The words had a hollow ring in the large, gloomy study, reminding Ernst of the life he had wasted for the dreams of such madmen. He walked out with relief, as if escaping from prison, and drove back to Berlin through the evening's descending darkness, reaching Reinickendorf Airport as the bombs started falling.

He saw the fires all over Berlin as he climbed out of his car, heard the explosions growing louder as they came closer to the airport, and strapped himself into the seat in the plane as the darkness just beyond the airport became a h.e.l.l of explosions. The plane took off through a brilliant web of languidly looping tracers, flew through exploding flak, and managed to make its escape without being damaged.

Ernst settled into his seat, feeling nothing, not even fear. He thought of how everywhere he went these days there was only destruction. Then the young navigator emerged from the pilot's cabin, stopped in front of him, and handed him a written message.

Reading it, Ernst learned that earlier that morning Britain's General Montgomery had launched his a.s.sault across the Rhine; that two airborne divisions, one British, the other American, had dropped on the German side of the river to support the infantrymen; and that 240 kilometres upriver, General Patton's US 3rd Army had done exactly the same. Fully aware that the news signified the beginning of the end of the Thousand Year Reich, Ernst simply crumpled up the message and let it fall to the floor.

All he felt was relief.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Bradley was so tired, he thought he was dead. He was sitting behind another makeshift desk surrounded by rubble and four broken walls, with no roof, in the remains of what had once been an elegant house in what was now left of the city of Cologne, which had been bombshattered and torn by the dreadful fighting of the past few days.

The ruined building in which Bradley was sitting was being guarded by filthy, weary, armed soldiers from the 104th Infantry Divisions of General Omar Bradley's US 1st Army, with whom Bradley had made the bitterly won advance from Aachen, on the Siegfried Line. When he glanced at them, which he could do with ease, because few of the building's walls still stood completely, he was reminded of just how hard they had fought and how far they'd come.

Sitting at his makeshift desk , the ruined house's kitchen table, and waiting to begin what he thought would be his most important interrogations on behalf of Project Paperclip, he could hear the continuing sounds of battle from beyond the battered city, as the Germans were pushed back to the Rhine. Nevertheless, irrespective of the constant noise, he still managed to fall in and out of a delirious half sleep, in which he thought of nothing but what he had experienced over the past couple of months.

'The pilot's on his way,' his a.s.sistant, Sergeant Lew Ackerman of the US 3rd Armoured Division, whispered into his ear. 'He'll be here any second.'

'Thanks,' Bradley said. He had meant to open his eyes and smile, but instead drifted into another half sleep and recalled the Hrtgen forest, snow and mud erupting around him, the infantrymen moving forward through that h.e.l.l of exploding sh.e.l.ls, swirling smoke, chattering machine guns, and screaming wounded, their blood splashing on the muddied white of the snow, their bodies crumpling into it. Bradley had survived it (he had hugged the ground a lot), but then found himself farther south, advancing toward the heavily fortified village of Schmidt and the Roer reservoirs. The resistance was fierce and many men died in the mud, but the village was taken, followed by the west bank of the Roer. Then the Germans flooded the river by blowing up the dams and Bradley found himself helping to form a bridgehead in the early hours of the morning. The men of the US 1st and 9th forced a difficult crossing and a.s.sembled a temporary bridge for the others to follow. The moon was bright and many of them died, but Bradley survived again, soaking wet but not with blood, and helped drag some of his dead friends from the river before moving on.

It wasn't excitement that stuck in his mind, just constant noise and permanent exhaustion, and Bradley remembered that sitting at his table in this ruined house in the ruined heart of the city of Cologne, now one great heap of rubble.

He remembered being deaf and cold, being exhausted and cold, and then recalled, more specifically, the march eastward to Duren, the city's complete destruction, another river crossing (someone said it was the Erft) and finally, in a h.e.l.l of noise and smoke, the outskirts of this city. Allied aircraft bombed it constantly, the big guns levelled what was left, then the US 1st Army moved in, taking the town street by street.

Bradley was right there, with the 104th Infantry divisions, clambering over the rubble, choking in dust and smoke, firing his M-1 rifle at those murky figures in the dust-wreathed ruins, throwing his hand grenades into rubble-filled bas.e.m.e.nts, running forward and ducking and running forward again, and dragging dead, b.l.o.o.d.y bodies out of his way to start all over again.

He had played his small part in the capture of Cologne and couldn't help feeling proud of himself. He was too old for this, after all, and was not obliged to do it. The function of the OSS was intelligence gathering to follow the advancing armies and set up headquarters in their wake but Bradley had wanted this last adventure, a final testing of his courage, and he had to confess that doing it had made him feel young again. It was confirmation of that awful truth that men throve on risk-taking and it helped him to understand what drove Wilson on his weird personal journey: the need to risk everything he had to create his own world.

What would be most frightening about Wilson, Bradley suspected, would be the world he was hoping to create: clearly one in which normal human feelings had little weight.

It helped to think about Wilson. It made Bradley feel more alert. He rubbed his eyes and yawned and stretched himself on the wooden chair. He was pleased to note that a jeep had just pulled up outside and his ALSOS a.s.sistant, Major Arnold Grieves, was leading a US Air Force pilot through the remains of the front doorway, past the armed guards, along the rubble-strewn pa.s.sageways to his open-air office. A cold wind was whipping up the dust and forcing Bradley to shiver.

'Hallelujah!' he whispered as Sergeant Ackerman stepped over a broken wall, holding a tray containing what looked like four mugs of steaming coffee.

'I brought us all coffees,' he confirmed, placing the tray on the table. 'It'll help keep you warm.'

'You're a treasure,' Bradley said. 'I will never forget this simple display of kindness. Look me up after the war and I'll give you a kiss.'

'No, thanks,' Ackerman said, taking the chair beside Bradley and raising his steaming mug to his lips as Major Grieves, small and portly and reportedly brilliant, stopped in front of the table with the pilot beside him. The pilot was in his flying uniform, was roughly handsome and unshaven, and was actually puffing on a cigar, just like in Hollywood films.

'Hi, Mike,' Grieves said informally. 'This is Lieutenant Edward Schlesinger of the 415th Night Fighter Squadron. Eddie, this is Colonel Mike Bradley of the OSS and his administrative a.s.sistant, Sergeant Lew Ackerman of the US 3rd Armored Division.'

'Hi,' Schlesinger said, exhaling a cloud of smoke and pulling up a chair without being asked. 'Howya doin'?'

'Fine,' Bradley said, as Arnold pulled up the last chair. An enemy sh.e.l.l came screeching in toward them and fell in the ruins of a house in the adjacent, debris-strewn street. The explosion threw up more debris and a ballooning cloud of smoke, but neither Bradley nor anyone else at the table took any notice. Instead, Bradley glanced down at his notes and said, 'You're a pilot with the '

'He's just told you,' the pilot said, nodding in the direction of Major Grieves. 'The 415th Night Fighter Squadron, flying bombing raids over the Rhine.'

'Originally out of England?'

'Right. But now out of a French airbase near Paris. One h.e.l.l of a city.'

'I agree,' Bradley said with a grin, amused by the pilot's lack of respect for rank. 'But the incident you're going to tell me about actually happened when you were flying out of England.'

'Yeah, right. Aston Down, Gloucestershire. A Limey base.'

'How'd you get on with the Brits?'

'That's a joke, isn't it? They thought we were overpaid, overs.e.xed, and over there to steal their women.'

'Which you were.'

'I guess so, Colonel. No argument there. Are those coffees for us?'

'Yes,' Ackerman said.

'Terrific.' Schlesinger picked up one mug, Grieves picked up the other, they both drank, then Schlesinger inhaled on his cigar and exhaled more smoke. Because the smoke from the last explosion was drifting over them, the cigar smoke was barely noticed.

'Apparently this incident occurred on the night of November 23, last year, during a bombing run over the Rhine.'

'Right. November 23, 1944. 1 have the date branded in my brain and won't ever forget it.'

'What happened, exactly?'

'It was a pretty normal bombing run,' Schlesinger said, 'with nothing out of the ordinary until we got to about twenty miles from Strasbourg.'

'When you say "nothing out of the ordinary," what do you mean?'

Schlesinger spread his hands in the air. 'Nothing!' he said. 'Just another routine bombing raid. No problems over France, a bit of flak over the Rhine, then another untroubled period until we started getting near Strasbourg. That's when it began.'

'You were hara.s.sed by some kind of flying object.'