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Orlovsky said he was.

“What do you think of my friend’s theory that in that book was the first time von Moltke said what he said so often later.”

Orlovsky told him he’d never considered that before, but now that he thought about it, the general’s friend was obviously right.

The Russo-Turkish campaign of 1828–1829 was then discussed at some length by General Gehlen and Major Orlovsky. Captain Cronley and Colonel Mannberg, who knew next to nothing about the campaign, sat and listened and said nothing. Both were deeply impressed with the erudition of the general and the major, and both wondered privately if they should make an effort to get their hands on a copy.

When lunch was over, Orlovsky refused a brandy to top the meal off, but had two cups of coffee.

Then Captain Cronley summoned Staff Sergeant Harold Lewis Jr., and Orlovsky was taken into Cronley’s bedroom, changed back into his prisoner’s clothing, re-shackled and re-handcuffed, covered again with a blanket and a duffel bag, and returned to das Gasthaus.

After he had gone, Cronley asked, “How do you think that went?”

After a moment, Gehlen said, “I don’t know. Either he’s coming around, or he’s smarter than both of us.”

Cronley had a number of immediate thoughts.

The first was, Is it possible that Orlovsky is smarter than Gehlen? God knows he’s smarter than I am. Not to mention more experienced.

The second was, If Gehlen doesn’t know how that went, how can I be expected to know?

The third was, He left Mannberg out of that. “Both of us” is not “we.”

The fourth was, I’m going to have to do something about Rachel before that blows up in my face.

[ THREE ]

Kloster Grünau

Schollbrunn, Bavaria

American Zone of Occupation, Germany

1505 5 November 1945

Cronley watched as the three GMC 6×6 trucks that had carried the First Platoon of Company C, 203rd Tank Destroyer Battalion to the Pullach compound approached Kloster Grünau. The jeeps that had been with them had apparently stayed at the compound. That meant the jeeps—more specifically their pedestal-mounted .50 caliber Browning machine guns—were already guarding the compound, and that in turn meant the compound was up and running. And, finally, that in turn meant that the sooner everybody going to the compound got there, the better.

As the first truck rolled slowly past Cronley, Technical Sergeant James L. Martin jumped nimbly to the ground with what Cronley considered amazing agility for someone of his bulk.

Martin saluted.

“How’d it go, Sergeant?” Cronley asked as he returned the salute.

“Dunwiddie said he’d give you

a full report when he gets here, sir, but it went well. Clark and Abraham should be halfway to Frankfurt with the ambulances about now. That ASA lieutenant . . . ?”

“Stratford?”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Stratford sent one of his non-coms with them to make sure there’s no problems stashing the vehicles. He, the sergeant, is going to get on his radio net and tell the lieutenant when they’re there, and that info will be relayed here to you on the SIGABA.”

“Good thinking.”

“Tiny said he’s going to stay as long as he can before he gets that Kraut to fly him home, so he should be here just before it gets dark.”

“Good,” Cronley said, and decided this was not the time to suggest, politely or otherwise, that Germans normally do not like to be called Krauts.

He had an off-the-wall thought: I guess if you’re as large as Martin, you get used to saying just about anything you please, because only someone larger than you can call you on it, and there aren’t very many people larger than Martin.