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“Rest,” White ordered, and then pointed his riding crop at Father McKenna. “Who are you, padre? And what are you doing in my castle?”

“I’m Father McKenna, General. I’m on Cardinal von Hassburger’s staff. The cardinal sent me here to learn what I can about the Nazi religion Himmler started.”

White didn’t respond, instead asking, “Sergeant, why are you hammering on the floor?”

“Sir, we think there’s a—I don’t know—maybe some sorta trapdoor under here, blocking the entrance to a passage or stairway, or something. Somebody’s tried to hide it. And did a damn good job.”

The sound of the hammer striking the stone floor took on a new pitch. Then there was a cracking sound.

The sergeant wedged an iron crowbar into a crack and, with a grunt, heaved on it. This caused a section of the floor, almost an inch thick and four feet square, to rise just high enough so that the sergeant could insert a metal wedge.

“There you are, you tough son of a bitch,” the sergeant said. “Somebody, quick, get me a length of chain and then move one of the damn jeep wreckers over here. There’s no telling how heavy that son of a bitch is going to be.”

Ten minutes later, the sergeant had looped the chain through a handle on the underside of the square blocking the hole and then looped the other end through a hook on the jeep wrecker’s derrick.

As the sergeant used hand signals to control the derrick, the chain tightened. The truck engine revved as the derrick strained under the weight, then began to lift.

“Here comes the bastard,” Dickinson called.

The square slowly cleared the hole, then swung to one side. The sergeant made a slashing motion across his throat, and the derrick operator stopped raising the chain.

The sergeant went to the hole and looked down in it. As he did, Colonel Dickinson got on his knees beside him for a better look.

And then he clutched at his throat with his hand and, gray-faced, turned away from the hole.

The sergeant vomited. Then so did Dickinson.

General White, in his legendary voice of command, ordered, “Everybody out! Now!”

White turned to Cronley.

“You get Dickinson. I’ll get the sergeant.”

Cronley got a whiff.

“Jesus! Poison gas?” he asked as they hurried toward the hole.

He got another whiff—then vomited.

“No,” White said. “That’s a mass of human bodies putrefying . . .”

[TWO]

General White cared for, almost parentally, his aide and the two teenage bodyguards, all of whom took longer than almost anyone else to get control of their wrenching stomachs.

Cronley required much the same care—and got it from Father McKenna—before he was able to help anyone else.

Finally, he decided that he had done all he could. He surveyed the chaotic scene and was surprised that everyone was still alive.

* * *

—

Cronley made his way outside, into the cobblestone courtyard, and deeply inhaled the fresh air. He found Father McKenna with Colonel Dickinson and Major Lomax. They were sitting on cobblestones, their backs against the rear tires of the 6×6 truck that held the pieces of the disassembled round table.

Soon, General White approached. “You guys going to be all right?”

Cronley, Lomax, and Dickinson nodded, and, in a chorus, said weak “Yes, sir”s. McKenna made a limp gesture with his right fist, the thumb up.