“Before my schnapps?” Konrad said, noticing that his aide hung up his coat without brushing the snow from its shoulders. He saw to the job himself. “You appear distracted.”

“I am, begging the general’s pardon.”

“Lead the way then.”

Now what? Konrad thought. He’d had a miserable day. All his days had been miserable for the past month, and it was only the beginning of February—eleven more months of misery to get through before it was all over, if the bleak start of the new year was any indication. Today, February 2, the battle for Stalingrad had been announced as officially over, which, as he and his colleagues had expected, had ended in disaster for Germany. Yesterday, he’d learned that among the quarter of a million Wehrmacht troops captured on Russian soil was his good friend Generalfeldmarschall Friedrich Paulus. Hitler had expected Friedrich to commit suicide before being taken prisoner, since no German field marshal had ever surrendered, but his friend had other ideas that had sent the Führer into an apoplectic rage. Konrad had been in meetings all day with members of the High Command. Everyone was worried that the Soviets, after two years of being pushed back by Nazi forces, would begin an advance toward Germany. Worse, what if the Russian victory turned the war in favor of the Allies?

Also, today the SS had intercepted and arrested a family of Jews about to enter Switzerland on an Abwehr pass signed personally by Admiral Wilhelm Canaris himself. When questioned, his nimble-witted mentor had explained that the father was an intelligence agent on a mission to Switzerland for his department. The SS was able to buy the story of the father as plausible enough, but for his wife, children, and grandmother? Konrad’s hair had stood on end. How long would it be before the head of Germany’s military intelligence was discovered to be playing a double game? God, what a day! He needed his schnapps and a warm fire.

“Yes, Hans?” he said when they were in his aide’s domain.

Hans lowered his voice as if the walls had ears. “It’s about Herr Wagner and Herr Bauer.”

“What about them?”

“They are Americans.”

Konrad stared at him. “How do you know?”

“I overheard them speaking to each other—in English, with an American accent. I was behind the hedge in front covering the water pipes when Herr Bauer came for his tutoring session and met Herr Wagner on the street. Herr Wagner was taking in wood to Madame Gastain’s. They did not see me and the street was deserted, so they thought it safe to speak softly in English. My ear is not mistaken, Mein General. As you know, my mother took in soldiers of the American Expeditionary Forces as boarders after the last war. I recognize an American accent.”

“Could you understand what they were saying?”

“Nein, but I could make out a few American words.”

“What were they?”