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“He doesn’t even wind his own watch?” Cronley asked, innocently.

The priest, ignoring Cronley, set his suitcase on the floor and sat down next to him.

The three of them had spent just about all day aboard a C-47, waiting to depart Tempelhof. Permission to do so had never come.

First it was the weather, then it was the Russians flying dangerously close to American planes on purpose. And then it was the damn weather again, then the damn Russians again, all damn day.

About half past three, the priest had announced that he had promised to check in with the cardinal and that he would catch up to them later. He was out the door of the Gooney Bird before Cohen or Cronley could raise an objection.

Half an hour after that, Cohen had finally given up on flying to Munich and had ordered Cronley to get them berths on The Blue Danube, the Army train which ran every night between Berlin and Vienna.

When he tried to get the berths, though, he was told there were none available. Cronley had solved this problem by mumbling he was Colonel [inaudible] and telling the RTO that he didn’t care who got bumped, Colonel Cohen, Mr. Cronley, and “Archbishop” McKenna would be on The Blue Danube.

“Where’s General Serov?” the priest asked.

“It’s just about nine. I would guess he’s at the Four Seasons in Munich, selecting an appropriate wine to go with his dinner.”

“He’d have had to fly to be able to do that,” the priest said. It was more of a question than a statement.

“The Soviet aircraft which fly dangerously close to Allied aircraft, Francis, do not fly dangerously close to other Soviet aircraft.”

“I suppose I should have thought of that.”

A middle-aged, somewhat paunchy chief warrant officer entered the compartment without knocking. He walked to the window and pulled down the shade.

“Colonel,” he barked, “you understand that nobody touches that from now on. Got it?”

“Touches what?” Cronley asked. He was wearing ODs with lapel insignia indicating he was a civilian employee of the A

rmy.

“The curtain! Don’t touch the goddamn curtain. It stays down. Got it?”

“How’m I going to open the window if I don’t open the curtain?” Cronley asked, innocently.

“Jesus, where the hell are you from, Mars? Especially don’t open, don’t even touch, the goddamn window.”

“Whatever you say. Ain’t that right, Father Francis?”

“Absolutely.”

Cronley saw that he had pissed off both the warrant officer and the priest. He was pleased.

“What I would like to do,” Cronley announced when the warrant officer had finally left the compartment, “is open the curtain and the window, drop my pants, and ride through East Germany with my ass hanging out the window.”

Colonel Cohen chuckled.

“It would be a little chilly,” McKenna said.

“Probably,” Cronley agreed.

“The cardinal is curious about Reverend McGrath, and, frankly, so am I. What can you tell me about him?”

“A lot,” Cohen said, “but I wonder why we should.”

“I thought we were agreed to cooperate on this business?”

“Helmut and I agreed to give you access to Castle Wewelsburg. Period. Not to brief you on our friends and associates.”