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Kellogg considered that a moment, then said, “Excuse us a moment, will you, please, Colonel?”

“Certainly.”

The lieutenant colonel and the master sergeant went inside the headquarters building.

If they’re calling Graham, I’m screwed.

But why do I think they won’t call him?

Because, with a little bit of luck, one or both of them has been on the receiving end of one of Graham’s fits of temper.

The fits are rare but spectacular, and usually triggered by someone insisting on complete compliance with a petty bureaucratic regulation.

Never wake a sleeping tiger!

And I’m on a roll!

Not quite two minutes after the pair had walked into the headquarters building, the master sergeant came out.

“Sir, Colonel Kellogg suggests you go inside and have a cup of coffee with him while I go fetch the Krauts for you.”

“Fine. Thank you very much.”

“What we’re going to do is send an MP escort with you to the Institute of Health, in case the Krauts try to escape or anything.”

Oh, shit! Frade thought.

He nodded. “Good idea.”

The Office of Strategic Services had taken over the National Institutes of Health building in the District of Columbia “for the duration.”

In the headquarters building, Frade quickly found the light bird’s office. It had a sign hanging over the door: LTCOL D. G. KELLOGG. PROVOST MARSHAL.

Several minutes later, about the time Kellogg had poured coffee into a chipped but clean china mug for Frade, Kapitän zur See Karl Boltitz and Major Freiherr Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein were escorted into the office by two military policemen.

They marched up to Lieutenant Colonel Kellogg’s desk and came to attention and clicked their heels.

Boltitz—a tall, rather good-looking, blond young man—was dressed in the white uniform worn by officers of the German navy at sea. He paid little attention to the officer in the Marine Corps uniform. Von Wachtstein, also blond, was smaller and stockier. He was wearing U.S. Army khakis, to which had been affixed the insignia of a Luftwaffe major and his pilot’s wings. When he saw the Marine Corps officer, he gave what could have been a double take, but quickly cut it off to stand at attention.

Kellogg began: “Gentlemen, this is Colonel—”

“Cletus Frade,” Clete interrupted in a commanding tone, “lieutenant colonel, U.S. Marine Corps. We’re going to take a little ride. And if you’re even thinking of trying to get away from me, don’t. I’d like nothing better than the chance to shoot either or both of you Nazi bastards.”

To add visual support to his statement, he took a Model 1911-A1 Colt from the small of his back.

“I always carry this with a round in the chamber.”

“Colonel Frade,” Colonel Kellogg said quickly and nervously, “I can assure you that both of these officers have been very cooperative and . . .”

Frade snorted his disbelief.

“. . . I’m sure they will give you no problems.”

“Their choice,” Frade said. “They either behave or they’re dead men.”

Neither German officer said a word.

[FIVE]