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“You sonofabitch! If you think that this . . . this constant reference to wives and families is going to permit you to change my mind about my doing my duty—”

“I wouldn’t even dream of trying,” Cronley said. “You wouldn’t believe anything I said about your duty to either God or your family.”

“Correct. And I don’t want to hear it.”

“I give you my word of honor as an officer and a gentleman that after I explain the rest of this message I will never again bring up your family, or mine, or God, in an attempt to get you to do anything.”

“Forgive me if I have trouble believing that.”

“I understand. It’s not like I’m a priest, right? I mean, a priest wouldn’t lie, but you can’t be sure that I wouldn’t, right?”

“Get it over with, please.”

“Now, the reason Colonel Frade is going to Midland is because he took his wife and their two kids to my wife’s funeral. And come to think about it, Hans-Peter von Wachtstein’s wife and their kid. Hans-Peter—we call him ‘Hansel,’ as in Hansel and Gretel—is Colonel Frade’s best friend. Before he started flying Constellations for South American Airways, he was a Luftwaffe fighter pilot. A very good one. Adolf Hitler personally hung the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross around his neck. That was before, of course, Hansel decided it was his duty to his God, his country, and his family to turn.”

“My God! You have absolutely no shame, no sense of decency!”

“Anyway, Hansel went with Colonel Frade to Midland for the funeral of my wife. As a friend. And what Colonel Frade’s going to do in Midland is pick up his wife and their kids, and Hansel’s wife and their kid, and fly them back home to Buenos Aires.

“Probably, they’ll fly from Midland to Caracas, Venezuela, and then straight down across South America to Buenos Aires. Where they expect to arrive at noon tomorrow, Greenwich time. That’s nine o’clock in the morning in Buenos Aires.

“Now, the last two paragraphs: Colonel Frade ordered Major Ashton to be prepared to go somewhere for a month. Somewhere is here. As soon as Colonel Frade explains to him what’s going on here, he’ll put him on the next South American Airways Constellation to Frankfurt. That could happen within hours, but within twenty-four hours, in any event.

“When he gets here, he’ll take over from me. What that will mean, I can’t tell you. Because I don’t know.

“In the last paragraph, Colonel Frade orders Major Ashton to have Father Welner—‘the Jesuit’—available. That really means ‘find out where he will be, so I can go to him.’ Colonel Frade can’t order the Jesuit around. He’s a very important priest. He’s Colonel Juan Perón’s confessor. You know who Colonel Perón is, right?”

“I neither know nor care.”

“Well, Argentina has a president . . . and now that I think of it, Father Welner is his confessor, too. But it’s generally agreed that Colonel Perón—he’s secretary of Labor and Welfare, secretary of War, and vice president—actually runs the country. Taking care of people like Colonel Perón keeps Father Welner pretty busy, and there’s no way of knowing where he might be in Argentina at any particular time. But once Major Ashton finds him, and then Colonel Frade talks to him, he’ll come on the next SAA flight. That will put him in here twenty-four hours—or forty-eight—after Ashton gets here. You understand?”

Orlovsky didn’t reply.

“Captain,” Tiny said, “you didn’t tell him why Father Welner is coming here.”

“I thought I did.”

“No.”

“Didn’t I tell you Father Welner is coming to see you, Konstantin?”

Orlovsky again shook his head in disgust, or resignation, or both.

“No, you did not. You also did not offer a reason why this holy man, this powerful Jesuit, this confessor to these very important people, would be willing to do anything an American intelligence officer would ask him to do.”

“Okay. Fair question. I said Welner is a powerful, important priest. I didn’t say he was a saint. He’ll understand that you are in possession of a lot of information the Vatican would like to have. And because the interests of the Vatican coincide with our interests here . . . Getting the picture?”

“So you are saying, admitting, that the holy man, this priest, is really nothing more than an intelligence officer for the Vatican?”

“Oh, no. First, he’s absolutely a priest. He has a genuine interest in saving lives and souls. Like yours. And those of your wife and children.”

“For God’s sake, why do you think I would believe anything he would say?”

“One look in his eyes, Konstantin, and you’ll see that the soul-saving comes first. Closely followed by his sincere interest in the souls of your wife and your kids. And, of course, keeping your wife and kids out of a cell in that building on Lubyanka Square. Or being sent to Siberia—like the family of Czar Nicholas the Second—and shot.”

Orlovsky shook his head.

“I’ve been trying to tell you that your willingness to die—to have us kill you—is the same thing as committing suicide. Suicide, as you know, is a mortal sin. And that you’re making this worse because your suicide will affect your family. And that we can change that whole scenario by getting you to Argentina, and then have General Gehlen try to get your family out of Russia. You don’t believe me. What we’re hoping