“Yes, Herr Himmler, after.”

“This is excellent work,” said Himmler.

“Yes, it is,” said Rossini. “Fresco painting is not easy. I admit, I am quite proud of it.”

“Pride is a dangerous thing,” said Himmler with a slight threat in his voice. “We should take pride in the Reich, not in our own accomplishments in its service.”

“Yes, Herr Himmler.”

“You may call me Reichsführer Himmler.”

“Yes, Reichsführer Himmler.”

“Now,” said Himmler, stepping out from behind his desk and crossing to the long table. “Come look at this.” He indicated a scroll unfurled on the table, covered with bizarre colored illustrations.

“A lovely piece,” said Rossini. “As a collector, you must be . . .”

“Proud?” said Himmler.

“Pleased,” said Rossini.

“You see this spot,” said Himmler. “Can you paint this same figure here?” He indicated a figure on the photograph Rossini had brought him.

“The same figure from the fresco in that spot on the scroll?” said Rossini.

“Exactly,” said Himmler.

“It can be done,” said the man. “But why?”

“Yours is not to question why,” snapped Himmler.

“I beg your pardon, Reichsführer. How soon do you need this?”

“Soon,” said Himmler. “Yesterday would be ideal. My secretary will get you whatever materials you require. You will work here.”

“I prefer to work in my—”

“You will work here,” said Himmler, ending the discussion. As Rossini left the room in the care of his secretary, Himmler wondered if he had waited too long, or if the clues he was leaving were too subtle. With the Reich in disarray and the Allies closing in, he now wanted only one thing—for Projekt Alchemie to be the means by which, when the time was right, the Reich and all it stood for would rise once more.

A moment later Helmut Werner entered the room. “Another visit from your Italian friend?” he said.

“His final visit,” said Himmler. “He shall work here for a day or two and then I should like for you to escort him . . . out.”

“Certainly, Reichsführer.”

Two days later, Helmut walked with Signor Rossini along the banks of the Alme just below the castle. The Italian had been silent since they left Wewelsburg and Helmut knew better than to try to find out what the little man had been doing for Himmler.

“You are right,” said Rossini, when they reached an isolated stretch of the river. “This would be a beautiful place to paint. Perhaps I should return with my easel.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Helmut. He drew his Luger and shot Rossini twice in the chest, watching emotionless as the man fell backward into the stream and floated away, disappearing around the bend.