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“You have common maps, presumably?” Wallace asked.

What the hell is a common map?

Oh. Seven-K and Bischoff have identical maps.

“Yes, of course we do.”

“Presumably with . . . imaginative . . . coordinates?”

Gehlen chuckled.

What the hell does that mean?

“Of course,” Bischoff said tightly.

“Then I suggest that the thing to do is get the pilots who shot the aerials to match them to a standard map, and then we change those coordinates to the imaginative ones. Would that be the thing to do, General?”

“Presuming the imaginative coordinates have not been compromised.”

“You think it’s worth taking the chance?”

“I don’t think we have much choice.”

“Okay with you, Jim?”

He’s asking my permission to do something, and I don’t have a fucking clue what that something is.

“Absolutely.”

Wallace reached for the secure telephone.

“Major Wallace,” he said. “Authorization Baker Niner Three Seven. I say again, Baker Niner Three Seven. Get me Lieutenant Colonel Wilson at Constab headquarters in Sonthofen.

“Colonel, this is the Bavarian office of the German-American Tourist Bureau. It

has come to our attention that you have been taking pictures which might be suitable for our next ‘Visit Beautiful Occupied Bavaria’ brochure . . .

“Well, that would depend on who you might think it is . . .

“Congratulations, Hotshot! You have just won the cement bicycle and an all-expenses-paid tour of the beautiful Bavarian village of Pullach . . .

“No. I haven’t, actually. I’m parched. But as soon as I get off the phone, in other words, after you answer, truthfully, a couple of questions, I intend to quickly remedy that situation . . .

“The first is, I need to know, presuming they came out and you have them, if you’ve thought of matching the photos taken this morning to a GI map? My boss has been wondering . . .

“Yes, as a matter of fact I am talking about him. But I thought you were the one everyone calls ‘the Boy Wonder.’”

Wallace turned to Cronley.

“Colonel Wilson wishes me to remind you that he’s done this sort of thing before, and knows what’s required. He will bring what’s required when he picks you up in the morning.”

He turned back. “Final question, Bill. On a scale of one to ten, what’s our chances of carrying this off . . . ?”

“That bad, huh? Well, it’s been nice chatting with you. Green Valley out.”

Cronley’s mouth went on automatic. He parroted, “‘Green Valley’? What the hell is that?”

“A code name from another time,” Wallace said. “My code name.”