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me. Imagine what some people might’ve thought to see Jew writing with your name on it.”
    Hitler looked up. “What is this?”
    Sweating prodigiously, as always, Göring wiped his face and replied, “The Waltham Study that Colonel Ernst has commissioned.” Hitler shook his head and the minister persisted. “Oh, I assumed our Leader knew about it.”
    “Tell me,” Hitler demanded.
    Göring said, “I know nothing about it. I only received—mistakenly, as I say—several reports written by those Jew mind doctors. One by that Austrian, Freud. Someone named Weiss. Others I can’t recall.” He added with a twist of his lips, “Those psychologists.”
    In the hierarchy of Hitler’s hatred, Jews came first, Communists second and intellectuals third. Psychologists were particularly disparaged since they rejected racial science—the belief that race determined behavior, a cornerstone of National Socialist thought.
    “Is this true, Reinhard?”
    Ernst said casually, “As part of my job I read many documents on aggression and conflict. That’s what these writings deal with.”
    “You’ve never mentioned this to me.” And with his characteristic instinct for sniffing out the merest hint of conspiracy Hitler asked quickly, “Defense Minister von Blomberg? Is he familiar with this study of yours?”
    “No. There’s nothing to report at this time. As the name suggests it’s merely a study being conducted through Waltham Military College. To gather information. That’s all. Nothing may come of it.” Ashamed to be playing this game, he added, putting some of Goebbels’s sycophantic shine in his eyes, “But it is possible that the results will show us ways in which to create a much stronger, more efficient army to achieve the glorious goals you’ve established for our fatherland.”
    Ernst could not tell if this bootlicking had any effect. Hitler rose and paced. He walked to an elaborate model of the Olympic stadium grounds and stared at it for a long moment. Ernst could feel his heartbeat thudding all the way to his teeth.
    The Leader turned and shouted, “I wish to see my architect. Immediately.”
    “Yes, sir,” his aide said and hurried to the ante-office.
    A moment later a man entered the room, though it was not Albert Speer, but black-uniformed Heinrich Himmler, whose weak chin, diminutive physique and round black-rimmed glasses nearly made you forget that he was the absolute ruler of the SS, Gestapo and every other police force in the country.
    Himmler gave his typical stiff salute and turned his adoring, blue-gray eyes toward Hitler, who responded with his own standard greeting, a limp over-the-shoulder flap.
    The SS leader glanced around the room and concluded that he could share whatever news had brought him here.
    Hitler gestured absently toward the coffee and chocolate service. Himmler shook his head. Usually in utter control—aside from the fawning looks sent the Leader’s way—the police chief today had an edginess about him, Ernst observed. “I have a security matter to report. An SS commander in Hamburg received a letter this morning, dated today. It was addressed to him by title, but not name. It claimed that some Russian was going to cause some ‘damage’ in Berlin in the next few days. At ‘high levels,’ it said.”
    “Written by whom?”
    “He described himself as a loyal National Socialist. But gave no name. It was found in the street. We don’t know any more about its origin.” Revealing perfectly white, even teeth, the man gave a wince, like a child disappointing his parent. He removed his glasses, wiped the lenses and replaced them. “Whoever sent it said that he was continuing to investigate and would send the man’s identity when he learned it. But we never heard anything further. Finding the note in the street suggests the sender was intercepted and perhaps killed. We might never learn more.”
    Hitler asked, “The language? German?”
    “Yes, my