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“So from February twenty-third until March sixth, Santa Anna’s cannons bombarded the one hundred sixty guys in the Alamo. Then early in the morning his troops assaulted the Alamo. The first attack was repulsed. And so was the second. The third succeeded. Every one of the one hundred sixty defenders died. Most Texans—including this one—believe Santa Anna shot the few survivors, in other words, the wounded unable to lift a rifle.

“There were between six hundred and sixteen hundred—give or take—Mexicans KIA.”

“KIA?” Oskar asked.

“Killed in action,” Wasserman explained.

“The fighting to the death—or the murder—of one hundred sixty of their friends and neighbors at the Alamo mightily pissed off the other Americans in the area, and using Remember the Alamo as their battle cry, they raised an army under General Sam Houston.

“On April twenty-first, ol’ Sam and the boys defeated Santa Anna’s army at the Battle of San Jacinto. We Texans say, We whupped their ass real good. We also captured Santa Anna himself. After he surrendered, we forced him to march his army back across the river into Mexico.

“Remember the Alamo was also popular during the Mexican–American War of 1848, during which we again whupped their ass real good, and which ended with their surrender at Guadalupe.

“So, yeah, Tom, I said, ‘Remember the Alamo.’ Would you rather get whacked in here, or take the chance the NKGB won’t try to whack us as we walk through the lobby?”

“Frankly, I would rather be back at Hudson High having dreams of winning glory on some distant battlefield. When are we going?”

“This is as good a time as any,” Cronley said. “I don’t like the idea of them coming through that door.”

“Give me fifteen minutes, please, Cronley,” Wasserman said.

“Sir, with respect, I suggest the best thing for you and Charley to do is stay out of the line of fire.”

“I want to go with you, Jim,” Spurgeon said.

“Not wise, Charley,” Cronley said.

“I think I can get enough people here in fifteen minutes to even the odds,” Colonel Wasserman said, as he picked up the telephone.

XVI

[ONE]

Suite 330

The Hotel Bristol

Kaerntner Ring 1, Vienna, Austria

1655 3 March 1946

When there was a knock at the door, Cronley rose from the armchair in which he was sitting, moved to the bedroom door, and leveled a Schmeisser machine pistol at the door.

“Charley,” he ordered softly, “back against the wall. Then open the door quickly and wide.”

Spurgeon nodded.

“Make sure the safety is off,” Cronley added.

Spurgeon flung the door open quickly and wide, revealing two men, Walter Wangermann, the chief of intelligence of the Vienna Police, and Bruno Holzknecht, his chief of surveillance.

When he saw Cronley’s leveled Schmeisser, Wangermann dove for the floor of the corridor. Holzknecht raised his hands in surrender.

“Well, look who’s here,” Cronley said. “Bruno, why don’t you help Walter get up and bring him in?”

“Gottverdammt Amerikaner!” Wangermann muttered, not quietly, as he got, unaided, to his feet and entered the room.

“I was just about to call you,” Cronley said. “To see if you know where our friend Cezar Zielinski is.”