"I heard they gave you the boot," Keegan said.

"Come by to gloat?"

"Come on, Wally, I didn't stick Reinhardt in that car with Trace. Hell, I'm going to miss you. You throw the best parties in Europe."

"That's all it means to you, isn't it?"

"No, I'm worried about you. What're you going to do?"

"Go back to Washington for reassignment. It's the end of my career."

"What the hell happened?"

"I screwed up, that's what happened. Almost got Trace arrested for espionage. We tried to sneak Reinhardt out of the country in an official vehicle but the Gestapo stopped them. Roosevelt apologized to that little freak in the Reichstag and I got recalled. I'm going to have to quit. It's like getting court-martialed in the army. Win or lose, you're finished."

"Didn't the intelligence people help you?"

Wallingford stared at him for a moment, then sat down on the corner of his desk.

"Listen, Keegan. We don't have an intelligence system. Every other country in the world is up to their ears in spies but we don't have a spy among us. And you know why? Because my boss, the mighty Cordell Hull, says it's ungentlemanly to pry in other countries' affairs. Ungentlemanlyl So, we play by the Marquis of Queensberry's rules and they play with a billy club. That's what happens when the secretary of state is a gentleman."

"I'm sorry, pal . . ."

"Hey, it's your country, too. And I'm not your goddamn pal."

"C'mon, Wally, we've had some pretty good times together. How about those weekends in Paris. That trip down to Monte Carlo last spring . . ."

"Christ, is that what life is to you, just one long goddamn party?! Reinhardt is dead! According to our best sources, they tortured him for hours and when he bit off his own tongue to keep from talking, they forced him to drink battery acid. Of course, we can't confirm it but it sounds right. Felix is dead and my career's in the toilet and what the hell difference does it make to you? You'll find another party to go to."

"I'm sorry about Reinhardt. And I do care what happens to you. My friendship for you doesn't have anything to do with him."

"I asked you to help me and all you did was worry about your goddamn plane. We could've gotten him out."

"Maybe."

"What's it going to take to wake you up and see what's going on here?"

"I see what's going on . . ."

"No, no. You don't see what's going on. You drive past the bloody storm troopers beating up some pawnbroker or doctor, but you don't really see it. At least it doesn't register. You think this can't happen back home? Let me tell you something, pal, Hitler was absolute dictator of Germany less than a month after Hindenburg appointed him president and the Nazi party had less than forty percent of the vote in the last election. Hitler didn't have a majority of anything, he was never elected to anything. He just took over. He threw out the Constitution and took over. Every time the arrogant little bastard opens his mouth he insults Americans. And he's making racism acceptable. Hell, fashionable. Not only here-everywhere, everywhere! The other day I heard a couple of our secretaries giggling over the latest Jewish joke."

"That's human nature."

"You call it what you want, I call it prejudice. Hitler wakes up that sleeping giant in everyone, he makes it desirable to flaunt hate. He has the key, Keegan. Pride. He appeals to their pride." He paused for a moment, then asked, "What do you want, Francis? What are you after?"

"I don't know, Wally."

"Well, I do know. See, I'm just an everyday jerk from Philadelphia. I planned my whole life out. The diplomatic corps, that was it for me. That's what I wanted, worked my ass off to get it. And you know where I wanted to be?" He jabbed a forefinger toward the floor. "Right here. Berlin. From the moment I entered the diplomatic service, this is where I wanted to be. Know why? Because I knew it was going to be the hot spot in the world. I knew it. I knew I could make a name for myself here if I played it just right. And I was doing great until last night."

He turned back to the shelves and stacked the last of his possessions in the box on the desk. He kept out one book and opened it to a random page.

"Collected speeches of Woodrow Wilson," he said. "My hero, Mr. Wilson. Great vision. Sold out by his own country. You know, the day Woodrow Wilson asked Congress to declare war on Germany he also warned them not to be too hard on the losers when we won the war or they'd rise up and strike back. Had a lot of vision, Mr. Wilson. You paint a mouse into a corner and a tiger comes out. Nobody paid any attention to him. We left Germany with nothing and now the tiger is loose and America sleeps on, as fucking usual."

"You're an angry man, Wally."

"I'm a scared man. People like you scare me. You're sophisticated enough to understand what's happening."

"You don't belong in the State Department. Go back home and run for the Senate or something."

"I couldn't get elected meter reader," Wallingford said with disgust. "Nobody wants to hear what I've got to say. By the time they wake up it'll be too late."

"People are sick of gloom and doom," said Keegan. "They've had their fill of war. Now they're trying to get over the Depression. They're looking for good times, not threats."

"Typical attitude."

"I'm calling it the way I see it."

"I'll admit you have a certain roughneck charm, Keegan, but as far as I'm concerned it's all veneer," said Wallingford wearily. "I've heard about your mother being a countess and all that romantic crap and that's all it is to me, crap. Underneath it all, you're nothing. Just another crook who got rich."

Keegan nodded ruefully and turned to leave the office.

"I've got this theory, Keegan," Wallingford went on. "If you're not against something, you're for it. When you turned your back on Reinhardt, you kissed Hitler's ass."

"Take it easy . . ."

"No, I won't take it easy. And you're right, this doesn't have anything to do with Reinhardt or my job. I asked a friend for a favor and he turned me down, that's what it's about."

"One hell of a favor."

"You would have been doing yourself a favor, too. You and a lot of other Americans think Hitler's a flash in the pan, but he's going to start gobbling up Europe and the only way we're going to stop him is to go to war again. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to be out of the country by six P.M. Deported, isn't that ironic? Thousands of people desperate to leave Germany and I'm being thrown out on my ass."

Wallingford walked past Keegan to the doorway and summoned the Marine sergeant.

"That's the last box, Jerry," he said.

"Yes sir," the Marine answered, and carried it out. Wallingford looked around the office once more. It was stripped clean of everything personal. He started to leave and then turned back to Keegan.

"You know, I hope I never see you again, Francis," Wallingford said, and there was a tone of sadness in his remark. "It will just remind me what a poor judge of character I am."

He left Keegan standing alone in the empty office.

The Imperial was the most elegant bar and restaurant in Berlin. Its domed ceiling towered two stories over the deco and bronze interior. Tall French doors separated the garden restaurant from the bar, where fresh flowers brightened every table and the waiters in their white, gold-trimmed uniforms hustled stoically about the room. The place was buzzing with activity when Keegan arrived, the crowd a strange mix of reporters in their blue suits and flowered ties, tourists in white, SS officers in black uniforms, and the usual smattering of Gestapo agents, easily identifiable in their drab gray suits, their impersonal eyes suspicious of everything and everybody.

Rudman was sitting at a corner table, scratching out notes on the usual sheaf of curled and wrinkled note paper.

"Why don't you get yourself a real notebook?" Keegan asked, joining him. "Looks like you retrieved that pile of scrap from a garbage pail."

"Force of habit," Rudman answered. "Besides, notebooks are too organized. How's your girlfriend?" Keegan just nodded. "I did a little checking. Nice family background-if you like money."

"That's enough," Keegan said.

"Did you see Wally?"

"Long enough to get insulted and say good-bye."

"Good-bye?"

"He's been recalled."

"What?"

"Forget where you heard what I'm going to tell you."

"Naturally."

"Wallingford set up Reinhardt's escape. A military attache named Trace was driving him across the border and they got nailed by the Gestapo. The damn fool was in an embassy car. To avoid an international stink, Roosevelt has officially apologized to Hitler and Wally and Trace have been deported."

A waiter appeared and Keegan ordered a double martini.

"Jesus! How about Reinhardt?" Rudman pressed on eagerly.

"The way I get it, the Gestapo tortured him for several hours, then forced battery acid down his throat. He's dead. It will probably be written off as a suicide."

"Can I use this?"

"You can do whatever you want with it, just don't mention my name. I don't want to join Wally and Trace on the boat home. Anyway, I'm sure Herr Goebbels will be over here gloating about it by the cocktail hour."

"Poor old Wally. Everybody writes him off as an alarmist."

"He is an alarmist."

"He's a visionary, Francis. He sees it the way it's going to be."

For the first time, Keegan didn't argue. He didn't feel he had the right to argue just then, not with Felix Reinhardt on his conscience.

"Here comes the Bank of Massachusetts," Rudman said.

Keegan turned to see Vanessa enter the Imperial. She spoke to the matre d', who led her toward their table.

"She's leaving for Hamburg tomorrow," Keegan said. "Going back on the Bremen. "

"What a shame."

"Let's not talk politics in front of her, okay?"

"I've got to file this piece," Rudman said. "And I need to get more background on this Trace fellow. You know anything about him?"

"He's a major."

"Everybody in the military over here seems to be a major."

"It has a nice ring to it."

"Good afternoon," Rudman said cheerily as Vanessa approached the table.

She nodded at him politely, then smiled sweetly at Keegan.

"How did it go at the embassy?" she asked.

"Diplomacy is rampant over there," Keegan chuckled.

"I hear you're leaving us," said Rudman to Vanessa.

"Yes. My daddy has taken a cottage at Saratoga every year since I was born. He still thinks I'm ten years old and dying to go to the afternoon tea dances."

"It'll be a nice place to dry out," Keegan said with a snicker.

"I never liked the afternoon tea dances, even when I was ten. And I don't want to dry out."

"Well, Berlin won't be the same without you," Rudman offered with a sincere smile.

"What a sweet thing to say. Did you hear that, Frankie?"

"I've been listening to his malarkey for years."

"How can you stand him?" Rudman said, fishing for his wallet. "He's such a cynic."

"It's all bluff," she said.

"Put your wallet away," said Keegan. "I'll spring for your beer."

"Bloody generous of you. I'm sure I'll be bumping into you in the next day or two. If not, maybe I'll swing over to Paris for the races, if you think that nag of yours really has a chance."

"She'll run their legs off."

"You have a racehorse?" Vanessa asked. "I didn't know that."

"He's got half a dozen racehorses," Rudman said. "And I bet there's a lot you don't know about Mr. Keegan." He smiled, stood up, kissed her hand and left the table with a wave.

"Have you two been friends long?" she asked.

"Since the war," Keegan said. "He's a good guy, but he's going to get in a lot of trouble."

"Why?"

"He's obsessed with the whole Nazi thing. If he's not careful he'll end up like Reinhardt."

"Oh no, the little man you were talking about this morning? What happened to him?"