter 10

Penn Station was busy in the early evening rush. Office workers swarmed in every direction like ants across a pile. Braun suspected the bustling atmosphere was amplified today, victory in Europe adding a spring to everyone's step. He sat quietly on a bench, waiting for the six fifteen train to Boston. In fact, he would not go quite that far, exiting two stops before the tickets final destination. The extra cost had been minimal, and while he was quite sure that no one was presently seeking him out, there was comfort in the small lie.

A whistle blew and steam billowed around the frame of a departing engine. As he waited, Braun tried to use the time constructively. In the conversations around him he picked up slang. He noted the New York accent that held a stronger edge than his natural midwestern tone. Braun would have to be careful — five years of speaking only German and a smattering of Russian would creep in if he wasn't careful. He would have to be deliberate and precise. Bit by bit, information came. The Yankees were winning, but struggling in the pennant race. La Guardia was still mayor.

A young boy scurried toward him barking a pitch to sell the New York Times. More to learn. Braun waved him over.

"Hey, boy. I'll take one."

"Five cents, mister."

Braun paid and took a copy. The headline, of course, was Germany defeated. The city had climaxed in a spontaneous explosion — liquor and confetti, strangers kissing strangers. The celebration would last a day or two, probably until the next horrible casualty count from the Pacific.

He turned to the papers latter sections and flicked his eyes across the pages. He wondered what was happening in Germany. Amid the chaos and muted relief, had Gruber and the others escaped? An image came to mind — it had been in the Ukraine. His unit had set a barn on fire during a rushed retreat, not wanting to leave anything for Ivan. Amid the blaze, a few chickens had run out, screeching and flapping their smoldering wings. Yes, he thought with a smile, thats how it must be. Braun was sure he'd never see any of them again.

He tucked the newspaper under the arm of a fine charcoal gray suit he had purchased only hours ago. It was used, but in excellent condition, an expensive Italian cut that fit perfectly and retained the signature label. The shoes were also Italian, and together the ensemble reeked of wealth. Even second hand, it had cost thirty dollars. Fortunately, the rest of Braun's needs were modest. He would eat another meal, take a room, and tomorrow find a quality haircut and a shave. When the time came, he had to be eminently presentable. The Coles of Newport would expect nothing less. Or would they?

It had been five years. He knew that Americans, in spite of their patent wealth, had been making sacrifices for the war. Rationing of gas and sugar, copper and tires. But Newport, where the robber barons of capitalism sunned their egos so openly? Would Newport sacrifice? Braun smiled inwardly. Of course not. Discretion. That would be the order of the times. Let the hedgerows grow higher. There would be no shortage of beef on the dinner table or tea to accent one's afternoon. The industrialists would make a mint out of this war, the only concern being not to flaunt the local ease.

Not that there wouldn't be hardship. There must certainly be a shortage of able bodies to keep the gardens lush and the stables clean. The sons of proper society, those who couldn't manage 4-F, would have to take their commissions and go away, even if it was only to plum headquarters assignments in D. C. or Rome. And there would be no end to the tedious fund-raisers and War Bond drives. In her own inimitable way, Newport would do her part. As would the Coles.

A vision of Lydia came to mind, her long dark hair and curving figure. He wondered how much she had changed in five years. She'd sent a picture back in '41 or '42, tucked into one of the last letters that had found him. Still attractive, in an ordinary sort of way, and with the same hopeful pout. Braun had returned a few letters in the beginning, but his enlistment in the Wehrmacht predictably intervened. From there, a friend in Paris had forwarded a few of her buoyant missives, but the arrangement was unsustainable. Lydia would never hold him at fault for not writing — she knew he'd gotten lost in the fight. Braun had simply neglected to tell her for which side. When he finally walked in the door after so many years, she would forgive. Of this, he was sure.

The rest of the family might have questions, of course. He would concoct a few vague stories, but nothing heroic. Everyone knew the true warriors were the ones who said the least. With the war winding down, men would be coming home by the boatload. Braun would claim to be a soldier on leave, a slim departure from the truth. Two weeks to begin. Or maybe three. Long enough to reestablish himself in good stead with the Coles of Newport.

He'd met her at a Harvard-Wellesley mixer, and they'd done exactly that, wantonly, during the summer of 1940. At first, Braun had been amused by the prim, reserved Lydia, seeing her as simple fare, a light challenge for conquest. The results came immediately, and if she demonstrated a distinct lack of expertise, it was more than compensated for by rampant enthusiasm. The entire, exhausting affair would have fizzled quickly had it not been for Lydia's prescient invitation — two weeks with the family at Harrold House. This was where Braun had become truly enraptured.

He remembered his first impressions driving down Bellevue Avenue. Expansive lawns gave separation from the road, allowing the commoners a glimpse from a suitable distance. And farther back, along the shoreline, was madness. Forty thousand square foot(cottages," occupied only a few months each summer. It was an impossible mix of styles and themes, an architects playground and nightmare at the same time. A Louis XIV chateau next to a Georgian Revival. French Normandy sandwiched between Gothic and Tudor. The resulting hodgepodge was an assault to Brauns trained eye. He preferred symmetry, consistency. Yet there was something more behind it.

In the days that followed, Braun realized the error of his first appraisal. He saw a greater force at work, an influence that overrode any architectural misdemeanors. These were not structures, they were statements, each a reflection of the individual owner's imagination and ego. Crass and unenlightened as they might be, the buildings and gardens were only props, a setting for the true occupation of Newport. Evenings in full dress, elbow to elbow with senators and ambassadors. Old money magnates and respectable crooks mingling to proper music served up by forty-piece orchestras. It was pure theater on a scale Braun could never have imagined. By day, the men competed, the more ruinously expensive the sport, the better. Polo ponies and racing yachts. Ruthless golf and tennis. By night, the parties rotated among the estates, and here the women competed — better caviar than the tripe served by the Smythes last week, or three bands to top the Wynn's two. There was backstabbing and manipulation. Deal making and lust. But more than anything, there was money. It was the constant, the standard by which foolish excess was measured.

For Braun, the leisures of Newport had been fleeting, interrupted when the telegram had come from his bullheaded father. Come to Paris right away. No explanation, no suggestion of reason. He had little alternative. Unlike most of his brothers at Harvard, Braun held no trust fund, no reserves from which to draw his final year's tuition, room, and board. He had explained to Lydia that the trip was academic, a scholarly study of the facades of a Paris that might soon be at risk from the impending storm of war. She'd been a model of understanding.

Newport had lasted only two weeks, but it had burned into Braun's mind. Memories that would later hold against the starvation of Stalingrad, the desperation of Berlin, and the killing grounds in between. Yet if he remembered vividly the mansions and galas, Lydia herself fell almost forgotten. He tried to recall her eyes. Were they blue? Or perhaps green? No matter, he decided. He would learn soon enough. Lydia, eager young Lydia, would be his ticket back.

A train pulled to the platform and he rose from the hard wooden bench. The cars were full, and he took a seat to the rear, next to a plump young woman who was firmly engaged in a dime novel. He coughed and snorted roughly as he sat. Feign sickness … people always avoid it. He sensed the woman pull away.

Braun settled back and closed his eyes, reflecting on the last days. Yesterday he had killed a man for nothing more than the clothes on his back and the few dollars that might be in his pocket. He mused on the progress this posed. Five years ago, as a third-year man at Harvard, the mere thought of killing a person would have been intolerable. Now it seemed perfectly natural.

He remembered Stalingrad and Berlin. There, Braun had met men who killed for pleasure. He was proud, at least, to have never gone down that road. I am not a cruel man, he reasoned, I only take life when there is a purpose.

The train rocked gently, picking up speed, and Braun closed his eyes. Minutes later he drifted off, his thoughts already having moved on.

Thatcher arrived at work well before dawn. His night had been sleepless as questions swirled in his head, a result of yesterday's frustrating afternoon. He had always been wired with a peculiar internal circuitry. It stipulated that everything must fit, falling into the universal order of logic and reason. A leads to B, and, in turn, C follows up. The war had short-circuited his world in the most terrible of ways, and Thatcher found relief only in work. It was his outlet, the channel for his energies. That being the case, he would not be put off by a troublesome Yank, or even victory in Europe. The issue of Alexander Braun was his to tackle.

He'd so far drawn a blank on the Manhattan Project, and asking the Americans again would only bring the hot water he was in to a boil. He wondered what a German spy could possibly be doing in Mexico, but the thoughts never advanced beyond pure supposition. To the positive, he had at least been able to ascertain that Major Rudolph Becker's body had been found washed up on the Northern Baltic shoreline, the cause of death indeterminate, but immaterial. And there was a sketchy report that General Freiderich Rode had been killed, a passenger in an aircraft shot down over Norway. It was plausible. Two years ago the place had been a German possession teeming with Nordic spies. Now the reciprocal had emerged. Thatcher assigned Sergeant Winters, his most capable assistant, the task of finding proof. If the information could be authenticated it would be one less Nazi for Thatcher to hunt.

The fate of Colonel Hans Gruber had proven more elusive. Thatcher doubted Corporal Klein would possess knowledge of his boss's escape plan. Gruber was an intelligence man who would understand the game — each extra person who knew his plans only increased the chance of failure. But Gruber was well known to the Allies, an easily recognizable target. Thatcher doubted he could evade for long.

Yet as the field narrowed, the last target became even more elusive. Only one other person remained from the meeting Klein had described, and that person was the most important, the key to uncovering a spy called Die Wespe. Unfortunately, without another witness, someone who knew where the man was headed, Thatcher was flailing in the wind. It had to be America. But how could Alexander Braun get there? And what use could he be now with Germany defeated?

It all weighed on Thatcher, each fact a piece on his mental game board, each unknown a pending roll of the dice. He reached across his desk and picked up a medallion. It commemorated the Arsenal Football Club's 1938 League Championship. Madeline was a supporter, and the medallion had been his first gift to her, one of those lighthearted gestures that had risen to become a landmark in their lives. Thatcher rubbed it slowly between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the sappy words he'd had inscribed on the backside — My dearest Mads, Always.

Always — except for the blasted war. England was singing, dancing, drowning in the pubs. And Thatcher sat mired, his investigation stuck in a ditch. The Nazi regime was a plague, a disease that had to be eradicated completely. And who was going to do the work? A bunch of drunk louts who, out of sheer relief, were ready to let bygones be bygones?

He put the medallion back on his desk. Thatcher knew what Roger Ainsley would say. Drop it. But something about this Manhattan Project, about Gruber's meeting during the last days of the Reich. There was desperation in it, a menace that wouldn't necessarily die with the formal surrender.

He wondered if Braun had already made it to America. Or perhaps he was sitting in a British internment camp right now, spinning the tale of a hard-fighting soldier who'd done his duty and was now ready to start life anew. There were millions of them. Thatcher could go through the camp rosters and search for the name Alexander Braun. It was common enough. There might be dozens. And would Braun even give his real name?

With a sigh, Thatcher pulled a stack of papers closer and began to read.

Chapter 11

"Forty, love," Sargent Cole called.

Lydia stood at the net and watched her father serve to her partner. He used the overhead style, a method she herself had never bothered to learn. It looked terribly difficult, and aside from that, there was something decidedly unladylike in the motion. The ball went whizzing over the net, landed four feet beyond the service box, and would have struck Edward in the privates had he not twisted his plump frame and protected himself with his racquet.

"Out," Edward mumbled. Recovering from his defensive scramble, he established a proper ready stance.

Lydia heard her mother giggle from across the net. The next serve fell into play, and the two men exchanged a short rally before Edward was outdone, his last effort a weak, fluttering lob that Mother was allowed to finish.

"That's it then!" Sargent Cole boomed, rushing to the net. "Six-one, six-love."

Glad to be done, Lydia complimented her father on his form, while Edward, still not accustomed to the thrashings, endured a brisk handshake.

"Don't worry, my boy," her father said. "In time. All in time."

The four retired to the patio where a large round table sat in wait, stocked with fresh juice, pastries, and coffee. Mother busied herself serving.

Sargent said, "Lydia, we must work on your backhand. I'll set up some lessons next week with Serge."

"Father, its no use. IVe already got a thousand-dollar backhand."

"But you were better when you were a girl."

Lydia couldn't argue that. She'd been decent a few years back, but lately had been gaining weight. She was slower now, more cumbersome, and her enthusiasm for the game had disappeared. It seemed such a trivial pastime, given what the rest of the world was enduring.

"Monday," her father decided.

"All right, Father."

"And Edward, what about you? Shall I set something up?"

Edward said, "No, sir. I'll be in the city Monday. In fact, I'll be going in this afternoon as well. I should get cleaned up now." He trundled toward the main house, his round shape straining the white tennis togs.

"All work, that boy," Sargent said. "He needs to break more of a sweat out here."

Lydia was about to select a pastry when she saw the signal from inside the house. It was Evans, the butler, standing in a window and beckoning her with a rapid hand motion. She excused herself and went discreetly into the house.

"What is it, Evans?"

"A gentleman to see you, miss."

She looked out the window, toward her parents, and wondered why it had not been a general announcement.

Evans, who had been with the family for thirty-two years, clearly understood her confusion. "Come with me, miss. I think you'll understand."

A perplexed Lydia followed to the library. When Evans opened the door, she froze at a vision that had died in her dreams a thousand nights ago.

"Oh, God!"

Her knees buckled and she felt dizzy. Through a semiconscious state she felt Evans at her side, supporting an elbow. And then another, stronger presence anchored the opposite side. They guided her to a chair and she sat, grasping the soft fabric arms so that the world might stop spinning. When Lydia finally focused, the apparition was still there, now balanced on one knee at her side. Then came the voice.

"Hello, Lydia."

That strong, undeniable voice.

"Alex?" she managed. "Dear God — is it really you?"

His watery blue eyes seemed to embrace her. And then the cavalier, one-sided smile. He reached out and took her hand.

"Its been a very long time."

"Oh, Alex. I thought… I thought you were dead." Tears flowed over her cheeks. "I stopped hearing from you, the letters. And I knew you were fighting—"

"Yes, yes. Its a long story. But all thats over now. Done."

She saw a ragged scar on his temple. It was prominent, but somehow almost an improvement on Alex, a touch of visceral splendor to accent his strong features. She reached out to touch it softly with her hand. What had he been through? Lydia wondered. What other scars might there be?

"Can I get you some water, miss?" Evans asked.

The question brought her back, and Lydia stood gingerly, collecting herself. "What kind of hostess am I? Evans, we have a guest. Bring coffee, would you? Alex enjoys coffee."

Evans acknowledged the order and disappeared. Alex stood back and she realized he was looking at her. His eyes wandered carelessly across her body, the half smile still intact. What was he thinking? No, she knew exactly what he was thinking. Is he disappointed? God, what stupid thoughts.

"You look well," she blurted.

"A few scratches, but mostly I came through unscathed."

"You're not in uniform. Are you on leave?"

"Yes. I just got back from Europe. My uniforms are at the cleaners. God knows they needed it. I have three weeks before I'm scheduled to report for duty on the West Coast."

"Of course. We're not done yet, are we? Those pesky—" Lydia froze when she saw Edward stroll in the doorway.

"Darling, have you seen my red tie?" Edward asked before noticing the guest. He paused to study the man for a moment. "Sorry, I don't think we've met."

Lydia said, "Oh, forgive me. Edward, this is Alex, an old friend. Alex, this is Edward Murray… my husband."

She saw it for an instant. A crack in Alex's easy smile. He shook Edward's hand and exchanged niceties.

"Alex was at Harvard, before the war."

"Harvard, was it? Bad luck. I was Princeton myself. Law. What did you study, Alex?"

"Architecture, although I wasn't able to finish."

"Oh yes, of course, the war. You know, I tried to enlist myself but there was some rubbish about an eardrum. What I do now is the next best thing. All those tanks and guns don't get built without contracts. My firm does almost half their work with the defense industries. Boring, of course, but it has to be done."

"Soldiering is mostly boring, to tell you the truth. But at least the food is first class."

Edward looked baffled before recognizing the joke. He laughed. "Yes, I'm sure." He turned to Lydia, "Now, dear, I really have to be on my way."

"On the hook in your closet," she said.

"What?"

"The red tie."

"Oh, right." He closed in and gave Lydia a peck on the cheek, then added, "Good to meet you, Alex."

"And you, Edward."

Edward disappeared and the room fell silent. Having seen him off, Lydia's back was to Alex. She couldn't bring herself to turn. What must he think, she wondered, fighting the war for so long, only to come home to this? But if only he'd written. If only she'd known he was alive. Lydia folded her arms tightly, still not able to face him.

"Alex, I —"

His hands took her by the shoulders and guided her around until she faced him. What Lydia saw in his eyes was not anger or disappointment. It was strength. Understanding. She stayed locked to his gaze until her fathers voice interrupted, bellowing her name from out on the lawn.

Alex smiled again. "I should go say hello to Sargent."

"He always liked you, Alex."

"Except when I beat him at his games."

"Can you stay? At least for a few days?"

He paused. "I don't see why not. Actually, I'd rather been planning on it."

She sighed and closed her eyes, his hands still on her shoulders.

"He seems like a nice fellow," Alex said.

"Who?"

"Edward."

"Oh… yes, he's very nice."

He gave her a look of assurance. Lydia knew they were stirring the same thoughts, yet he seemed so calm. Perhaps the war had something to do with it. He must have seen unimaginable terrors. A tragedy like this must barely register. Yet the guilt rested like an anchor on Lydia's very soul. While he'd been out fighting, she'd been —

"It's all right," he said, as if reading her anguished thoughts. "This war has turned a lot of lives upside down. At least we made it through."

With that, he drew her closer. She felt his breath on her neck as he whispered into her ear. "It's all right, Lydia. It's all right." Alex put his lips gently to the side of her forehead, lingering much longer than he should have. Lydia knew she should pull away. She didn't. Not until she heard footsteps on the marble outside the library. She pulled back just as her father appeared. Lydia tried to compose herself as he paused at the door jamb.

"Father, do you remember Alex?"

Sargent Cole studied them a moment before breaking into a smile.

"Well, I'll be damned! How could I not? He beat the pants off me on the tennis court for a week straight."

Lydia s father strode over and shook Alexs hand.

"He's just back from the war," she said.

Alex clarified, "It's a temporary reprieve. I'm off to the Pacific in a few weeks."

"Good! Good! Give 'em hell, eh?"

"Father, I've asked Alex to stay for a few days. Is that all right?"

He eyed her before answering. "Sure. Let's show him a good time. But I will insist on a rematch, Alex. Have you been practicing?"

Alex replied breezily, "The last time I played was here."

"Christ, that was years ago. You have been busy. But it might give me a chance."

"Perhaps — although one likes to believe in the constancy of things."

Lydia remembered that Alex was the only person she'd ever known who could goad her father and get away with it. Evans materialized with a tray of Scotch and tumblers — her father's presence had superseded the request for coffee — and he poured without asking.

"So," Sargent asked, "kill any Germans?"

"Father!"

As the guest, Alex was offered the first Scotch. He took it and ran a sample over his palate. "Three," he said indifferently.

Even Sargent fell quiet.

Lydia, not wanting to think about such things, changed the subject. "Father, let's put Alex up in the East Room." It was the biggest guest room, with stunning views of the ocean.

"All right," her father agreed. "Evans, something special for dinner tonight. A warrior's feast!"

Evans acknowledged the order.

"I've already played today, but it was an easy two sets of mixed doubles. What do say, Alex — two o'clock?" "I don't think I brought the proper clothes, sir." Sargent waved it off. "No excuses, now. We'll dig something up for you."

"All right," Alex said. "Done."

Chapter 12

Braun stood trancelike, staring out the third-floor window of the East Room. Outside, four men, two very young and two very old, groomed the shrubbery with hand shears. The landscaping was impeccable, a well-designed layout of gardens and walking paths, with lovely arcing lines and nice proportions. The entire arrangement flowed pleasingly away, ending abruptly two hundred yards off, where a rocky cliff gave way to the roiling Atlantic. It was a study in contrast, a masterpiece of the controlled against the uncontrolled.

In Brauns hand was yet another tumbler of Scotch, this one on the rocks. He rolled it slowly, ice tinkling gently against the glass. The thoughts in his head tumbled far more energetically. Lydia married. It had never crossed his mind. She was so malleable and timid — her father must have arranged it. If Sargent had wanted her married, he would have found an Edward, a pathetic little man who would be as easy to control as she.

But now what? Braun wondered. With Lydia unavailable, what options did he have? A week or two here would be pleasant, but each day would bring more raised eyebrows — the long-lost suitor returning to find the object of his affections taken. And the longer he stayed, the more agony Braun would find in leaving. The exquisite meals, the games, the servants. The leisure of it all.

He'd been so close. It was like taking a sumptuous appetizer, only to find that you would never be served the remaining courses.

Perhaps there was a God after all, he thought, some supreme being who kept him alive for mere sport, to see what tortures one man could withstand before breaking. When Braun had gone to Europe, his father had made him join the German Army. And not just any unit, but Paulus's 6th, doomed to extinction at Ivan's hands. Starvation, escape. Back to the fight in Berlin, then again, salvation. And finally a deliverance to America, the home to which he'd never imagined returning. Braun had endured the Russians and the Nazis. But now the royalty of Newport were inflicting the most wicked wound of all.

He whipped around and threw his glass crashing into the fireplace, crystal shards scattering back onto a rich marble floor. What now? His pockets were nearly empty. His old connections from school were of no use. The war had affected everyone. Marriages and love, death and loss. No one could pick up where they'd left off in the halcyon days of the Ivy League in 1940. Everyone had different tangents now, different lives. And what did he have? Memories of a hell no one here could imagine. And a few useless scraps of information. Die Wespe. Santa Fe. A place called Los Cuates in a few week's time. A vital mission for a cause that was now lost.

A knock on the door interrupted.

"Come in."

A young maid, prim and slender, stepped into the room.

"Dinner in ten minutes, sir."

Dinner, Braun mused. Conventional measurements of time meant nothing here. Instead, the sequences of the day revolved around games and meals. Newport War Time.

"Thank you," he replied.

The maid said, "Is there anything I can — oh, dear! You've had an accident!" She scurried to the fireplace.

Braun turned away, his gaze fixed again on the ocean. "Yes. Silly of me."

"Not at all, sir."

He heard her dropping pieces of broken glass into her hand.

"Shall I send for another drink?" she offered.

Braun closed his eyes and rubbed his temples using a thumb and trigger finger. Gradually, the ill thoughts dispersed. Calm reemerged, and he cocked his head around to see the slim girl bent at the fireplace.

"Yes. Yes, another Scotch would be most enticing."

Clad only in a form-fitting slip, Lydia studied herself at the full-length dressing mirror in her room. Her hips were bigger than five years ago, rounder. Some men liked that, she reasoned. Her breasts were bigger too, but gravity was taking its toll. She sucked in her gut, stood on her tiptoes, and turned to the profile. Not bad. More mature. But what would happen if she ever had children? She lumbered to her dressing table and sank into the chair, twisting a strand of dark hair around a finger. How had she worn it back in college? Good God — two months ago she'd found her first gray. At twenty-five!

Lydia closed her eyes and sighed. Such thoughts. Stupid, stupid girl What did it matter? Edward was the man in her life. Her husband. Alex would stay and chat for a few days, just to be decent, then he'd be gone.

She pulled a brush through her hair as memories swept in. Alex had been so different from the other boys she'd met — a young man at odds with himself. Calm yet exciting, cultured but primitive. And he had come back to her. He had finally come. She tugged harder with her brush, raking until it hurt. Now he'd go back to Wisconsin or Minnesota, or wherever it was he was from, find some slim Scandinavian beauty and together they'd raise a perfect little flock of blond children. Lydia would never see him again.

She dropped the brush to the floor and broke down in despair. Her chest heaved and her face crumbled as tears began streaming out. Why? she thought. Why hadrit Alex written? If only she'd known he was alive —

"Hello, darling. I'm home!"

It was Edward, calling from the adjoining room. Lydia sat up straight and tried to collect herself. She took a handkerchief and wiped her eyes, blinking to work away the creases of misery. She sensed him closing in from behind.

"See, I told you I'd be home for dinner." He bent down and pecked her head, simultaneously reaching around to present a mixed bouquet of flowers.

"Oh, darling, how kind!" She reached out and buried her face in the arrangement, using it to hide the dampness around her eyes. "What a lovely scent." Edward squeezed her shoulders.

"Glad you like them. Let's get ready for dinner. We mustn't miss cocktails."

"Of course not. I'll find a nice vase for these."

Edward disappeared.

The last time he'd brought flowers had been on Valentines Day, the obligatory dozen red roses. The same ones she'd be getting for the next fifty years. Lydia set the flowers on her table. She felt heavy, ponderous as she rose and walked to her closet. At the rack of formals she slid out Edward's favorite, a blue evening gown. He had picked it out himself as a Christmas present. It was incredibly expensive and fit like a satin potato sack. Behind it on the rack was a spicy red number she'd bought on a whim, but never worn. Frightfully deep at the front, she'd never been able to screw up the courage after bringing it home.

Lydia held the two side by side and bit her bottom lip.

The main course was an exquisitely tender roast pheasant selection. By the time it made its way to the table, Sargent Cole had already commandeered the topics of conversation through one war, two presidents, and four post-conflict industrial opportunities.

Sitting quietly, and certainly enjoying the meal more than anyone at the table, Braun remembered the act from his previous visit. Sargent lorded over these gatherings like a king holding court. As a host, he was the social equivalent of a blunderbuss — blunt, archaic, and never distracted by matters of accuracy. He eventually got around to pressing his guest of honor.

"Tell us about the three Germans you killed, Alex. Was it in one battle?"

Braun tipped a tolerable glass of Cabernet to his lips. The number, in fact, was accurate. Thankfully no one had asked him how many Russians he'd killed — Braun had no idea. Of course, he could never divulge the true circumstances. Nearing starvation in Stalingrad, he'd quietly killed a fellow German officer in order to steal a stashed loaf of bread. Another, a civilian in East Prussia, had fought for his bicycle against the much younger and stronger soldier who'd been caught alone in a frantic regimental pullback. And then there was the incident involving the first sniper's spotter he'd been assigned in Berlin, a pudgy teenager who'd proven hopelessly inept. He would have gotten them both killed in time, and Braun had simply taken the matter under his own sight, saving the Russians a bullet. Three Germans, three good reasons.

"It was nothing heroic, if that's what you mean. I was just doing my job." He'd heard the soldiers on the train say it time and again. Just doing my job. It was all he had to say.

"Oh, Father! Please!" Lydia intervened. "It must have been horrid. Let Alex find his peace."

Even Sargent Cole had his limits, and he went back to tearing limbs from his pheasant. Braun knew the family patriarch had avoided the First World War, no doubt by way of family ties. He saw no need to antagonize the man by mentioning it. Alex locked eyes with Lydia, who was directly across the table, and smiled appreciatively.

Edward piped in, "So tell me Alex, when the war is over will you go back to Harvard and finish up?"

"I haven't given it much thought, really. Of course, I was studying the architecture of Europe — so much has been lost."

"Well," Edward reasoned, "someone will have to build it all again."

Braun cocked his head. "Yes… but that's rather not the point. When a building falls, the history it represents is lost as well."

"History?" Sargent barked. "Who needs it? I say look forward. This is a tremendous opportunity to build a continent for tomorrow." Sargent held up his wine glass. "Here's to tomorrow!"

The crowd echoed the words with feigned enthusiasm. Braun doubted any of them cared a whit about Europe or her future, aside from the odd chance that they might vacation there after things had been swept up. He found the conversation tiresome. It was time to redirect. He turned to Sargent. "A rematch tomorrow, sir?" he suggested airily. The afternoon's match had been close, Sargent dominating the first set while Braun shook off the rust. The second had been Braun's in a tight affair, and by the third he'd found his form, a resounding 6–1 win to decide things.

Sargent jumped at the challenge. "Yes, by all means. Let's say ten o'clock. I'll be fresh in the morning."

"Ten it is."

With the next day's recreation firmed up, dinner drifted to its natural conclusion. Edward was the first to leave, ambling off to the library to catch up on work. Lydia excused herself, and Braun watched as she stood. He allowed his gaze to settle obviously on the deep cleavage that fell between the folds of her crimson dress. He then looked up at her eyes, which told him everything he needed to know.

The knock came just after midnight, a quiet rap against the hardwood door of his room. Braun had known it would come. He opened the door to find her in a sheer nightdress, her shape silhouetted against the dim light beyond. He took her by the hand and pulled her inside. Neither spoke. Lydia pulled the nightdress over her head and walked to the window, her figure clear now as moonlight filtered in. Braun went to her and she fell back onto the window seat, pulling him down.

A cool breeze swept in, but did nothing to cleanse the aerosol of confusion in Braun's mind. His senses were overwhelmed and he closed his eyes, perhaps hoping one less input would help him find control. It did nothing. His head ached from too much Cabernet. Lydia writhed beneath him. Pulling, tugging, moaning. His body responded. Pleasure teasing an insurmountable pain. There were bright flashes, explosions that echoed in his head like thunder. It was not a dream, nor a nightmare. Only the vicious circumstance of his existence.

He felt her rhythm. He felt the heavy, ice-cold marble under his feet. Braun heard her panting against the sound of waves breaking outside. Finally, he opened his eyes and found them drawn not to her, but up toward the open window. The moonlight seemed exceptionally bright, as if Sargent Cole had been able to purchase something more. The grounds were immaculate, torches lining the paths for no particular occasion. A servant had placed chairs around a table on the lawn, carefully setting the stage for yet another day's calculated idleness. Everything would again be perfect.

His thoughts turned frantic, parallel but somehow separate from the bucking underneath. When relief came it was overwhelming, and with little regard for the woman below him. He was sure it could have been any woman.

In the period of reconstitution that followed, everything fell to silence and stillness. Eventually Lydia spoke, a sweaty murmur buried deep in his chest. Braun did not hear the words. He could do nothing but stare out the window and wonder.

Chapter 13

While attendance at dinners was mandatory, breakfast at Harrold House was a more leisurely affair. All were expected to make an eventual appearance, but no schedule was drawn, and the members of the household crossed paths randomly. Braun entered the dining room to find Edward at the end of his coffee and financial section, while Lydia was parked behind a huge plate of eggs and meat.

"Good morning, Alex," Edward chimed in.

"Morning, Edward, Lydia." Braun watched her smile through a mouthful of food. "You look famished," he prodded.

With Edward lost behind his newspaper, Lydia smiled brazenly and winked.

Braun went to the buffet. He found a half dozen selections in such huge quantities that he knew most would go to waste, even after the servants had had their chance. He paused at a massive stand of bacon. No one here could imagine the conflict he felt as he reflected on the last time he'd seen such a pile of pork. Desperate for any warmth on a subzero Russian night, he had slept huddled against a sow. The next morning, his fellow troops had slaughtered the animal and gorged themselves. Braun moved to the eggs.

"Are you working today, Edward?" Lydia asked.

Edward peered around the Journal "Of course, dear. A few hours, anyway. I'll never make partner if I dont at least show my face each day."

Partner, Braun thought. The summit of his ambition.

Edward said, "But my doctor has prescribed fresh air, so Til be taking the boat out this afternoon. What do you say, Alex? Are you up for some sailing?" He turned to Lydia. "I'd invite you as well dear, but the forecast is for strong southeasterlies — it might be rough."

Lydia said,"You know I dont enjoy the nasty weather, darling."

"Alex, what do you say? I suppose you haven t been on a boat in some time."

Having just spent nearly two weeks crashing across the Atlantic on a U-boat, Braun smiled. He had always regarded sailing as an aimless discipline. Drifting slowly, the wind blowing you where it wanted. It was far too serendipitous. He preferred to live by design. On the other hand, he had nothing more pressing.

Braun looked at Edward and beamed. "Why not?"