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“Hand me that telephone, please, Sergeant,” he said to the American non-com supervising the bar. The bartenders and waiters were German.

“It’s for official use only, sir,” the bartender said somewhat righteously.

“Is that so? Hand it to me, please.”

The phone was reluctantly slid across the bar to him.

“Munich Military 4474,” Cronley ordered into the receiver.

When that order had been passed along and the phone in Munich was ringing, Cronley extended it to the sergeant, who put it to his ear.

The sergeant heard, clearly, and Cronley less so, “Twenty-third CIC, Special Agent Hessinger speaking, sir.”

“Okay, Sergeant?” Cronley asked, gesturing for the handset to be returned to him.

The sergeant did not reply as he did so.

“This is Special Agent Hoover, Special Agent Hessinger,” Cronley said. “The package is on the way as of 1515 hours. Please advise Colonel Norwich and Sergeant Gaucho immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” Hessinger said.

“I should be in Rome about noon tomorrow, weather permitting.”

“Yes, sir. Be advised your friends from Washington are still looking for you.”

“How kind of them. Please give them my best regards and tell them I’m making every effort to fit them into my busy schedule.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nice to talk to you, Special Agent Hessinger.”

“And to you, sir.”

Cronley put the handset in its cradle, then slid the telephone back across the bar.

“Thank you so much, Sergeant.”

If the FBI had tapped Hessinger’s phone—and if Hessinger thought they had, it was ninety-nine percent certain they had—it wouldn’t take them long to figure out that Special Agent Hoover was Captain James D. Cronley Jr. giving them the finger. It might take them a little longer to conclude that Colonel Norwich was First Sergeant Chauncey Dunwiddie and even longer to decide that Sergeant Gaucho was Lieutenant Colonel Cletus Frade, USMCR, but eventually they would.

It didn’t matter. Fat Freddy understood that he was now to go out to the Pullach compound to get on the SIGABA and send an URGENT to Tex that von Wachtstein was on his way to Buenos Aires with Orlovsky and the Jesuit—who would explain everything—as of three-fifteen Frankfurt time. Dunwiddie would get a copy of that message, plus one of his own, telling him that Cronley would be back at Kloster Grünau at noon tomorrow. The FBI could not tap the SIGABA.

That the FBI would eventually catch up with him was a given. But they didn’t know where he was right now, which would give him time to deal with the last item on the To Do list. That item was spelled Schumann, Mrs. Rachel.

Cronley drained his Dewar’s and ordered another.

And then I will go to my room and call Mrs. Rachel Schumann.

—

As he crossed the lobby of the hotel toward the elevator bank, Cronley saw something he hadn’t noticed before. There was a Class VI store. For reasons he couldn’t even guess, the Army classified hard liquor as Class VI supplies, and the places that sold such

spirits to officers as Class VI stores.

He bought a quart bottle of Haig & Haig scotch whisky and took it to his room, sampling its contents before picking up the telephone to call Rachel.

—

Rachel answered on the third ring.