“Ah”—the doctor’s voice was a harsh voice—“you have finally found your way back to us. Fortunate, very fortunate. Now I must insist you go to the hospital.”

Rogan shook his head. “I’m OK here. Just give me a prescription for some more of my pills. No hospital is going to help me.”

The doctor adjusted his spectacles and stroked his beard. Despite the facial camouflage he looked young, and he was obviously disturbed by Rosalie’s beauty. Now he turned to scold her. “You must give this fellow some peace. He is suffering from nervous exhaustion. He must have complete rest for at least two weeks. Do you understand me?” The young doctor angrily tore a sheet from his prescription pad and handed it to her.

There was a knock on the door of the hotel suite, and Rosalie went to answer it. The American Intelligence agent Bailey came in, followed by two German detectives. Bailey’s long Gary Cooper face was sour. “Where’s your boyfriend?” he asked Rosalie. She nodded toward the bedroom door. The three men moved toward it.

“He’s sick,” Rosalie said. But the three men went into the bedroom.

Bailey did not seem surprised to find Rogan in bed. Neither did he seem to have any sympathy for the sick man. He looked down at Rogan and said flatly, “So you went ahead and did it.”

“Did what?” Rogan asked. He was feeling fine now. He grinned up at Bailey.

“Don’t bullshit me,” Bailey snapped angrily. “The Freisling brothers have disappeared. Just like that. They left their gas station closed; their stuff is still in their apartment; their money is still in the bank. That means only one thing: They’re dead.”

“Not necessarily,” Rogan said.

Bailey waved his hand impatiently. “You’ll have to answer some questions. These two men are from the German political police. You’ll have to get dressed and come down to their headquarters.”

The young bearded doctor spoke up. His voice was angry, commanding. “This man cannot be moved.”

One of the German detectives said to him, “Watch yourself. You don’t want all those years in medical school to be wasted on a pick and shovel.”

Instead of frightening the doctor, this made him angrier. “If you move this man he may very well die. I will then personally press charges of manslaughter against you and your department.”

The German detectives, astonished at this defiance, did not say another word. Bailey studied the doctor and said, “What’s your name?”

The doctor bowed, almost clicked his heels, and said, “Thulman. At your service. And what is your name, sir?”

Bailey gave him a long intimidating stare; then, in obvious mockery, he bowed and clicked his heels together. “Bailey,” he said. “And we are going to take this man down to the Halle.”

The doctor gave him a look of contempt. “I can click my heels together louder than you when I am barefooted, you poor imitation of a Prussian aristocrat. But that is beside the point. I forbid you to move this man because he is ill; his health will be severely endangered. I do not think you can afford to disregard my warnings.”

Rogan could see that the three men were baffled. He was, too. Why the hell was this doctor sticking his neck out for him?

Bailey said sarcastically, “Will it kill him if I ask him a few questions right here and now?”

“No,” said the doctor, “but it will tire him.”

Bailey made an impatient gesture and turned his lanky frame toward Rogan. “Your visas for travel in Germany are being revoked,” he said. “I’ve had that arranged. I don’t care what you do in any other country, but I want you out of my territory. Don’t try to come back with phony papers. I’ll have my eye on you as long as you’re in Europe. Right now you can thank this doctor for saving your ass.” Bailey walked out of the bedroom, the two German detectives followed, and Rosalie ushered all three out of the suite.

Rogan grinned at the doctor. “Is it true—I really can’t be moved?”

The young doctor stroked his beard. “Of course. However, you may move yourself, since then there would be no psychological stress on your nervous system.” He smiled at Rogan. “I dislike seeing healthy men, especially policemen, bully sick people. I don’t know what you are up to, but I’m on your side.”

Rosalie saw the doctor to the door, then came back and sat on the bed. Rogan put his hand over hers. “Do you still want to stay with me?” he asked. She nodded. “Then pack all our things,” Rogan said. “We’ll leave for Munich. I want to meet Klaus von Osteen before the others. He’s the most important one.”

Rosalie bowed her head to his. “They will kill you after all,” she said.

Rogan kissed her. “That’s why I have to take care of von Osteen first. I want to make sure of him. I don’t mind so much if the other two get away.” He gave her a gentle push. “Start packing,” he said.

He rented a small Opel while Rosalie went to the library to read up on von Osteen in the newspaper file and to locate his home address.

When they met for dinner, Rosalie had a full report. Klaus von Osteen was now the highest-ranking judge of the Munich courts. He had started off as the wastrel son of a famous noble family related to the English royal family. Though he had been a German officer during the war, there was no record of his having joined the Nazi party. Shortly before the end of the war he had been severely wounded and that had apparently turned him into a new man at the age of forty-three. Back in civilian life he had studied law and had become one of the best lawyers in Germany. He had then entered the political arena as a moderate and a supporter of the American entente in Europe. Great things were expected of him; it was possible that he might even become the chancellor of West Germany. He had the support of the German industrialists and the American occupation authorities, and a magnetic influence over the working classes as a superb orator.

Rogan nodded grimly. “That sounds like the guy. He had a terrific voice, sincere as hell. The bastard really covered his tracks, though.”

Rosalie said anxiously, “Are you sure this is the right man?”

“It’s the right one; it has to be,” Rogan said. “How could Eric and Hans hit on the same name unless it was the truth?” He paused. “We’ll go to his house right after dinner. When I see his face I’ll recognize him, no matter how much he’s changed. But it’s him, all right. He was a real aristocrat.”

They drove to von Osteen’s address, using a city map as a guide. Von Osteen’s house was in a fashionable suburb, and it was a mansion. Rogan parked the car and they went up the stone steps to the huge baronial doors. There was a wooden knocker in the shape of a wild boar’s head. Rogan slammed it twice against the wooden panel. In a moment the door was opened by an old-fashioned German butler, grossly fat, obsequious. Very coldly he said, “Bitte mein Herr.”

“We have come to see Klaus von Osteen,” Rogan said. “On confidential business. Just tell him that Eric Freisling sent us.”

The butler ’s voice was less cold. He evidently recognized the Freisling name. “It is regrettable,” he said. “Judge von Osteen and the family are on vacation in Switzerland, and then they plan to go to Sweden and Norway and finally England. They will not be back for nearly a month.”

“Damn,” Rogan said. “Can you tell me where they are staying right now—their address?”

The butler smiled, his face creasing into ridges of ruddy suet. “No,” he said. “Judge von Osteen is not following a schedule. He can be reached only through official channels. Do you wish to leave a message, sir?”

“No,” Rogan said. He and Rosalie returned to the car.

Back in their room, Rosalie asked, “What will you do now?”

“I’ll have to gamble,” he said. “I’ll go to Sicily and track down Genco Bari. If everything works out OK, I’ll fly to Budapest and see about Wenta Pajerski. Then I’ll come back to von Osteen here in Munich.”

Rosalie said, “What about your entry visa? Bailey will have that canceled.”

Rogan said drily, “I used to be in the spy business too. I’ll find a way to get a phony passport or a phony visa. And if Bailey gets too close, I’ll just have to forget he’s a fellow American.”

Rosalie said, “What about me?”

He didn’t answer her for a long time. “I’m making arrangements so that you’ll get enough money to live on every month. A trust fund that will go on, no matter what happens.”

“You’re not taking me with you?” Rosalie asked.

“I can’t,” Rogan said. “I’d have to get you papers. And I’d never be able to lose Bailey if I took you along.”

“Then I’ll wait for you here in Munich,” she said.

“OK. But you have to get used to the idea of my not being around some time. The chances are a million to one against my making it all the way. They’ll nail me for sure when I get von Osteen.”

Gratefully she leaned her head against his shoulder. “I don’t care,” she said. “Just let me wait for you; please let me wait for you.”

He stroked her blond hair. “Sure, sure,” he said. “Now will you do something for me?”

She nodded.

“I was looking at the map,” Rogan said. “We can drive to Bublingshausen in four hours. I think it would be good for you to see it again. Will you go back?”

He felt her whole body go tense, her back arch in terror. “Oh, no,” she said. “Oh, no!”

He held her quivering body close. “We’ll drive through very quickly,” he said. “You’ll see how it is. Now. Then maybe you won’t see so clearly how it was before. Maybe everything will blur. Try. I’ll drive through very fast, I promise. Remember, that’s the first thing you told the doctor—that you wanted to go back to Bublingshausen?”

Her body had stopped shaking. “All right,” she said. “I’ll go back. With you.”