Halabi folded her arms uncomfortably.

"Now, Doctor, I don't think it's come to that-"

"But it's coming, Captain, believe me. You didn't meet that asshole detective today. I'll lay money on the barrelhead that he soft-pedals the whole thing, and when it turns out to be some good ol' local boy, the fix will go in. You can fuckin' bank on it. They plucked two slugs out of that chief petty officer this afternoon. Damn near killed him. But do you think they kept the fucking things? Even though we specifically told them to hold on to them, so we could test them? No. They're 'missing.' Lost in the confusion at the hospital. It's already begun."

Rachel thought Halabi was going to argue the point.

But she didn't.

The sealed case traveled from Japan to Europe in the diplomatic pouch of the Spanish embassy's military attache. He took a Portuguese flying boat to Ankara and thence to Athens and Berlin, where the package was turned over to a colonel of Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler's personal guard. From there it went directly to the SS head himself.

Himmler was a quiet man. His hands were dainty and lined with blue veins. He always looked short of sleep, and he wasn't given to histrionics like many of his colleagues. He licked his lips, took a sip of the herbal tea in the cup on his desk, and read the instructions for operating the device that Steckel had sent.

He wondered, briefly, whether he should have it checked. It might be a bomb.

He read the instructions again, and then summoned his secretary.

"Wait until I am out of the room, then press this button," said Himmler. "I will return momentarily."

The young man, clicked his heels together and barked, "Immediately, Reichsfuhrer."

"No," sighed Himmler. "When I am safely out of the room. Not until then."

The flint-eyed young man nodded.

Three minutes later, Himmler was back. The device, a flexipad, according to Steckel, glowed serenely atop his desk. His secretary was impressed.

"It is made by the Braun company," he said helpfully. "German technology is a wonder, mein Reichsfuhrer."

Himmler nodded and dismissed him from the room. He perused Steckel's notes again, and followed the first set of instructions.

The handsome, perhaps too-pretty face of the SD man filled the glass plate on the front of the pad.

"Heil Hitler!" he shouted.

Himmler jumped in fright and his secretary came rushing back in.

"It's all right," the SS chief said shakily. "It is just a recording on this unit."

"Remarkable," said the young man as he retreated again.

Steckel continued to speak on the screen.

"Reichsfuhrer, I have taken the liberty of sending you this device because the wonders we have discovered out here must be seen to be believed. With the help of Major Brasch and our Japanese comrades, I have prepared a short presentation for you, outlining some of the major developments."

Himmler propped the pad up against a framed picture of his mistress. It threatened to fall under its own weight. He carefully picked up his tea and sipped as a series of movies played over Steckel's voice.

It was both amazing and infuriating. He felt certain there was a great deal he wasn't being told. The color movies, which were astoundingly sophisticated, detailed weapons systems and technology that boggled the mind: missiles that could fly into space and spit dozens of insanely powerful warheads onto different cities, killing millions of people and destroying whole nations in the blink of an eye. Infantry uniforms with padded armor that could stop a round from a Mauser. Machines in the sky that could listen in on every telephone conversation or radio broadcast in the world, and sort them into the relevant and immaterial. Oh, what the Gestapo could do with that!

But nowhere in this litany of magic tricks was there an explanation of how an inferior race, from a country no one had ever heard of, could possibly develop such things. How could a mud race such as these Javanese peasants prosper in the very first century of the thousand-year Reich? Where did the fuhrer appear in this fairy tale? This astounding contraption and Steckel's tales of Untermensch from the future raised the obvious question.

What was the future for the Fatherland?

Even with such thoughts swirling in his mind, Himmler gave no outward indication of reacting at all. When the movie finished, he sat and thought for a few minutes before pulling half a dozen sheets of parchment from his desk drawer and inking a fountain pen.

In all of the Reich there were only two men the fuhrer trusted completely. Heinrich Himmler and Otto Skorzeny.

It was time to send Skorzeny to the East.

But first, Himmler would need to talk to the Japanese ambassador.

Three hours later, Reichsfuhrer Himmler and Lieutenant General Oshima Hiroshi met in the grand compound at the spiritual heart of the Waffen-SS. Lichterfelde had once been a school for military cadets, but the old butcher Sepp Dietrich had convinced Hitler that his personal army should have a headquarters befitting their elite status as supermen and praetorian guard to the fuhrer himself.

Himmler, who was unusual among the higher-caste Nazis in having no taste for extravagance, could nevertheless appreciate Dietrich's achievement as his Mercedes swept in through the front gates guarded by two giant, iconic statues of German soldiers in modern battle dress. Gravel crunched under the limousine's wheels as it motored quietly toward the four grand stone barracks buildings designated "Adolf Hitler," "Horst Wessel," "Hermann Goring," and "Hindenburg."

Squads of tall, blond Nordic warriors jogged to and fro with machinelike precision. The crunch of their hobnailed boots spoke of perfect regimentation. A magnificent black stallion from the barracks stables, the finest in Europe, clopped past, led by an old farrier, a veteran of the fuhrer's own unit from the Great War. A comrade who had proven himself at the fuhrer's side in single combat, he smiled and nodded as Himmler emerged from the car. Himmler indulged the man's familiarity. He suffered from mild shell shock and was a favorite of Hitler's. The fuhrer had asked Himmler to find him a suitable sinecure, and there could be no more prestigious and comfortable surroundings in all of Germany for the old soldier to see out his remaining days.

Hitler had been pleased, which meant that Himmler was even more so.

"Guten Morgen, Herr Meyer. A beautiful day for a ride, ja?" said Himmler.

"It would be," said Meyer. His voice was a harsh whisper, the result of a French shell fragment that tore into his throat in 1917. "But my friend here needs new shoes first."

Horse and man turned and ambled away to the stables.

Himmler took a moment to enjoy the bucolic scene under a warm summer sky before heading to the barracks' reception area. He did not smile once.

Inside the great hall, huge oil paintings of the fuhrer hung from the stone walls. Candles and burning torches threw back the gloom, which was considerable after the brightness of the day outside. Nordic runes, inlaid in silver, ran around the room, which was magnificently furnished with carved oaken benches and tables. A receptionist glanced up from her desk and blanched at the sight of Himmler in his black uniform.

"Reichsfuhrer," she stammered. "We were not expecting you until after lunch."

"I am early," he announced. "Has General Hiroshi arrived yet?"

"Yes, sir. He is in the guest house. I shall take you right to him."

"Don't bother," he said. "I know the way."

Lieutenant General Oshima Hiroshi knew the SS commandant to be a man who was more than a little infatuated with the supernatural. The Japanese ambassador privately thought that the Reichsfuhrer's mental state was somewhat tenuous. He certainly suffered from runaway paranoia, and a mild form of madness that caused him to believe in the spirits and Teutonic gods as if they were a real force in the world, and not just a useful myth. He supposed it explained Himmler's remarkably phlegmatic response to the incident at Midway.