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“Excuse me?”

“‘Take a little beer for thy stomach’s sake and thine other infirmities’?”

“Wine, Jim,” Gehlen said, chuckling. “Take a little wine . . .”

“Is that what He really said?” Cronley asked innocently.

“Actually, I think what He said was vodka,” Orlovsky said.

“And, Ludwig, you didn’t think that Konstantin had a sense of humor,” Cronley said. “Sergeant Lewis, go to the bar and get a bottle of vodka.

Major Orlovsky needs a little belt.”

“That’s going too far, Captain Cronley,” Orlovsky said. “I will have one beer. One. But I’m not going to let you ply me with alcohol.”

“Well, you can’t blame me for trying. What was it Lenin said, ‘All’s fair in love and war’?”

“Lenin said nothing of the kind,” Orlovsky said.

“If you say so,” Cronley said. “So, what didn’t you understand in the SIGABA message? Let’s get that out of the way before the meat loaf arrives.”

“You remember what I said about the last message? That you can’t possibly believe I would believe you would show me a classified message?”

“Yes, I do. And I remember what I replied. ‘Why not? You’re never going to be in a position to tell anyone about it.’ So tell me what aroused your curiosity.”

“The FBI is looking for you?”

“I can see where you might find that interesting. The FBI is the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It’s run by a man named J. Edgar Hoover. It’s something like your organization, the NKGB, except they don’t have cells in the basement of their headquarters building where they torture people, and they can’t send people they don’t like to an American version of Siberia. We don’t even have an American Siberia.

“All the FBI can do is ask questions. What they want to ask me is what I know about the rumor that we’re sending some of General Gehlen’s people and their families to Argentina to keep them out of the hands of your former associates in the NKGB. As I don’t want to be asked that question, I have been making myself scarce.”

“You have succeeded in making me curious. Your FBI doesn’t know what you’ve been doing?”

“We don’t think they have the Need to Know, so we don’t tell them.”

“Well, what if they find you?”

“Then I will do one, or both, of the following: I will tell them I have no idea what they’re talking about and claim the Fifth.”

“What is ‘the fifth’?”

Cronley held his right arm up as if swearing to an oath, and said, “I claim the protection provided by the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution of the United States and decline to answer the question on the grounds that any answer I might give might tend to incriminate me.’ That’s called ‘claiming the Fifth.’”

“You’re admitting that what you’re doing is illegal?” Orlovsky asked.

“I didn’t say that. Is Operation Ost illegal? No. It’s been approved at the highest levels of our government. It’s clandestine, because we don’t want it all over the front page of the Washington Star newspaper. Got it?”

“Let’s say I heard what you said.”

“Good. I would hate to feel you weren’t listening,” Cronley replied. “Now, the Argentine J. Edgar to whom Major Ashton—I did tell you, didn’t I, that Polo is Major Maxwell Ashton? That he’s the officer coming here to take the heavy burden of command from my inadequate shoulders?”

“I heard that, too,” Orlovsky said.

“Where was I? Oh. The Argentine J. Edgar to whom Polo Slash Major Ashton refers is General Bernardo Martín, who heads the Argentine Bureau of Internal Security. He and Colonel Frade work closely together and have become friends.”

“You’re suggesting that Colonel Frade turned the head of the Argentine security agency?”

“No. I didn’t say that. Colonel Frade’s father, also known as Colonel Frade, did that. He turned Martín. Or General Martín turned himself.”