Ursula drove back to Chicago and ditched the truck in a handy parking lot, next to a lineup of similar vehicles. She also got rid of the green uniform. The short wig she kept. It might come in handy again soon. Her blonde hair was now chestnut brown, and pulled tightly back. She could have been a legal secretary or something like that...the straight-laced, businesslike type from all appearances. First thing was, get a moderately priced hotel room, not too far from Stagg Field. Then start working on whatever useful angle she could come up with. There had to be a way to get into that place, and she only had to do it once.

* * * * *

Otto followed Ursula's advice, and went easy on Brehmer and the others. Not too easy, mind you, but he avoided being unnecessarily difficult about anything. That was a pleasant change as far as everyone was concerned. They put it down to Otto's absolute relief at escaping the police dragnet and being relatively safe for a bit. Still, Otto was moody, and he went off for long walks. Something was eating at him, that was clear, and it most likely had to do with Ursula.

Kathryn and Brehmer got a fair bit of time to talk quietly together, and he told her a good deal about his youth in Germany and his experiences early in the war. It was evident to Brehmer that most Americans considered Hitler to be a dangerous lunatic, and it puzzled him no end. He tried to explain to her that Hitler had brought stability and prosperity to a desperate nation, and given it pride again, but he had a hard time justifying certain things...such as the attack on Poland in '39, and the absorbing of Czechoslovakia into the Reich, and the bombing of Rotterdam, among other things. Brehmer's general impression was that Hitler's hand had been forced on those matters, but the Americans certainly didn't see it that way. Then there was the matter of the Jews. Brehmer hadn't given it a whole lot of thought up till now...he wasn't a political type by nature...but Kathryn had him thinking about it, and she was raising some thorny questions in his mind that had no good answers he could come up with. He knew that many, many people had been arrested, and their property destroyed or confiscated. He knew that many others had been forced to leave before the war, and when it came right down to it he didn't know why. Brehmer had no reasons of his own to dislike Jews. They hadn't caused him any trouble.

"What about the Duce?" he asked Kathryn. "Do you like him any better than Hitler? After all, you are half-Italian..."

Kathryn made a face. "He's a horrible man, always sticking out his big chin arrogantly like that! I think he's an egomaniac and a complete scoundrel. Look at this picture, for heaven's sake!" She pointed to a photo of Mussolini addressing the Fascists in a copy of Life Magazine that lay on the table.

Brehmer took a good look. He screwed up his face, as if concentrating very hard, and turned the picture this way and that way. "Hmmmm...Kathryn, you may in fact be right. He actually does look quite decidedly arrogant. Let me see if I can match this stance..." He stood up on a chair, so as to gain an impressive height, put his hands on his hips, puffed out his chest and stuck his chin way out, just like the Duce haranguing the masses, and launched into a barrage of quasi-Italian gibberish.

Kathryn raised her hand to her mouth and burst out laughing. Martin sauntered in, and did a double-take. "My God, it's the Duce himself! In our humble abode! What an honor! Imperial Rome lives again in the unlikely frame of Jurgen Brehmer, itinerant war hero in search of enlightenment."

Jurgen stuck his chin out threateningly, glowered at Martin and launched into more bogus Italian phrases.

"Oh, stop!" said Kathryn, gasping for breath. "You're assassinating my mother language. It's dreadful!" She pitched a pillow at Brehmer and it bounced off his head. He frozed in mid-declaration with a shocked look and pantomimed falling slowly from the balcony into the street below.

"Now you've done it," said Martin, shaking his finger at Kathryn severely. "A clear assassination attempt on the Great Man, a veritable Caesar of our times...."

"But where are his legions?" asked Brehmer, with a smirk. He resumed his seat on the couch. "Tagging along after General Rommel, what's left of them. You know, they sent a couple of squadrons to fight alongside us over Britain in 1940. I would not criticize the pilots. A spirited bunch of fellows and quite gallant....but they were flying dreadfully antiquated aircraft. Fiat biplanes, if you can believe it! Maneuverable as hell, but terribly slow...and those clunky little humpbacked Fiat G.50 fighters. Really a bad design, and mounting only two 30 caliber machine guns, against Spitfires and Hurricanes armed with eight 303's apiece! They were totally out of their league. They didn't even have modern navigational equipment for finding their way back in the bloody fog over England and the channel. It's a wonder they didn't all get killed first time out."

"How many times did they go out?" asked Martin.

"Two or three, as I recall. Then they gave it up and stood down and went back to the Med. The only sensible thing to do. I understand that Mussolini has sent a few squadrons to Russia more recently. Poor souls! I pity them."

"I pity anyone in that mess," said Martin.

"Where are Otto and Bruno?" asked Brehmer, changing the subject.

"Bruno is out there chopping wood, I believe. We need plenty of it. Otto has gone for another one of his solitary walks. He's chewing hard on something, but I couldn't say what it is."

"Hmmm. You've noticed the change, Martin? Otto's been different lately. He's almost nice to us. I wonder what he is up to."

"So do I, Brehmer, so do I."

Later Brehmer had a word alone with Martin. They were standing underneath a towering white pine that stood back of the cabin, Martin having his occasional smoke, and Brehmer abstaining.

"What would you do in my position?" asked Brehmer. "Do you think Otto would kill her?"

Martin sighed. "Frankly? Yes. She knows too much now, and he's not even bothering to prevent her from knowing. She knows our names, and much of your background. That alone makes her far too big a liability from Otto's point of view."

"But she knows nothing of the 'project'."

"No. Still, if I were you...in love with that girl...I would get her out of here." Martin threw down his butt and ground it out with his heel.

"If she is gotten out, she'll go straight to the American authorities. Then what?"

"That's true," agreed Martin. "Look, Brehmer...here is how I see it. This mission cannot succeed anyway. It's a million to one chance. Even if it did succeed it wouldn't stop the Americans, it would just slow them down a little. You've seen the immense size and strength of this country. My opinion...this project will get us all killed for nothing. Ursula intends to blow up that lab under Stagg Field. I doubt she can succeed, but she will try. She will most likely be killed in the attempt. Then they'll find the rest of us, soon enough. If they do, I expect we will all end up being shot or hanged as spies. It's a lousy situation, with no good ending."

"And the war? We have our duty to fight as best we can."

"I hate to say it, Brehmer, but I think the war is lost. Russia is not going to fall, and America is coming in full force. It's just a question of numbers. Add them up and you'll see."

"I don't want to believe that," protested Brehmer. The very thought was agony to him.

"I know you don't," replied Martin sadly, "but I told you...it's just a question of numbers. We can't beat this country AND the British AND the Russians. It simply can't be done. The Japanese are already falling back in disarray. They shot their bolt at Midway, six months ago. Rommel has had it in Africa. He'll be driven off the continent in another few months at best. Then the Allies will assault Italy. It's as plain as day. There is nothing ahead but a slow grind to defeat and disaster. I didn't think so last summer, but I see it now."

"So what are you telling me? What are you saying, Martin?"

"Get out, Brehmer. You and Kathryn, get out now. Soon. Before it's too late. There is going to be a life after this war for those who survive it. Think about that. Look to your future, not to fighting battles that can't be won."

Brehmer took some time to digest that. He felt tied up in knots thinking about it, but he had to admit that Martin was most probably right, and Brehmer's priorities were changing lately. Going back to his squadron was just a dream. It wouldn't make any difference even if he did. Just one more lamb to the slaughter.

"I understand you," he said at last. "And I believe you are right. So, what are you going to do, Martin? What will you do if Kathryn and I make a break for it?"

"Pretty much the same thing as you," said Martin. "And it had best be at the same time. Can you fly any airplane, do you think?"

"Absolutely."

"Good. I have an idea, then, that may work...and we can all get off this sinking ship before it's too late. Then we go south, Jurgen, to Latin America. There are many possibilities down there for people with a good head on their shoulders."

* * * * *