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“And I suppose it’s time for me to have a chat with Cousin Luther,” Cronley said, although there was no one within earshot.

[ FOUR ]

Technical Sergeant James L. Martin, who was six feet three, and weighed 235 pounds, led Luther Stauffer into the room that had once been the office of the father superior of the monastery. Sergent-chef Ibn Tufail followed him.

“Put him in the chair,” Cronley ordered.

Martin guided Stauffer into the chair with a massive hand on his shoulder, and then stood behind and to the left of him.

He doesn’t seem to be badly beaten up.

Well, I suppose if you’re as skilled as Sergent-chef Ibn Tufail and DuPres are, you can cause a lot of pain without leaving too many marks.

“So we meet again, Luther,” Cronley said in German.

“Tell your mother about it, the next time you write her, Cousin James,” Stauffer said.

Martin slapped him with the back of his hand.

“But if you don’t feel like writing, don’t worry. When my wife learns what you’ve done to me, and she will, Ingebord will let her know.”

Martin slapped him again, harder.

What the hell is that? Audacity?

“Luther, you’re really not in a position to threaten me. And sarcasm is not nice.”

“What position am I in, Cousin James?”

Martin slapped him hard again.

“You heard the captain,” Martin said in German. “Sarcasm is not nice.”

I didn’t know Martin spoke German until just now.

“I’d say a pretty difficult one. You’re in trouble, and you’re going to be in

deeper trouble if you don’t tell us who told you that I’m not really a Quartermaster second lieutenant who repairs potato-peeling machines.”

“A little bird told me and then flew away, Cousin James.”

You arrogant sonofabitch!

Martin slapped him again, this time causing blood to run from his nostrils.

What the fuck is wrong with him? Does he like getting slapped?

Maybe he figures DuPres or Fortin, when we’re finished with this, is going to shoot him in the knees and elbows with a .22 and then throw him in the Rhine like he did the priest. The sonofabitch has certainly heard about that.

Or maybe he thinks he’s still Sturmführer Stauffer and is holding up the honor of the Schutzstaffel while being interrogated by the enemy. Name, rank, and serial number only, even if you pull out my fingernails.

And then when the epiphany came, Cronley said, “Oh, shit!”

“Sir?” Sergeant Martin asked.

“Martin, take my cousin Luther out somewhere where . . . No, put the sonofabitch back in his cell. For the time being, I’m through with him. And then make sure that Captain DuPres and I are not disturbed while we have a chat.”

“Yes, sir,” Martin said.