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“As a captain.”

He’s telling the truth, which means (a) he suspects I already knew where NKGB officers come from, and (b) has decided that since he’s a dead man, it doesn’t matter what he tells me, unless it’s the names of the Germans he’s turned. And he’s not going to give them to me.

“Who’s Felix whatever you said?” Dunwiddie asked.

“Felix Dzerzhinsky founded the Cheka, which evolved over the years into the NKGB,” Orlovsky replied. Then he laid his knife and fork neatly on his plate, and then pushed it several inches away from him.

“You can eat your breakfast, Konstantin,” Cronley said. “You’re not going to be shot. At least not by us.”

When Orlovsky looked at him but made no move, Cronley said, “Don’t be a fool. After the starvation diet our pal Bischoff has had you on, you need the strength.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard that we Americans always feed the condemned man a hearty meal,” Dunwiddie said, and smiled.

Orlovsky considered both comments for a moment, then pulled the plate to him. He began to saw a piece off the ham steak, and finally said, “Thank you.”

“Our pleasure,” Dunwiddie said. “Think nothing of it.”

Orlovsky smiled as he forked a ham chunk into his mouth. When he had finished chewing it appreciatively, he said, “Delicious. Thank you for . . . encouraging . . . me to eat it.”

“We could do no less, Konstantin,” Dunwiddie said.

“What did you really hope to gain from your hospitality?” Orlovsky asked. “You know I am not going to give what you’re asking.”

“I think you will,” Cronley said, hoping his voice conveyed more confidence than he felt. “We have three or four days for you to consider the advantages of telling us.”

“And after four days, I’ll be shot?”

“Not by us,” Cronley said.

“By Bischoff? Or another of Gehlen’s people?”

Well, here goes.

This probably won’t work, but since I can think of nothing else . . .

“If you are shot,” Cronley said, “I’d say the odds are the shooter will be a fellow alumnus of the Felix Dzerzhinsky Federal Security Service Academy.”

Orlovsky looked intently at him, but his face showed nothing.

“Your assets—the Germans you have turned, Konstantin, and are so nobly protecting—are going to be your downfall. Over the next few days, I’m going to make sure they see what great friends you and I have become. They’re clever fellows, and I have every confidence that they will know how to pass that information along to whoever was out there waiting for you the night Sergeant Tedworth caught you.”

He let that sink in for a moment, then went on: “There had to be someone waiting for you, Konstantin. You didn’t miraculously appear at Kloster Grünau like the Christmas fairy does on Christmas Eve. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he—or they—are out there as we speak, peering at us through binoculars and wondering what the hell you’re doing in here right now. As a matter of fact, I hope they are.

“Step Two, or Three or Four, presuming you remain uncooperative, will be your being trussed up like a Christmas turkey and loaded into my Storch. I will then fly you to Berlin, put you into the trunk of a staff car, and drive you into the Russian Zone, where I will leave you sitting on the curb.”

Orlovsky looked as if he was going to say something, but Cronley put up his hand to stop him.

“I don’t want to sound rude, but right now I want you to think things over very carefully before you say anything.”

Cronley stood.

“Finish your breakfast, Konstantin,” he said, then turned to Dunwiddie. “When he’s finished, have him taken back to das Gasthaus.”

“Dressed like that?”

“Oh, no. Dressed as he was when we brought him here. For the time being, let’s let everybody think we still don’t like him.”

“Yes, sir.”