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He looked at Donovan to make his point.

“This problem, it has to go away. As in, it never happened.”

“Say that again, Frank,” Donovan said softly.

Roosevelt did not make a point of reminding Donovan that he preferred to be addressed formally as “Mr. President.”

“Bill, this problem on our turf must disappear. I need America’s attention and energies focused on Europe and the Pacific. These German-agent headlines need to go away.”

“I agree.”

“And if Hoover bags these guys, he’ll make sure that not only are there more headlines, but that he’s pictured on every front page.” He paused. “So it’s up to you.”

“The U.S. is not my area of operations—”

“Bill,” Roosevelt interrupted. “I don’t know how much clearer I can be. You do what you have to do. Do it fast. Do it quietly.”

Donovan looked him in the eyes and said, “Yes, Mr. President,” then took a long sip on his drink.

[ THREE ]

Newark, New Jersey

2010 6 March 1943

Kurt Bayer and Richard Koch had made good time getting to downtown Newark in the 1940 Ford sedan that they had taken from the parking lot of the Jacksonville Terminal Station.

In the course of the past week, they had put far more than a thousand miles on the car. They had also put on a succession of different license plates, stealing ones off of cars in South Carolina and Delaware, then carefully disposing of the old ones.

The car had thus blended in well with so many other average sedans as they made their way toward New York City. It had served them well—far better than that horrendous yellow plumber’s truck would have—and they had been very fortunate indeed.

But with all of the news reports, Koch felt their luck was in danger of running out.

Ever since they had blown up the electric transformer station in Baltimore, every town that they had passed through seemed to have a heavier and heavier police presence.

The Reading Terminal in Philadelphia had been crawling with cops, as was Trenton’s and even little Princeton’s.

Koch thought that it could be the result of an active imagination, but damned near every power pole along U.S. 1 seemed to have a cop parked next to it.

And it was no different here in Newark.

It was hard not to notice the squad cars lined up outside Penn Station and, as they drove down East Park Street, the paddy wagons parked on t

he curb of the north side of the Public Service Bus Terminal.

Koch looked away from the cops and saw something across the street from the bus terminal that caught his interest. A restaurant sign hung from a pole on the dark brick building. Lit in bright red neon was: PALACE CHOP HOUSE.

A steak and a couple beers sounds really good right now.

But not there. Too damned many cops across the street.

“After we get our room at the hotel,” Koch said, “I’m going to get rid of the car. Then we can eat.”

“Okay,” Bayer said.

They had already discussed ditching the car at great length during the drive. They still had more missions, but now it was time to cool it, to hide out. Especially after Rolf Grossman and Rudolf Cremer’s latest in Texas. The radio stations—every one since Wilmington, Delaware, that morning, till they got tired of it and turned it off after noon—had had some news about the explosions in the Dallas train station and that expensive department store.

After making it though the heavy traffic at the intersection of Market and Broad, Bayer drove a number of blocks, made a couple of turns, and finally came to Park Place.