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“But missed you. What about Tom?”

“He’s all right. He managed to get out of the line of fire by crawling under my Horch.”

“And?”

Zielinski answered for him. “Mr. Cronley took Kuhn down, and killed the Audi driver.”

“Who, if we needed any further proof that members of Odessa are really not nice people, was his daughter,” Cronley added.

“His daughter?” Fortin asked incredulously.

“His very good-looking daughter. She was nineteen at the time of her demise.”

“Mon Dieu! What kind of swine would involve his young daughter in something like that?”

“The Odessa type of swine,” Cronley said. “But just before we came here, I heard something from Colonel Cohen that I am hoping will mitigate my guilty feelings about shooting a teenaged blonde in the forehead. Morty got the German cops to charge her poppa with murder.”

“He’s alive?”

Cronley nodded. “It seems German law holds anyone involved in a crime guilty of whatever happens during that crime. Since Poppa was committing a crime when his daughter was sent to Nazi Valhalla, Poppa is guilty of murdering her, not me.”

“I find myself agreeing with German law for once,” Fortin said. “James, you are not responsible for that young woman’s death.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself, but I am having a hard time believing me.”

“Why did Colonel Cohen get the Germans to charge Poppa Nazi with murder?”

“The penalty is life at hard labor. Both for Poppa and Momma. She’s charged with being an accessory before the fact. Cohen will offer them reduced charges if they tell us where we can find von Dietelburg.”

“Is Poppa a practicing member of Himmler’s cult?”

“I think so. Because of his daughter. They were doing Saint Heinrich’s good works.”

“Then he probably won’t give von Dietelburg up. And to further ruin your day, I’ve come to conclude that Cousin Luther really thinks of himself as a Mormon.”

“A Mormon?”

“Don’t they call themselves ‘Latter-Day Saints’?”

“And I have a questionable sense of humor?”

“I spoke with your kinsman, told him you were coming. He said, ‘It’ll be a waste of his time.’”

“Let’s go see him anyway. Maybe learning we have Kuhn will change his mind. And if it doesn’t, I have yet another idea on how to deal with the sonofabitch.”

“After we have our couscous.”

“Have our what?”

“Our couscous. Sergent-chef Ibn Tufail has been laboring on it all day in the Hotel Gurtlerhoft kitchen. You and Zielinski arrived just in time to profit from his labors.”

“I gather it’s something to eat?”

“A Moroccan delicacy. Steamed flour particles, onto which a stew—chicken, lamb, vegetables—is ladled, and then sprinkled with almonds, cinnamon, and sugar. In Morocco, they think lamb’s eyeballs should go into the stew, but I told Sergent-chef Ibn Tufail to leave them out. I find them disconcerting.”

“And while we’re eating, I will tell you what lamb’s eyeballs I’m going to put on Cousin Luther’s plate if he doesn’t give me von Dietelburg,” Cronley said.

[THREE]