Vierhaus shook his head.

"No. He joined the party in Nuremberg in 1927. A year later he auditioned for a small part in a film and ended up getting the leading part. That's when this charade of his began. He lives in Berlin as Johann Ingersoll and has a summer place outside of Munich where he uses his real name. And . . . he contributes heavily to the party."

"Excellent. Personality?"

"Arrogant, demanding, self-centered, explosive. Also extremely intelligent and well read. He can actually quote long passages from Mein Kampf."

"Really!" Hitler said, obviously pleased.

"Yes. He can also be quite outspoken, even insulting at times, and I hear he has quite a cynical sense of humor. On the other hand, those who know him as Hans Wolfe in Munich think he is a businessman. To them, he is charming and generous. A totally different personality when he is away from the studios."

"So, he is two different people then?"

Vierhaus nodded. "And apparently he has no problem switching back and forth."

"A real actor."

"Yes, Fhrer. And quite an athlete, too. Expert skier and swimmer, did some boxing in the army. An avid mountain climber and hunter."

"Women?"

"A bachelor, but he has frequent affairs."

"Not homosexual?"

"Nein, nein," Vierhaus said hurriedly.

"And he knows Mein Kampf, eh?"

"An obsession with him."

"I hope he is not uncomfortable, being the odd card here this weekend. Everybody else knows each other."

"I think that will appeal to him."

"Oh?"

"It sets him apart from the rest of us. Reminds everyone he is the star."

Hitler glanced at Vierhaus. "Not in this house," he said.

Vierhaus laughed. "He is egocentric, Fhrer, not crazy."

Hitler laughed and slapped his knee. "So, now the question is, will he do it?"

"I think, mein Fhrer, that will be largely up to you."

Hitler nodded, then strolled back to the window. Far below he saw the Mercedes whisking up the narrow road, dust fluting out behind it.

"Ah," he said, rubbing his hands together. His tone did not conceal his excitement. "The actor has arrived."

"Excellent!" Vierhaus said. "The play begins."

FIVE.

"Herr Ingersoll," Vierhaus greeted the actor at the front door, "welcome to the Eagle's Nest."

The hunchbacked professor stared intently at Ingersoll, who was surprisingly nonchalant. A cool fellow, all right. He led the actor into the large foyer.

"And is this the real Ingersoll we're meeting or another character you've created?" he asked with a smile.

Ingersoll shrugged off the question with a cryptic answer.

"Perhaps there is no real Ingersoll," he replied, following Vierhaus into the main hallway of the chalet. Behind him, two servants followed with his luggage and five heavy reels of film.

"Ah, you brought the film!" Vierhaus cried. "Excellent. The Fhrer will be delighted. He has assigned you to the room opposite his, on the northwest corner. I think you will find the view breathtaking."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"You may thank him personally. He's looking forward to meeting you."

"And when will that be?"

"Not too long now. The Fhrer likes to keep business to a minimum when he's here. He sleeps late and reviews the morning reports. He usually comes down about lunchtime."

"Herr Professor, shall I take the film to the projection room?" one of the servants asked.

"Excuse me for a moment while I make sure everything is done properly," Vierhaus said to Ingersoll and went off with the servants. Ingersoll was left alone in the hallway.

The actor was impressed by the cleanliness of the chalet. The wood floors were polished to a sheen and he saw not a speck of dust anywhere. Somewhere in the back of the house, a canary started warbling, then another joined in from somewhere else, then a cockatoo answered shrilly and another. There seemed to be birds everywhere, the house echoed with their chirping. Ingersoll strolled to the edge of the library and looked in. The books were all bound in leather. In the dining room, the table had been set for the evening meal. Ingersoll casually picked up a cup and looked at the bottom. The entire service was the finest Meissen china; each plate, saucer and cup were engraved with Hitler's initials and a swastika. The goblets and tea service were gold.

Nothing pedestrian about the Fhrer's taste.

There were several valuable paintings hanging in the downstairs rooms but one instantly galvanized Ingersoll's stare. It was almost life size and framed in gold leaf. A shielded lamp ran the length of the top of the frame, casting a soft light down on the painting. The subject was dressed in a peasant blouse and a pink skirt, the colors bright and cheerful but not garish. A striking woman, young and exquisitely beautiful, he thought. There was a disarming sense of innocence in her pale blue eyes, yet a boldness in the arrogant tilt of her chin. Ingersoll felt himself aroused by her impish innocence, a spectacularly sensuous combination.

Who was this woman whose picture dominated the hallway?

As he stared up at it he suddenly felt as if he were being watched. He looked around but the hall was empty. He stared up the stairway and for an instant thought he saw someone moving in the shadows at the top of the stairs. Then he turned his gaze back to the portrait.

At the top of the staircase, Hitler stood in the deep shadows staring down at Ingersoll, watching the actor's almost hypnotic attraction to the painting.

Look at the way he stares at her. There is hunger in that look.

There was sexual ardor in his stare and Ingersoll made no attempt to hide it. Hitler was seized by a momentary rush of jealousy. He turned abruptly and went back down the hall to his sitting room. Once inside he sat on the edge of the chair as though perched there, his fist pressed against his lips, fighting back an overwhelming sense of longing, anger and remorse.

Watching Ingersoll stare at the portrait he understood the actor's sexual attraction to the subject. He too had stared at that picture with the same longing, the same desire. The same perverted fantasy.

He began to shake uncontrollably. First his knee began to bob, then his hands quivered. He beat on his legs with his fists and muffled the cry of anguish that hurt his throat. He fought back the tears of rage that burned the corners of his eyes. Time had eradicated the need. Only resentment remained.

How dare she! How dare she defy and humiliate me. How dare she rob me in such a way.

It was a question he had asked himself many times in the eighteen months since Geli Raubal had killed herself. His maid, Annie Winter, had found Geli with Hitler's Walther 6.35 wrapped in a towel, its muzzle still pressed against her chest.

I can't live with your rage and your anger, sometimes I think it would be better to be dead.

She had said the same thing many times and in a variety of ways but he always scoffed at her, derided her, dared her.

And then that awful night she had taken the dare and it had fallen to Rudolf Hess and Gregor Strasser to hush up the potential scandal, just as they had handled the blackmailers who had managed to acquire the obscene nude paintings he had done of Geli.

Just as they had subdued him and watched over him for days because he, too, was raving on the edge of self-destruction.

September 18, 1931, a date that was scorched into his memory, like the date of the Putsch and the date Hindenburg had named him chancellor. Except that this date was a nightmare from which he could not escape.

Ingersoll was still staring at the painting when Vierhaus returned, walking with that curious kind of swagger he had affected to minimize the hump on his back.

"She's exquisite," Ingersoll said, still staring up at the face in the portrait. "Who is she?"

"Geli Raubal, the Fhrer's niece. His favorite sister's daughter. He adored her. She was killed a year and a half ago. A tragic accident. He still hasn't fully recovered from the shock."

"I can understand why," Ingersoll said.

"Well, let me show you to your rooms," Vierhaus said, leading Ingersoll up the stairs. "You can freshen up. The Fhrer should be down shortly. He usually takes lunch at the tea house down by the mountain overlook. By the way, there are a few rules you should be aware of. The Fhrer does not permit smoking in the house, he detests the odor. But he has no objection if you smoke outside. He also does not permit the keeping of diaries or writing letters from here, either. And he can't stand whistling."

"Whistling?"

"Yes. Drives him crazy. Are you a whistler, Herr Ingersoll?"

"Sometimes. I find it a comforting diversion."

"Not here. The Fhrer is a vegetarian although there may be meat dishes for the guests. Also he is a teetotaler, but, again, there will be wine and champagne for his visitors."

"He sounds quite tolerant of others," Ingersoll said.

"Oh yes, the Fhrer is a most tolerant gentleman. . . ."

He came downstairs precisely at noon. Ingersoll was surprised at how small Hitler was in person. And he wasn't sure what to expect. Would this be the serious, stormy Hitler he had seen so many times, speaking in Berlin, Nuremberg and Munich, the forceful leader, demanding and getting the adoration of thousands, berating the British and French, damning the Jews and Communists? Or would it be the more affable Hitler he had seen in crowds, often speaking in low caressing tones, bowing low from the waist and kissing the hands of the young Fruleins, kissing the foreheads of the children, making jokes with them.

He was dressed in a gray wool double-breasted suit with the Wehrmacht insignia over the breast pocket, a smiling man, pleasant and friendly. The affable Hitler.

"So," said Hitler, "we finally meet. I am an ardent fan of yours, Herr Ingersoll. I've seen all your films, some more than once. You have brought great credit to Germany. Thank you for accepting my invitation."

"I am flattered that you asked, mein Fhrer."

"I trust your room is satisfactory."

"Lovely."

"Good. Good! I usually take a noon stroll down to the tea house for lunch with my guests but since you and Willie are the first to arrive and he has a few things to do, perhaps just the two of us can go down together."

This man in an ordinary lounging suit, projecting a patriarchal image of kindness and affability, is this the man who will change the world?

Servants helped Hitler and Ingersoll on with their wraps. Hitler wore a heavy greatcoat. The chancellor wrapped a thick muffler around his neck and, flexing his shoulders, smiled at Ingersoll.

"Sure you're up to a walk in this weather?" Hitler asked.

"Looking forward to it."

The wind sliced up the mountainside with an edge as sharp as a knife. Hitler was hunched down in the thick greatcoat, its tall collar wrapped around his ears. His gloved hands were tucked under his armpits. Two armed guards followed twenty or so feet behind them, just out of earshot. As they approached the overlook, the entire valley spread below them. Snow glistened in the noonday sun.

Ingersoll stopped at the overlook halfway to the tea house and pointed out over the mountains. "That's where you were born, isn't it? Over the mountains there in the Waldviertel?"

"Yes. Braunau. A terrible place. Not as bad as Vienna but a terrible place."

"What's so terrible about it?"

"It's known as the wooded place. Very harsh," Hitler said, not hiding the bitterness in his voice. "Harsh land, harsh people, dreary, medieval. For centuries it was prey to every marauding army that invaded southern Germany. Sacked by the Huns, by the Bohemian Ottakar II. By the Swedes during the Thirty Years' War. Even Napoleon marched through it in 1805 on the way to Vienna. The fools in the Waldviertel have a legacy of defeat. Defeatists all."

Hitler's voice began to rise as anger took the place of bitterness.

"We have too many people in Germany today who feel the same way," he went on, slashing his fists against his thighs. "That's why I must throw that damnable Versailles treaty back in the Allies' faces. Pride, pride, Herr Ingersoll, that's what I will give back to all my people. I must make defeat an alien word to all Germans."

"You have already started, sir," Ingersoll said.

"Danke, Herr Ingersoll," Hitler said with genuine pleasure. He stamped his feet against the cold.

Cajole and flatter.

"What do they call you? Johann? John?"

"Hans, actually," Ingersoll said.

"Ah, your proper name." And Hitler smiled.

So, they want something, Ingersoll thought. They've gone to a lot of trouble to check me out. Do they know everything? Do they know all the secrets of Johann Ingersoll? Was this to be some kind of blackmail?

He dispelled the notion as paranoia.

"Don't be alarmed," Hitler said. "It's Himmler and his SS. They're overly cautious. Security, you know."

"Ah yes, security."

Hitler's breath swirled from the folds of the collar.