Helmut Werner bounced in the seat as he drove the Kübelwagen up the steep gravel track. He had left Innsbruck nearly an hour ago, but some of these Alpine roads still had snow and ice covering them and it had been slow going. But Helmut was used to slow, solitary work. He had spent the last four years crisscrossing the Reich in the service of Projekt Alchemie, the full scope of his work known only to himself and Reichsführer Himmler. Even Helmut did not understand every mission. How today’s assignment fit into the overall scheme of Projekt Alchemie he could not venture to guess, but he trusted the Reichsführer and would not dare question his instructions. And if, in the course of the day, Helmut had an opportunity to contribute to the grand work of ridding his fatherland of the Jewish pestilence, so much the better. Such opportunities did arise on occasion. He glanced over his shoulder at his MP40 submachine gun sitting in the back seat. He hadn’t used it in nearly three weeks, but one could always hope. He slammed the car into low gear and ground up the last quarter mile to the house perched on the mountainside.

The man who answered Helmut’s knock did not look like a threat to the Reich. Stooped with age, bespectacled, and dressed in shabby clothing, he possessed the merest wisp of white hair around the crown of his head.

“May I help you?” he said.

“Who is it?” said a frail woman’s voice from within the house.

“I don’t know yet,” shouted the man over his shoulder. “I’ll tell you when I know.”

“I am Section Leader Helmut Werner of the SS,” said Helmut. He spoke calmly and with deference, as if addressing his own grandfather. “May I come in?”

“Certainly, certainly,” said the man. “It’s someone from the SS,” he shouted to his wife.

“Did you ask him in?” came the voice from within.

“Of course I asked him in,” shouted the man. “Don’t you think I would ask him in?”

Helmut walked past the old man, down a short corridor, and into a tiny sitting room. The window looked out into the valley from which he had just ascended and in front of that window, at a small table, sat a woman who looked even older and more decrepit than the man.

“You are Herman and Helga Schneider,” said Helmut. It was not a question.

“Yes, yes,” said the man. “What is it you want?”

“What does he want?” said the woman.

“I just asked him that,” shouted the man. “So tell me,” he said, turning back to Helmut. “I haven’t got all day.”

“And what are you so busy with that you can’t take the time to talk to me?” said Helmut, allowing the merest hint of a threat into his voice.

“Nothing, nothing,” said the old man. “I am at your service.”