Himmler, who was unusual among the higher-caste Nazis in having no taste for extravagance, could nevertheless appreciate Dietrich’s achievement as his Mercedes swept in through the front gates guarded by two giant, iconic statues of German soldiers in modern battle dress. Gravel crunched under the limousine’s wheels as it motored quietly toward the four grand stone barracks buildings designated “Adolf Hitler,” “Horst Wessel,” “Hermann Göring,” and “Hindenburg.”

Squads of tall, blond Nordic warriors jogged to and fro with machinelike precision. The crunch of their hobnailed boots spoke of perfect regimentation. A magnificent black stallion from the barracks stables, the finest in Europe, clopped past, led by an old farrier, a veteran of the führer’s own unit from the Great War. A comrade who had proven himself at the führer’s side in single combat, he smiled and nodded as Himmler emerged from the car. Himmler indulged the man’s familiarity. He suffered from mild shell shock and was a favorite of Hitler’s. The führer had asked Himmler to find him a suitable sinecure, and there could be no more prestigious and comfortable surroundings in all of Germany for the old soldier to see out his remaining days.

Hitler had been pleased, which meant that Himmler was even more so.

“Guten Morgen, Herr Meyer. A beautiful day for a ride, ja?” said Himmler.

“It would be,” said Meyer. His voice was a harsh whisper, the result of a French shell fragment that tore into his throat in 1917. “But my friend here needs new shoes first.”

Horse and man turned and ambled away to the stables.

Himmler took a moment to enjoy the bucolic scene under a warm summer sky before heading to the barracks’ reception area. He did not smile once.

Inside the great hall, huge oil paintings of the führer hung from the stone walls. Candles and burning torches threw back the gloom, which was considerable after the brightness of the day outside. Nordic runes, inlaid in silver, ran around the room, which was magnificently furnished with carved oaken benches and tables. A receptionist glanced up from her desk and blanched at the sight of Himmler in his black uniform.

“Reichsführer,” she stammered. “We were not expecting you until after lunch.”

“I am early,” he announced. “Has General Hiroshi arrived yet?”

“Yes, sir. He is in the guest house. I shall take you right to him.”

“Don’t bother,” he said. “I know the way.”