Joachim von Ribbentrop stood with a thin sheet of paper tilted toward the lamp.
The paper was flimsy Soviet paper always felt cheap to him and carried only a few lines translated by his own man.
The phrasing was careful to the point of cowardice interest in "regional stability," borders as "flexible instruments," the mutual desirability of "quiet in the east while Europe rearranges itself."
He read it twice, then a third time, lips pressing tight.
It was not a letter and not a proposal.
It was a scent.
It was what foxes left behind in hedgerows.
His secretary hovered at the doorway. "Herr Minister, the Propaganda Minister is in the ante-room."
"Let him wait" Ribbentrop said, folding the page and sliding it inside a leather folder. "Five minutes."
He set the folder on the desk and stared at the map pinned to the wall.
The pins marched like small flagpoles Vienna, Prague, Breslau, Danzig.
A red string looped the east.
