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But in the coming months, Hagen knew, more and more people from all through the Reich would be willing to levy accusations against Canaris. The war was going badly. The Russians were pushing back German forces every day, recapturing cities with terrible speed; and when the war went badly, people looked for somebody to blame. If one had given reason to be singled out for this blame, one was in trouble. Canaris was living on borrowed time— and if Hagen knew it, then Canaris knew it, too. So there was no reason to be nervous. Whatever questions Canaris had called him there to ask, Hagen could answer or not answer as he saw fit. The man would not dare push too hard, not at this precarious moment in his career. And yet he was nervous. Canaris, all appearances to the contrary, was a devious man. He was also a capable one. He had escaped from a prison camp in Genoa, during the first war, by killing the prison chaplain, putting on his clothes, and walking out past the guards. And this, they said, had been the second prison Canaris had escaped from. The first had come two years earlier, in Argentina; Canaris had escaped by rowboat and horseback. He was a resourceful man, and it would not pay to underestimate him. Hagen, who had killed his fair share of men himself, reached the top step of 72-76 Tirpitz Ufer. He took a moment to reassure himself again that there was no need to be nervous, then stepped into the shadowed foyer and received a security check from the guard in the booth on his left. The elevator was out of order. He was forced to clamber up the five flights of stairs. By the time he reached the high-ceilinged top floor, he was out of breath. He paused for a moment before proceeding through the great double doors at the end of the corridor. To be out of breath would reveal weakness. After a few moments, he felt ready to proceed. He stood up straight, tugged the wrinkles out of his dark suit, and went to his meeting with Canaris. Canaris, like Hagen, did not like to wear military regalia. Like Hagen, he wore an ordinary dark business suit. These men operated in a strata both above and to the side of standard military business. Like most spies, they tried to avoid calling attention to themselves. As Hagen entered the office, Canaris stood behind his desk and offered his hand. He was a slight, short, unimpressive man who looked considerably older than his fifty-six years. His hair was thinning and gray, his shoulders narrow, his skin pasty and sagging. The only feature that betrayed his capability was his eyes. They were an incisive blue, and as Hagen reached out

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