Page 30

“I’m waiting for him to tell me, Konrad,” Cronley said.

“May I get out now, Herr Cronley?” Major Konrad Bischoff said.

“No. I want him to try this in a maximum weight—or nearly maximum weight—condition. Think of yourself as a sandbag, Konrad.”

“Gott im Himmel!”

“Major Bischoff apparently doesn’t have much faith in your flying skill, Lieutenant Winters. How about you?”

Winters replied by advancing the throttle. Ten seconds and two hundred fifty feet later, the Storch was airborne.

—

“Congratulations, Lieutenant,” Cronley said eight minutes later. “By the power vested in me, I declare that you have passed your Storch check-ride. You are also herewith designated Aviation Officer, Military Detachment, DCI-Europe.”

“This is one hell of an airplane,” Winters said.

“It is,” Cronley agreed. “It is also irreplaceable, so keep that in mind while you’re flying it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shut it down, and then we will have a look at our guest.”

“You keep saying that,” Winters said. “Who’s your guest?”

“One of the guys who tried to kidnap Dette and Florence. Max brought him here from the 98th General Hospital so that he and Konrad can have a little chat.”

“What is this place?” Winters said. “Am I allowed to ask?”

“Yeah. You’re now in DCI. As soon as I can get Dette to make them up, you’ll get DCI special agent credentials. You’re supposed to know everything—well, almost everything—that’s going on. If you don’t know, ask. Consider that an order.”

“Bonehead, too?”

“Yeah, Bonehead, too.”

“Sir, what is this place?”

“When this whole Operation Ost thing started, and we needed someplace to hide General Gehlen and Abwehr Ost, Wallace got this place from the Vatican.”

“From the Vatican?” Winters blurted.

“That’s what they mean by strange bedfellows. They had—have—a number of unsavory people they wanted to get out of Europe. We had one means of doing that. They are scratching our back, and we are scratching theirs. I don’t like that much, but it’s necessary and has proved very useful.

“Anyway, after we moved Abwehr Ost, now known as the Süd-Deutsche Industrielle Entwicklungsorganisation—South German Industrial Development Organization—to the Compound, I decided we should keep this place, known as the monastery, as someplace we could do things we really didn’t want anybody to know about.

“The signs on the fences identify it as the home of the 711TH QM MOBILE KITCHEN RENOVATION COMPANY, and that—711 MKRC—is painted on vehicle bumpers. It allows us, I think, to be anywhere in Germany or Austria without raising suspicion.”

“What sort of things you . . . we . . . don’t want anybody to know about?”

“You’re about to find out,” Cronley said, and gestured for him to get out of the Storch.

By the time they had, the jeep with the first sergeant and the blond man in triangled ODs had driven up to it. Cronley made the introductions.

“Lieutenant Winters,” he said, “this is First Sergeant Abraham Lincoln Tedworth of Company ‘C,’ 203rd Tank Destroyer Battalion, which provides our security. When Lieutenant Moriarty assumes command of Charley Company, I hope he remembers what we were taught at A&M—that first sergeants are really in charge and that company commanders are just window dressing. And you know DCI Special Agent Max Ostrowski, who, in addition to his many other duties, controls our Poles.”

The men shook hands.

“Where’s our guest?” Cronley asked. “And what shape is he in?”