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“This was not entirely true. But as with many, perhaps most, Marine Corps fighter pilots, Cletus shares the belief that he can fly anything. With El Jefe in the backseat, Cletus made his first flight in a P-51, to Tennessee, to talk to the professor. En route, El Jefe told Cletus they had lucked out, that he had checked further and learned the professor held a commission as a commander in the Naval Reserve.

“At the university, they were directed to the professor’s office door. Above which was a little sign reading FATHER McGRATH.

“This caused an outburst of profanity on Cletus’s part, one loud enough for the professor to hear it all on the far side of the closed door. If memory serves, he said, ‘I’ll be damned! If this priest is my Father McGrath, we’ve hit the fucking payload!’

“At that point, I opened the door, whereupon Cletus wrapped his arms around me and, after kissing me on the forehead, inquired, ‘How the hell are you?’”

Cronley grinned. “I take it, Father, that you two were previously acquainted.”

“You could say that, and that would be somewhat of an understatement. Cletus’s announcements caused some consternation on the part of my secretary, even after I told her the last time the colonel and I had seen each other was on Guadalcanal, where I had been chaplain to VMF 226 and he had been a lieutenant flying F4F Wildcats.”

“Jesus Christ!” Cronley said, quickly adding, “Sorry, Father.”

“Watch your mouth or I’ll think you’re a heathen.”

“I’m not a heathen, I’m Episcopalian. And now that I think about it, so is the University of the South. And isn’t McGrath . . . ?”

“‘Grath’ is a translation of ‘craith,’” the priest said, nodding, “which means ‘grace,’ while ‘mac’ means ‘son of’—”

“I’ll be damned,” Cronley interrupted. “The literal translation becomes ‘son of divine grace.’”

“Keep keeping company with the likes of Cletus, my son, and you may well be damned,” the priest said, smiling broadly and offering his hand. “J-for-Jack McGrath. Pleasure to finally meet you, Super Spook.”

Cronley took the hand. “And you, Father. Any friend of Cletus, et cetera, et cetera . . .”

“It’s Jack, please.”

“How about Father Jack?”

“Deal. You must be wondering what is an Irish priest named McGrath doing there on Guadalcanal.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“It is Episcopalian, as am I. The Pope doesn’t have a copyright on ‘Father.’”

“And you’re a commander in the Chaplain Corps of the Naval Reserve?”

“Deduced that, did you? No wonder they call you Super Spook.”

“Very funny.”

“So eventually, over dinner, we got to the purpose of El Jefe’s visit. And to anticipate your next question, ‘Why couldn’t El Jefe deduce from my books on religious heresy that I was a priest?’ In other words, why did they say ‘By J. R. McGrath, Ph.D.’ rather than ‘By Reverend J. R. McGrath, D.D.’?”

“I have the feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“I am. Because I learned with my early books that maybe five or six thousand devout people will buy a book by a priest so that they can advertise their own piety by displaying them, usually without having read them, on their coffee tables. When I published my first book on religious heresy, I dropped the ‘Reverend’ and the ‘D.D.’ and substituted ‘Ph.D.’ for the latter. That book sold thirty-five thousand copies, and subsequent books have done even better.

“At that point, I introduced into the conversation that my present interest was looking into rumors I had heard that the late, unlamented Heinrich Himmler had been trying to launch a Nazi-based religion and asked if, perchance, either of them, as intelligence officers, had heard anything about it.

“Cletus chuckled, and said, ‘Oh, boy, have we ever!’ and El Jefe added, ‘And one of our guys, Super Spook, is an expert on that subject.’

“So naturally I asked, ‘Super Spook?’ And Cletus told me all about your lifelong relationship. He said you had been dubbed Super Spook because you were very good at finding and arresting some really evil Nazis. And that your ‘ass was in a deep crack at the moment’ because your latest exploit resulted in the Austrian government calling for your scalp. As were the Air Force and most of the European intelligence establishment.

“I said, ‘Nevertheless, I’d really like to meet him.’

“He gave me a strange look and asked if I was open to a wild offer, presuming I could get away from the university for a couple of months, maybe longer.

“I told him not only was I a tenured professor, meaning I couldn’t be fired, but that I was anxious to escape the world of academia for a while. So what was the wild offer? I asked. He told me and here I am.”