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Even if Gehlen’s never mentioned it to me.

And why hasn’t he?

“I would be grateful to you if you did that.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Possibly.”

“Anything.”

“You didn’t tell your cousin you’re an intelligence officer?”

“Of course not.”

“What did you tell him you do?”

“Repair dishwashing machines,” Cronley said, chuckling.

“Excuse me?”

“Freddy, tell Commandant Fortin all about the 711th QM Mobile Kitchen Repair Company.”

Hessinger did so.

“I wondered,” Fortin said, when Hessinger had finished his little lecture. “The European Command has no record of the 711th anything. When you parked your car in front of Hachelweg 675 and the ambulance with the red crosses painted over down the street, it piqued my curiosity, and I had Sergeant Deladier”—he pointed to the outer office—“call Frankfurt and ask about it.”

“I hope Frankfurt . . . I presume you mean EUCOM . . . didn’t have its curiosity piqued,” Cronley said.

Fortin shook his head.

“Deladier’s a professional. He’s been with me a long time,” Fortin said. “And you would say your cousin accepted this?”

“I think he did.”

“You would think so. What about you, Sergeant? Do you think Herr Stauffer thinks you’re dishwashing machine repairmen?”

“Yes, sir. We had our act pretty much together. I think Stauffer believed us.”

“Your act pretty much together?”

“We were all . . . not just me . . . in uniform. Mr. Cronley as a Quartermaster Corps second lieutenant, Mr. Hessinger as a staff sergeant. Stauffer had no reason not to believe what we told him.”

“In addition to you being dishwashing machine repairmen, what else did you tell him?”

“We told him our next stop was Salzburg,” Hessinger answered for him. “He seemed to find that very interesting.”

“Because it would take you across the border into U.S. Forces Austria from EUCOM,” Fortin said. “Crossing borders is a major problem for Odessa. Tell me, Sergeant, how much talking did you do when you were in the house?”

Finney thought it over for a moment before replying, “Commandant, I don’t think I opened my mouth when I was in the house. All I did was carry the black market stuff.”

“In other words, all you were was the driver of the staff car?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me offer a hypothetical,” Fortin said. “Let us suppose you were too busy, Second Lieutenant Cronley, to yourself deliver more cigarettes, coffee, et cetera, to your cousin Luther and instead sent Sergeant Finney to do it for you.

“Do you think your cousin might either prevail upon Sergeant Finney to take something—maybe a few cartons of cigarettes, or a canned ham—to, say, Salzburg as either a goodwill gesture, or because he could make a little easy money doing so?”