It would seem all we have now is day after day of madness-and none of it humorous.

Today alone brings Sparrow's killing by parties unknown and confirmation of a link between that chemist Schwartz and von Braun that can only mean more madness.

And now this envelope of photographs showing damage from the Ruhr Valley bombings.

He glanced at the stainless steel lighter and ran his thumb over the emblem on its case that was a miniature representation of the orange-and-black crest of Princeton. Although the dim light did not allow him to see details, he mentally recited his alma mater's motto that was embossed in Latin on the crest: Dei sub numine viget.

As he moved his thumb upward, flicking open the top of the lighter, he thought of its translation: "Under God's Power She Flourishes."

His thumb then spun the gnarled wheel that sparked the lighter to life. With a practiced flourish, he held its flame to the tip of the foot-long straw-like stick of wood he held in his other hand, then turned the stick vertically so that the flame grew hotter as it burned upward. Then he picked up his favorite pipe, one crafted of exotic burl wood, gently tamped the tobacco in the bowl with his thumb, and finally held the flame over the tobacco.

A purist, he used the wooden stick's flame-and not that of the Zippo-so that the delicate flavor of the tobacco would not be affected by any taste of lighter fluid.

He began to puff. The tobacco caught fire, glowing red. He blew out the flame on the wooden stick and placed it in the ashtray on the table.

He breathed in the thick, sweet smell of the tobacco, put the pipe back to his lips, and took a lengthy, slow draw. After a long moment, as he exhaled appreciatively, he looked up at the oil painting of Old Glory that had recently been hung over the mantel.

Under God's Power She Flourishes indeed . . . he thought.

While Dulles looked and acted every bit the Ivy Leagueeducated diplomat-he presently was registered with the Swiss government as the special assistant to the American Minister, U.S. Legation to Switzerland, where he kept his official office-he of course was the top U.S. secret agent there, quietly conducting OSS business at the mansion on Herrengasse.

The covert meetings Dulles held almost always at night, when the dark of blackout made surveillance of who came and went via the alley leading to the mansion's rear entry practically impossible. The security of his residence-with the notable exception of its telephone lines being tapped, as no suspect telephone in Switzerland went unmonitored, either by the Fremdenpolizei or other organizations, authorized to do so or not-also afforded Dulles the confidence that no one saw or overheard anything said therein.

For Dulles, such security was critical, as he devoutly believed in his mission. He genuinely feared the threat of the spreading of Fascism. He'd at times served as a League of Nations legal adviser, which had allowed him to meet world leaders, among them the Italian dictator Benito Mussolini and the German chancellor Adolf Hitler. Neither man had left him with a good gut feeling then, and everything he had learned of them since only served to support what his gut had warned him.

Dulles had watched the early years of World War Two with a professional detachment-though ultimately he not only joined those who believed the United States should intervene in the war but became a vocal proponent of it. He wrote books arguing against America's neutrality.

And when, after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, America finally found itself fully involved, he found himself serving his country in the Office of Strategic Services, working old contacts in Switzerland and establishing new ones to find anti-Nazis-Germans especially but also anyone else-willing to do anything to stop the evil that was Adolf Hitler.

Allen Welsh Dulles, deep in thought as he considered what would be the course of the evening's meeting, took another puff on his pipe, exhaled, then leaned forward for his glass of cognac. He held the snifter so that its large bowl rested in his palm, the body heat from his hand gently warming the cognac through the fine crystal.

He started to rock the snifter, then stared at the slowly swirling cognac as he thought: The details of these bombings could cause him to tip either way-for us or against us.

But there's no doubt they will make him furious.

I can only hope he blames his losses on Hitler.

Dulles put the glass to his nose, inhaled the rich aroma of the cognac, then took a sip. As he felt the alcohol warm his throat and then his stomach, there came a tap at the solid wooden door. It began to swing inward. He set his glass back on the table and glanced at his Patek Philippe wristwatch-the elegant Swiss-made timepiece, a gift from his wife, Clover, when Dulles had first served in Switzerland, showed it was shy of 11 P.M.-then he nodded appreciatively at his guest's punctuality and glanced toward the door.

A serious-looking man in his late twenties with an athletic build and wearing the satin housecoat of a manservant-but who in fact was an armed OSS agent-entered the room first.

"Mr. Dulles, may I present Herr Kappler?"

He made a grand sweeping gesture with his right hand, and a tall, erect fifty-five-year-old man entered the library. The agent then quietly slipped back out the door, pulling it shut behind him with a solid click of its heavy metal latch.

Wolfgang Augustus Kappler had hawk-like facial features, piercing green eyes, and short dark hair that was graying at the temples. While he carried himself with an air of unquestioned confidence, Dulles knew him to be charming and gracious-a genuinely gentle man. He also knew that he was a devout Roman Catholic and anti-Nazi, one careful to distinguish between those who committed the atrocities in pursuit of National Socialism and its Final Solution for a master race and those who quietly fought the Fascism and racism while trying to save the Fatherland from further destruction.

At least till now maybe, Dulles thought.

Kappler wore a solid gray three-piece suit with a stiffly starched white dress shirt and a silver necktie. The custom-cut woolen garment fit perfectly, which accentuated a bulge in the jacket's left patch pocket.

Dulles, with a warm smile, began to approach him.

"It is a real pleasure to see you again, Wolffy."

Kappler effortlessly strode across the room and, with both hands extended, reached out and vigorously shook Dulles's right hand.

"Allen," Kappler said in his strong, deep voice, "it is always good to see an old friend."

The two had known each other for almost a dozen years, having first met in the Berlin office of Sullivan and Cromwell.

Dulles, after getting his law degree at George Washington University in 1926, had been recruited by Sullivan and Cromwell, the international law firm based in New York City at which his older brother, John Foster Dulles, already had made partner. There was prestige involved with taking the position, certainly, but Dulles quietly admitted that the money was too good to turn down. And, he decided, if necessary he could always return to the diplomatic corps.

Thus, Allen Welsh Dulles came to handle international clients for the firm of Sullivan and Cromwell, and Kappler had come to him at the suggestion of Friedrich "Fritz" Thyssen, a fellow industrialist, for help with his corporate investments.

Like Thyssen, Kappler between world wars had been quietly looking to diversify his holdings beyond Germany and neighboring countries. His main business, Kappler Industrie GmbH, was hugely successful in the manufacture of steel and iron and other key materials for the building of automobiles, heavy trucks, trains, and aircraft. Wolfgang Kappler had sought to expand that business abroad while at the same time very quietly investing in other businesses.

The United States of America came immediately to his mind.

Allen Dulles oversaw for Kappler the setting up of a U.S. holding company in which Kappler, through Dulles's investment banker connections, poured significant funds into blue-chip companies General Motors Corporation, Boeing Aircraft, International Business Machines, and E.I. du Pont de Nemours and Company, as well as a few smaller railroads in which Kappler hoped eventually to secure a controlling interest.

These companies proved to be as Kappler had expected-solid investments that were not subject to the mercurial economies he suffered in Europe, Germany's out-of-control inflation being but one problem.

Yet bringing Kappler Industrie to the United States-and selling its various metal products to GM and Boeing and others for automobile and aircraft manufacturing-had not been the success that he or Dulles had anticipated. Which led Dulles then to suggest that Kappler look south, to the wealthier countries in South America that were hungry for new industry.

In almost no time, Dulles had created additional holding companies in Argentina and Uruguay, with others planned for Chile, Brazil, and Venezuela. These, however, were not like the holding companies Kappler had in North America, ones through which he simply bought shares of existing corporations. These were far superior. The South American properties contained manufacturing and import-export companies that Kappler either wholly owned or held a majority interest in.

And they quickly had begun to pay off handsomely. Even more important-especially with the Nazis squeezing any German company that they wished, from extorting them for money to outright stealing them in the name of nationalization for the Thousand-Year Reich-Kappler had wealth being generated far from Germany and Europe.

[THREE].

Allen Dulles motioned with his pipe toward the low marble table holding the humidor and bottles of Remy Martin.

"May I interest you in a cigar? And perhaps a taste? The cigars just came in; they're from Honduras. As for the cognac, I'm afraid that VSOP is the best I have to offer. I hope it is to your liking."

Kappler smiled broadly.

"No to the cigar, thank you. But cognac? Of course! I thought you would never ask. And, yes, Very Superior Old Pale is indeed my personal choice. Anything more expensive is simply that-overpriced."

"Agreed," Dulles said, putting his pipe to his mouth.

Dulles then picked up one of the snifters so that its large bowl rested in his palm. He took the open bottle of Remy Martin and, having tilted the large snifter so that it was almost sideways, then poured cognac till it filled to the rim. He turned the glass upright and offered it to Kappler.

"Thank you," Kappler said, taking it and holding it up. "To old friends."

Dulles, meeting Kappler's eyes, touched snifters, adding, "And always new opportunities."

Not breaking eye contact, they took healthy swallows.

Kappler exhaled dramatically.

"Superb!" he announced.

"Yes," Dulles began, "truly nectar of the gods-"

He stopped when, from afar, there came the sudden striking of the Zeitglocke.

"Ah, and we now hear from the great Greek god of time, Chronos!" Wolfgang Kappler said dramatically.

He held up the index finger of his left hand and added, "Which reminds me . . ."

He reached into the bulging left pocket of his suit coat. With a grand gesture, he produced a small black felt clamshell box wrapped with a simple crimson cord. He presented it to Dulles.

"It would be my great honor, Allen, if you would accept this small token to commemorate our long and deep friendship."

The look on Dulles's face showed he was somewhat uncomfortable. While Kappler almost always came bearing a gift-at their very first meeting more than a decade earlier he had presented him with an exquisitely cut crystal ashtray-Dulles had never become accustomed to his generosity.

Dulles's look was not lost on Kappler, who motioned gently with the box, holding it closer to Dulles.

"Please," Kappler said with great sincerity.

Dulles looked from Kappler's eyes to the box then back to Kappler.

Dulles smiled. "Well, if you insist, but-"

"I do insist, my dear friend," Kappler interrupted, and smiled back. "And don't be ridiculous. It has been through your fine efforts that I have made a handsome fortune."

Dulles took the black felt box and slipped off the crimson cord. The clamshell hinged open, and inside, nestled on a small black silk pillow, was a yellow goldcased Patek Philippe with a brown leather skin strap. The stylish champagne-colored face, under a high-domed crystal, had black hands for the hour, minute, and second movements, as well as two smaller dials on either side, where the numbers "3" and "9" would have been. On the right side of the case were golden push buttons, one above and one below the knurled knob used to set the time.

"It is absolutely gorgeous. And my favorite, Patek Philippe."

"Our last visit, we spoke of timepieces," Kappler said, nodding toward the simple but elegant Patek Philippe on Dulles's wrist, "and I thought you would appreciate having a more sporty one with complications. It is a 1463 J Chronograph. Eighteen-karat yellow gold."

Dulles caught himself grinning, and heard himself say, "I think my life has plenty of complications without purposefully adding more."

Kappler now dutifully smiled.

"Yes. I understand. As do we all. But of course I refer to the complications-the mechanical functions beyond the hands showing hour, minute, and second-that make watches more desirable to the connoisseurs."

"This is really too nice to wear," Dulles said.

"And did you notice the strap?" Kappler smiled appreciatively. "Hand-sewn hide of crocodile."

Dulles looked at Kappler. "I do not know what to say, except that you shouldn't-"

"You must see something else," Kappler interrupted, ignoring the comment and reaching into the box.

He pulled the wristwatch free of the black silk pillow, then turned it so that the back of the case was visible. A clear crystal there showed all the intricate movements therein-tiny golden gears turning and silver wheels spinning in an orchestrated fashion that was pure precision.

Dulles puffed on his pipe, then said, "I feel compelled to repeat myself: It is absolutely gorgeous. Truly a work of art."

"Yes. And I knew that you would appreciate it. I understand that they make one with twenty complications-one dial showing the date of Easter, another a celestial chart with more than two thousand stars."

Where is he going with all this? Dulles thought.

Dulles looked at Kappler as he replaced the watch on the tiny pillow, then put both into the box.

"Amazing," Dulles said. "I cannot begin to imagine so many options. Nor, for that matter, what one would do with such a magnificent instrument. It must keep perfect time."

"True. Magnificent, it is." He met and held Dulles's eyes. "And, as we all well know, my old friend, life is all about timing."

Dulles, puffing his pipe, thought: Why do I suspect, Wolffy, my old friend, that that is a reference to something far larger than a fancy wristwatch?

Kappler went on: "I was pleased to be able to personally select your watch this afternoon, following a very lengthy meeting with Franz Messner and Ernst Schroder that I thought would never end."

Dulles had dossiers thick with intelligence on the forty-seven-year-old Messner, an anti-Nazi who was the general director of Semperit, the century-old international rubber manufacturer based in Vienna, and on Schroder, a confidant of Hitler in his sixties who represented the Reichsbank in its transactions with the Switzerland National Bank.

"More gold laundering?" Dulles asked, but it was more of a statement.

The Allies were well aware-and extremely pissed-that SNB for at least a year had been buying at discount more than one hundred million francs' worth of gold every three months from Germany. Lately it had been foreign-minted gold coins.

The Allies had applied diplomatic pressure, and Switzerland had made the appropriate responses that made it appear it would comply-accounts were closed, fines levied-yet the transactions, too lucrative to turn down, continued.

Kappler nodded. "Before arriving here yesterday, Messner and I spent two weeks in Lisbon arranging for new funds to be channeled as escudos through Banco de Portugal deposit accounts set up under Portuguese subsidiaries of Semperit and Kappler industries."

Dulles grunted.

More money for buying raw materials for Germany's war machine, he thought.

"You know that I am not proud of that," Kappler said, as if reading his mind. "But we are being watched, and if I did not do that which is expected . . ."

Dulles thought he detected an odd tone in Kappler's voice.

Dulles looked at his snifter, swirled the cognac, then took a big sip.

What the hell could that be about?

Well, one way to find out.