In a way, the ambassador conceded, he was very well adapted to deal with the shock of the Sutanto. Himmler saw plots everywhere, perceived the most bizarre meanings in the most mundane circumstance, and had long ago lost his connection to the world of real things. A demonic individual, who himself saw demons in every shadow, he needed little encouragement to believe in deliverance via their agency.

Looking at the slight, stunted figure of the man who sat before him, Hiroshi wondered what would happen if and when the Axis was triumphant. Given the racial philosophies of Nazi Germany and the empire, conflict between them must be inevitable. He shrugged the thought off as he poured a cup of tea. At least when he dealt with the Reichsfuhrer he could drink tea instead of the Germans' abominable national beverage, coffee.

"I would very much appreciate the opportunity of examining the material you have been sent from Hashirajima, Ambassador Hiroshi," said Himmler. "And of course you must feel free to study the information and equipment I have received."

The guest house at Lichterfelde was sumptuously appointed, although Hiroshi personally found it cluttered and busy, the furniture overstuffed, and the decorations gauche in the extreme. It had the advantage, however, of being one of the most secure sites in the world for a sensitive discussion.

"Do you feel as if you have been misinformed by your researchers?" he asked Himmler.

The German's ridiculous little mustache twitched, reminding Hiroshi of a small rodent, sniffing for danger.

"No, not as such," said Himmler. "But I feel there is much I have yet to learn. Perhaps things young Steckel would rather I didn't have to hear."

"Like how you will die?" asked Hiroshi, barely suppressing a mischievous smirk.

"You know this?" Himmler asked, suddenly all ears.

"I know that in the world the Sutanto arrived from, our victorious enemies hunted you down like a dog. You took poison when captured. Cyanide, I believe. A most painful and prolonged death."

What little color there was in Himmler's face drained away completely.

"I see," he whispered. "And the Reich?"

"Reduced to rubble and slavery under the Bolsheviks."

Himmler's hand shook so badly he spilled his tea on the coffee table. Small beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. He dabbed at them with a handkerchief.

"You seem remarkably composed, Herr General. Surely Japan does not escape unscathed."

"Burned to ashes and bones," said Hiroshi. "Literally."

Himmler looked as if he might actually be sick. Hiroshi had to clamp down on his distaste for the man's weakness.

"But of course, that was in their world," he said. "This is ours, and things have changed now. We can avoid the fate that awaited us. If we are bold."

Himmler nodded uncertainly. He licked his thin, bloodless lips.

"Yes. If we are bold… Perhaps, if you would come with me, when I tell the fuhrer of all this?"

Hiroshi indulged himself by sipping at his tea for a moment, letting the German wait on his answer.

"Of course," he said at last. "We are in this together."

The fuhrer was taking lunch with Martin Bormann and Dr. Gobbels at his East Prussian headquarters, the Wolfschanze in Rastenburg, when Himmler and Hiroshi arrived. The three men had finished their vegetarian strudel and potato salad and were tucking into Black Forest cake and coffee as Hitler explained his role in the development of the Volkswagen, a technological triumph of Aryan engineering of which he was inordinately proud.

"The Volkswagen," he said, "is the car of the future. One has only to see the way in which they roar up the Obersalzberg, skipping like mountain goats around my great Mercedes, to be tremendously impressed. After the war, it will become the car par excellence for the whole of Europe…"

Bormann and Gobbels nodded enthusiastically, neither man game to draw attention to the bright blob of cream that clung to the fuhrer's mustache. Hitler plowed on, as he so often did after dining, expounding on topics as varied as the fictitious value of gold, the lure of paperwork, and the ugliness of Berlin.

A black-uniformed SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer knocked at the door. Only a member of Hitler's personal bodyguard could gain admission to his private dining room, where talk of military campaigns was banned and officers of the Wehrmacht were not generally welcome. If the SS colonel was so bold as to interrupt lunch, there must indeed be something wrong.

"Yes?" he asked peremptorily.

"I am sorry, Mein Fuhrer, but Reichsfuhrer Himmler is here with Lieutenant General Hiroshi."

"What a curious couple," mused Hitler. "Perhaps they have something to confess. Admit them and we shall see."

The bodyguard clicked the heels of his jackboots, saluted, and left. He did not mention the cream in Hitler's mustache, either.

As soon as Himmler entered he saluted, rubbed a finger under his nose, and whispered, "Mein Fuhrer."

Hitler licked his mustache, finding the dollop there.

"Oh, thank you, Heinrich. Martin, Josef, you should have said something earlier."

Both men looked suitably abashed.

"Sit down, sit down, gentlemen. Ambassador Hiroshi, such a pleasant surprise to find you out here. I do hope nothing is wrong. Or is something right? Has Churchill died of brain syphilis, perhaps?"

Bormann roared with laughter and Gobbels smiled, but no light touched his dark, sunken eyes.

Hiroshi bowed formally and pulled out a chair. The table was large and there was plenty of room for the newcomers, although the ornate silver service had only been set for three. Glancing at the sickly sweet German cakes and the big pot of coffee, Hiroshi was secretly relieved.

"We bring news of an unusual nature, Reichschancellor," he said. "Most unusual. In fact, you must promise not have us chased from the building like madmen when we tell you. For that is exactly what we shall sound like."

Gobbels was instantly alert. He wore the look of a wolf, sniffing at some new predator on its hunting ground. Bormann simply looked overstuffed from his lunch. Hitler tilted his head, supporting it on his fingertips as he considered the fearful expression on Himmler's sallow face, which compared unfavorably with Hiroshi's bemused smile.

"What is the matter, Reichsfuhrer?" he asked, speaking directly to Himmler.

Himmler eased himself into a chair like a man nursing a painful wound.

"Do you remember that fellow Brasch? The one we sent to Japan?" he said. "The medal winner."

"I do," Gobbels replied, rolling his eyes. "Shell shock, a head case. He broke after the fighting on the Eastern Front. I understood his mission to Japan was simply a cover to get him out of the news."

"It was," said Himmler. "But something has happened out there. Something terrible. Brasch has been giving technical assistance with some engineering issues. It sounded like madness when I first heard of it, but I'm afraid that I am now convinced. As are the ambassador and Grand Admiral Yamamoto."

Hitler reached over and plucked a glace cherry from the chocolate icing atop a half-eaten piece of torte in front of him. He popped it in his mouth and licked his fingers.

"Well, don't keep us in suspense," he said.

"No," muttered Himmler. "No, of course not."

His face flushed bright red and he fumbled about inside his briefcase.

"An SD agent in Tokyo sent this," he said. "It is called a flexipad."