"But, Reichsfuhrer, I am none of those things, I can assure you!" protested Prince Hubertus of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, picturing an unmarked grave in the krummholz with his un-named body lying in it, and Himmler laughed, one of his little 'ha ha' things, quite devoid of mirth, and said: "on the first of June, your uncle, Prince Paul of Yugoslavia and his wife, Princess Olga, are coming to Berlin for an Official State Visit – not perhaps the hedonistic kind they are no doubt used to: Yugoslavia is strategically paced, between Turkey and Austria, it holds the key to The Dardanelles and that is the only way Russia's Black Sea Fleet can reach the Mediterranean and the Atlantic Ocean; the Fuhrer wants a Treaty with Yugoslavia before the Big Punch Up begins, and you are our access to Prince Paul – our eyes and ears: we believe that there is a plot to assassinate him and the Fuhrer, involving Vlado Chernozemski, the killer of King Alexander and the French Foreign Minister Louis Barthou in Marseilles in '34," and Hubertus could not hold back: "but Vlado Chernozemski was beaten to death by the crowd! how can he be here?" and Himmler gave one of his unabashedly indulgent smiles: "the man beaten to death was a - how do the Americans call it? - a 'Patsy', the bastard child of an Armenian Vardapet who had found sanctuary in France and the first blows were struck by accomplices of the killer who sauntered away, it is a technique the American Mafia have learned from their origins in Sicily, an Ancient Roman trick, like s sleight of hand, distraction, I believe, is the name for it," and Prince Hubertus was astonished that things he had believed to be true were now so lightly dismissed by his Superior!