Bormann roared with laughter and Göbbels smiled, but no light touched his dark, sunken eyes.

Hiroshi bowed formally and pulled out a chair. The table was large and there was plenty of room for the newcomers, although the ornate silver service had only been set for three. Glancing at the sickly sweet German cakes and the big pot of coffee, Hiroshi was secretly relieved.

“We bring news of an unusual nature, Reichschancellor,” he said. “Most unusual. In fact, you must promise not have us chased from the building like madmen when we tell you. For that is exactly what we shall sound like.”

Göbbels was instantly alert. He wore the look of a wolf, sniffing at some new predator on its hunting ground. Bormann simply looked overstuffed from his lunch. Hitler tilted his head, supporting it on his fingertips as he considered the fearful expression on Himmler’s sallow face, which compared unfavorably with Hiroshi’s bemused smile.

“What is the matter, Reichsführer?” he asked, speaking directly to Himmler.

Himmler eased himself into a chair like a man nursing a painful wound.

“Do you remember that fellow Brasch? The one we sent to Japan?” he said. “The medal winner.”

“I do,” Göbbels replied, rolling his eyes. “Shell shock, a head case. He broke after the fighting on the Eastern Front. I understood his mission to Japan was simply a cover to get him out of the news.”

“It was,” said Himmler. “But something has happened out there. Something terrible. Brasch has been giving technical assistance with some engineering issues. It sounded like madness when I first heard of it, but I’m afraid that I am now convinced. As are the ambassador and Grand Admiral Yamamoto.”

Hitler reached over and plucked a glacé cherry from the chocolate icing atop a half-eaten piece of torte in front of him. He popped it in his mouth and licked his fingers.

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” he said.

“No,” muttered Himmler. “No, of course not.”

His face flushed bright red and he fumbled about inside his briefcase.

“An SD agent in Tokyo sent this,” he said. “It is called a flexipad.”

TOKYO, 2121 HOURS, 9 JUNE 1942

Franz Steckel was far more than a mere civil servant. He served as an SS-Obersturmführer of the SD-Ausland, a lieutenant in the Nazi Party’s foreign intelligence service. He had been assigned to Tokyo station three months earlier, on the direct orders of Reinhard Heydrich, who suspected that the Reich’s embassy harbored a small clique of homosexuals.

Lieutenant Steckel, an attractive young man, had resigned himself to the most bestial depravities in the service of National Socialism. The world was full of perverts, and it was his unpleasant duty to hunt them down and ensure the purity of the Aryan race.