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PFC Karl-Christoph Wagner appeared fifteen minutes later, in full MP regalia. He was not what Cronley expected. Wagner had the innocent face of a seventeen-year-old, but he was six feet two and obviously weighed more than two hundred pounds.

“Karl, this is Captain Cronley,” Augie said.

Wagner saluted crisply.

Speaking in German, Cronley said, “Mr. Ziegler has been telling us you want to be a CID agent. Why?”

“I want to better myself, sir.”

Well, he speaks German.

“Just for the sake of conversation, Wagner, would you be interested in taking on an assignment under Mr. Ziegler that would involve a certain element of risk to yourself? To your life?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cronley had a mental image of PFC Wagner in a Boy Scout uniform solemnly reciting the Boy Scout oath—On my honor, I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country . . . —on the occasion of his promotion from Tenderfoot to Second Class rank while his mother and father watched proudly.

What this kid is doing is thinking, “I am now going to have the opportunity to go out and slay dragons!”

“Karl,” Augie said, “we have reason to believe that the drivers, the German drivers, of the trucks who distribute the Stars and Stripes every day, are carrying contraband.”

“You mean black market stuff, sir?”

“That, too, probably, but what we’re looking for is people.”

“Nazis, you mean, sir?”

“Yes, Nazis,” Augie said. “Here’s the deal, Karl. Miss Johansen here . . .”

“I thought that might be who you are. I saw your story in the Stripes this morning about Miss Colbert, Miss Johansen.”

“What we’re thinking of having you do, Karl,” Augie said, “is drive Miss Johansen in her jeep to the Stars and Stripes printing plant in Pfungstadt, which is twenty miles south of Frankfurt. She will then leave for a couple of days, leaving you there to just hang around the motor pool and see what you can learn. For example, does one of the drivers seem to be the guy running things? Or look like he’s into moving PX goodies? Just get his name. Don’t even think of arresting anybody even if you catch him with fifty cartons of Chesterfields and fifty pounds of coffee he stole from the PX. You understand?”

“Got it, sir.”

“You think you could handle that, Karl?” Augie asked.

“Yes, sir. I’m a dumb PFC just hanging around.”

“Is there a PX in Pfungstadt?” Hammersmith asked.

“Yes. And a QM clothing store,” Janice said.

“What I’m thinking is that Wagner could go to the PX and stock up on cigarettes, Hershey bars, et cetera. And maybe to the QM store. I understand jockey shorts and T-shirts are a hot item on the black market. Maybe one of the drivers might make him an offer.”

Cronley had an epiphany.

“Time out,” he said. “Are we really seriously considering sending this kid—no offense, Wagner, but you’re seventeen—to do something like this? These are not nice people. We don’t even know for sure that it was the NKGB that tried to grab Dette and Florence. Lazarus might be Odessa. Or connected with it.”

“I can do this, sir,” Wagner said.

“On the other hand,” Hammersmith said, “he is seventeen, and we agreed that the NKGB or Odessa is unlikely to think a seventeen-year-old is a DCI agent.”

“Tiny?” Cronley asked.

“I’m glad, frankly, that I don’t have to make the call,” Dunwiddie said.