Himmler nodded, jaw clenched.
"And you," Hitler said to Ribbentrop, "will write me a note I do not need to sign. A sentence to carry in a coat pocket. Nothing that smells of paper. A phrase to be dropped at the right table."
Ribbentrop bowed his head, relief uncoiling in him like a rope loosening. "Yes, mein Führer."
Hitler's eyes returned to the map.
He touched Danzig with a fingertip, as if to steady the city so it would not slide in the rain.
"We will dine with the devil," he said, almost conversationally, "but we will keep the table knife in our hand."
Keitel exhaled.
Himmler's mouth twitched in distaste, but he added nothing.
The meeting broke into its usual smaller motions.
Keitel murmuring dates, Himmler whispering about lists.
Ribbentrop sketching a sentence with the butt of a pencil on the edge of a blotter borders as instruments, instruments as guarantees, guarantees as weather.
When he left, the rain had eased.
