"Not admitted to the examination."

Twice the Academy in Vienna had rejected him, twice they had humiliated him. The bastards had refused to even let him take the examination for admittance to art school! He gazed across the foothills and forest toward the place he still hated. Waldviertel, "the wooded quarter," that borderland of brutal soil, medieval architecture and narrow minds where he was born, that dreary and depressing corner of Austria which had rejected and humiliated him.

He had only bad memories of that hard land and its people who had once thought of him only as an argumentative, willful, arrogant and bad-tempered young man, so disliked that they ridiculed him behind his back. Even his one friend, August Kubizek-old Gustl-thought he was a bit strange.

None of them understood. Then.

But they did now.

He laughed aloud, pounding a fist into the palm of his other hand.

None of them knew his torments as a child. None of them understood his dreams.

"Imbeciles!" he said aloud as he paced the room. He frequently talked to himself in the privacy of his office.

In the dark corners of his mind, Hitler sometimes planned the most vicious kind of retaliation for the officials at the Vienna Academy who had smashed his early dreams, forcing him to sell his hand-painted postcards on the streets to earn enough to eat and pay the two kronen it cost to spend the week in the cold, filthy men's home along the Danube. They had sentenced him to three years in the gutter, a derelict wandering Vienna in a mindless trance, cold and hungry. He still feared and hated the winter. And he hated the Jews who bought his postcards. He hated them because they had pitied him. Pity was a word that turned to ashes in his mouth.

Well, nobody, nobody laughed at him anymore. Five nights before he had stood in the window of the Chancellery for four hours while thousands marched by under torchlight, screaming his name and singing the "Horst Wessel" song, the Nazi anthem. The excitement of that night still clung to him. Now they threw flowers at his feet, exhibited his early architectural paintings in a special section of the Vienna museum, raised their arms in stiff salute and howled Heil Hitler when he drove through the city. And in the Waldviertel they pointed to the place where he was born, now a cheap, pink-plastered inn, and bragged that the life of the new savior of Germany had begun in that very house. Perhaps that was retribution enough.

He stood at the window, smiling, his groin throbbing with excitement, and incanted softly to himself: "Heil Hitler, Heil Hitler, Heil Hitler." And giggled.

The 150-kilometer drive to Berchtesgaden had taken two hours and by midmorning they were on the way up the dirt road toward the mountain stronghold. As they drove through the eight-foot wire fence with its top strands of electrified wire, past the guard dogs and the sentries, and up the dirt road that led to Hitler's retreat, Ingersoll could see the Berghof, Hitler's mountainside chalet, etched against a thick forest of pine trees. The house itself was smaller and simpler than he expected, but the setting, perched as it was 3,300 feet above the village in the Bavarian Alps, was stunning.

Staring at the chalet, Ingersoll recalled a recurring theme from Hitler's speeches: "Absolute authority comes from God, absolute obedience comes from the Devil."

It was one of Hitler's favorite aphorisms for it justified what he called Machtergreifung, his seizure of power in Germany.

Was this the hideaway of God or the Devil, Ingersoll wondered? Was Hitler's vision for Germany ordained or Mephistophelian?

Not that it made any difference. For Germany now had a leader who scoffed at the Allies and trampled the miserable Versailles treaty underfoot. His was a divine vision, regardless of its roots.

Ingersoll was an avid student of neo-German history, knew that much was based on lies or, rather, "propaganda." He knew that the "Horst Wessel" song was named after a miserable pimp who had been elevated to martyrdom by Nazi lies, that even the Machtergreifung was a lie. Hitler had not seized power, he had bought and bartered it. But Ingersoll accepted Hitler's manipulations as the actions of a political genius who had to resort to sordid intrigues to win; to sellouts in smoke-filled rooms, to millions of marks in graft from the Ruhr's wealthy industrialists like Krupp and bankers like von Schroeder, to his use of the brownshirt storm troopers who terrorized the population, to lies about the power the Jews never had. Hitler wove fantasies around them, blamed them for the rise of Marxism and Communism in Germany and for the desperate depression that by now had twenty million Germans unemployed and near starvation.

Ingersoll accepted that, too, since his hatred of Jews was as virulent as was Hitler's, just as he recognized that misery and destitution had become Hitler's strongest allies. The more helplessly the Germans were mired in poverty, the more they turned to this strange political agitator who sometimes made five or six speeches in a single day, orchestrated by goose-stepping storm troopers waving swastikas, and who proclaimed that he would single-handedly rid Germany of her debts and her enemies, grant land to farmers, socialism to workers and anticommunism to the wealthy, although he never explained how he planned to accomplish any of this. And while he had never actually won an election, he had won enough votes to manipulate the aging and senile Hindenburg into naming him chancellor of Germany, the new head of the Reichstag.

Hitler was a mere step away from becoming dictator.

Ingersoll accepted that inevitability as a small price to pay. If chicanery and lies were the road to success, Ingersoll earnestly believed that in Hitler Germany had found the perfect leader to exploit them. And he felt a kindred link to him since Ingersoll's own good fortune had paralleled Hitler's.

Now he was to be the personal guest of Germany's new chancellor. His nerves hummed with the electricity of expectation as they approached the chalet.

Professor Vierhaus knocked softly on the door to the sitting room, usually a forbidden place to everyone but Eva Braun. But on this morning he had been invited to have coffee with the Fhrer and talk about der Schauspieler-the Actor-which is how Hitler referred to Ingersoll. Vierhaus was flattered. Hitler, a late sleeper, usually arose around eleven A.M., looked over the morning reports, and didn't appear until noon.

"Come, come," was the impatient response.

He had only been in Hitler's private sitting room once before. Entering it now, he remembered how surprised he had been the first time he had seen it. The sitting room was small and rather bleak with high ceilings, a simple chandelier and thick double doors. Two French windows overlooked the valley, their heavy drapes and cotton curtains pulled back. His desk was angled in one corner near the windows. There was an easy chair, a bookcase and a sofa with three hand-sewn throw pillows. That was it. Two expensive but worn Oriental rugs partially covered the brilliantly waxed dark oak floors. There was a rather dreary landscape over the sofa. A wolf painting near the desk. A photograph of Hitler addressing a meeting somewhere hung on the wall beside the desk. A coffee service was set on the corner of the desk. Nothing more.

Hitler was seated at his desk writing.

"I'm working on my acceptance speech," Hitler said without looking up. "Give me just a moment, I don't want to lose the thought."

"Shall I leave and come back later?"

"No. Just a moment."

Vierhaus stood as straight as possible, lifting one shoulder to balance the hump on the other side of his back, trying to minimize the grotesque posture caused by his deformity. Hitler looked over at him.

"Sit, sit, Willie."

"Yes sir."

Vierhaus sat down. Hitler continued writing, his scratching pen the only sound in the room except for the wind which moaned through the eaves outside. He stopped, the pen poised at his lips, then scribbled out another sentence.

"This will be the most important speech of my life," he said, staring at the paper. "I must challenge them as never before."

"Yes, mein Fhrer."

The little man finally put his pen down and leaned back in his chair, reading what he had written.

"Listen to this, Professor. 'We must raise the German people by their own labor, their own industry, their own determination and daring, their own perseverance, so they will perceive Germany, not as a gift, but a nation created by themselves.' What do you think?"

Vierhaus thought for several moments before answering.

"Excellent, Fhrer, excellent. Powerful. I would consider only one small suggestion."

Hitler glowered but said nothing.

"Where you say 'they will perceive Germany,' perhaps 'perceive' is a bit too intellectual. Accept might be more understandable to the public."

"Humph," Hitler snorted. "Seems a bit weak, that word accept." He did not take criticism well but even as he disagreed he drew a line through the word "perceive" and wrote "accept" over it.

As a clinical psychologist, Vierhaus knew and understood Hitler's contradictions far better than did most of his henchmen. He encouraged them and used them to fuel Hitler's most outrageous schemes, many of which he himself had subtly planted in the Fuhrer's mind. Here was a man whose personal sanctuary was modest at best but who had spent millions on the renovation of Brown House. A man who decried the use of alcohol yet drank beer, champagne and wine; who loved sausage but decried eating meat; who hated hunting but eagerly encouraged the murder of his political enemies and Jews; who could coo like a dove one moment and go into fits of rage an instant later, driven out of control by rampant paranoia; who ate meagerly in public but whose cook, a grossly fat man named Willy Kannenberg, produced exquisite seven- and eight-course meals for him; who demanded radical self-discipline yet indulged himself in sweets, fruit and cream cakes and literally drowned his tea and coffee in sugar and cream; who publicly encouraged and rewarded the marriage of purer Aryans yet kept a mistress.

"It is wiser to have a mistress than to be married," Hitler had told Vierhaus once, then added with a wink, "Of course, this only holds true of an exceptional man."

Psychotic behavior patterns all, yet Vierhaus accepted them, even encouraged them, for he also saw the other Hitler. Pale, slight, his thin brown hair draped over one eye, here was a man so common he should have been easy to ignore but who was, instead, a man who could not be overlooked in any company. Self-assured, confident, dignified, his flashing, cold-steel eyes signaled the fanatic within and the cutting-edge mind that lurked behind the spurious smile. People were awed in his presence without knowing why.

Vierhaus understood it all. Unlike Goebbels, Gring, Himmler and the rest of the sycophants who agreed blindly with everything Hitler said, Vierhaus recognized both the genius and the madness of the man. He had recognized it nine years before when he had first seen Hitler at Landsberg prison. Here was a political prisoner who was living in relative splendor, his cell decorated with flowers and pictures, a special cot in the corner, his meals specially prepared for him, writing a book which outlined his plan to overthrow the government. Amazing, Vierhaus had thought, this little man with incredible self-assurance around whom power seemed to energize. If they did not put him in a madhouse or assassinate him, he could become a very dangerous man.

Now he marveled at the understatement. What was it Nietzsche had said? All greatness is tinged with madness. How accurate.

Hitler was standing with his back to the door, staring out the window.

"My father never understood the world," Hitler said without turning around. "He accepted everything that was handed to him." He turned and glared at Vierhaus. "That is what has been wrong with Germany. They have accepted what was handed to them. But they are learning. Yes, Willie?"

"Yes, mein Fhrer, they are learning."

Hitler smiled and stamped his foot on the floor.

"Chancellor, Willie. I am Chancellor of Germany."

Vierhaus bowed slightly. "And I salute you, Chancellor Hitler."

"Chancellor Hitler," Hitler echoed.

He poured himself a cup of coffee, doused it with cream and sugar and gestured to Vierhaus to join him.

"I have a thought to share with you," Vierhaus said very softly as he fixed his coffee.

"Not this morning," Hitler said quickly. "You know the rule, Willie, no business at the Berghof. It can wait until we are back in Munich on Monday."

"Of course, of course," the mind doctor answered quickly. "I just thought it would be something for you to mull over. I admit it is a rather daring plan but . . ." and then he sank the hook for he knew just how to lure the little man into his net, "it could resolve the Communist problem."

Hitler sat down at his desk and stared at Vierhaus.

"By God, you are a devious one, Willie," he said. "Perhaps that is why we get along so well."

"Danke, mein Fhrer, " Vierhaus said with a grin.

"And what do you suggest, Herr Doktor, that we kill all the seventy-seven communists in Parliament? Hmm?" He chuckled and sipped his coffee.

"Yes," Vierhaus said, leaning forward and speaking almost in a whisper. "But first we must have a reason to get rid of them."

Hitler stopped smiling. His jaw tightened and his eyes turned snakelike.

"And what would that reason be?"

Vierhaus stared straight into his eyes.

"Burn the Reichstag," he said.

Hitler looked perplexed for several moments, then his lips curved into a smile.

"You are a mad one, Willie," he said.

"I am deadly serious."

"Burn the Reichstag!"

"Think about it, mein Fhrer," Vierhaus continued, his voice still almost a whisper. "It is to a// Germans the most sacred building in Germany. Right now, the Communists are the strongest party in the country. If the Reichstag were put to the torch and the Communists were blamed for it, the people would be outraged. Excuse enough to bring the party down once and for all. Then focus attention on the Brown House as the new seat of government. You rid yourself of the Reds, throw the parliament into chaos . . ."

"And use parliamentary decree to take over once and for all," Hitler interceded.

"You are a step ahead of me."

"A dangerous move, my friend," Hitler said, his eyes narrowing.

"I have heard Hermann talk about a secret passageway from the residence to the Reichstag. Easy enough to arrange the fire. Then all you need is a scapegoat. I am sure Himmler or Gring can arrange that."

At first Hitler was astounded but as he listened, the plot began to take shape in his own mind. Daring? Yes. Audacious? Yes. Possible? He tapped his cheek nervously with a finger.

"Just a thought, Herr Chancellor. Something to mull over. But if it is to be done, it must be done quickly."

The plot turned Hitler's mood. He had been jocular, now he became dark and brooding. Vierhaus realized he had to change the mood back.

"It's a dismal old building anyway," he said lightly, pouring himself another coffee. He looked at the Fhrer and smiled.

Hitler stared back for a moment more, then his face softened and he leaned back and laughed.

"So, Willie, you have stirred the pot again. Does that mind of yours ever rest?"

"Occasionally."

"When you are asleep, eh?"

"No. Sometimes my best ideas come in dreams."

It was a clever response for it appealed to Hitler's fascination with dreams, psychism and astrology, and Vierhaus knew it.

"Well, I will consider your Reichstag idea, Willie. Perhaps it is not as crazy as it sounded," Hitler said. "Now let's talk about the Twenty-seven project. Talk to me about der Schauspieler."

Vierhaus leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then he began to recite the information.

"A devout party member and an ardent supporter of the Fhrer. A war hero like yourself. He was still in his teens when he won the Iron Cross at Belleau Wood . . ."

"For what?"

Hitler interrupted whenever the mood served him; Vierhaus was accustomed to that. He also sensed a tinge of jealousy in the question. Hitler had also won two Iron Crosses, a rare achievement for an enlisted man. It surprised him that the actor had earned such a distinction.

"He destroyed a tank and two squads of American Marines before he was himself wounded. He returned to the front and was captured near the end of the war at Cambrai, the day the wind shifted."

"I hate to think about that day. A tragedy for us. Was he gassed then?"

"No, he managed to kill an Englishman and take his mask."

"Resourceful, ja?"

"Very," Vierhaus nodded. "He was born near Linz . . ."

"Ah, an Austrian."

"Yes. And quite proud of it. His born name is Hans Wolfe . . ."

"Wolfe, eh. A good name. A significant name."

"Yes, mein Fhrer. His father was a storekeeper. He died early on, when the boy was ten. The mother taught school. She died while he was in the army. He studied engineering at Berlin University but quit in the early twenties. He became one of the wanderers, a lost soul for almost two years. . . ."

"Was he in the SA?"