By the spring of 1934 the rain slicked stones of Unter den Linden gleamed under the gaslights, the Brandenburg Gate standing watch over the capital like an ancient sentinel.
Inside the marble corridors of the Berliner Schloss, the air was thick with the scent of polish and cigars.
King Arthur Arz von Straußenburg of Hungary was not a man to fidget, but the long walk to the Kaiser's private salon made his fingers drum the silver head of his cane.
He wore the full dress of his restored kingdom, green tunic, gold braid, and the sash of St. Stephen, every inch the monarch he had fought to become.
The doors swung open.
Wilhelm II stood by the fire, one hand resting on a carved chair, the other stroking his mustache with the easy self-assurance of a man who had outlived empires and was now assembling his own anew.
And there, already seated, already watching, was Bruno von Zehntner.
