As he guided himself up the slightly inclined street, Herbert decided against going to the registration desk and trying to sign up. He didn't know a helluva lot about German law, but he guessed he didn't have the right to harass these people. He did, however, have the right to go to a bar and order something to drink, which was what he intended to do. That, plus find out what he could about the whereabouts of Karin Doring. He didn't expect to wrest information from anyone, but loose lips really did sink ships. Outsiders were always amazed at how much intelligence one picked up simply by eavesdropping.

Of course, he thought, first you've got to get under the eaves to catch the drops. The crowd ahead might try to stop him. Not because he was in a wheelchair: he wasn't born that way, he'd earned his disability serving his country. They'd try to stop him because he wasn't a German and he wasn't a Nazi. But however much these hotshots wished it weren't so, Germany was still a free nation. They'd let him into the Beer-Hall or they'd have an international incident.

The intelligence chief wheeled himself up the street behind the Beer-Hall and came at it from the opposite side. That way, he didn't even have to pass the registration area and see any more stiff armed salutes.

Herbert turned the corner and rolled toward the Beer-Hall, toward those two hundred or so men drinking and singing out front. The men nearest him turned to look at him. Nudges brought other heads around, a sea of youthful devils with contemptuous eyes and hard laughs.

"Fellows, look who is here! It is Franklin Roosevelt and he is searching for Yalta."

So much for no one making a comment about my disability, Herbert thought. Then again, there was always one clown in every group. It puzzled him, though, that the man had spoken in English. Then Herbert remembered what was written on his sweatshirt.

Another man raised his beer stein. "Herr Roosevelt, you are just in time! The new war has begun!"

"Ja, " said the first man. "Though this one will end differently."

Herbert kept wheeling toward them. In order to reach the Beer-Hall, he was going to have to go through these natty Hitler Youths. Less than twenty yards separated him from the nearest men.

Herbert glanced to the left. The police officer was in the middle of the street, some two hundred yards past them. He was looking the other way, working hard to keep the traffic from stopping.

Did he hear what these cretins were saying, Herbert wondered, or was he also working hard to stay the hell out of whatever happened?