Lieutenant General Oshima Hiroshi knew the SS commandant to be a man who was more than a little infatuated with the supernatural. The Japanese ambassador privately thought that the Reichsführer’s mental state was somewhat tenuous. He certainly suffered from runaway paranoia, and a mild form of madness that caused him to believe in the spirits and Teutonic gods as if they were a real force in the world, and not just a useful myth. He supposed it explained Himmler’s remarkably phlegmatic response to the incident at Midway.

In a way, the ambassador conceded, he was very well adapted to deal with the shock of the Sutanto. Himmler saw plots everywhere, perceived the most bizarre meanings in the most mundane circumstance, and had long ago lost his connection to the world of real things. A demonic individual, who himself saw demons in every shadow, he needed little encouragement to believe in deliverance via their agency.

Looking at the slight, stunted figure of the man who sat before him, Hiroshi wondered what would happen if and when the Axis was triumphant. Given the racial philosophies of Nazi Germany and the empire, conflict between them must be inevitable. He shrugged the thought off as he poured a cup of tea. At least when he dealt with the Reichsführer he could drink tea instead of the Germans’ abominable national beverage, coffee.

“I would very much appreciate the opportunity of examining the material you have been sent from Hashirajima, Ambassador Hiroshi,” said Himmler. “And of course you must feel free to study the information and equipment I have received.”

The guest house at Lichterfelde was sumptuously appointed, although Hiroshi personally found it cluttered and busy, the furniture overstuffed, and the decorations gauche in the extreme. It had the advantage, however, of being one of the most secure sites in the world for a sensitive discussion.

“Do you feel as if you have been misinformed by your researchers?” he asked Himmler.

The German’s ridiculous little mustache twitched, reminding Hiroshi of a small rodent, sniffing for danger.

“No, not as such,” said Himmler. “But I feel there is much I have yet to learn. Perhaps things young Steckel would rather I didn’t have to hear.”

“Like how you will die?” asked Hiroshi, barely suppressing a mischievous smirk.

“You know this?” Himmler asked, suddenly all ears.

“I know that in the world the Sutanto arrived from, our victorious enemies hunted you down like a dog. You took poison when captured. Cyanide, I believe. A most painful and prolonged death.”

What little color there was in Himmler’s face drained away completely.

“I see,” he whispered. “And the Reich?”

“Reduced to rubble and slavery under the Bolsheviks.”

Himmler’s hand shook so badly he spilled his tea on the coffee table. Small beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. He dabbed at them with a handkerchief.

“You seem remarkably composed, Herr General. Surely Japan does not escape unscathed.”