Berlin, March 1943. Poor Ahle is dead - they called it suicide, and closed the file before the photographs of the body had dried. Any further enquiries on the matter are to be directed to Gestapo, so of course there will be no further enquiries. The men of the Lie Division mourn their dead colleague. He wasn't an easy man to know, but he didn't deserve to die like that, not after serving his time at the Front and taking wounds for his country. Still, it was his choice and he took it, even if there are any number of less messy ways to sign off. Their regrets ease quickly - after all, hundreds of Germans are dying every day in equally unpleasant ways, and it's their job to make that story seem less disastrous than it is. But the Lie Division is a man short now. Word goes out and an application is made - another smashed-up veteran, looking to do his bit but with fewer working parts than before. Otto Fischer - he's an ex-policeman like Freddie Holleman, the loudest, least-circumspect mouth in the Division. He should fit in well, if he doesn't mind sitting at a dead man's desk, turning ugly truths into pretty lies. Or being mistaken for a friend of Ahle's, whose life, death and secrets continue to inconvenience a number of very powerful people.