Think of your children, Axel!

Up and down, up and down.

Grunt, grunt, snort, snort.

Clenched jaw, clenched fist. The fingers of his right hand grasping something hard.

His knife!

Up and down.

Think of your children.

Rational thoughts could no longer penetrate his delirious mind. It was as if someone else had directed his actions. Without conscious intent, he had freed himself and was standing upright, witnessing with his own startled blue eyes the terror in full color.

Boys really. Not much older than Joachim but they had gone too far for their youth to save them. The three of them were stunned by Berg's appearance. Without a hint of warning, a vengeful poltergeist had materialized.

Berg grabbed the one closest to him by his flaxen hair and yanked his head back until the bony rings of his neck were neatly exposed. With a quick, strong, and deft hand, Berg slit the boy's throat ear-to-ear with surgical precision, then pushed him away. Since the blade was sharp, the incision was deep and smooth. The boy grabbed his throat as he staggered about, gurgling out protests, his hands drenched in his own blood. Then he dropped to the floor.

The next one was a skinny punk with acne, curly black hair, and horror-struck blue eyes. Berg pulled him off of Margot, espying a glimpse of his puny, semi-erect penis. He jammed the knife into the depression of the punk's neck just below the Adam's apple, then twisted the blade until he could feel the vertebrae separate from each other. Immediately, the kid's head fell backward as if he were looking up at the sky, blood squirting out like a red fountain, his neck hissing like a radiator as air leaked from his lungs. He dropped down at the side of the bed, his head slamming against the floor and detaching from the body, rolling a meter until it hit the wall.

By the time Berg looked around for the third boy, the punk had run out the door.

It took about five minutes for the first boy to stop shaking from his mortal throes. Berg simply watched his handiwork as they expired. There was nothing poetic in their demise, nothing glorious or noble. Berg was back in the trenches of the Great War. First, he was shooting or throwing grenades at the enemy. Then the enemy was shooting or throwing grenades at him. Bursts of gunfire, bullets flying past him. The mortally wounded, crying out for help. Stabbing them with his bayonet to put them out of their misery . . .

Twenty million people had died-and for what?

These two boys . . . just two more messy and protracted deaths.

Berg stood welded to his spot, his chest heaving in and out, his body sodden from sweat. He closed his eyes and let the blade drop from his hand. When he opened his eyes, he saw Margot, her face purple and puffy from where she had been punched. Her lower lip was split, her left eye swollen shut. The night wasn't over yet, but it was over for him.

He had chosen his course.

He looked out the window at the Brownshirts: staggering, reeling, retching, hurling stones, and waving sticks.

A loud boom was followed by the crackle of smashing glass.

The uproar continued.

Death to the Jews! Death to the Jews!

Once he had been guardedly optimistic about the future of the Fatherland. Once . . .

He walked over to Margot and held out his hand, and she took it. Slowly, he lifted her into a sitting position on the mattress. Her face was bloody and wet. Using her still-functional eye, she groped in the faint light for her clothing. Her dress had been torn, but her sweater was in one piece. Berg wrapped it around her shoulders. He looked into the Jewess's good eye and saw vengeance and anger, nothing in the way of defeat.

"Danke," she whispered.

"Bitte," he whispered back. He exhaled forcefully and, with great effort, willed himself to stand. The room was awash in red, glistening and sticky. It was an abattoir, rife with the smell of slaughtered meat. An errant scream shot through the hallway. Berg shuddered.

Abruptly, something shrill stabbed through the droning mantra outside. The distinct and welcome sound of a police whistle, more than one actually. Berg got up and peered through the window.

Pandemonium reigned outside as the Brownshirt marchers broke rank and fled in all directions. Down the lane, two motor wagons filled with officers had stopped next to the curb, and policemen spilled into the dark streets, waving batons and nightsticks.

Inside the cigarette house, panicked yells filtered through the doors.

"Polizei! Polizei! Raus hier!"

The whistles grew louder . . . nearer.

Margot choked out, "You have to get out of here!"

"Nein." Berg shook his head. "I will not leave you here to be blamed for my deeds."

"It will ruin you."

"They attacked me." A shrug. "They provided me with reason to kill them."

The door to the room flung open. Berg was staring at the wrong end of a gun barrel, face-to-face with death.

It wasn't the first time. With God's help, it wouldn't be the last.

THIRTY-EIGHT.

Well, well, well." A tongue clucked. "You've made quite a mess of things!"

With the barrel of a P.08 Artillery Luger aimed between his eyes, Berg thought it best not to respond. Military firearms had been outlawed for years in Munich, stockpiles of weapons having been destroyed en masse over a decade ago. Yet it was well known that many men had hidden their old weapons: Luger handguns, bayonets-Berg had even seen MG 13 Dummy light machine guns stowed away in closets. This certainly wasn't done out of sentimentality but out of fear of what the future might hold. So far Munich was surviving, one step ahead of the anarchists because guns were hard to come by. History had shown that an armed Germany was a Germany at war.

"Do I even want to know how this happened?"

Berg could barely detect the words. The cigarette house echoed with hellish screams, barked orders, and piercing whistles. Several rounds of fisticuffs were taking place right outside the door.

"I . . ." Berg swallowed hard and raised his voice to be heard over the chaos. "I was attacked."

"I don't see any marks on you, Inspektor." Volker nodded in Margot's direction. "On her, there are many marks. But on you?" A shrug. "Nothing." Slowly, the gun was lowered until the four-inch barrel was pointed at the floor. "And the question is not whether you were attacked or not, Axel. The question is what were you doing here in the first place."

"Probably the same thing that you're doing here." With the gun out of his face, Berg became bolder.

"That's not much of an answer."

"The best I could come up with under the circumstances." Berg wiped his sweaty, bloody hands on the pants of his uniform. "Look at her, Volker!" His eyes traveled over his handiwork . . . two dead youths. "Look at what I was faced with . . . as a police officer . . . as a man. Then you tell me what I should have done."

There was a long silence.

"I really don't know," Volker answered. "But this is clearly overdoing whatever it was that you were supposed to do."

"It's too late for hindsight," Berg whispered.

"There you are right." Volker threw Margot his handkerchief. "Patch yourself up, my dear. You have to get out of here."

Margot got up from the bed and poured water from a pitcher into the washing bowl. She dipped the kerchief into the water and meticulously began to wipe off the filth and blood from her face. As she rinsed the handkerchief, the clear water turned rosy pink.

"I thought you had more sense, Axel," Volker said. "However, it's too late for a reprimand. You're buried in deep shit."

That he was . . . up to his neck. Berg awaited his sentencing.

Volker's lips compressed into a sour pout. "All right. If you can get out of this without anyone else knowing, I'll say nothing. If you're caught, I'll personally feed you to the dogs. Do we understand one another?"

"Perfectly."

"What were you thinking?" Volker was baffled. "With all that was going on in Konigsplatz . . . coming to a Jewish whorehouse?"

"I don't know what I was thinking, sir."

"I suppose that if you do get caught, you can blame it on her." Volker looked at Margot and shook his head. "You'll have to leave the city, my dear. Leave and never come back. If you do return, I'll have you arrested and executed." He pointed to the bodies. "Two murders, my dear. If the good people of Germany don't hang you first, the crowd will tear you limb from limb."

Margot shuddered as tears ran down her cheeks. "I don't have any papers."

Volker reached into his rucksack and pulled out a sealed envelope. "Inside is everything you should need, including enough marks for travel money." He stared at her. "I hope you have other clothes."

"A few."

"Then get on with it."

Margot removed a pillow from its case, exposing a small bedroll. She untied a knot and sorted through her wardrobe-two skirts, two blouses, a pair of long underwear, and a sweater. Quickly, she changed under the scrutiny of two sets of male eyes. When she was done, she stowed what was left into a neat bundle.

Volker put his hand on the doorknob. "Well done. Wait for me downstairs; I'll take you to the train. It's not safe for a woman to walk the streets alone in these uncertain times."

"Can I say good-bye to my parents?"

"No, you cannot. I'll see you downstairs in fifteen minutes. If you try to escape, I will send out my men to hunt you down."

"Thank you, sir," Margot said modestly.

"You're welcome." Volker opened the door. "Go."

Immediately, she left. Volker slammed the door shut and leaned against it. "Anyone see you come in here besides that sack of lard downstairs?"

"You found him?"

"There weren't many places he could be. Answer the question, Berg."

"I don't think so, no."

"Very good. Leave by the fire escape. Go home and don't go out again tonight. I am loath to say this but I can't afford to lose you. There is still a murderer loose. Once this Austrian nuisance blows over, I expect you to find this monster." Volker flicked lint off of his suit. "It seems you are the last man standing for this job."

Berg's heartbeat quickened. "Why? What happened to Storf and Muller?"

"With God's help, they will recover-"

"How bad?"

"Muller has a broken leg."

There was silence. Berg sat down on the edge of the bed, sidestepping the dead youth at his feet. "And Ulrich?"

"He took quite a beating from the bastards. He was taken to the hospital."

Berg bolted up. "I must see him!"

Volker grabbed him by his shirt. "No, Axel, you must not. Didn't you hear me? Go home. The police are winning but the battle is far from over. If the streets are quiet in the morning, I will see you tomorrow at nine."

Berg didn't answer.

"At nine. Am I clear?"

"Very."

Once again, Volker appraised the situation. "If I were an Inspektor and came upon this scene, I might assume that there was a quarrel over whores." He smiled. "Women are the death of our species." The Kommissar bent down and retrieved Berg's knife. "I believe you'll be wanting this." Berg took it and slid it into his boot. Volker pointed to the fire escape. "Your wife is waiting."

"What did Himmler say to you, sir?"

"Pardon?"

"At the rally, sir. You handed him the megaphone. You weren't happy about it but you did it anyway. What did he say to you?"

"He told me that I should cooperate with him because . . ." Volker's grin was hard and bitter. ". . . Because one day he'd be giving me orders, and he'd remember his friends as well as his enemies."

"The man has a vision . . . even if it runs to the delusional."

"The man is a little shit!"

"Yet you acquiesced."

Volker flushed-from embarrassment at his weakness as well as from anger. "One hundred thousand people attended that rally, Axel. I am not stupid-and I am not worried. One day that little turd will get his." He pointed to the window and the fire escape beyond. "Go now, Inspektor."

"In a moment. A few moments, actually. I need to catch my breath."

Volker frowned. "Don't wait too long. Britta will worry."

"She's used to that."

Volker waited for Berg to move. When he didn't, the Kommissar slowly opened the door and left. As soon as Berg was alone, he leaned on the door, trying to slow down his breathing. When he had assured himself that Volker would not be returning, he pulled aside the end table and liberated Gottlieb.