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in view of the poisonous diplomatic attacks against us in Europe, especially in Paris, London and Warsaw.’
    He didn’t have the slightest idea who Karl Schnurre was. He mentioned Warsaw and Paris simply because it was clear to him that Weller’s position in the Foreign Office was connected to Europe, and if Schnurre was interested in Milton, he would therefore be curious about the company’s offices in France, Italy and Poland.
    Weller’s forehead creased, and his cheeks bulged. He had apparently expected that his appearance here would arouse greater awe.‘I am acquainted with the company and with the Department of German Consumer Psychology. And I have heard about your offices in Europe: Paris, Rome and somewhere else, right?’
    ‘Our flourishing branch in Warsaw, of course,’ Thomas said. Now he was convinced that the man had done his homework, but he hadn’t encountered such an amateurish manoeuvre in a long time. One could only hope that the Foreign Office showed more sophistication in its contacts with other countries.
    ‘A truly daring idea these days, to use Jewish ideas to sell merchandise to the Germans—or even to the Poles.’ He was speaking like a radio announcer, accentuating every word, and his voice was loud and clear.
    ‘We don’t use Jewish ideas.’ Thomas gave him a disapproving glance. ‘This is an entirely original adaptation of universal principles, developed long before the appearance of psychoanalysis in its present version, of which, by the way, I am also not enamoured. Here we have been developing principles formulated by German philosophy. We at Milton Berlin divert the decadent principles of Jewish psychoanalysis into rational and productive channels that befit the German spirit. I established the department to inject true Germanness into the discussion of the improvement and perfection of human abilities.’
    ‘Sir, you express yourself well.’ Georg Weller rose. ‘Herr Heiselberg, it was an honour to visit Milton’s headquarters. I just happened to be passing by and I won’t take any more of your precious time. Would you please convey my cordial greetings to Herr Mailer.’ He extended his hand to Thomas across the table. His handshake was soft. ‘I expect that an invitation to a formal meeting at the Foreign Office will soon be issued,’ he added.
    ‘That will be a great honour for Milton,’ Thomas answered, pushing open the heavy wooden door and accompanying the visitor out into the corridor, taking the opportunity to mention the strict qualification examinations for prospective employees that Milton had instituted in cooperation with the SD, the intelligence arm of the SS. Weller nodded and polished his glasses with a handkerchief that borehis initials embroidered in blue thread. They stood in the lobby whose broad windows looked out onto a narrow street decorated with poplar trees. Beneath the windows, around the entrance, stood benches in French Riviera style. Something about the room made Thomas uncomfortable, like his mother’s parlour. In every corner was a fountain with a statue topped by an alabaster spear—the work of an American sculptor whom Fiske and Mailer mistook for a great artist. They exchanged a few courtesies and parted with a friendly handshake.
    …
    The hours passed. Only Thomas and the janitor were still in the office. Should he let Carlson know that the meeting hadn’t taken place? Why hadn’t the Daimler-Benz people shown up? After Weller left, Thomas questioned the staff. No one knew anything. Carlson had disappeared and it was impossible to reach him. Had he not come to the office because he already knew that the meeting had been cancelled? ‘Maybe, maybe, maybe,’ Thomas grumbled. But there was no point in being disappointed, and it wasn’t all bad: a meeting with a senior official from the Foreign Office was preferable to a meeting with some client, right? He began to work out which clients should be told about the meeting, and which