Baldur von Steigerwald (he was training himself to think of himself as that) was crouching as well. “I’m surprised there aren’t more lights,” he said.

“That’s the Thames.” Potter pointed. Far below, starlight—only starlight—gleamed on water. “Over there’s where the Tower used to be.” He pointed again.

“You think they might keep him there?”

“They couldn’t,” Potter said. “It’s been blown all to hell.”

Von Steigerwald said nothing.

“All London’s been blown to hell. England stood alone against Germany—and England was crushed.”

“The truth is awkward, Herr Potter,” von Steigerwald said. “Pretty often, too awkward.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

Listening mostly to the steady throbbing of the engines, von Steigerwald shrugged.

“A damned bloody Kraut, and you call me a liar.”

“I’m just another American,” von Steigerwald said. “Are you?”

“We’re not supposed to talk about this.”

Von Steigerwald shrugged again. “You began it, mein herr. Here’s the awkward truth. You can deny it if you want to. England, Scotland, Wales, Australia, New Zealand, India, Burma, and Northern Ireland stood—alone if you like—against Germany, Italy, Austria, and Vichy. They lost, and England was crushed. Scotland and Wales were hit almost as hard. Am I wrong?”

The JU 88 began a slow bank as Potter said, “Franco joined Germany at the end.”

Von Steigerwald nodded. “You’re right.” He had not forgotten it, but he added, “I forgot that.”

“Spain didn’t bring down the house,” Potter conceded.

“Get back by the doors,” the pilot called over his shoulder. “Jump as soon as they’re open all the way.”

“You’re really English, aren’t you?” von Steigerwald whispered as they trotted back toward the bomb-bay doors. “You’re an English Jew.”

Quite properly, Potter ignored the question. “It was the Jews,” he said as he watched the doors swing down. “If Roosevelt hadn’t welcomed millions of European Jews into America, the American people wouldn’t—” The rest was lost in the whistling wind.

It had not been millions, von Steigerwald reflected before his chute opened. It opened, and the snap of its silk cords might have been the setting of a hook. A million and a half—something like that.

He came down in Battersea Park with his chute tangled in a tree. When at last he was able to cut himself free, he knotted ornamental stones into it and threw it into the Thames. His jump suit followed it, weighted with one more. As it sunk, he paused to sniff the reek of rotting corpses—paused and shrugged.

Two of the best tailors in America had done everything possible to provide him with a black Schutzstaffel uniform that would look perfectly pressed after being worn under a jump suit. Shivering in the wind, he smoothed it as much as he could and got out his black leather trench coat. The black uniform cap snapped itself into shape the moment he took it out, thanks to a spring-wire skeleton. He hid the bag that had held both in some overgrown shrubbery.

The Luger in his gleaming black holster had kept its loaded magazine in place and was on safe. He paused in a moonlit clearing to admire its ivory grips and the inlaid, red-framed, black swastikas.

There seemed to be no traffic left in Battersea these days. Not at night, at least, and not even for a handsome young S.S. officer. A staff car would have been perfect, but even an army truck might do the trick.

There was nothing.

Hunched against the wind, he began to walk. The Thames bridges destroyed by the blitz had been replaced with pontoon bridges by the German Army—so his briefer had said. There would be sentries at the bridges, and those sentries might or might not know. If they did not—

Something coming! He stepped out into the road, drew his Luger, and waved both arms.

A little Morris skidded to a stop in front of him. Its front window was open, and he peered inside. “So. Ein taxi dis is? You vill carry me, ja?”

The driver shook his head vehemently. “No, gov’nor. I mean, yes, gov’nor. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, gov’nor, but it’s not a cab.”

“Ein two-vay radio you haff, drifer.”

The driver seemed to have heard nothing.

“But no license you are haffing.” Von Steigerwald chuckled evilly. “You like money, doh. Ja? I haf it. Goot occupation pounds, ja? Marks, also.” He opened a rear door and slid onto the seat, only slightly impeded by his leather coat. “Where important prisoners are, you take me.” He sat back. “Macht schnell!”

The Morris lurched forward. “Quick as a wink, gov’nor. Where is it?”

“You know, drifer.” Von Steigerwald summoned all of his not inconsiderable acting ability to make his chuckle that of a Prussian sadist, and succeeded well enough that the driver’s shoulders hunched. “De taxi drifers? Dey know eferyding, everywhere. Make no more troubles vor me. I vill not punish you for knowing.”

“I dunno, gov’nor, and that’s the honest.”

Von Steigerwald’s Luger was still in his right hand. Leaning forward once more, he pressed its muzzle to the driver’s head and pushed off the safety. “I vill not shoot now, drifer. Not now, you are too fast drifing, ja? Ve wreck. Soon you must stop, doh. Ja? Traffic or anodder reason. Den your prain ist all ofer de vindshield.”

“G-gov’nor . . .”

“Ja?”

“My family. Timmy’s only three, gov’nor.”

“Longer dan you he lifs, I hope.”

The Morris slowed. “The bridge, gov’nor. There’s a barricade. Soldiers with guns. I’ll have to stop.”

“You vill not haf to start again, English pig.”

“I’m takin’ you there. Only I’ll have to stop for ’em.”

“You take me?”

“Right, gov’nor. The best I know.”

“Den vhy should I shoot?” Flicking the safety on, von Steigerwald holstered his Luger.

The Morris ground to a stop before the barricade. Seeing him in the rear seat, two gray-clad soldiers snapped to attention and saluted.

He rolled down a rear window and (in flawless German) asked the corporal who had just saluted whether he wished to examine his papers, adding that he was in a hurry.

Hastily the corporal replied that the standarteführer might proceed at once, the barricade was raised, and the Morris lurched ahead as before.

“Vhere is dis you take me, drifer?”

“I hope you’re goin’ to believe me, gov’nor.” The driver sounded painfully sincere. “I’m takin’ you the best I know.”

“So? To vhere?”

“Tube station gov’nor. The trains don’t run anymore.”

“Of dis I am avare.”

The driver glanced over his shoulder. “If I tell you I don’t know, you won’t believe me, gov’nor. I don’t, just the same. What I think is that they’re keeping them down there.”

Von Steigerwald rubbed his jaw. Did real Prussians ever do that? The driver would not know, so it hardly mattered. “Vhy you t’ink dis, drifer?”

“I’ve seen army trucks unloading at this station, gov’nor. Cars park there and Jerry—I mean German—officers get out of them. The driver waits, so they’re not going to another station, are they?” As the little Morris slowed and stopped, the driver added, “’Course, they’re not there now. It’s too late.”

“You haf no license vor dis taxi,” von Steigerwald said. His tone was conversational. “A drifer’s license you haf, doh. Gif dat to me.”

“Gov’nor . . .”

“Must I shoot? Better I should spare you, drifer. I vill haf use vor you. Gif it to me.”

“If I don’t have that, gov’nor . . .”

“Anoder you vould get. Hand it ofer.”

Reluctantly, the driver did.

“Goot. Now I gif someding.” Von Steigerwald held up a bill. “You see dis vellow? Herr Himmler? He is our Reichsf̈hrer. Dere are numbers, besides. Dos you see also, drifer?”

The driver nodded. “Fifty quid. I can’t change it, gov’nor.”

“I keep your license, dis you keep. Here you vait. Ven I come out—” Von Steigerwald opened the rear door of the Morris. “You get back de license and anodder of dese.”

As he descended the steps of the underground station, he wondered whether the driver really would. It would probably depend, he decided, on whether the driver realized that the fifty-pound occupation note was counterfeit.

To left and right, soiled and often defaced posters exhorted Englishmen and Englishwomen to give their all to win a war that was now lost. In one, an aproned housewife appeared to be firing a rolling pin. Yet there were lights—bright electric lights—in the station below.

It had been partitioned into offices with salvaged wood. Each cubicle was furnished with a salvaged door, and every door was shut. Gray-uniformed soldiers snapped to attention as Von Steigerwald reached the bottom of the stair and demanded to see their commandant.

He was not there, one soldier explained. Von Steigerwald ordered the soldier to fetch him, and the soldier sprinted up the stair.

When the commandant arrived, he looked tired and a trifle rumpled. Von Steigerwald did his best to salute so as to make it clear that an S.S. colonel outranked any mere general and proffered his orders, reflecting as he did that it might be possible for him to shoot the general and both sentries if the falsity of those orders was detected. Just possible, if he shot very fast indeed. Possible, but not at all likely. The burly sentry with the Schmeisser submachine gun first, the thin one who had run to get the commandant next. Last, the commandant himself. If—

The commandant returned his orders, saying that Herr Churchill was not at his facility.

Sharply, von Steigerwald declared that he had been told otherwise.

The commandant shook his head and repeated politely that Churchill was not there.

Where was he, then?

The commandant did not know.

Who would know?

The commandant shrugged.

The commandant was to return to bed. Von Steigerwald, who would report the entire affair to the Reichsf̈hrer-SS, intended to inspect the facility. His conclusions would be included in his report.

The commandant rose.

Von Steigerwald motioned for him to sit again. He, Standartenf̈hrer von Steigerwald, would guide his own tour.

He would not see everything if he did, the commandant insisted; even in explosive German, the commandant sounded defeated. Sergeant Lohr would show him around. Sergeant Lohr had a flashlight.

Sergeant Lohr was the burly man with the submachine gun.

The prisoners were not held in the tunnels themselves, Lohr explained as he and von Steigerwald walked along a dark track, but in the rolling stock. There were toilets in the cars, which had been railway passenger cars before the war. If the Standartenf̈hrer—

“The cars were squirreled away down here to save them from German bombs,” a new voice said. “The underground had been disabled, but there was sound trackage left, so why not? I take it you understand English, Colonel?”

In the near-darkness of the tunnel, the shadowy figure who had joined them was hardly more than that: a man of medium size, shabbily dressed in clothing too large for him.

“Ja,” von Steigerwald replied. “I speak it vell. It is vor dis reason I vas sent. Und you are . . . ?”

For a moment, Lohr’s flashlight played on the shabby man’s face, an emaciated face whose determined jaw jutted above a wattled neck. “Lenny Spencer, Colonel. At your service.”

Lohr grunted—or perhaps, growled.

“I’m a British employee, sir. A civilian employee of your army and, if I may be permitted a trifle of boldness, a man lent to you by His Majesty’s occupation government. Far too many of my German friends speak little English. I interpret for them, sir. I run errands and do such humble work as my German friends judge beneath them. If I can be of any use to you, Colonel, I shall find my happiness in serving you.”

Von Steigerwald stroked his chin. “Dis place you know, ja?”

The shabby man nodded. “Indeed I do, Colonel. Few, if I may say it, know the facility and its prisoners as well as I.”

“Goot. Also you know Herr Churchill. He vas your leader in de var, so it must be so. He ist here. Dis I know. In Berlin he ist wanted, ja? I am to bring him. Show him to me. At vonce!”

The shabby man cowered. “Colonel, I cannot! Not with the best will in the world. He’s gone.”

“So?” Von Steigerwald’s hand had crept to his Luger, lifting the shiny leather holster flap and resting on the ivory grip; he allowed it to remain there. “The truth you must tell now, Herr Schpencer. Odervise it goes hard vit you. He vas here?”

The shabby man nodded vigorously. “He was, Colonel. He was captured in a cellar in Notting Hill. So I’ve been informed, sir. He was brought here to recover from his wounds, or die.”

“He ist dead? Dis you say? Vhy vas not dis reported?” Von Steigerwald felt that he needed a riding crop—a black riding crop with which to tap his polished boots and slash people across the face. Donovan should have thought of it.

“I don’t believe he is dead, Colonel, but he is no longer here.” The shabby man addressed Sergeant Lohr in halting German, asking him to confirm that Churchill was no longer there.

Sullenly, Lohr declared that he had never been there.

“Neider vun I like,” von Steigerwald declared, “but you, Schpencer, I like more petter. He vas here? You see dis?”

“Yes indeed, Colonel.” The shabby man had to trot to keep pace with von Steigerwald’s athletic strides. “He seemed much smaller here. Much less important than he had, you know, on my wireless. He was frightened, too. Very frightened, I would say, just as I would have been myself. Pathetic at times, really. Fearful of his own fear, sir. You know the Yanks’ saying? I confess I found it ironic and somewhat amusing.”

“He ist gone. Zo you say. Who it is dat takes him?”

“I can’t tell you that, Colonel. I wasn’t here when he was taken away.” The shabby man’s tone was properly apologetic. “Sergeant Lohr would know.”

Von Steigerwald asked Lohr, and Lohr insisted that Churchill had never been held in the facility.

This man, von Steigerwald pointed out, says otherwise.

This man, Lohr predicted, would die very soon.

Von Steigerwald’s laughter echoed in the empty tunnel. “He vill shoot you, Schpencer. Better you should go to de camps, ja? Der, you might lif. A Chew you are? Say dis und I vill arrange it.”

“I’d never lie to you, Colonel.”

“Den tell me vhere dese cars are vhere de prisoners stay. Already ve valk far.”

“Just around that bend, Colonel.” The shabby man pointed, and it seemed to von Steigerwald—briefly—that there had been a distinct bulge under his coat, a hand’s breadth above his waist. Whatever that bulge might be, it had been an inch or two to the left of the presumed location of the shabby man’s shirt buttons.

Lohr muttered something, in which von Steigerwald caught “Riecht wie höllisches . . .” Von Steigerwald sniffed.

“It’s the WCs,” the shabby man explained. “They empty onto the tracks. The commandant had the prison cars moved down here to spare our headquarters.”

“In de S.S.,” von Steigerwald told him, “we haf de prisoners clean it up. Dey eat it.”

“No doubt we would.” The shabby man shrugged.

“One becomes accustomed to the odor in time.”

“I vill not. So long as dat I vill not pee here.” Von Steigerwald caught sight of the stationary railroad cars as the three of them rounded the curve in the tunnel. “Every prisoner you show to me, ja? Many times dis man Churchill I haf seen in pictures. I vill know him.”

Lohr muttered something unintelligible.

Von Steigerwald rounded on him, demanding that he repeat it.

Lohr backed hurriedly away as von Steigerwald advanced shouting.

The shabby man tapped von Steigerwald’s shoulder. “May I interpret, Colonel? He says—”

“Nein! Himself, he tells me.” A competent actor, von Steigerwald shook with apparent rage.

“He said—well, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? There he goes, back to headquarters.”

Von Steigerwald studied the fleeing sergeant’s back. “Ist goot. Him I do not like.”

“Nor I.” The shabby man set off in the opposite direction, toward the prison cars. “May I suggest, Colonel, that we begin at the car in which Churchill was held? It is the most distant of the eight. I can show you where we had him, and from there we can work our way back.”

“Stop!” Von Steigerwald’s Luger was pointed at the shabby man’s back. “Up with your hands, Lenny Spencer.”

The shabby man did. “You’re not German.” “Walk toward that car, slowly. If you walk fast, go for that gun under your coat, or even try to turn around, I’ll kill you.”

Twenty halting steps brought the shabby man to the nearest coach. Von Steigerwald made him lean against it, hands raised. “Your feet are too close,” he rasped when the shabby man was otherwise in position. “Move them back. Farther!”

“You might be English,” the shabby man said; his tone was conversational. “Might be, but I doubt it. Canadian?”

“American.”

The shabby man sighed. “That is exactly as I feared.” “You think President Kuhn has sent me because he wants you for himself?” Von Steigerwald pushed the muzzle of his Luger against the nape of the shabby man’s neck, not too hard.

“I do.”

Von Steigerwald’s left hand jerked back the shabby man’s coat and expertly extracted a large and rather old-fashioned pistol. “It would be out of the fire and into the frying pan for you, even if it were true.”

“I must hope so.”

“You can turn around and face me now, Mr.

Churchill.” Von Steigerwald stepped back, smiling. “Is this the Mauser you used at Omdurman?”

Churchill shook his head as he straightened his shabby coat. “That is long gone. I took the one you’re holding from a man I killed. Killed today, I mean.”

“A German?”

Churchill nodded. “The officer of the guard. He was inspecting us—inspecting me, at the time. I happened to say something that interested him, he stayed to talk, and I was able to surprise him. May I omit the details?”

“Until later. Yes. We have no time to talk. We’re going back. I am still an S.S. officer. I still believe you to be an English traitor. I am borrowing you for a day or two—I require your service. They won’t be able to prevent us without revealing that you escaped them.” Von Steigerwald gave Churchill a smile that was charming and not at all cruel. “As you did yourself in speaking with me. They may shoot us. I think it’s much more likely that they’ll simply let us go, hoping I’ll return you without ever learning your identity.”

“And in America . . . ?”

“In America, Donovan wants you, not Kuhn. Not the Bund. Donovan knows you.”

Slowly, Churchill nodded. “We met in . . . In forty-one, I think it was. Forty would’ve been an election year, and Roosevelt was already looking shaky in July—”

They were walking fast already, with Churchill a polite half-step behind; and Von Steigerwald no longer listened.

Aboard the fishing boat he had found for them, Potter cleared away what little food remained and shut the door of the tiny cabin. “Our crew—the old man and his son—don’t know who you are, Mr. Prime Minister. We’d prefer to keep it that way.”

Churchill nodded.

“If you’re comfortable . . . ?”

He glanced at his cigar. “I could wish for better, but I realize you did the best you could. It will be different in America, or so I hope.”

Potter smiled. “It may even be different on the sub. I hope so, at least.”

Churchill looked at von Steigerwald, who glanced at his watch. “Midnight. We rendezvous at three AM, if everything goes well.”

Churchill grunted. “It never does.”

“This went well.” Potter was still smiling. “I know you two know everything, Mr. Prime Minister, but I don’t. How did he get you out?”

Still in uniform, Von Steigerwald straightened his tunic and brushed away an invisible speck of lint. “He got himself out, mostly. Killed an officer. He won’t tell me how.”

“Killing is a brutal business.” Churchill shook his head. “Even with sword or gun. With one’s hands . . . He trusted me. Or trusted my age, at least. Thought I could never overpower him, or that I would lack the will to try. If it was in my weakness he trusted, he was nearly right. It was, as Wellington said of a more significant victory, a near run thing. If it was in my fear, the captain mistook foe for friend. What had I to lose? I would have been put to death, and soon. Better to perish like a Briton.”

He pulled back his shabby coat to show the Mauser. “Perhaps it was seeing this. His holster covered most of it, but I could see the grip. Quite distinctive. Once upon a time, eh? Once upon a time, long before either of you saw light, I was a dashing young cavalry officer. Seeing this, I remembered.”

“The Germans have pressed every kind of pistol they can find into service,” von Steigerwald explained. “Even Polish and French guns.”

Churchill puffed his cigar and made a face. “What I wish to know is where I tripped up. Did you recognize me? The light was so bad, and I’d starved for so long, that I thought I could risk it. No cigar, eh? No bowler. Still wearing the clothes they took me in. So how did you know?”

“That you were Churchill? From your gun. I pulled it out of your waist band and thought, by god it’s a broom-handle Mauser. Churchill used one of these fifty years ago. I’d had a briefing on you, and I’d been interested in the gun. You bought it in Cairo.”

Churchill nodded.

“That was when it finally struck me that Spencer was your middle name. Your byline—I read some of your books and articles—was Winston S. Churchill.”

“You didn’t know about Leonard, then.” Churchill looked around for an ashtray and, finding none, tapped the ash from his cigar into a pocket of his shabby coat. “In full, my name is Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill. I should have been more careful about my alias. I had to think very quickly, though, and the only others I could seize on just then were John Smith and George Brown. Either, I felt, would have been less than convincing.”

Potter grinned. “Very.”

“In my own defense, I thought I was dealing with a German officer.” Churchill turned to von Steigerwald. “This isn’t what I wanted to inquire about, however.

How did you know I had been lying to you?”

“I wasn’t certain until I realized you were the man I’d been sent to rescue. A couple of things made me suspicious, and when I saw the bulge of your gun butt—”

“What were they?”

“Once you said ‘we’ in speaking of the prisoners,” von Steigerwald explained. “I said that the S.S. would make the prisoners eat their excrement, and you said, ‘No doubt we would.’ It sounded wrong, and when I thought about it, I realized that you couldn’t have been what you said you were—an Englishman working for the Germans. If you had been, they would have made you clean under the cars. Why did you confirm that you had been a prisoner when the Germans were denying they had him?”

“Ignorance. I didn’t know they were. I had walked for miles along those dark tracks, trying to find a way out. I couldn’t. All the tunnels ended in rubble and earth.”

“Flattened by bombs?” Potter asked.

Churchill nodded. “To get out, I was going to have to go out through the German headquarters, and I could think of no practical way of doing that. Then the colonel here came, plainly a visitor since he was S.S., not army, and because he had an escort. I hoped to attach myself to him, a knowledgeable, subservient Englishman who might inform on the commandant if he could be convinced it was safe. I would persuade him to take me with him, and when he did, I would be outside. Sergeant Lohr and any Germans in the headquarters would know who I was, of course. But if they were wise—if they spoke with the commandant first, certainly—they would let me go without a word. If they prevented me, the army would be blamed for my escape; but if they held their peace and let me go, they could report quite truthfully that I had been taken away by the S.S. With luck, they might even get the credit for my recapture later.”

Potter said, “That won’t happen.”

“I’ve answered your questions, Mr. Potter.” Churchill looked accusingly at his smoldering cigar and set it on the edge of the little table. “Now you must answer one or two for me. The colonel here has told me that I am not being taken to President Kuhn. It relieved my mind at the time and will relieve it further now, if you confirm it. What do you say?”

“That we want you, not Kuhn.” By a gesture, Potter indicated von Steigerwald and himself. “Donovan sent us. We’re from the O.S.S.—the Office of Strategic Services. Roosevelt set us up before he was voted out, and he put Colonel Donovan in charge. President Kuhn has found us useful.”

Churchill looked thoughtful. “As you hope to find me.”

“Exactly. Kuhn and his German-American Bund have been pro-German throughout the war, as you must know. America even sold Germany munitions.”

Churchill nodded.

“But now Hitler’s the master of Europe, and he’s starting to look elsewhere. He has to keep his army busy, after all, and he needs new triumphs.” Potter leaned forward, his thin face intense. “Roosevelt, who had been immensely popular just a year before, was removed from office because he opened America to European Jews—”

“Including you,” von Steigerwald put in.

“Right, including me and thousands more like me. America was just recovering from the Depression, and people were terrified of us refugees and what we might do to the economy. Fritz Kuhn and his German-American Bund replaced the old, patriotic Republican Party that had freed the slaves. I’m sure that half the people who voted for Kuhn hoped he would send us back to Hitler.”

Churchill said, “Which he has declined to do.”

“Of course.” Potter grinned. “Who would he protect America from if we were gone? He’s getting shaky as it is.”

Von Steigerwald cleared his throat. “It might be possible to persuade Roosevelt to come out of retirement. Potter here thinks that way. He may be right.”

“Or at least to get Roosevelt to endorse some other Democrat,” Potter said.

Churchill nodded. “I could suggest half a dozen. No doubt you could add a dozen more. But where do I come into all this? Donovan wants me, you say.”

Potter nodded. “He does, but to understand where you come in, Mr. Prime Minister, you have to understand Donovan and his position. He was Roosevelt’s man. Roosevelt appointed him, and he’s done a wonderful job. The O.S.S. worked hard and selflessly for America when Roosevelt was president, and it’s working hard and selflessly for America now that Kuhn and his gang are in the White House.”

“Yet he would prefer Roosevelt.” Churchill fished a fresh cigar from his pocket.

“We all would,” Potter said. “Donovan doesn’t think he’ll do it—he’s a sick man—but that’s what all of us would like. We’d like America to go back to nineteen forty and correct the mistake she made then. Above all, we’d like the Bund out of power.”

Rolling the cigar between his hands, Churchill nodded.

“But if and when it comes to a war between Hitler and Kuhn, we will be with Kuhn and our country.”

“Right or wrong.” Churchill smiled.

“Exactly.”

Von Steigerwald cleared his throat again. “You’re not American, Potter. You’re a refugee—you said so. Where were you born?”

“In London,” Potter snapped. “But I’m as American as you are. I’m a naturalized United States citizen.”

“Thanks to Donovan, I’m sure.”

Potter turned back to Churchill. “So far Kuhn hasn’t interned us, much less returned us to the Germans. There are quite a few people whose advice and protests have prevented that. Donovan’s one of them. We give America a pool of violently anti-Nazi people, many well-educated, who speak every European language. If you’ve been wondering why so many of us are in the O.S.S. you should understand now.”

“I wasn’t wondering,” Churchill said mildly.

“War with Hitler looks inevitable.” Potter paused, scowling. “Once I told my native-born friend here that England had stood alone against the Axis. He corrected me. America really will stand alone. She won’t have a friend in the world except the conquered peoples.”

“Which is why we freed you,” von Steigerwald added. “If Hitler can be kept busy trying to get a grip on his conquests—on Britain and France, particularly—he won’t go after America. It will give President Kuhn time to persuade the die-hard Democrats that we must arm, and give him time to do it. We’ve taken Iceland, and we’ll use it to beam your broadcasts to Britain. We’re broadcasting to Occupied Norway already.”

Frowning, Churchill returned the cigar to his pocket. “You want me to lead a British underground against the Huns.”

“Exactly,” Potter said. “To lead them from the safety of America, and to form a government in exile.”

“Already I have led the British underground you hope for from London.” Churchill was almost whispering. “From the danger of London.” Abruptly his voice boomed, filling the tiny cabin. “From the ruins of London I have led the ruins of the British people against an enemy ten times stronger than they. They were a brave people once. Now their brave are dead.”

“You,” said Potter, “are as brave as any man known to history.”

“I,” said Churchill, “could not bring myself to take my own life, though I had sworn I would.”

“You tried to kill yourself long ago,” von Steigerwald reminded him, “in Africa.”

“Correct.” Churchill’s eyes were far away. “I had a revolver. I put it to my temple and pulled the trigger. It would not fire. I pulled the trigger again. It would not fire. I pointed it out the window and pulled the trigger a third time, and it fired.”

He chuckled softly. “This time I lacked the courage to pull the trigger at all. They snatched it from me and threw me down, and I knew I should have shot them instead. I would have killed one or two, the rest would have killed me, and it would have been over.”

He turned to Potter. “What you propose—what my friend Donovan proposes—will not work. It cannot be done. Let me tell you instead what I can do and will do. Next year, I will run for president.”

Von Steigerwald said, “Are you serious?”

“Never more so. I will run, and I will win.”

For a moment, hope gleamed in Potter’s eyes; but they were dull when he spoke. “You can’t become president, Mr. Prime Minister. The president must be a native-born citizen. It’s in the Constitution.”

“I am native born,” Churchill smiled, “and I shall become a citizen, just as you have. It is a little-known fact, but my mother returned to her own country—to the American people she knew and loved so much—so that her son might be born there. I was born in . . .”

Churchill paused, considering. “In Boston, I think. It’s a large place, with many births. My friend Donovan will find documentary proof of my nativity. He is a skilful finder of documents, from what I’ve heard.”

“Oh, my God.” Potter sounded as if he were praying. “Oh, my God!”

“Kuhn is a Hitler in the egg,” Churchill told him. “The nest must be despoiled before the egg can hatch. I collected eggs as a boy. Many of us did. I’ll collect this one. As I warned the British people—”

Von Steigerwald had pushed off the safety as his Luger cleared the holster. Churchill was still speaking when von Steigerwald shot him in the head.

“Heil Kuhn!” von Steigerwald muttered.

Potter leaped to his feet and froze, seeing only the faintly smoking muzzle aimed at his face.

“He dies for peace,” von Steigerwald snapped. “He would have had America at war in a year. Now pick him up. Not like that! Get your hands under his arms. Drag him out on deck and get one of them to help you throw him overboard. They starved him. He can’t be heavy.”

As Potter fumbled with the latch of the cabin door, von Steigerwald wondered whether it would be necessary to shoot Potter as well.

Necessary or not, it would certainly be pleasant.