“Yes, the people,” the Reichsführer had said. He looked like an eggplant wearing glasses.

But Repp didn’t want to think about the Reichsführer right now. He took another sip of the schnapps and called Margareta up into his mind.

She’d been so beautiful that year. He was not moved by many things but he’d allowed himself to be moved by her. How had she ended up there? Oh, yes, she’d come with some theatrical people. He’d seen her before, back when he was a young lieutenant and too frightened to speak. But this time he walked up boldly and took her hand. He saw her eyes go to the Iron Cross he now wore.

“I’m Repp,” he said, bowing slightly.

“At least you didn’t snap your heels together like so many of them.”

He smiled. “I’ve been told anything in the city is mine. I choose you.”

“They meant hotel rooms. Restaurant tables. Seats at the opera. Invitations to parties.”

“But I don’t want those things. I want you.”

“You’re very forward. You’re the fellow in the tower, is that it? It seems I read something.”

“Three days ago I killed three hundred and forty-five Russians in the span of eight hours. Now doesn’t that make me rather special?”

“Yes, I suppose it does.”

“May I present you to the Reichsführer? He’s now a patron of mine, I believe.”

“I know him. He’s dreadful.”

“A little pig. But a powerful patron. Come, let’s leave. I was in a very pleasant restaurant last night. I believe they’ll treat me nicely if I return. I even have a car and driver.”

“My first lover was killed in Poland. My next died in an air fight over London. Another was captured in the Western Desert.”

“Nothing will happen to me. I promise. Come, let’s go.”

She looked at him narrowly. “I came with a fellow, you know.”

“A general in the Waffen SS?”

“No, an actor.”

“Then he’s nothing. Please. I insist.”

She’d paused just a second, then said, “All right. But, please. No talk of war, Captain Repp.”

Pleasant. Yes, pleasant.

Repp finished the schnapps. He was tempted to take another, but a principle of his was to never yield to temptations.

He knew the Reichsführer could call at any moment; and he knew he needed his strength for what lay ahead.

He sealed the bottle.

6

Susan and Leets were wedged tight against the Claridge bar. It was late on a Friday night in mid-March, wall-to-wall uniforms, no V-2’s had fallen for a couple of days, and after a lot of trying he’d finally talked her into an actual date. They’d had dinner at the Hungaria and, on Roger’s recommendation, had dropped by this bright spot, where all the London beauties and big shots were said to camp out. So far Susan had seen two movie stars and a famous radio broadcaster. Leets had noticed instead other OSS officers in the smoky crowd and had fancied himself already slighted a couple of times, and once had even made a move toward one snide aristocratic profile, but Susan had tugged him back.

“No trouble. Remember. You promised.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled.

Now, several whiskies down him, he was feeling sweeter, the friend to all men. He had her to himself: no Phil, no Jews.

“Barkeep,” he hailed, trolling in one of the red-jacketed boys behind the mahogany bar, “two here, old bun.”

“No wonder they hate us,” she said.

Around them the talk was of the new offensive. Beyond the Rhine! It would be over by the blooming of the flowers, the coming of spring. This optimism had the effect of depressing Leets.

“You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself,” she said. “For God’s sakes, smile a little. Relax.”

“You’re damned cheerful,” he said with surprise. It was true. The whole evening, she’d bubbled. She was especially beautiful, even in the severe cut of the brown uniform; some women looked good in anything. But it was something else. Susan seemed to be her old self: sly, mocking, mildly sarcastic, full of mischief.

“You’ve decided to make a career of Army nursing. Congrats!” he said.

She laughed.

“You’re divorcing Phil. Right? Am I right?”

Again, laughter. “It’s a long story,” she said. “A long story.”

But before she could tell it, an elegant Brit voice crooned to them. “Darlings.”

It was Leets’s turn to make a face.

But Tony came ahead confidently, until he seemed to embrace the two Americans.

“One more of what these chaps are having,” Tony commanded the barman, and turned to press an icy smile on Leets.

“Sir,” Leets said evenly.

“Rather a long Thursday, eh?” Tony asked.

Leets didn’t say a thing.

“What, three, four hours? Or was it five?”

“Jim? What—” Susan said.

Leets looked bleakly off into the crowd.

“The captain had a rough go of it, I hear. Trying to get in to see—ah, who was it this time? Yours or ours?”

“Yours,” Leets finally admitted.

“Of course. Knew it all the time. Major General Sir Colin Gubbins, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. Head of SOE. Pity he couldn’t see you.”

“I’m on the list for Monday, the girl said.”

“I’ll put in a good word for you tomorrow at lunch,” Tony said, smiling maliciously.

“You bastard,” Leets said.

“Now stop that kind of talk,” Susan commanded.

“Susan, would you care to accompany me to lunch with General Sir Colin Gubbins tomor—”

“Goddamn it, Major, knock it off,” Leets said.

Tony laughed. “You’re getting a rather peculiar reputation in certain circles,” he cautioned. “You know, he tells anyone this mad scheme he’s dreamed up. Jerry snipers. Quite strange.”

Leets now felt fully miserable.

“It wouldn’t hurt a bit to listen to him,” Susan said. “You people have been told things all during the war you wouldn’t listen to. You never listen until it’s too late.”

Tony stepped back, made a big show of shock. “Dear girl,” he said theatrically, “of course we make mistakes. Of course we’re old fuddy-duddies. That’s what we’re paid for. Think how dangerous we’d be if we knew what we were doing.” He threw back his head and brayed.

Leets realized the man was quite drunk and beyond caring what he said, and to whom. But, surprisingly, there seemed to be in his act some affection for the miserable American and his girl.

“Listen, I know where there are some marvelous gatherings tonight. Care to come along? Really, I can offer Indian nabobs, Communist poets, homosexual generals, Egyptian white slavers. The relics of our late empire. It’s quite a show. Do come.”

“Thanks, Major,” Leets said. “I’d really rather—”

“Tony. Tony. I’ve taken to the American habit. You call me Tony and I’ll call you Jim. First names are such fun.”

“Major, I—”

“Jim, it might be kind of fun,” Susan said.

“What the hell,” Leets said.

Presently, they found themselves in a cavernous flat in a splendidly fashionable section of London, along with a whole zoo of curiosities from all the friendly nations of World War II. Leets, pinned in a corner of the room, drank someone’s wonderful whisky and exchanged primitive pleasantries with a Greek diplomat, while he watched as across the room Susan deflected, in rapid succession, an RAF group captain, a young dandy in a suit and tie, and a huge Russian in some sort of Ruritanian clown suit.

“She’s smashing,” Tony said to him.

“Yes, she’s fine, just fine,” Leets agreed.

“Is good very, no?” the Greek said, somewhat confusingly to Leets, but he merely nodded, as though he understood.

But after a while he went and got her, fighting his way through the mob.

“Hello, it’s me,” he said.

“Oh, Jim, isn’t it wonderful? It’s so interesting,” she said, beaming.

“It’s just a party, for Christ’s sake,” he said.