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“Anchors aweigh, Sid.”

“Bob,” the President said, “Sid and I were sitting around having a little nip, and we figured, what the hell, let’s call Bob and have a little chat.”

“That’s flattering, Mr. President. What would you two like to chat about?”

“How about those Nazi bastards who escaped the Tribunal Prison? We’ve got to get them back and make damn sure it never happens again.”

“Harry, everybody’s working on it. Just a few minutes ago, I had Colonel Cohen in my office.”

“He’s the counterintelligence guy in Nuremberg?” Truman said, glancing at the SIGABA message.

“Right. Smart as they come. The only thing he had new for me was that he added the AVO to the list of suspects.”

“And what the hell is that?”

“It stands for ‘Államvedélmi Osztálya.’ It’s the Russian-controlled Secret Police in Hungary. It’s headed by a chap named Gábor Péter, who Cohen says is a real sonofabitch.”

“That’s all this Colonel Cohen had to say?” the President asked, almost incredulously, staring at the telephone.

“He said Super Spook might have some ideas. And should be involved, and I heartily agree.”

“Who the hell is Super Spook? More important, why isn’t he involved?”

“Captain Jim Cronley. The man you chose to be my bodyguard. He ran the operation in Vienna that bagged Burgdorf and von Dietelburg. I started calling him Super Spook when he figured out how Odessa managed to smuggle cyanide capsules into the Tribunal Prison.”

“I know who Cronley is, Bob. I promoted him to captain. And gave him the Distinguished Service Medal for what he did in Argentina with that half ton of uranium oxide some other Nazi bastard was about to sell to the goddamn Russians. And now you call him Super Spook? A twenty-two-year-old?”

“He’s that good, Harry. Young, yes, but remarkably good. You just said so yourself, in so many words.”

“Then why the hell isn’t he involved? Jesus H. Christ!”

“He’s in Argentina,” Souers put in.

Truman’s eyes went to Souers.

“Okay, and what the hell is he doing in Argentina? Actually, strike that. I don’t give a damn what he’s doing in Argentina. Get him back to Germany. As soon as possible. By that I mean yesterday.”

“Oh, shit,” Souers said. There was a tone of resignation when he said it.

“Oh, shit what, Sid?”

“Harry, the truth is, I didn’t tell you . . .”

“I advised Sid not to tell you,” Justice Jackson interjected.

“Tell me what, damn it?”

Souers pointed at the SIGABA message.

“It is alluded to in that,” he said. “Cronley’s op in Vienna that bagged Burgdorf and von Dietelburg. It didn’t go smoothly. One Austrian was killed and another wounded as they were arresting Burgdorf and von Dietelburg.”

“So what?” the President said, then asked, “Cronley shot them?”

“No,” Souers said, “the shooter was a lieutenant named Spurgeon. Of the Vienna CIC.” He sighed audibly. “Harry, can you hold your questions until I’m finished telling what went down?”

“Probably not, but let’s see.”

“Cronley was working pretty closely with the Austrians when he realized what they were up to, that when they captured von Dietelburg he would be an Austrian prisoner, not ours. They intended to put him on trial themselves. Cronley decided this was a bad idea.”