“They almost won it here too. Now they’re war criminals. I wonder where the boys at American Dye would be if things had gone the other way.”

“That’s a hell of a thing for an American to say.” Tommy raised his glass. “But you’d defend to your death my right to say it.” He took in Breimer’s blank expression. “Oliver Wendell Holmes. Another troublemaker in the Justice Department.”

“No, Voltaire,” the Judge Hardy lookalike said mildly, the first time he’d spoken. “If he said it. He was probably misquoted too.” A sly smile at Tommy.

“Well, somebody said it,” Tommy said. “Anyway, it’s the right idea. Don’t you think?” he said to Breimer, his glass still raised.

Breimer stared at him for a moment, a politician assessing a heckler, then lifted his glass with a forced smile. “I certainly do. To the Justice Department. And to the gentlemen of the press.” “Bless their little hearts,” Ron said.

They drank, then Breimer turned back to Ron, placing his fleshy hand on a paper on the table. “But Clay’s a direct report to Ike,” he said, as if they had never been interrupted.

“That’s right,” Ron said quickly, before Tommy could jump in again. “The army’s here as support, but Military Government reports in to Ike. Technically, to the Allied Control Council. That’s Ike, Ismay, and Zhukov. We’re USGCC, U.S. Group, Control Council.”

He was drawing boxes on the paper, an organization chart.

“Control Council’s the final authority for the country, at least for the sign-off, but the real work’s here, in the Coordinating Committee. That’s Clay, as Ike’s deputy, and the other Allied deputies. Under Clay you’ve got your executive staff line, like Colonel Muller here,” he said, turning to Judge Hardy, who nodded.