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bite.”
    â€œIt’s . . . it’s . . . impossible,” Deitel said finally.
    â€œLe monde progresse grâce aux choses impossibles qui ont été réalisées,” Rucker said with a shrug.
    That snapped Deitel out of his daze. What was this bush pilot saying?
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe world progresses thanks to the impossible things which were carried out,” Rucker said.
    â€œYour government created all this?”
    â€œGovernment? Oh no. Pegasus Petroleum and a consortium of three of the larger airlines own this place. Keep it flying in a regular two hundred mile radius. Cuts flight times like you wouldn’t believe. Not that they don’t charge an arm and a leg for petrol . . .”
    â€œHow have they kept this secret?”
    â€œSecret? Doc, they spend lots of money advertising this thing. They fly it over the stadiums at the World Cup.”
    â€œWhy have I never heard of this, then?” Deitel asked, though he knew. The national socialist government could never acknowledge an accomplishment like this. Very little information ever slipped out of increasingly isolated Germany, and very little got in, either.
    Deitel didn’t notice Chuy come up behind them.
    â€œThat should keep him distracted for a few minutes,” the large Brazilian said.
    â€œShould I be presenting myself to your customs agents?” Deitel asked.
    Chuy and Rucker cocked their heads and then looked where Deitel was pointing—the office suite to which Chamberlain had been escorted. They both laughed.
    â€œWhat? Oh. No, who you are in the Freehold is no one’s business but your own, good doctor,” Chuy said in his baritone, with a melodious Carioca accent. “Customs control in the Freehold? Never had it, never will.”
    â€œBut, those men . . .”
    â€œFriends of ours, Doc” Rucker said.
    â€œ Vos . . . What?”
    â€œA confidence trick we learned from a British friend back when we were guests in one of your country’s stalags . You’d be surprised—or not, I conjure—how often Yankees fall for that one on account of how conditioned they are to say ‘sir’ to anyone with a badge.”
    Deitel took a step back from the two, his guard up.
    â€œWhat is going on? What do you want with me?”
    â€œRight now we want you to get back on the plane. We’re due in Austin in three hours, and we had to ditch that fat man,” Rucker said. “The man you’re on your way to meet with radioed us to get rid of him.”
    â€œI don’t understand,” Deitel said.
    â€œChamberlain’s working for the SD,” Rucker said flatly. The Sicherheitsdienst, or Secret Service, was the intelligence and foreign espionage agency of the SS.
    That, of course, sent a chill up Deitel’s back. He stuttered and stammered. “I—I . . . I have my papers. I am a medical doctor and I am on a study sabbatical and—”
    Rucker cut him off.
    â€œ ‘A word to the wise . . .’ ”
    Deitel did a double take. It took a second for the words to come to him.
    â€œ ‘A sight for the eyes,’ ” he said, finishing the prearranged recognition, then relaxing a little.
    â€œSo, Doc, now you and me are getting back aboard my bird and we’re flying to Austin.”
    â€œI thought that the engine . . .”
    Rucker and Chuy could see the lightbulb flick on. There was no engine trouble. It was all to throw Chamberlain off track without making it look like they were throwing him off track.
    â€œAnd you weren’t really drunk this morning?”
    Rucker nodded.
    â€œAnother ruse,” Chuy said. “Our friends can only double-talk the fat Yank for so long. Chamberlain’s not an official SD man, from what we know—he really is some kind of button-sorter for some muckety-muck on the Union States payroll. But he’s an asset for the