The car purred along Tauenzienstrasse toward the stalagmite steeples of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church and came to a rumbling halt in front of a tailor’s shop. In the window was a tailor’s dummy, which looked like the torso at the scene of a crime, and several bolts of pewter-colored cloth. Pedestrians shot Heydrich a curious look as he climbed out of the car and walked his bowlegged walk to the front door of Wilhelm Holter. You could hardly blame them for that. With all the medals and badges on his Luftwaffe tunic he looked like an accomplished Boy Scout, albeit a rather sinister one.

I followed him through the door with the shop bell ringing in my ears, as if warning other customers of the plague we brought with us. Something fearful, anyway.

An unassuming man wearing pince-nez, a black armband, and a stiff collar came toward us washing one hand in the other like Pontius Pilate and smiling an intermittent smile, as if he were functioning on half power only.

“Ah yes,” he said quietly. “General Heydrich, isn’t it? Yes, please come through.”

He ushered us into a room that belonged in the Herrenklub. There were leather armchairs, a clock ticking on a mantelpiece, a pair of full-length mirrors, and several glass cases containing a variety of military uniforms. On the walls were an abundance of royal warrants and pictures of Hitler and Goering, whose fondness for wearing uniforms of all colors was well-known. Through a green velvet curtain I could see several men cutting cloth or pressing half-finished uniforms with a hot iron, and to my surprise one of these men was an Orthodox Jew. It was a nice example of Nazi hypocrisy to have a Jewish tailor making an SS uniform.

“This officer needs an SS uniform,” explained Heydrich. “Field Gray. And it has to be ready in one week’s time. Ordinarily, I should send him to the SS Quartermaster for an off-the-peg Hugo Boss uniform, but he’ll be traveling on the Führer’s personal train, so he’ll need to look smart. Can you do it, Herr Holter?”

The tailor looked surprised even to be asked such a question. He uttered a polite little guffaw and smiled with quiet confidence. “Oh, certainly, Herr General.”

“Good,” said Heydrich. “Send the account to my office. “You’ll receive the clothing coupons from my office by return of post. Gunther? I will leave you in Herr Holter’s capable hands. And make sure you get your men. Both of them.” Then he turned and left.

Holter produced a notebook and a pencil and began asking questions and noting the answers.

“Rank?”

“Hauptmann.”

“Any medals?”

“Iron Cross, with Royal Citation. Great War Participation Medal, with swords and wound badge. That’s it.”

“Trousers or riding breeches?”

I shrugged.

“Both,” he said. “Dress dagger?”

I shook my head.

“Hat size?”

“Sixty-two centimeters.”