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Leader.”
    “‘Damage.’ What sort of damage?”
    “We don’t know.”
    “Ach, the Bolsheviks would love to disrupt our Games.” Hitler’s face was a mask of fury.
    Göring asked, “You think it’s legitimate?”
    Himmler replied, “It may be nothing. But tens of thousands of foreigners are passing through Hamburg these days. It’s possible someone learned of a plot and didn’t want to get involved so he wrote an anonymous note. I would urge everyone here to exercise particular caution. I will contact military commanders too and the other ministers. I’ve told all our security forces to look into the matter.”
    His voice raw with anger, Hitler raged, “Do what you must! Everything! There will be no taint on our Games.” And, unnervingly, a fraction of a second later, his voice was calm and his blue eyes bright. He leaned forward to refill his cup with chocolate and place two zwieback biscuits on the saucer. “Please, now, you may all leave. Thank you. I need to consider some building matters.” He called to the aide in the doorway, “Where is Speer?”
    “He will be here momentarily, my Leader.”
    The men walked to the door. Ernst’s heart had resumed its normal, slow beat. What had just happened was typical of the way the inner circle of the National Socialist government worked. Intrigue, which could have disastrous results, simply vanished like crumbs swept over the door stoop. As for Göring’s plotting, well, he—
    “Colonel?” Hitler’s voice called.
    Ernst stopped immediately and looked back.
    The Leader was staring at the mock-up of the stadium, examining the newly constructed train station. He said, “You will prepare a report on this Waltham Study of yours. In detail. I will receive it on Monday.”
    “Yes, of course, my Leader.”
    At the door Göring held his arm out, palm upward, letting Ernst exit first. “I will see that you receive those misdirected documents, Reinhard. And I do hope you and Gertrud will attend my Olympic party.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Minister. I will make a point of being there.”

    Friday evening, misty and warm, fragrant with the scent of cut grass, overturned earth and sweet, fresh paint.
    Paul Schumann strolled by himself through the Olympic Village, a half hour west of Berlin.
    He’d arrived not long before, after the complicated journey from Hamburg. It had been an exhausting day, yes. But invigorating too and he was stoked by the excitement of being in a foreign land—his ancestral home— and the anticipation of his mission. He had shown his press pass and been admitted to the American portion of the village—dozens of buildings housing fifty or sixty people each. He’d left his suitcase and satchel in one of the small guestrooms in the back, where he’d stay for a few nights, and was now walking through the spotless grounds. As he looked around the village he was amused. Paul Schumann was used to a lot rougher venues for sports— his own gym, for instance, which hadn’t been painted in five years and smelled of sweat and rotten leather and beer, no matter how energetically Sorry Williams scrubbed and mopped. The village was, however, just what the name suggested: a quaint town all its own. Set in a birch forest, the place was beautifully laid out in sweeping arcs of low, immaculate buildings, with a lake and curved paths and trails for running and walking, training fields and even its own sports arena.
    According to the guidebook Andrew Avery had included in his satchel, the village had a customs office, stores, pressroom, a post office and bank, gas station, sporting goods store, souvenir stands, food shops and travel office.
    The athletes were presently at the welcoming ceremony, which he’d been urged to attend by Jesse Owens, Ralph Metcalfe and the young boxer he’d sparred with. But now that he was in the locale of the touch-off, he needed to lay low. He’d begged off, saying he had to get some work done for interviews the next morning.