Schmidt rose to his feet. He bowed to Molotov. “Good day, then. Be of good cheer. Everything will turn out for the best.” Before Molotov could answer, the diplomat bowed again and left.

Molotov sat behind his desk for some time, silent and unmoving. His secretary looked in, saw him there, and silently withdrew. A few minutes later, though, the telephone jangled. Molotov picked it up. “Marshal Zhukov on the line,” the secretary said.

“Put him through, Pyotr Maksimovich,” Molotov said.

Without preamble, Zhukov demanded, “What did the German have to say?”

As bluntly, Molotov told him, “It’s Kaltenbrunner.”

“Is it?” After that, Zhukov said nothing for perhaps half a minute. As Molotov had been, he was adding up what that meant. When he did speak again, it was with one explosive word: “Shit.”

“My thought exactly.” Molotov’s voice was dry. “As before, Schmidt felt me out for a joint attack on the Race in Poland.”

“And what did you tell him?” Zhukov sounded worried.

“Georgi Konstantinovich, I am not suicidal,” Molotov said. “You may rest assured that I declined the generous offer.”

“I am ever so glad to hear it,” the marshal replied. “The next question is, do you think that matters to the Germans, even in the slightest?”

“No,” Molotov answered.

“Shit,” Zhukov said again. “Comrade General Secretary, if they go at it, the western part of this country takes it on the chin.”

“I am painfully aware of that,” Molotov said. “If you have discovered some secret weapon that will stop a fool from acting like a fool, I suggest that you start using it. It may well be the most powerful weapon in the world today, including explosive-metal bombs.”

“No such luck.” Zhukov sounded like an angry peasant now; a peasant watching his cattle die without being able to do anything about it.

Molotov decided to match his tone: “Things could be worse, you know: if we did go along with the Nazis, the whole country would take it on the chin.”

“Don’t remind me,” Marshal Zhukov said. His laugh was anything but pleasant. “I’m glad I didn’t dispose of you when you turned up alive while the Army was smashing Beria’s men. I thought about it, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich-believe me, I thought about it.”

“You would have been an idiot not to think about it. Whatever else you are, you are no idiot.” Molotov had discussed the liquidation of a great many other people-ever so coldly, ever so dispassionately. He knew a certain amount of pride in being able to discuss his own the same way. “But why bring this up now?”

“Because, if I’d got rid of you, then I’d be the one left with nothing to do but watch while the Reich and the Race throw brickbats at each other,” Zhukov answered. “This way, if anybody ends up needing to take the blame, you’re the one.”

“Yes, having a scapegoat around is always handy,” Molotov agreed. “Stalin was a master at it. The only trouble is, the Reich and the Lizards have nastier things than brickbats to throw.”

“That’s the only trouble, is it?” Zhukov chuckled. “Have you got any nerves at all, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich?”

“I try not to,” Molotov said. “If you purge me, Marshal, you purge me. I cannot do anything about it.” Not yet. I wish I could. I’m working on it. “I cannot do anything about the Nazis and the Lizards, either. If I get excited about what I cannot help, that doesn’t change the situation, and it leaves me more liable to make a mistake.”

“You would not have made the worst soldier in the world,” Zhukov remarked after a few seconds’ thought.

He meant it as a compliment; of that Molotov was sure. And so he said, “Spasebo,” though he was not at all sure he wanted to thank Zhukov. To him, soldiers were crude and unsubtle men, relying on force because they lacked the brains to do anything else. They were necessary, no doubt about it. But so were ditchdiggers and embalmers.

“You’re welcome, Comrade General Secretary,” the marshal answered. “Here, for the sake of the rodina, the motherland, we have to pull together.”

When the Nazis invaded, Stalin had said the same thing. He’d practiced what he preached, too. He’d even cozied up to the Russian Orthodox Church after beating it about the head and shoulders for almost twenty years. In an emergency, he’d been willing to jettison a lot of ideology. And hadn’t Lenin done the same when he’d instituted the New Economic Policy to keep the country from starving after the end of the civil war?

“Yes, we all have to pull together. We all have to do everything we can,” Molotov agreed. And then, because he could speak as frankly to Zhukov as to anyone save possibly Gromyko, he added, “For the life of me, though, I don’t know how much good it will do, or if it will do any good whatever.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.

When Johannes Drucker strolled into the mess hall at Peenemunde, he discovered that the powers that be had wasted little time. Here it was, only two days after Ernst Kaltenbrunner had been named Fuhrer, and a color photograph of him now occupied the frame that had held Heinrich Himmler’s picture for years.

Drucker wasn’t the only man studying it. From behind him, somebody said, “He looks like a tough son of a bitch. We need one of those right now.”

That struck Drucker as a pretty fair assessment, though he was less sure about the need. Kaltenbrunner was in his vigorous early sixties, with a big head and heavy features. He was leaning forward, so that he seemed to stare out through the camera lens at whoever was looking at him. Even with the advantage of twenty years, Drucker wouldn’t have cared to meet him in a dark alley.

Till Himmler’s death and even afterwards, Drucker hadn’t paid Kaltenbrunner much attention. Himmler kept his strength by not letting anyone around him be strong; the man who now led the Greater German Reich had been just another official in a fancy uniform standing at the old Fuhrer ’s back in Party rallies and state functions. Now the whole world would find out what sort of man had been inhabiting that uniform.

Grabbing a mess tray, Drucker got into line. Cooks’ helpers spooned sauerkraut, boiled potatoes, and blood sausage onto the tray. Another helper gave him a small mug of beer. He carried the full tray to a table and sat down to eat.

Nobody sat near him. He’d got used to that. He knew he suffered from political unreliability, a disease always dangerous and often fatal-and highly contagious. He’d stayed away from men with such an illness in the days before the SS got curious about Kathe’s racial purity, and before Gunther Grillparzer had tried blaming him for the murders during the fighting of which he was, unfortunately, guilty. No one had proved anything-he was still here, still breathing. Even so…

No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than the loudspeaker in the mess hall blared out his name: “Lieutenant Colonel Johannes Drucker! Lieutenant Colonel Johannes Drucker! Report to the base commandant’s office! You are ordered to report to the base commandant’s office!”

Drucker took a last bite of blood sausage. It might really be the last bite I ever take, he thought as he got to his feet. Most of the men in the hall looked down at their own mess trays. Sure enough, they thought political unreliability was contagious. A few stared avidly. They wanted him to get a noodle in the back of the neck.

He hurried to General Dornberger’s office, wondering if a couple of hulking fellows in SS black would be waiting for him in the antechamber. If they were-well, he still had his service pistol on his hip. But what would they do to his family if he made them kill him fast instead of taking him away to do a lingering, nasty job?

With such thoughts going through his mind, he wondered why he kept heading toward the commandant’s office instead of running. Because you know damn well they’d catch you, that’s why. And maybe he wasn’t in a whole lot of trouble. He laughed. Fat chance.