The Tyrolean wind had teeth in the morning. It scraped across the stones of the high balcony like a whisper sharpened into a threat, curling around the windowpanes and tugging at the heavy drapes in Bruno's office.
Bruno stood with one hand cradling a tumbler of chilled schnapps, the other tucked behind his back
Below, the forest had turned. Summer had passed, and soon autumn would turn to the coldest of winters.
Somewhere behind him, a fire crackled in the hearth. His desk was buried under reports from Spain, Manila, and Berlin.
The phone rang once, twice, and a third time. He needed not know who was on the other line, for this phone was reserved for one man, and one man alone.
And it had not made the slightest whisper in years.
"Put him through," Bruno said, voice soft.
There was a click. Then, there was the tired, static-laced voice of President Herbert Hoover.
"Herr von Zehntner…"
A pause. A breath. A man unaccustomed to groveling trying to remember how to do it.
