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... e edges of the vast study.
Beyond the tall windows, Innsbruck slept beneath a sheet of fog, unaware that across the Atlantic a nation was discovering its terminal diagnosis.
Bruno leaned back in his leather chair, one hand wrapped around a glass of Kentucky bourbon, Roosevelt’s own preferred poison, acquired decades ago for the sake of poetic irony.
The ice clinked softly as he swirled it, listening to the Oval Office through a channel no American intelligence officer had ...
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