“You missed the president,” he said. “Went into town after lunch. Had the whole Second Armored lined up on the Avus. Quite a picture. Sorry your plane was so late, that’s probably it for town shots.”

“Wasn’t he at the conference?” Liz said.

“Hasn’t started yet. Uncle Joe’s late. They say he has a cold.”

“A cold?” Jake said.

“Hard to imagine, isn’t it? Truman’s pissed, I hear.” He glanced at Jake. “That’s off the record, by the way.”

“What’s on?”

“Not much. I’ve got some handouts for you, but you’ll probably throw them away. Everybody else does. There’s nothing to say till they sit down, anyway. We have a briefing schedule set up at the press camp.”

“Which is where?”

“Down the road from MG headquarters. Argentinischeallee,” he said, rolling it out, a joke name.

“Out in Dahlem?” Jake said, placing it.

“Everything’s out in Dahlem.”

“Why not somewhere nearer the center?”

Ron looked at him. “There is no center.”

They were climbing the big flight of stairs to the main entrance doors. “As I say, the camp’s right by MG headquarters, so that’s easy. Your billet too. We found a nice place for you,” he said to Liz, almost courtly. “Photo schedule’s different, but at least you’ll get out there. Potsdam, I mean.”

“But not press?” Jake said.

Ron shook his head. “They want a closed session. No press. I’m telling you this now so I don’t have to hear you squawk later, like the rest of them. I don’t make the rules, so if you want to complain, go right over my head, I don’t care. We’ll do the best we can at the camp. Everything you need. You can send from there, but your stuff goes through me, you might as well know.”

Take looked at him, forced to smile. A new Nanny Wendt, this time with gum and get-up-and-go.

“Whatever happened to freedom of the press?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get plenty of copy. We’ll have a briefing after every session. Besides, everybody talks.”