Of more concern were Heinrich’s lofty notions of magnanimity toward all men, whom he guilelessly called his “brothers.” When he was a child such ridiculous ideas had been a nuisance to the family, but relatively harmless. Every now and then a neighboring urchin, son of a field hand or poor immigrant, would be found in the kitchen munching on a piece of bread or cake. Their mother almost seemed to encourage such goings-on, and Otto had been content to overlook it even when it passed into adulthood. The occasional odd bank draft to those less fortunate did nothing to jeopardize either the family’s fortune or its standing. He overlooked his brother’s eccentricities as the effect of living too long in the country with nothing surrounding him but fields and silence, animals and fresh air.

New times were coming however, and these days even the standing of centuries-old names of repute must be bolstered by prudent and cautious behavior. There were those toward whom it could be most imprudent to show benevolence, no matter how large one’s heart. Even a word unfitly spoken could prove costly. Invisible ears were everywhere.

His brother and uncle, therefore, were concerned for Heinrich, not to mention themselves, and sought ways to moderate the unwary expressions of his tongue and the ill-advised chivalry of his hand. If they weren’t careful, he could get them all into trouble.

4 The Opportunist

4

The Opportunist

Baron von Dortmann’s were not the only thoughts revolving about his banker brother. Even as he and his daughter made their way back to the country estate that was their home, another who had likewise attended Otto’s garden party revolved the events of the previous afternoon in his sinister mind.

The young agent of the Gestapo whose dispassionate and hard-featured face had been noted by Assistant Ambassador McCallum’s son now found himself reflecting not on the beautiful daughter of the party’s host who had done her best to charm him, but rather on her father.

Emil Korsch indeed looked the part of the prototypical Gestapo agent. Matthew had been correct in his assessment. What he could not see, however, were the frozen fires that boiled beneath the surface of the rigid stare and smileless lips. Unlike most Nazis, Korsch’s loyalties were not to the Reich, but only to himself.

He had been fortunate to learn about the gathering and then to wrangle himself an invitation. He knew well enough that in certain circles of high society the Gestapo were not always entirely welcome. And notwithstanding his association with Himmler’s nephew, Korsch knew that he did not yet have the status within the organization to go wherever he wanted without asking permission.

That would change, he thought to himself.

He had listened attentively yesterday afternoon, and had logged away every name, every introduction, every bit of idle talk and chatter and conversation.