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If I override the order, I’m not only going to confirm Mannberg’s opinion that I’m getting a little too big for my britches, challenging the superior knowledge and the decisions of his “interrogation specialist,” but piss him off. And if I piss him off, I piss off Gehlen.

Bottom line, I’m supposed to be running Kloster Grünau.

“Let’s go see what you’re talking about,” Cronley said. “You, me, Herr Mannberg, and Herr Bischoff. Tell me how that works, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir. What Konrad got us to do is rig up a floodlight—six jeep headlights mounted on a piece of plywood, hitched to a jeep battery. We turn the lights on, then open the door. The Russian, who’s been sitting there in the dark since his candle went out . . . you know about the candles, Captain? They last about two minutes—”

“I know about them,” Cronley interrupted.

“Yes, sir. Well, the Russian, who’s been there in the dark for an hour at least, is blinded when the lights shine in his eyes. We can see him, but he can’t—”

“Okay, Sergeant,” Cronley interrupted again. “Let’s go.”

—

The sergeant led the way through the former chapel to a room behind what had been the altar, past crates of supplies where once, presumably, there had been pews full of hooded priests and monks.

Two troopers, both armed with Thompsons, were in the room. They popped to attention.

“What’s he doing?” the sergeant asked.

“Ten minutes ago, he was sitting with his back against the wall,” one of them, a sergeant, replied.

“Open the door,” the sergeant ordered.

He took two flashlights from a shelf, handed one to Cronley, and waited until the door had been opened. Then he started down the stairway. Cronley followed.

At the foot of the stairway, Cronley found himself in a small area, perhaps six feet by eight. To the left was a single heavy wooden door. It was closed with a piece of lumber jammed against it. Across from the door, the improvised floodlights rested against a brick wall.

The sergeant pointed to one of the men who had followed them down the stairs, gesturing for him to take the floodlights, and then to another man, ordering him to be prepared to remove the timber that held the door shut.

Then he stood by the door, unslung the carbine from his shoulder, and held it as if he expected to use it as a club if the prisoner tried to burst out of the room.

“Now!” he ordered.

The man with the floodlights moved to the door and turned them on. The man on the timber kicked it free and then jerked the door open.

Cronley could now see the cell and the man in it.

And he smelled the nauseating odor of human waste.

The NKGB agent, who had been sitting on a mattress, shielded his eyes from the light as he rose, sliding his back against the wall.

“Take your hand away from your face!” Cronley barked in German.

The man obeyed but closed his eyes.

That was involuntary, Cronley decided. That light really hurts his eyes. He’s not being defiant.

He could now see the NKGB agent’s face.

He was surprised at what he saw: a slight man, fair-skinned and blond, who appeared to be in his twenties.

A nice-looking guy.

What the hell did you expect? Somebody who looks like Joe Stalin? Or Lenin?

The NKGB agent finally managed to get his eyes into a squint. His eyes were blue.