knew that Hildebrand advocated gas warfare-that was a common fact-but Hitler evidently remembered his own sniff of mustard gas in the Great War and didn’t care to open that particular Pandora’s box. Or, at least, not just yet. Did the Nazis have a stockpile of gas bombs and shells? Michael had inquired. Chesna wasn’t sure of the exact tonnage, but she felt sure that somewhere the Reich had at least fifty thousand tons of weapons, kept ready in case Hitler changed his mind. Michael pointed out the fact that gas shells could be used to disrupt the invasion, but Chesna disagreed. It would take thousands of shells and bombs to stop the invasion, she said. Also, gas of the kind Dr. Hildebrand’s father had helped develop-distilled mustard during the Great War, Tabun and Sarin in the late 1930’s- might easily blow back on the defenders in the tricky coastal winds. So, Chesna told him, a gas attack on the Allies might backfire on the German troops instead. That had to be a possibility the high command had already considered, and she didn’t think one Rommel-who was in charge of the Atlantic Wall’s defenses-would allow. Anyway, she said, the Allies had control of the air now, and would certainly shoot down any German bombers that approached the invasion beaches.
Which left them where they’d begun, pondering the meaning of a phrase and a caricature of Adolf Hitler.
“You’re not eating. What’s wrong? Isn’t it raw enough for you?”
Michael looked up from his deliberations and stared across the table into Sandler’s face. It had grown more ruddy from all the toasts, and now Sandler wore a slack-lipped smile. “It’s all right,” Michael said, and forced the greasy meat into his mouth. He envied Mouse, eating a bowl of beef soup and a liverwurst sandwich in the servants’ wing. “Where’s your good-luck charm?”
“Blondi? Oh, not so far. My suite’s next door. You know, I don’t think she likes you very much.”
“What a shame.”
Sandler was about to reply-a gimcrack witticism, no doubt-but his attention was distracted by the red-haired young woman who sat next to him. They began to talk, and Michael heard Sandler say something about Kenya. Well, it took a bore to kill a boar.
At that moment the dining-room door opened, and Jerek Blok stalked in with Boots following behind. Instantly a chorus of cheers and applause rose up and one of the dinner guests proposed a toast to Blok. The SS colonel plucked a wineglass from a passing tray, smiled, and drank to his own long life. Then Michael watched as Blok, a tall, thin man with a sallow face, wearing a dress uniform studded with medals, made the rounds of the table, stopping to shake hands and slap backs. Boots followed him, a fleshy shadow.
Blok came to Chesna’s chair. “Ah, my dear girl!” he said, and bent down to kiss her cheek. “How are you? You look lovely! Your new film is almost out, yes?” Chesna said it was imminent. “And it’ll be a tremendous smash and give us all a boost, won’t it? Of course it will.” His gray-eyed gaze-the eyes of a lizard, Michael thought-found Baron von Fange. “Ah, and here’s the lucky man!” He approached Michael, held out his hand, and Michael rose to shake it. Boots stood behind Blok, staring at the baron. “Von Fange, isn’t it?” Blok asked. His handshake was loose and damp. He had a long, narrow nose and a pointed chin. His close-cropped brown hair swirled with gray at temples and forehead. “I met a Von Fange in Dortmund last year. Was that a member of your family?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. My father and uncles travel all over Germany.”
“Yes, I met a Von Fange.” Blok nodded. He released Michael’s hand, leaving it feeling as if Michael had gripped something oily. Blok had bad teeth; the front lower teeth were all silver. “I can’t remember his first name, though. What’s your father’s name?”
“Leopold.”
“That’s a noble name! No, I can’t quite recall.” Blok was still smiling, but it was an empty smile. “And tell me this: why isn’t a strapping young man like you part of the SS? With your heritage, I could easily get you an officer’s commission.”
“He picks tulips,” Sandler said. His voice was getting a little slurred, and he held his wineglass out to be refilled.
“The Von Fange family has cultivated tulips for over fifty years,” Chesna spoke up, offering information from the German social registry. “Plus they own very fine vineyards and bottle their private labels. And thank you for bringing that to Colonel Blok’s attention, Harry.”
“Tulips, eh?” Blok’s smile had grown a bit cooler. Michael could see him thinking: perhaps this wasn’t SS material after all. “Well, Baron, you must be a very special man to have swept Chesna off her feet like this. And such a secret she was keeping from her friends! Trust an actress to be an actress, yes?” He directed his silver smile at Chesna. “My best wishes to you both,” he said, and moved on to greet the man who sat at Michael’s left.
Michael continued picking at his meal. Boots left the dining room, and Michael heard someone ask Blok about his new aide. “He’s a new model,” Blok said as he took his chair at the head of the table. “Made of Krupp steel. Has machine guns in his kneecaps and a grenade launcher in his ass.” There was laughter, and Blok basked in it. “No, Boots was until recently working on an antipartisan detail in France. I’d assigned him to a friend of mine: Harzer. Poor fool got his head blown off-excuse me, ladies. Anyway, I took Boots back into my command a couple of weeks ago.” He lifted his filled wineglass. “A toast. To the Brimstone Club!”
“The Brimstone Club!” returned the refrain, and the toast was drunk.
The feast went on, through courses of baked salmon, sweetbreads in cognac, quail stuffed with chopped German sausage, and then rich brandied cake and raspberries in iced pink champagne. Michael’s stomach felt swollen, though he’d eaten with discretion; Chesna had hardly eaten at all, but most of the others had filled their faces as if tomorrow was Judgment Day. Michael thought of a time, long ago, when winter winds were raging and the starving pack had gathered around Franco’s severed leg. All this fat -grease, and running suet didn’t fit the wolf’s diet.
When dinner ended, cognac and cigars were offered. Most of the guests left the table, drifting into the suite’s other huge, marble-floored rooms. Michael stood beside Chesna on the long balcony, a snifter of warm cognac in his hand, and watched searchlights probe the low clouds over Berlin. Chesna put her arm around him and leaned her head on his shoulder, and they were left alone. He said, in the soft murmuring of an enraptured lover, “What are my chances of getting in later?”
“What?” She almost pulled away from him.
“Getting in here,” he explained. “I’d like to take a look around Blok’s suite.”
“Not very good. All the doors have alarms. If you don’t have the proper key, all hell would break loose.”
“Can you get me a key?”
“No. Too risky.”
He thought for a moment, watching the ballet of searchlights. “What about the balcony doors?” he asked. He’d already noticed there were no locks on them. Locks were hardly necessary when they were on the castle’s seventh floor, more than a hundred and sixty feet above the ground. The nearest balcony-to the right, belonging to Harry Sandler’s suite-was over forty feet away.
Chesna looked into his face. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“Our suite is on the floor below, isn’t it?” He strolled to the stone railing and peered down. A little more than twenty feet below was another terrace, but it wasn’t part of Chesna’s suite. Their quarters were around the castle’s corner, facing the south, while Blok’s terrace faced almost directly east. He searched the castle’s wall: the massive, weatherworn stones were full of cracks and chinks, and here and there were ornate embellishments of eagles, geometric designs, and the grotesque faces of gargoyles. A thin ledge encircled every level of the castle, but much of the ledge on the seventh floor had crumbled away. Still, there were abundant hand- and footholds. If he was very, very careful.
The height made his stomach clench, but it was jumping from airplanes that he most dreaded, not height itself. He said, “I can get in through the balcony doors.”
“You can get yourself killed any number of ways in Berlin. If you like, you can tell Blok who you really are and he’ll put a bullet through your brain, so you won’t have to commit suicide.”
“I’m serious,” Michael said, and Chesna saw that he was. She started to tell him that he was utterly insane, but suddenly a young giggling blond girl came out onto the balcony, followed closely by a Nazi officer old enough to be her father. “Darling, darling,” the German goat crooned, “tell me what you want.” Michael pulled Chesna against him and guided her toward the balcony’s far corner. The wind blew into their faces, bringing the smell of mist and pine. “I might not have another opportunity,” he said, in a lover’s moist and quiet tone. He began to slide his hand down her elegant back, and Chesna didn’t pull away because the German goat and his nymphet were watching. “I’ve had some mountaineering experience.” It had been a course in cliff climbing, before he’d gone to North Africa: the art of making a hairline crack and a nub of rock support a hundred and eighty pounds, the same skill he’d used
