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passed among the men around him.
    “German culture,” he roared again. “Haven’t you read Rosenberg’s papers? The most unfortunate thing that happened to our tribe was the advent of Christianity. This religion of weaklings . . .” Now Göring was on the offensive. He was well aware that Canaris was a Catholic. He bowed in mock apology. “In most cases, not all.”
    Canaris did not comment. This was the language that begged for confrontation, and any confrontation in the matter of the church was dangerous. “So—” Canaris attempted a smile—“you have decided that the ladies of Paris cannot be compared with those of the Fatherland—”
    “Yes!” Göring interrupted. “But I still have only half convinced him about German art. Perhaps—”he patted his wide belly as though he had finally had enough—“perhaps I can show you something to convince you about that also, ja ?” He took Thomas by the arm and motioned for Canaris and Oster to follow.
    “The parade—” Thomas tried to protest as Göring dragged him out into an enormous marble corridor and then walked toward the elevator.
    “There will be hours more of this yet.” Göring would not be dissuaded. “The Führer will not come in until the last little Nazi has goose-stepped past him. Come, come. I’ll show you.”
    Drawn by a morbid curiosity, Thomas, Canaris, and Oster boarded the elevator with their intoxicated guide. Göring ran the elevator himself. His cheeks were flushed with excitement, and his eyes were bright like a child playing hooky from school. He laughed as he moved the lever and the elevator lurched downward with a loud whine. Göring prattled on about the virtues of German artists and the fact that Hitler himself was an artist and a man of great spiritual superiority. Did not the Führer possess the genius and the sensitivity to move the very soul of the German people as the gods of old had done?
    Canaris and Oster exchanged glances. Yes. Hitler was an artist. A failed artist. How much better for them all if he had been accepted into the Vienna Institute of Art and was painting pictures instead of rearranging maps.
    The elevator plunged downward. Deep beneath the ground level, a catacomb of rooms and reinforced concrete had been built for the Führer and his staff in the event of war. Göring had laughed and told Hitler that if any enemy bombers ever broke through to drop even one bomb on German soil, Göring would change his name to Meyers and wear a yellow star. For now, the rooms held a wealth of confiscated art.
    “You are lucky I bring you here.” Göring smiled with yellow teeth as the elevator doors slid open. Beyond was utter blackness and silence, a heavy contrast to the cheering jubilation and tramp of boots on the streets far above them.
    The three guests exchanged glances as Göring stepped out into the dark hall and waited for them to follow. Canaris was first.
    “Darkness,” he quipped in a humorless tone. “So this is the German art and culture you have brought us halfway to hell to see?”
    Göring laughed, unaware of the bitterness that was thick in the voice of the speaker. “God creates light and beauty out of darkness, Herr Admiral.” Göring clicked his heels and bowed slightly as he reached out to touch a light switch.
    A string of bare bulbs illuminated gray concrete block walls. The German swastika emblem, topped by an eagle, was the only adornment in this drab corridor.
    Göring marched ahead of the silent trio. The air was thick and the weight of the earth seemed to press in on them. Only Göring did not notice.
    “In there, we keep the Raphael.” He gestured toward one door after another. “There Rubens. A da Vinci or two in there . . . ” Göring seemed immensely pleased but did not open the doors of those rooms or offer to let them see the stolen treasures. “The Führer is planning a huge museum in his hometown, you know. Speer is designing it now. It shall be the greatest and the largest