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hoped to have built after he had won the war. Foster had flown to Germany and, through a onetime U.S. Army buddy stationed in Berlin, had obtained most of what he needed from the archives of Hitler's architect Albert Speer at the Bundesarchiv in Koblenz, and from Speer's wife in Heidelberg, and then he had returned to Los Angeles to lay out his book. He had a good contract with a prestigious publisher in New York, and a firm deadline for delivery. Foster had felt high about the book, not only because it intrigued him but because it would enhance his image in the international architectural community.
    At his home in Beverly Hills, reviewing his notes, he had come across the information that Speer had assigned one trusted associate to construct seven special buildings for Hitler. Checking his layout again, Foster found he did not have photographs, let alone the designs, of those seven buildings. Without those graphics, his work would be incomplete, and the publisher was counting on selling the book as the first and only complete book on architecture in Nazi Germany under Hitler. Worst of all, the deadline for delivery of his art book loomed just three months away. His only chance to acquire the seven missing pieces was to learn who Speer's associate had been, but no matter where Foster had searched, he had been unable to learn the name of the associate architect.
    Then, by chance, he had discovered that the one historian who knew everything about Hitler was Sir Harrison Ashcroft of Oxford. Foster had promptly written Ashcroft asking if he might see him in Oxford and seek help in a matter concerning Hitler. He hoped personally to go through Ashcroft's architectural files so that the historian would not be imposed upon. Ashcroft had replied with equal promptness that he would be delighted to receive Foster, giving him the day and hour for their meeting. Relieved, Foster had made reservations to fly to England next week. Once he had the name of the associate architect, he planned to fly to Germany and meet with the man if he was alive, or with his family, positive that the man or his heirs would have the seven missing designs.
    It was open-and-shut, until this morning. Now it was shut. Ashcroft was dead. Once more, Foster was left in limbo.
    That moment, the door to his office opened, and Irene Myers announced, "Mr. Foster. Joan Sawyer of Los Angeles magazine is here."
    Foster mumbled his thanks, and tried to get his mind on the interviewer. She was a tall, flat-breasted young woman, with squinting brown eyes behind thick-lensed spectacles, a longish nose, thin lips; she wore a tan pants suit and carried a tape recorder.
    "How do you do," she said, making straight for his desk and setting down the recorder. "I hope you don't mind if I tape you. It's the best way to get everything right. I'm a stickler for accuracy."
    "So am I," said Foster pleasantly, waving her to a leather-covered chair across from him. "I'll let you tape if you let me smoke."
    "Your funeral," she said unsmilingly. She fiddled with the tape recorder, started it, tested it, then she eased into the chair and fished a typed set of questions out of her purse. "I told your secretary, when I made the appointment, that I was doing a long piece on the leading architects in Southern California. I did a little research on you, and you seem to qualify."
    "How kind of you," Foster said playfully.
    "I know you're a busy man," said Joan Sawyer. "So why don't we get going?"
    "Suits me fine."
    "By the way, we shot pictures of some of your recent structures. The Cornell Theater on Sunset Boulevard. The International Condominium in Westwood. The House of Neptune seafood place in Malibu. All quite original and impressive."
    "Thank you, Miss Sawyer."
    "When did it begin, your becoming an architect? You weren't one when you went into the army."
    "I became interested after I got out. That's when I went back to college."
    "Why don't we start just before that, when you were in the