“Your Highness, I hope.”

“And Captain Ronsard of the Free French Army,” Harry said. “Can you get down, General? Best we don’t stuff around too long here. Some more of your former comrades are keen to catch up with you.”

In the small pop-up window, Harry could see a gunfight just starting over on the Avenue de Villiers. It looked like a very disorganized affair. Claudel had not had time to set up a proper ambush. She seemed to have found three men to help her, but they were outgunned by the Gestapo, or SS, or whatever they were. The prince’s chivalrous nature urged him to tear over there and lend a hand, but a decade and a half of military training won through. The women had effectively offered to sacrifice themselves for the mission, and that meant getting Brasch safely away.

“Trident,” he said into the flexipad as Ronsard helped the German clamber down through the ruined ceiling. “I need a route out of here right now.”

“Already laid in, Colonel,” the sysop replied. “Feeding nav data through now. You’ll be heading south, toward the Champs-Elsyйes. The second team of hostiles is still three blocks away, but they are moving quickly. Best you get a move on.”

A large blue arrow appeared in the heads-up display, although it was a little premature since they were still inside. It pointed at a wall.

Brasch jumped the last, short distance and landed on the pile of plaster and shattered woodwork.

“Right then,” Harry said. “Let’s scarper.”

It would be time to leave this particular bunker soon. It wasn’t wise to linger in any one place too long. The Allies’ ability to peer deep into the Reich was almost preternatural, and the Reichsfьhrer-SS had no desire to be turned into “pink mist,” as the Emergence types said.

He was waiting on a report from Paris, after which he would return to Bunker 13 for a few hours to check on the fьhrer’s progress before moving to another secure facility for the night. They had all been living like this for too long. It was demeaning, the way the Reich’s ruling elite had been reduced to scuttling about like petty criminals. Himmler removed his glasses and used a clean handkerchief to wipe the lenses. There was something about the recycled air in this subterranean hideout that seemed to affect them. He forever had to polish the things if he wanted to see clearly.

Not that there was anything worth seeing, or reading, in the pile of documents covering his desk. It seemed apparent now that Major General Brasch had betrayed them. What a foul, bitter irony given the number of innocent men who’d no doubt died in the purges following the Emergence. Himmler did not regret having taken the sternest measures to root out defeatists and conspirators within their midst. So high were the stakes, it was better that ten innocent men die than one genuine traitor go free. And the men he had killed to correct the false record of his own last days in the other world-well, they, too, had died for the Fatherland.

Given the saboteurs and recidivists discovered all too late within the crew of the Dessaix, it was to be expected that the most abominable lies would have been planted about him. He would never have worked to undermine the fьhrer. Why, the very idea of it! But of course, he had to remain above suspicion if he was to carry on his work.

A bitter, bitter paradox. Those researchers had done their job, and been punished for it.

Brasch, meanwhile, had sold out his birthright and had been rewarded with promotions, luxuries, and that most rare and precious of indulgences, trust. Himmler wasn’t a man given to violent passions, but as he read the reports, he was entirely unable to still the tremors that stole over his whole body as he tried to contain his rage.

As second in command of the Ministry of Advanced Armaments Research and an active participant in its predecessor organizations, Brasch had enjoyed an intimate knowledge and understanding of the country’s most important weapons programs-both their strengths and their weaknesses. Now those secrets had been lost to the Allies, and there would be no recovering, not with the Bolshevik horde now descending upon them from the east.

And not with the fьhrer incapacitated as he was.

Yet another dolorous report came from the SS medical officers assigned to Hitler’s case. They now theorized that he had suffered an apoplexy that might permanently cripple him. The news was being kept from everyone except Himmler, while he waited to see if the fьhrer recovered, and planned for the possibility that he might not.

His assistant knocked quietly at the door. “It is here, Herr Reichsfьhrer. The cryptographic section has just finished decoding the message.”

Himmler took the folded piece of paper and dismissed the young officer. They’d had this transmission for three-quarters of an hour already, but because of the Trident’s code-breaking computers, all of the most important signals had to be sent using onetime pads. It significantly slowed down exactly those communications that most needed to be sent quickly.

His heart pounding, he unfolded the note and read the first line.

If it were possible, his hands shook even more violently. A spell of dizziness came over him, and he found it impossible to focus on the rest of the message. Not that it mattered. The details were unimportant. What mattered…

“Herr Reichsfьhrer.”

Himmler looked up, his head spinning.

His assistant was back, and he was ashen-faced. For a moment the SS leader expected him to announce that the fьhrer had died. But he didn’t.

His news was much worse.

The flight was entering its sixth hour when the message came through from Moscow. There was a few minutes’ delay while the radio operator broke open the sealed envelope containing the one-use code pad and translated the orders.

Proceed to primary target.

A simple message, with the power to change the world.

Kapitдn Semyon Gadalov eased the big jet bomber around on its new heading. A flick of the intercom switch, a brief series of orders, and the technicians began to arm the device down in the bomb bay. Suddenly Gadalov wasn’t just flying an airplane, he was wielding the most terrible weapon ever invented.

The Carpathian Mountains crawled past to the south-an illusion caused by distance and altitude. They were traveling very quickly-more than a thousand kilometers per hour. It was astonishing, given that just two years ago Gadalov had been flying an Il-4 with about a third of the speed. No matter how many times he went up-and admittedly the Tupolev had only been cleared to fly three months ago-he never failed to be awed by the power of her Mikulin turbojets, the great span of her swept-back wings, or the feeling that he could fly forever. She was a precious jewel, one of only three such craft built so far. Exactly how precious was shown by the fighter escort she commanded. Two full squadrons of new MiG-15s had joined up with her just north of Kiev.

The crew were tense but professional. The four of them had trained every day for more than a year, working in mock-ups of the bomber before this one became available. Lieutenant Gologre, his navigator-bombardier, delivered a constant stream of position reports from the glassed-in nose cone. Smedlov, his copilot, obsessively checked the flight instruments, making sure nothing could short-circuit the mission at this stage. And Jerzy, the tail gunner, watched over the technicians as they prepared the bomb, providing a running commentary via the interphone that had been installed specifically for this moment.