Bad timing had drawn him away from his ultimate prize-the mad kraut sausage-sucker, der fuhrer himself.

Someone had to be there. Someone had to be first to wrap his hands around the neck of that demented paperhanger. Why not Conn? But thanks to bad timing, the goddamned Russkies got there first.

Only afterward did MacCleary learn that no one had claimed the prize. Finishing his life with an act of ultimate cowardice, Adolf Hitler had committed suicide.

Conrad MacCleary's field of expertise was actually Asian affairs. With the war in Europe over, he was anxious to get over to the Pacific theater. When MacCleary was allowed back into Berlin with the American army, he didn't really want to go when the call came for a translator.

A German captain had been discovered in a bombed-out wing of the SS headquarters. For reasons unclear, the officer had been slated for execution. He had missed his date with the firing squad when the building collapsed around the ears of his would-be executioners.

When discovered by the Russians, the man was babbling. Fearful that he might be aware of some sort of doomsday weapon hidden in the city, they called for a translator.

When Conn showed up in the detention cell, he found a lone German army captain sitting in a wobbly chair.

The man's eyes were glazed. His face sported a week's growth of beard. There were bruises inflicted by SS torturers. The captain rocked back and forth as he sat. Voice low, he repeated something over and over.

Three Russians-a colonel and two conscripts-stood above the German. Their anxious eyes snapped to MacCleary as the tall man entered the cell.