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“Then I can only say I am flattered and humbled by the responsibility you are giving me.”

“People like ourselves,” von Ribbentrop said slowly, as if to emphasize the inarguable truth of his words,“for centuries have been called upon to assume greater responsibility for Germany.”

And then von Ribbentrop stepped on von Heurten-Mitnitz’s toe.

Startled, he looked at him.

“Sorry, my dear fellow,” von Ribbentrop said. “I was reaching for the damned call button. I didn’t want anyone in the room during that part of the conversation.”

And immediately the two handsome young SS troopers appeared, this time bearing medallions of veal in a lemon butter sauce, and potatoes Anna, and haricots verts.

When he returned to his office, he told Fräulein Schermann that he did not wish to be disturbed by anyone less important than the Reichsminister himself. Now he really needed time to think, to come out of the surreal dream.

It wasn’t only his new assignment, or the elegant meal, or the realization that as an American agent he had just been assured of the trust of the Reichsminister for Foreign Affairs and the head of the SS:

He had attended a reception at the Argentine Embassy the night before. When he had retrieved his hat and coat from the checkroom and put his hand in the pocket, there was a postcard there that hadn’t been there before he went into the embassy.

He had to wait until he reached home to have a good look at it.

It was a black-and-white drawing of a church in Budapest, specifically of St. Ann’s Church on the Vizivaros, the flatland between the river and Castle Hill in Buda.

The address was smudged and illegible, but the message was clear, even under the purple censor’s stamp:

“Hope to see you and F. and G. Here very soon. Will call. Fondly, Eric.”

It had taken a moment before he was sure what it meant. But it was really very clear. He was expected to somehow get Friedrich Dyer and his daughter Gisella from Marburg to St. Ann’s Church in Budapest. Someone would call and tell him when.

Fulmar himself? Or was “Eric” just identification?

And why did the Americans want Dyer? What did he know that justified all this effort and risk? And where would he—or Müller—find travel documents for these people?

Now, what had seemed almost impossible seemed to be impossibly easy. Both he and Müller could simply load the Dyers into Müller’s car. No one was going to stop a car carrying an SS-SD Standartenführer and the newly appointed First Secretary of the German Embassy.

He seriously considered that he was indeed dreaming, and bit his knuckle to see if he could wake himself up.

His interoffice telephone buzzed.

“Forgive me, Herr Minister,” Fräulein Schermann said, “but Herr Standartenführer Müller is here and insists on seeing you.”

“Ask the Standartenführer to please come in, Fräulein Schermann,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

As Müller came through the door, the air raid sirens began to wail.

Chapter FOUR

MATS Departing Passenger Terminal

Croydon Field, London

21 January 1943

When Captain the Duchess Stanfield tried to follow Captain James M. B. Whittaker past the clerk who was checking orders and travel authority, an Air Corps military police sergeant stepped in front of her.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said,“passengers only beyond the checkpoint.”

Captain the Duchess Stanfield, her face stricken, stared at the back of Captain Whittaker as he turned a corner and disappeared from sight, then glanced over her shoulder at Dick Canidy, who stood with Ann Chambers and Agnes Draper just outside the building. They had said their good-byes to Whittaker in the car so that Jim and the Duchess could have a couple of minutes alone inside the building.

Canidy walked quickly to her. When he saw Whittaker disappear from sight, his eyes teared and a painful tightness caught his throat.