Liam’s blood froze. SS-Sturmbannführer Junker. His puckered expression and needlelike stare were even more severe in person. But Hans Friedrich Junker and his friends were why Liam had come here, why he was thousands of miles from Graduate Celestial Mechanics and Chancellor Green’s stacks and New York’s endless spread of noise, that blanket he wanted to wrap himself in every night.

The buzzing shadows in his head became a steady pulse under Liam’s skin, goading him as he lowered his gaze obediently. “Ja, mein Herr.”

“You are quite far from home.” Junker tipped his head toward an empty chair at his table, waving off the bartender’s protests. “I should very much like to know why.”

Before, Liam never would have called himself a thrill seeker. He’d spent most of his eighteen years buried in one textbook or another, or scrawling equations across onionskin paper like a boy possessed. But the past few years had revealed in him a desperate hunger. Control, his mother called it, back when she could, before he learned just how little power he really held. You want to be in control of things. Dangerous things. You think it’ll keep you safe.

He hadn’t been in control then. He would be now.

Liam settled into the empty chair beside Junker and hoisted his bookbag into his lap. Nothing important was in it. If they searched it, all they’d find was a change of clothes, a water canteen, a German-English dictionary, and a journal with asinine entries he’d forged. All he really needed for this mission was tucked safely away inside his head.

He suspected, though, that Junker was more interested in playing with his food.

“Liam.” He stuck his hand out. “Liam Doyle. Originally from Manhattan, though I live in Frankfurt now.”

“You live here? And your accent is still so atrocious?” Junker laughed loudly, quickly echoed by the other officers. Alcohol and cigarette smoke whetted the sound as it sliced through the dim tavern fug. Junker didn’t so much as glance at Liam’s outstretched palm, or the red grooves pressed into it from his nails. He just shoved the communal tray of greasy schnitzel and soft pretzels his way.

Liam dropped his hand. It had been a risk, naming a city he’d never visited, but he always did his homework. “Everyone wants to practice their English on me.”

Junker eased back, picking up his glass of brandy and watching Liam over its lip as he drank. The other officers, though, were still on guard. Most were at least twice Liam’s age—late thirties, early forties—and wore the ravages of battle in their scowls and flinty eyes. One held a cigarette like a pointer, the tip turning to ash. Another clasped his hands before him like Liam was a curious specimen he couldn’t wait to dissect.

“And what is it you are doing in Frankfurt, Mr. Doyle?”