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There, Cronley and Dunwiddie had to “sign out” at a desk manned by two natty sergeants of the 508th Parachute Infantry Regiment, which was charged with both the internal and the external security of the building. The paratroopers wore white pistol belts, holsters, and spare magazine holders, and the white lacings in their glistening boots once had been parachute shroud lines.

The senior of the paratroop sergeants remembered that when the shabby Kraut civilian had passed in through their portal with General Walter Bedell Smith’s entourage, he had wisely not demanded that any of them sign in, or that he be permitted to examine the contents of the briefcases the Kraut and General Smith’s aide-de-camp were carrying.

As a consequence, the sergeant not only passed General Gehlen out without examining the contents of his ancient and battered briefcase, but also gave him a pink slip, as he had given one to Cronley and Dunwiddie, which would permit them to exit the building.

Then the trio walked down the long corridor that connects the wings to the center, where they got on what most inhabitants of

the Farben Building called the “dumbwaiter.” Technically it was known as a “paternoster lift.” It was a chain of open compartments, each large enough for two people, that moved slowly and continuously in a circle from Sub-Level Two to Floor Five. Passengers stepped into one of the compartments and rode it until they reached the desired floor, and then stepped off.

Cronley, Dunwiddie, and Gehlen got on the dumbwaiter and were carried down to Sub-Level One, where they got off.

Here there was another paratroop-manned checkpoint. The sergeant in charge here accepted the pink slips they had been given, but signaled to General Gehlen that he wanted to inspect his briefcase.

“Herr Schultz is with me, Sergeant,” Cronley said, showing the sergeant the leather folder holding the ID card and badge that identified him as a special agent of the Counterintelligence Corps. “That won’t be necessary.”

The sergeant considered that a moment, and then said, “Yes, sir,” and motioned that Gehlen could leave the building. He did so, and Cronley followed him.

They were now in a narrow, below-ground-level, open-to-the-sky passageway.

There were three Packard Clippers parked against the wall. The “back door” to the Farben Building was also, so to speak, the VIP entrance. The Packards were the staff cars of Generals Eisenhower, Smith, and Lucius D. Clay, the military governor of the U.S. Occupied Zones. The Packards were, not surprisingly, highly polished.

There was also what had begun its military service as an ambulance, a three-quarter-ton 4×4. It was not polished, and the red crosses that had once been painted on the sides and roof had been painted over. Stenciled in white paint on the left of its bumpers was the legend 711 MKRC—which indicated that the vehicle was assigned to the—nonexistent—711th Quartermaster Mess Kit Repair Company—and on the right, the numeral 7, which signified that it was the seventh vehicle of its kind assigned to the 711th.

There were three paratroopers, one of them a sergeant, standing by the right front fender of the former ambulance, arguing with an enormous Negro soldier, a sergeant, who was leaning against the fender, his arms crossed over his chest. Even leaning against the fender, the sergeant towered over the paratroopers.

When the sergeant saw Cronley and the others approaching, he came to attention and saluted. Cronley returned the salute and asked, “Is there some problem?”

“You know about this vehicle, Captain?” the paratroop sergeant asked.

“Didn’t they teach you it is customary for sergeants to salute officers before addressing them, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” the paratroop sergeant said, and saluted. Cronley returned it.

“Herr Schultz, if you’ll get in the back with Captain Dunwiddie?” Cronley said, and then turned to the paratroop sergeant. “Is there a problem with this vehicle?”

“Sir, only the general’s cars are allowed to park here.”

“There are exceptions to every rule, Sergeant,” Cronley said, and produced his CIC credentials. “In this case—it’s an intelligence matter—I ordered the sergeant to wait here for me until I could bring Herr Schultz out. We didn’t want him standing around where he could be seen. Weren’t you here when General Smith passed him into the building?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You did the right thing to question the vehicle, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Carry on, Sergeant,” Cronley ordered crisply. Then he turned to the black sergeant. “Well, Sergeant Phillips, what do you say we get out of here?”

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Phillips said. He got behind the wheel and Cronley got in the front seat beside him.

When they were rolling, Cronley said, “Those CIC credentials do come in handy, don’t they?”

“Enjoy them while you can,” Dunwiddie said. “I think we’re about to lose them.”

“I will bring up the subject of keeping them—and getting some more for some of your guys—to General Greene when there’s an opportunity. I didn’t want to do that when Mattingly was there—he can probably come up with a dozen reasons to take them away from us.”

“I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that making nice to Colonel Mattingly would be a good idea.”

“I thought about that.”