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“What is going on here, Father Kurt?” she demanded.

“Claudia, I think Cletus would much prefer to answer that.”

She looked at Cletus.

“What I would much prefer is not to answer at all,” Clete said. “But pull up a chair, Claudia, and I’ll think of something.”

Why the hell didn’t you think of a story to tell all these people, Señor Superspy?

You didn’t think anybody would be curious?

Claudia sat at the table, looked at him, waited all of thirty seconds, and then asked, “Well?”

“I’m waiting for the others to arrive.”

“What others?”

“They should be here any minute,” Clete said.

“Why can’t you tell me now?” she demanded.

Because I don’t know what to say.

“They should be here any minute,” Clete repeated.

“I think I just heard somebody drive up,” Schultz said.

A minute later, one of the maids opened the door from the foyer.

“Sister María Isabel of the Little Sisters of the Poor asks to see you, Father,” the maid announced to Welner.

Welner looked at Clete, who nodded.

“Ask the sister to come in, please,” Welner said.

“There are nuns and a priest and children with her, Father,” the maid said.

“The more the merrier,” Clete said. “Bring them all in.”

When the nun came into the room, she had with her a priest wearing a brown cassock with a rope belt, his bare feet in sandals—That has to be SS-Obersturmbannführer Alois Strübel; I remember him from the plane—two boys Clete decided were about ten, a girl he thought was probably a year or two younger, and three other nuns.

Two of those nuns clearly are the mothers of the children—and the wives of Strübel and Niedermeyer. But I don’t have a clue as to who’s who.

Sister María Isabel looks like the economy-size version of Mother Superior of the Little Sisters of Santa María del Pilar. She’s a foot taller, probably sixty pounds heavier, but is also old, leathery-skinned, and has the same intelligent eyes and the same fuck with me at your peril aura of self-confidence.

For an important intelligence officer—especially an SS officer—Strübel is not very imposing in that monk’s costume.

And what do the bona fide nuns think is going on?

Those kids are frightened.

Who wouldn’t be?

They look like they need a bath, some new clothes, and something to eat. They look like they’re starved.

“Elisa,” he called loudly in Spanish. “Where the hell is breakfast?”

Clete saw the children flinch.