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When the three-quarter pulled to the curb, Frade saw what had fallen off the Constellation. In addition to the generators, the truck carried one of the insulated containers holding fifty kilograms of chilled Argentine steak, another insulated container labeled VEGETABLES AND ORANGES, and two wooden cases on which was painted BODEGA DON GUILLERMO MENDOZA CABERNET SAUVIGNON 1944.

“You could have waited for me, hotshot,” Dooley said as he climbed out of the truck. “Until I saw Tiny’s guys, I was standing on the tarmac with my thumb up my ass.”

“Be careful with the wine, Sergeant,” Frade ordered. “It’s nectar of the gods.”

[FOUR]

Tiny’s men quickly got one of the generators up and running. Lightbulbs glowed and then came to full brightness. The refrigerator came to life with a screech and several loud thumps.

“Now that we have juice,” Mattingly said as he walked out of the kitchen, “Stein will have the Collins up and running, and I will be able to tell David Bruce that we done good.” He paused and added, “Don’t drink all the wine before I get back.”

Tiny pulled the cork from a bottle of the Cabernet with what looked like the corkscrew accessory on a Boy Scout knife. Clete put his hand out and after a moment Tiny took his meaning. He laid a knife with the Boy Scout insignia on it.

“‘Be Prepared’!” Tiny said. “You never heard that, Colonel?”

“You’re speaking to Eagle Scout Clete Frade, Troop 36, Midland, Texas,” he said with a knowing grin, then flashed the Scout sign with his right hand.

Frade’s grin faded quickly when von Wachtstein walked into the kitchen followed by Max, who had his hands on the shoulders of two gaunt, pale-faced boys wearing tattered, ill-fitting remnants of German army uniforms.

Jesus H. Christ!

The little one has to be Heinrich.

The one who killed a T-34 with a Panzerfaust, then pissed his pants.

“Hello,” Frade said. “You’re Heinrich, right?”

The boy came to attention.

“The war is over, Heinrich,” Frade said. “You don’t have to do that anymore.”

Max walked to a corner of the kitchen and picked up two waxpaper-wrapped cartons labeled C-RATION.

“With your permission, Herr Dunwiddie?”

“You don’t have to ask, for Christ’s sake,” Tiny snapped.

He pulled chairs out from the kitchen table and motioned for the boys to sit in them. When they had done so, he used his Boy Scout knife to open the C-rations.

He took a Bar, Chocolate, Single, Hershey’s, from each and tore the corners off and handed them to the boys.

“It’s all right,” Max said in German. “It’s chocolate.”

Both boys took a small bite, then smiled shyly.

“Is that the best we can do for them, C-rations?” Frade asked. He realized his voice sounded strange.

“In just a minute, Colonel, I’m going to open that”—he pointed to one of the insulated containers that had fallen off the Constellation—“and see if I can find them an orange.”

“They’re also going to need a bath and some clothes,” Frade said. “What can we do about that?”

“Now that we have electricity, Herr Oberst,” Egon said, “there will be hot water in half an hour.”

“And can we buy them something to wear? Have we got any German money?”

“German money is useless, Colonel,” Tiny said. “So, for that matter, is American. But I think Max can get them some clothing by trading a couple of C-rations and packs of Lucky Strikes. I also have Nescafé.”

He pulled open a kitchen cabinet door. The cabinet was stuffed with cartons of cigarettes and Nescafé.