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“What’s it say, Stan?” Canidy asked, handing the clipping to Fine.

"It’s the Frankfurter Rundschau, ” Fine translated. “Of December 30. The caption says ‘Dignitaries gathered at the memorial service for Oberstleutnant Baron von Steighofen.’ It lists them. One of them is von Heurten-Mitnitz. And Eric’s father. And our friend Müller, who is now a Standartenführer, it would seem.”

"What’s a Standartenführer?” Canidy asked.

“Colonel,” Fine said. “The SS organization comparable to a regiment is a ‘standart.’ Standartenführer, regiment leader.”

“You think that they went to see Eric’s father?” Canidy said. “That they got the postcard, in other words, and are still with us?”

“Müller spent New Year’s Eve,” Stevens said, “—spent all night in the Kurhotel on New Year’s Eve—with Gisella Dyer.”

“The professor’s wife?” Canidy asked incredulously.

“The professor’s daughter,” Stevens corrected him.

“How do you know that?”

“The British have an agent in Marburg. There’s a fighter base outside. We asked him to keep an eye on the professor. He thought this was interesting, and sent it along.”

“They’re watching Dyer for us?” Can

idy asked, surprised.

“No. Not the way you suggest. If they fall into something, they pass it along if they can. He must have been at the hotel and thought Dyer’s daughter’s association with a Sicherheitsdienst colonel might interest us. But our English brothers have made it clear that what we’ve gotten is all we’re going to get. No more help from them from their guy in Marburg, in other words.”

Canidy took that in and gave it a moment’s thought. "Okay,” he said, “so what do we do now?”

“The first thing is to get Fulmar back here from Morocco,” Stevens said. “I hope Gisella remembers his handwriting.”

“And we can’t get the Limeys to help? Is that what you just said? Beneath their dignity, or what?”

“There are other priorities, Dick,” Stevens said.

“Did the new aerial photos show you anything, Dick?” Fine asked.

“Yeah,” Canidy said. “That Douglass’s mission was a waste of effort. It’s true that Doug’s guys managed to put a few five-hundred-pounders where they were supposed to be. But the Air Corps’ position that these did some damage is wishful thinking. I think they’ll be willing to admit that before long, although they’ve got their ‘experts’ still looking for something.”

“You sound pretty sure,” Stevens challenged.

“I’m a former naval person myself, Colonel,” Canidy said dryly. “When I see a photograph of a sub being fueled while a crane loads torpedoes, I am expert enough to deduce the maintenance facility is functional.”

He waited until Stevens nodded, then went on. “It’s going to take several of those flying bombs to take out those pens, and the small problem there is that I don’t think Aphrodite’s going to work.”

“Why not?” Fine asked.

“Controlling those airplanes by radio is a lot easier said than done,” Canidy said. “Particularly when they’re old and shot up and worn out.”

“Is there a reason for that?” Stevens asked.

“Yeah, if you mean an aeronautical, or aerodynamic reason,” Canidy said. “Control surfaces are activated by cables. Even in a brand-new airplane, you may have to apply more pressure to get, say, the desired amount of left rudder or up-aileron than you do to get that much right rudder or down-aileron. The B-17s Kennedy’s working with are old airplanes that should be in the boneyard. In many cases, they’re made up of parts cannibalized from three, four, five airplanes. They’re harder than hell for a pilot to fly. Trying to fly them with radio-actuated servomechanisms is damned near impossible. Power enough to put one into a dive, power enough for that much cable movement in other words, often won’t raise the nose perceptibly when it’s applied the other way. But servomotors give you the same pull in both directions. You follow?”

Stevens nodded.

"And that’s empty,” Canidy said. "We haven’t even tried flying them with a load.”

“Would it be easier—more possible—if Kennedy had new airplanes?” Stevens asked.

“Some, not much, but some,” Canidy said.