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On the right of the steps were five men wearing U.S. Army uniforms. The lapels of their Ike jackets had blue-and-white patches reading U.S. that identified them as civilian employees of the Army.

They were, in fact, DCI agents.

Cronley got out of the car and went to Dunwiddie.

“What’s going on, Tiny?”

“Mr. Justice Jackson called and told me to make sure you didn’t go off to Strasbourg alone.”

“You mean, without bodyguards? Guess he didn’t agree with me that Max was enough.”

“Precisely. So here we are.”

“Fortin will think we’re invading.”

“Give the commandant my regards, Jim,” Dunwiddie said. “And now I will return to my duties. Any orders, mon chef?”

“Get on the horn to your godfather and make sure Casey is here when we get back.”

“I hear and obey, mon chef,” Dunwiddie replied. He turned to the others. “Have a nice trip.”

Dunwiddie walked to the row of staff cars, got in the first one, and drove away. As he did, one of the DCI agents left the others, went to a second staff car, and got in behind the wheel. The remaining agents walked to Cronley and the others.

“Interesting man,” Father McGrath said. “I couldn’t tell if he dislikes you intensely or if you’re friends.”

“A little of both, but mostly very good friends.”

“What was that about his godfather?”

“Tiny’s Norwich. So was his father, class of ’20. And so was General White. He’s Tiny’s godfather.”

Max Ostrowski walked up to Cronley.

“Tiny said a lead staff car and a trail car, with the Horch in the middle. That okay with you? And who sits where?”

“I suppose that’s better than using M8 armored cars.”

“Is all this security really necessary?” Father McGrath asked.

“Jackson wants to keep you all alive,” Ostrowski said. “And he’s not been unreasonable.”

Ostrowski then pointed to the door of the Horch. There were four indentions in it, covered with fresh paint.

“Those look like bullet holes,” Father McGrath said, making it a question.

Ginger’s eyes grew wide. “Bullet holes?”

“Repaired bullet holes,” Ostrowski said.

Oh, goddamn you, Max, Cronley thought.

Ginger didn’t have to hear this!

Wait . . .

“Actually,” Cronley said, “a couple months back, at the end of February, Tom Winters and I were ambushed while taking a shortcut from the airport to here. Turned into a Wild West gunfight. We got the bad guys—they were Odessa—who had Schmeissers. One of them was an eighteen-year-old girl. I shot her in the forehead.”

Cronley felt Ginger’s horrified eyes on him.