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“Don’t let it get around, Colonel, but your hypothetical situation actually happened several times to Colonel Mattingly.”

“Really?”

“He was driving me from Kloster Grünau to Rhine-Main to catch the plane to Buenos Aires. In his magnificent German automobile, his Horch. Have you ever seen his Horch? That’s a really magnificent car.”

“I don’t think I’d recognize a Horch if one ran over me.”

“Between the monastery and Rhine-Main, the MPs pulled him over three times for speeding. The last citation was for going three times the speed limit.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“No, I am not. Three times the speed limit is a hundred and seventy KPH, or a little over a hundred miles an hour—”

“Cronley,” Major Ashley interrupted him, “why don’t you let the colonel continue with his hypothetical?”

“Sorry,” Cronley said. “Go ahead, Colonel.”

“So there you are, by the side of the road, and the MP says, ‘Sir, let me see your identification, please.’ What are you going to do?”

“Follow the example shown me by Colonel Mattingly,” Cronley replied. “Dazzle him with my CIC special agent credentials. Telling him I am rushing somewhere in the line of duty.”

“But you won’t have CIC credentials after One January,” Ashley said.

“Oh, but I will.”

“No, you won’t,” Ashley snapped. “You’ll then be in the Directorate of Central Intelligence, not the CIC.”

“I’m sure Colonel Parsons has his reasons for not telling you about that,” Cronley said.

“Not telling him what about that?” Parsons asked.

“Now I’m in a spot,” Cronley said. “Maybe this hypothetical wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

“What are you talking about, Cronley?” Parsons asked.

Not only am I no longer “Mister Cronley,” but he’s using the tone of voice lieutenant colonels use when dealing with junior captains who have done something to annoy them.

“Colonel, I’m just surprised that General Greene—and especially Colonel Mattingly, after all, he did tell you Hessinger is a sergeant—didn’t tell you about this. But they obviously had their reasons. But what the hell, they didn’t ask me not to tell you, so I will.”

Colonel Parsons gave Major Ashley another don’t-say-anything shake of the head, but it was too late.

“Ask you not to tell us what?” Ashley snapped sarcastically.

Three waiters marched up to the table carrying their dinner.

Serving it was an elaborate ceremony, but finally everything was served and the waiters left.

I am now going to pretend I think the hypothetical is closed.

“Do you know the officers’ clubs import this beef from Denmark?” Cronley asked. “It seems they’re leaning over backwards to avoid any suggestion that the clubs are taking the best beef from the Quartermaster—”

“You were saying something, Mr. Cronley,” Colonel Parsons interrupted him, “about General Greene not telling me something?”

“Right,” Cronley said.

He paused before going on: “Oh, what the hell. I don’t want to be stuffy about this—God knows there’s a hell of a lot classified Secret and Top Secret that shouldn’t be classified at all—but this is justifiably classified . . .”

“Meaning you’re not going to tell us?” Ashley asked, rather nastily.