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something that already existed in the crowded shopping
conditions. As the shoppers jostled their way between the counters
they exchanged heated words. Their initial amusement at the
childish prank was quickly turning to real anger.
    A middle-aged woman in her Macy's
blouse and skirt, her face made up like a brown mask, reached
forward to squirt a generous spray of scent in his direction. It
reminded him of the perfume used by Karen. Karen McDowell might not
be particularly desirable, but she had a delicate fragrance that
attracted the men. It certainly attracted him.
    The smell was clearing a little by the
time a uniformed commissionaire escorted three white-faced boys to
the main entrance. The kids protested their innocence, and would
probably continue to do so until they entered one of the adjoining
stores to release further foul capsules.
    The Nazi letter again filled Heinman's
thoughts: the letter on official Third Reich stationery. He stayed
motionless, starting to see the way to retain Berlin's funding. One
of DCI's experimental substances had such a serious side effect
that no one could get near it without becoming emotionally
disturbed.
    Jacco Morell believed it was something in
the smell that triggered the response. The effective agent had yet
to be identified. Albert Heinman made for the exit and the fresh
air. DCI would apply their existing chemistry to a shunned method
of warfare, and the Nazis would buy it as part of their rearmament
program. If there was a war in Europe, America would be well out of
it. The development program would be extremely rewarding for
Domestic Chemicals, especially if the funding came directly from
the wealth of Chancellor Hitler's Third Reich.
    The work must be a secret between himself
and his senior chemist, Jacco Morell -- and Skorensky, the chief
executive officer of course. Igor Skorensky, the crazy driver who
had nearly killed himself twice in the past twelve months. Senior
men in the company had no right to go motor racing in their spare
time.
    *
    IRENA HEINMAN received no birthday present
in June 1937. She made it clear that a fiftieth birthday deserved
some sort of recognition, even from a man totally immersed in his
lifelong passion of work. Instead of the eagerly awaited gift she
received a phone call. Her hard-working husband had set out from
the office for the Manhattan shops but had been unavoidably
diverted. He was now back at DCI. She must be patient and
understand that the future of Domestic Chemicals was in the
balance.

 
     
    Seven Years
Later

Chapter 5
    England -- June 12, 1944
    "GERMANY CALLING. Germany
calling."
    "Turn that damn row off!"
    George Penbridge looked up from his
supper. "You watch your lip, woman," he growled in response to his
wife's scolding. "There's news on there we don't hear from the
BBC."
    The oldest son, Jeffrey, began to join
in, siding with his father for once. "It's the invasion, Ma. The
war's nearly over. Our troops have landed in France and we want to
know what's happening."
    "Well, if you don't all shut
your mouths, we'll none of us know what Lord Haw-Haw is on
about. Quiet !"
    As several neighbors would later
testify, George's voice could be very loud. And extremely
angry.
    "The British people are facing
defeat," whined the nasal tones of William Joyce, nicknamed Lord
Haw-Haw by a journalist at the start of the war. The majority of
listeners received the aristocratic voice with derision, tempered
by the view that there just might be some item of truth amongst the
dross.
    "On the beaches of Normandy the British
and American soldiers are lying dead. The so-called invasion was a
failure. Your leaders have lied to you. The superior German army
was waiting for your badly prepared landing forces. There are few
survivors. I have here some of the names of the dead. Mothers of
England, weep for your sons."
    While Lord Haw-Haw read out the list,
the argument in the Penbridge farm in Berkshire, well to the west
of London, was renewed.
    "He's just