He could have sent someone else up to Stettin and then out to this little country village. But if this was truly the center of the anti-Nazi sect of the church, as the report had indicated, then he wanted to see it for himself. He had the power to order it shut down with a snap of his fingers. But he had to be sure this location was not a mere diversion, and that if he did take action it would have permanent and far-reaching results.

It was still too soon to arrest church leaders and pastors en masse, despite his boast to Himmler that he would not hesitate to do so. A few, perhaps, might be in order, as an example. But there were plenty of ways to bring the hypocrites to their knees. And if the measures he had in mind failed to work before the year he’d been given was out, then more arrests would surely follow.

The face which stared out of the car window was remarkable chiefly for its eyes. Their vision, from years of experience, had trained themselves to see not merely what was, but what could be. They were eyes that sought opportunity. As a result they always bore a slight squint, revealing lines around their edges, not of age, for the Gestapo agent was yet merely in his early thirties, but of craftiness and guile. They were eyes which had grown skilled in masking the true thoughts and intent of their owner, an essential requirement in the rarefied atmosphere of Nazi leadership, where deceit and backstabbing were the oxygen and hydrogen so necessary for survival.

The face was rather a thin one, though the nose was wide and thick. Sunken, pockmarked cheeks fell toward a square jaw, angular and sharp at the chin but growing less pronounced as the jawbones retreated back toward the ears. The mouth was wide and the lips full, though the teeth, which rarely revealed themselves, were narrow and yellowed.

A shrewd student of anthropology would have detected the unmistakable signs of Slavic and Russian lineage. But in the circles he frequented, perceptions as well as loyalties tended to be blind. So long as his skin was white, and he saluted the swastika and kept Heil Hitler! ready on his tongue, the primal idiosyncrasies of his face would never be questioned.

Hair of pure black showed signs of wanting to thin, and, well oiled, was combed back from the high forehead and lay greasy and straight against his scalp. A fuller mane, or even a mustache, might have helped, for in truth the overall appearance was not an appealing one. But Emil Korsch had ceased being concerned about his looks or what people thought of him years ago. His objectives were bent in altogether different directions.