Speer, the architect, young, handsome, with the bright-eyed look of the idealist-the youthful genius seemed a bit awed at being in such powerful company. Speer, who had little to say except when he was talking about buildings, was the dreamer who would create a phoenix from the ashes of Germany's defeat.

Eva Braun, the vivacious little girl from the village who appeared to be Hitler's current girlfriend. Frivolous, pretty in a common way, but empty-headed, she was apparently an innocuous diversion for the leader.

Vierhaus. Deformed, persuasive, an enigma who apparently had no title but held an autonomous position within the Gestapo and reported to no one but the Fhrer. Could he be the Iago to Hitler's Othello?

And Hess. Dark, handsome, quick-witted and sarcastic, Hess was the mystery man. He had transcribed much of Mein Kampf from the Fhrer's notes while Hitler was still in prison and was probably closer to Hitler than anyone except Hermann Gring. His role in the hierarchy was vague to Ingersoll, although as Deputy Fhrer he was next in the line of succession, the crown prince of the Nazi party.

Was he, like Vierhaus, a back-room planner, an unheralded advisor working in the shadows? Or was he simply a confidant whose opinion Hitler respected and whom Hitler trusted to carry on the dream if something happened to him?

Hess had another bond with the Fhrer, an uncommon interest in witchcraft and the occult. After dinner, assisted by Hess, Hitler told the future using an old-fashioned divining process. In the eerie light of candles, Hitler held a spoon of lead over one candle, dripping the molten lead into a bowl of cold water, then Hess read the misshapen blobs, predicting an amazing and successful year for the Fhrer, much to the Fhrer's delight.

Ingersoll reluctantly had excused himself on the pretense of making sure the film was properly prepared for the screening. But he had other things to do. He had conceived a crazy stunt, daring and dangerous, but one his showman's instincts could not resist.

Dressed all in black, he slipped a pair of ice spikes over his shoes, put on a pair of thick work gloves and took a long length of coiled rope from the case. Wrapping his black cloak around his shoulders, he stepped out on the icy balcony.

He had studied the front wall of the chalet earlier in the day. The screening room was on the same level as his room but two balconies away. Normally it would have been a simple stunt to climb up to the roof and down to the screening room but the building was encrusted with ice. Even though the wind had died away, snow flurries drifted down, making it difficult to see up to the roof and making the stunt doubly dangerous. And then, of course, there were the guards constantly patrolling the grounds. But Ingersoll was determined to go through with it.

He swung the loop of coiled rope around, letting it out as he did in a widening circle, and tried to hook it over the cornice on the roof. It missed and fell over the side of the balcony, sending a cascade of broken ice to the ground. Ingersoll flattened himself against the wall as one of the guards peered up. But the guard could see nothing, his vision impaired by hundreds of twinkling snowflakes, and he walked around the corner. On the third try, the rope slipped over the cornice and caught.

Pulling it taut, Ingersoll worked his way up the face of the chalet, his spikes biting into the patches of ice imbedded in the wall. Once he was on the steeply eaved rooftop, he loosened the rope. Balanced on the edge of the roof with no safety line, he could feel the ice shifting underfoot. Snow sprinkled into his eyes and mouth.

He bent his knees slightly for added balance and swung the rope around again, this time attempting to hook the cornice over the screening room balcony. It was difficult to judge in the dark and the falling snow. Each time the rope missed, shards of ice clattered down fifty feet to the garden beneath him.

His heart was throbbing with excitement as he continued to try to loop his line over the cornice. Finally it caught. He started to pull it taut but as he did, the icy patch underfoot crumbled and he felt himself slipping over the edge. He reached out with one hand, grabbed the roof, felt his hand slide off and pitched over the side into the darkness.

He plunged downward, grasping the lifeline, wondering for an instant whether it would catch and break his fall. Then he felt the snap of the rope, the shock through his wrists and elbows and felt himself arcing through the air. He smacked against the side of the chalet and his gloved hands began slipping down the length of rope. He let go with one hand, grabbed the rope a foot lower and frantically twisted it around his wrist. It stopped his slide. He was dangling six feet above the balcony.

"Where is der Schauspieler?" he heard Gring ask from inside the room. "He is late for his own show."

"You know these artists," he heard the woman answer.

He slid down the rest of the rope to the screening room balcony and sighed with relief, a specter in black hunched against the wall.

Inside the dimly lit screening room, Hitler had settled in his usual chair with Gring on one side and Eva on the other. The rest of the guests found seats around him. Vierhaus was worried. Hitler had no patience when it came to tardiness. Where was Ingersoll?

Suddenly the French doors leading to the balcony burst open and a hideous specter in black whirled dramatically through the doors.

Everyone in the room gasped.

Eva screamed.

Himmler reached for his Luger.

Hitler bolted back against his seat, his eyes as wide as a full moon.

"Mein Fhrer, Damen, gentlemen," Ingersoll said, "may I present Der Nacht Hund. "

He swept the mask off his head and leaned over in a deep bow.

Ingersoll sat on the bed in his room.

What a day this had been, a personal victory for him. The screening had been a triumph. And his little stunt had, once the outrage disappeared, thrilled the Fhrer with its daring.

The actor stepped out on the balcony and lit a cigarette. He was exhausted and needed time to think, to plan his future.

One floor below the masters of the Reich were talking business, something both Hitler and Vierhaus had said was usually forbidden.

Somebody opened the doors to the terrace below and he could hear the voices, pick up an occasional word or phrase, although he was not trying to eavesdrop. He was intoxicated by the thought that twenty feet below him, the destiny of Germany was being planned.

"I say do it," he heard Gring's boisterous voice say. "And quickly."

". . . very risky," somebody said, perhaps Funk.

"Of course it's risky," Himmler said. "So what . . ."

The voice faded away. There was more muffled conversation and he picked up occasional snatches of sentences.

Goebbels: ". . . must convince everyone it was a Communist plot."

Hitler: "That is your problem, Joseph."

Gring: ". . . worry, I know the perfect scapegoat . . . a half-wit who lives . . ."

Himmler: ". . . five days and I will convince him he is the head of the Communist party for the entire continent," followed by a chorus of laughter.

More muffled talk and then he heard Gring finish a sentence: ". . . to arrange the fire."

The fire?

There was more muffled talk. He stepped closer to the edge of the balcony to hear better and heard a snatch of something Gring was saying: ". . . a tunnel from . . ." and he faded out again. Moments later . . .

Himmler: "A rat bomb perhaps . . ."

A rat bomb? Ingersoll wondered. So did Hitler.

"A rat bomb?"

"Simply starve a rat for a day or two. Prepare the fire in the heating ducts in the basement, set a trap so it will ignite the fire when the trap is sprung. Then we let the rat loose in the duct. A hungry rat can smell food for miles. When he takes his meal, poof. The building is old, it will go up like a dry Christmas tree."

What building, Ingersoll wondered. And why?

Someone walked out on the terrace below. Ingersoll snuffed out the cigarette in a drift of snow beside the door and stepped back inside.

Why? he thought. And what was it Goebbels had said, blame it on the Communists?

He sat at the writing desk in the corner of the room trying to put his mind back on the film. There were several minor things he wanted to change. But he could not shake the events of the day and Hitler's outrageous proposal to him.

His decision was sudden and irrevocable.

He got up suddenly and cracked the door to his room a couple of inches. He heard the sitting room doors on the first floor open, the muffled voices of men saying their good nights, a ripple of laughter. He left the door ajar and went back to the table.

At the foot of the stairs, Hitler turned to Vierhaus and whispered, "Well, what do you think, Willie? Will our Schauspieler accept the challenge?"

"I think there is no question," Vierhaus answered confidently.

"Well, after tonight, I don't think his courage could ever be faulted."

"In fact," Vierhaus answered, "after his stunt tonight I would say he is a man who enjoys taking risks. Perhaps without thought of the consequences."

"How do you come to that conclusion?"

"He risked his life scaling your icy wall and he was not at all concerned with what your reaction might be. He simply didn't care."

"Hmm. Are you implying there may be some hidden surprises with this fellow?" Hitler pressed on. "That he may have, what do you call them, fatal flaws?"

"Not at all. I think he's the perfect man for the job."

Vierhaus was shading the truth a bit. He knew all human beings harbor hidden surprises. Vierhaus was a trained psychologist, a conditioned skeptic who impulsively looked beyond the surface. He knew that within that cold cell of the mind there were obsessions, compulsions, dark impulses, secrets, even imaginary companions, and the line between the neurotic and the psychotic was thin indeed. The neurotic submitted to those passions. The psychotic was a victim of them.

Thus far he had only intelligence reports on Ingersoll on which to base his judgment. Simple facts-Himmler's people were not interested in interpretation, they were collectors of data-and the data had not permitted a reliable analysis of the man. Now, after a day and night in which to observe Ingersoll, some questions had crept into his mind.

Sitting in the darkened theater, Vierhaus had focused on the actor. His entrance through the French doors had been a startling piece of showmanship-but did it indicate something else?

Was Ingersoll an eccentric artist? Or was there some dark secret lurking inside his head that could at some crucial moment explode like a volcano and endanger the entire mission?

In short, was this man eccentric, neurotic or psychotic?

Or was he all three?

Vierhaus simply did not know but he had his own megalomania and was confident that if the actor accepted Hitler's proposal, he could control and master the man. It was a risky assumption but one he had to take. He had convinced the Fuhrer that Ingersoll was perfect for the job, it was too late to back away now.

Five minutes passed before Ingersoll heard the footsteps mounting the stairs and coming down the hallway. He leaned over his notes. He heard the footsteps stop and a moment later a tap on the door. He turned, acting startled. Hitler was peering in the doorway.

"Excuse me, Colonel Wolfe, your door was open."

Ingersoll scrambled to get to his feet but Hitler waved him back down.

"Stay down, please. I didn't mean to intrude."

"Please come in," Ingersoll said. "I was just jotting down some notes on the film. Little things, you know. A snip here, a snip there."

Hitler pushed the door open but did not enter the room. He stood framed in the entrance with his hands behind his back.

"Always the perfectionist, eh?"

"I suppose I am. It drives the technicians crazy."

"Then you should get better technicians."

"I keep hoping we have the best."

"Well, I did not mean to disturb you. Thank you again for the film. As you can tell, everyone was thrilled by it. I will watch it many times more, I am sure. And thank you for coming to my home."

"It is the highlight of my life, mein Fhrer. It is I who thank you." He paused for a moment and then said, "I would like to repay the kindness . . . in a small way of course, I'm afraid I can't match the significance of the dagger."

"Usually a German shepherd puppy goes with the commission. To be a companion during the training period. But in your case, it seemed inappropriate."

"One of my vices is fine wines," Ingersoll said. "I have about two hundred bottles of vintage French reds and whites at my country house. I would like you to have them, Fhrer."

Hitler was genuinely surprised at the offer. Then the significance of the gift slowly sank in. His expression turned quizzical, then curious, then his eyes widened and he smiled broadly.

"That is a very generous gift, Colonel."

He paused, his eyebrows rounded into question marks.

"When Hans Wolfe dies," said Ingersoll, "the wine will be delivered to you."

Hitler clenched his fists to his chest. His expression was one of pure joy.

"So you agree then?"

"Yes," Ingersoll said, rising to his feet, "I would be honored to become Siebenundzwanzig. "

"I am sure that was a difficult decision for you."

"Yes. And there is something else that is difficult."

"What might that be?" Hitler asked.

"There are two problems we must deal with," Ingersoll said and calmly explained what they were.

Hitler did not flinch. His expression did not change.

"You shall learn," he said to the actor, "those are the kinds of problems we deal with extremely well."

Their eyes met and slowly, very slowly, Johann Ingersoll raised his hand in the Nazi salute.

Adolf Hitler saluted back and smiled.

EIGHT.

The five-day-old newspaper lay on top of a scattered pile of current papers on an oak table in the living room. The inside pages had been pulled out so the carryover lay beside the front page opener.