“Forgive me, Herr Korsch,” he said, swallowing his pride as he had on how many dozen previous occasions. “Is there some problem with my… uh, my debt?”

Korsch smiled to see the powerful financier squirm. It was a common trait of small-minded and even-smaller-hearted men that they enjoyed lording it over those whom society judged their superiors. Of such personalities the Gestapo was almost entirely comprised, and upon their gigantic petty egos the feared arm of the Nazi secret police built its powerful and intimidating reputation.

“No, mein lieber Freund,” replied Korsch. “My Swiss account is growing nicely as a result of its monthly payments from your generous bank. I should find myself well provided for when our Reich enters its glorious thousand-year rule.”

At last the grin overspread the lips, the yellow teeth revealed themselves in all their grotesque splendor, and Emil Korsch’s ugly, scarred face burst out in a mean-spirited laugh.

“Ha! ha! ha! What do you think to hear me talk so, eh, Dortmann! Ha! ha! Does it make your fat rump squirm in your chair, wishing you could get rid of me out of your life? Ha! ha!”

The banker swallowed a dozen outbursts and sat silent.

“Ah, but don’t you love the irony of it, Otto,” Korsch went on, still chuckling. “I am your protection! You hate me, but I am the only one standing between you and certain downfall and ruin. You need me, Otto. Ha! ha!”

Otto von Dortmann well knew the hated Gestapo agent’s call on this day had to do with more than the blackmail money he was paying him. Ever since the man’s first visit, when he had suggested a financial “arrangement” in order to keep the wrong persons in Berlin’s powerful circles from learning of his brother’s links with known subversives, Otto had lived in almost daily fear of future demands. It was the Gestapo’s way—get their hooks into someone, whether the charges were factual or fallacious, and they would continue to dig deeper.

They were evil! Every one of them. Yet it was impossible to resist them. Their power was unlimited, and—he hated to admit it!—the scum was right. He could snap his fingers and Otto would be ruined!

What could the man want now, thought Otto. Is he going to ask for more money to continue his silence? It was already all he could do to disguise the payments he authorized every month. If he had to pay more, he would have no choice but to take it out of his own personal funds. Eventually the man was going to bleed him dry! He would—

Otto’s thoughts were interrupted by the slimy tone of Korsch’s voice, asking with significant undertones of meaning: “How is your brother, Herr von Dortmann?”

“Uh… Heinrich?” said Otto, coming to himself and adjusting his eyes once more to the man sitting in front of his desk.