"If we should learn they are after you for any reason, we will call," Wolffson said. "The message will be, 'This is the tailor, your suit is ready.' If you get that message leave immediately. Avoid being followed, of course. Go to the city zoo, the Tiergarten . There is a phone booth near the carousel. Wait there and we will call you. So you will know it is us, when you answer we will ask if you picked up your suit yet. Your answer will be, 'No, they did not fix the torn pocket.' Then we will give you instructions."

"Come on, all this is conjecture and . . ."

"Keegan, we've been at this for a long time. Believe me, it is not conjecture. If it happens, do not even think, move. Get out of the hotel and to the zoo."

A silence fell over the room. Cigarettes were lit. Wolffson got a cup of coffee. Gebhart sat in a chair and cracked his knuckles, slowly, one at a time.

"Okay," Keegan said finally. "I'll give it a shot. What do you really think they're doing to her?"

"They will torture her. Even if they know she knows nothing, Hitler wants revenge against the Black Lily. They know she is a Kettenglied. They'll do anything to find out what she knows. Thankfully it is not much."

"What's the best we can hope for?"

"That she can convince the Gestapo she knows nothing," Wolffson answered. "And that they let her die quickly."

"If she survives?" Keegan kept his voice steady.

"If she stays alive? Dachau," said Wolffson.

"What's Dachau?"

"A little town about thirty kilometers from Munich," said Wolffson. "They have built a camp there, an enormous prison stockade for political enemies. It is like a Russian slave camp."

"How long will she be in for? How much time will she get?"

"It doesn't work that way," Weber said.

"There is no sentence," Gebhart said in a low voice. "She will be there forever. Dachau is a forever place."

THIRTY.

He lay in bed all night watching the phone, waiting for Vierhaus to answer his calls. He had called three times, talking to the same icy male SS operator on the other end of the line. On the last call the operator became abusive.

"Don't you understant," the Schutzstaffel man snapped in his thick German accent. "He iss not here! He vill call you ven he iss ready to call you. Auf wiedersehen. "

Sleepless, Keegan lay clothed on the bed thinking about Jenny. Wondering where she was at that moment. Wondering what horrors the Gestapo was wreaking on her. Imagining himself attacking the prison, killing all the guards, and whisking her to freedom in some mad, outrageous rescue scheme that could only happen in the movies. And, too, he wanted to get even. Vierhaus, Conrad Weil, von Meister, each had contributed in a different way to the tragedy, each for a different reason, and each was equally responsible.

The minutes crawled by. Dawn sneaked through the drapes, spreading a crimson stain across the carpet. He watched the spear of light lengthen and widen and slowly illuminate the room.

The phone was a silent threat. He stared at it, reached out, then drew his hand back. He wouldn't call the miserable bastard again. Pain laced his stomach and he reached out again, asked for room service and ordered coffee and rolls. When he heard the knock on the door he opened it, expecting the bellman. Bert Rudman was standing there.

"Can I come in?" he said softly.

Fear cut into Keegan again, a pain now so common he recognized its roots immediately. Bert Rudman had never asked to come in before. Barging in with arms waving, that was his style.

"I didn't know the Gestapo had picked up Jenny."

"Yes. I've known since late last night. I called the bureau and left a message for you."

"God, I am sorry, Kee."

"I don't know what to do. I've never felt this . . . this helpless before."

"You look like hell. Have you been to bed?"

Keegan shook his head. "I couldn't sleep," he said. "What do you know? For sure, I mean?"

"She was arrested at two o'clock yesterday afternoon . . ."

Keegan slammed a fist into the palm of his hand. "Damn it, why did I make that call," he anguished.

"What call?"

Keegan paced the room, burning off nervous energy, rambling in a low voice as if he were talking to himself, as if Rudman wasn't there and he was addressing an imaginary friend, recounting the steps that had led to Jenny's imprisonment.

Rudman walked over to Keegan and stared at him quizzically.

"How do you know all that?" he asked when Keegan finally was quiet.

"Some of it's conjecture, most of it's fact. I know it, take my word for it."

"What else do you know?"

"That they probably tortured her. She may be dead by now. I understand that's the custom."

Rudman took Keegan firmly by the arm. "She's not dead, Francis."

"Are you sure? How do you know?" Keegan said in a rush.

"I got a tip. She was moved about five this morning."

"Moved where? Where did they take her?"

"They're taking her to Dachau, Kee."

Keegan was too stunned to speak for a moment. He was not surprised. The news itself was not unexpected. It was the reality of the news, knowing his worst fears had materialized, that got to him.

Dachau!

"No!" his voice croaked.

"They got four of them. They were arrested for . . ."

"No!" Keegan suddenly screamed, his fists clenched.

"Listen . . . listen to me, Francis, there's nothing-nothing-you can do right now. At least we know she's alive. She's a political prisoner. If she were tried, she'd be tried for high treason. But there isn't going to be a trial. She's gone for now, Kee. Maybe when . . ."

"Damn, is that the only tune anybody knows? That's all I hear. Nothing. I'm tired of hearing that word."

"Kee . . ."

"I'll go to the embassy. Damn it, I'll call the president . . ."

"Kee . . ."

"Goddamn it, we're going to be married! She'll be an American citizen. Hell, she hasn't done anything. Her brother's . . ."

"Kee!"

Keegan stopped. He was soaked with sweat and his hands were shaking.

"Aw, listen to me, man," Bert said. "If I could storm the place by myself and bring her back to you, I'd do it. And if you weren't my best friend I couldn't say this to you . . ."

"Then don't," Keegan cut him off. "You listen to me. I don't buy nothing. I . . . can't . . . give . . . this . . . up!"

"You have to!" Bert answered, his voice rising too. "You don't have any choice!"

"You're telling me that and you claim to be my best friend . . ."

"Christ, I'm trying to be honest with you . . ."

"Bullshit. Bullshit!"

Rudman felt his own anger building but he held it in.

"Listen, you're the one used to say it wasn't any of your business, remember?" he snapped back. "This isn't your country. It will all blow over. Used to tell me I was hysterical. Hysterical? Look at you."

"What the hell do you expect me to do? Jitterbug around the room?"

The room service bellman arrived and they both cooled down while Keegan signed the check. Rudman poured two cups of coffee. He sat down on the sofa.

"Every day hundreds-maybe thousands-of people are dragged off the streets like this," Rudman said shaking his head. "Out of their homes, offices, shops, out of schools, for God's sake, and their families never see them again . . ."

"I'm not one of them. I'm an American citizen . . ."

"Immaterial, pal," Rudman interrupted this time. "You've got to get that fixed in your head. All your money, your influence, it doesn't mean anything here. You are one of them, Kee. The same pain, same anger, same . . . everything. This thing, you're just one of the crowd. All those other voices drown you out."

"Then we'll tell them. Write a story about Dachau, about what's happening . . ."

"Damn it, don't you understand, nobody wants to hear it. I did a story on Dachau for the Tribune three months ago. It was buried on page thirty in the New York edition."

"So I roll over and play dead, that it?"

"Kee, you can't get her out," Rudman said slowly. "The whole world feels the way you did, that it's a German problem."

"You won't do anything because it'll jeopardize your precious bloody bureau, is that it?"

"Aw, for Christ sake, Kee . . ."

Keegan whirled suddenly and threw his coffee cup at the wall. It shattered, spraying bits of china around the room, the coffee etching a brown stain down the wallpaper. His shoulders sagged.

"Go on, get out of here." Keegan waved his hand dejectedly. "Leave me alone."

"To do what?" Rudman said. "Wallow in self-pity?"

Keegan dropped into a chair and did not answer. He seemed to shrink from the weight of the tragedy. Rudman sighed and walked to the door. "You're just another member of a very sad club, Kee, and the membership's growing larger by the day."

He left. As the door clicked shut, Keegan jumped up.

"Ah shit," he said, striding across the room after him. The phone rang.

Vierhaus? he thought. Finally.

He rushed across the room and snatched it up.

"Yes?" he said, far too eagerly.

"Mr. Keegan?"

"Yes."

"This is your tailor. Your suit is ready."

Keegan, disoriented, angry, completely overwrought, wasn't thinking clearly.

"What? What suit?" he snapped.

"Your suit is ready and we're closing early today, Mr. Keegan. "

Click.

Keegan suddenly snapped back to reality. Was that Wolffson? he wondered. He didn't recognize the voice, not enough time. My God, he thought abruptly, that was the warning. Was the Gestapo after him now?

He stopped in the middle of the room, took deep breaths to calm himself down. What was it Wolffson had told him? If they called about the suit go immediately to the city zoo and find the phone booth near the carousel.

Immediately!

He checked the front window of the suite, then the back. Nothing out of the ordinary. He went to the closet and got his briefcase, the only luggage he had. He snapped it open, took out an envelope, checked the contents, and stuck it in his inside pocket. There was nothing else of real value in the case. He left it on the table and checked the windows again. As he was watching, a black Mercedes sedan pulled up and parked on the opposite side of the street. Four men wearing leather raincoats and black hats got out. Two of them entered the front of the hotel, the other two walked around to the rear.

Keegan left the suite, took the elevator to the second floor. He walked quickly to the fire stairs and started down. As he reached the first floor, the door opened. Two black hats barged into the stairwell. They stood two feet away from Keegan.

Leather coats, black fedoras, expressionless faces, blank eyes, lean as jackals. The only difference between the two was their height. One was two inches taller than the other.