Snow fell over Berlin like ash from a distant fire.
From the upper floors of the Reich Chancellery, the city looked almost peaceful. Trams glided along their rails, and headlights cut clean lines through the evening haze.
Somewhere far below, a church bell tolled the hour, swallowed by the hum of a capital at war.
Inside the Bruno's official office, there was no peace.
Maps covered the walls, Europe, Africa, the Pacific, the eastern seaboard of North America, each one layered with pins and wax pencil, arrows and shaded zones that represented lives in neat, clean lines.
Kaiser Wilhelm II stood before the Atlantic chart, one gloved hand resting on a cane, the other hovering near the coast of New England.
His beard was silver now, but his back was still straight, his eyes still sharp. Age had not beaten him so much as polished him.
