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Portman waved Frade up a set of stairs ahead of him.

A white-jacketed steward got out of a seat and motioned for Clete to enter the passenger department.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” he said.

The interior of the passenger compartment was unlike any Clete had ever seen. It looked more like a living room than anything else, with chairs and couches facing in both directions, and tables scattered between them. There was even a small bar, tended by another white-jacketed steward.

Clete remembered hearing that “admiral” meant “prince of the sea.”

“Colonel Frade?”

Clete found himself facing an erect, middle-aged man in a white shirt, collar open and tie pulled down, no jacket, and wearing suspenders.

Clete came to attention.

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“Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Frade reporting to the admiral as ordered.”

“Welcome aboard, Colonel. I’m Admiral Sourer.”

“Sir, may I ask the admiral where we’re going?”

“No. But as soon as my junior aide gets back from Arnaud’s with our dinner, we’re going wheels-up for there. Sit down, Colonel, enjoy the ride.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The first stop was Boston. When they took off from Boston and headed just about due east, Clete first thought they were headed to Europe.

Probably Prestwick, Scotland. That’s within the Connie’s range.

Hell, the Connie could make it direct to Berlin.

Are we headed to Berlin?

Why the hell would a two-star admiral be going to Berlin?

[SEVEN]

Tempelhof Air Base Berlin, Germany 1445 19 July 1945

“Stay on board, Colonel,” Admiral Sourer said, “until we get through this arriving VIP nonsense. I’ll send Portman to fetch you.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

There was a squad of senior Army brass waiting at the foot of the stairs, and an Army band. One of the Army officers was an erect, tough-looking two-star, and Clete decided he was looking at the legendary General I. D. White.

He looked for Mattingly but didn’t see him.

Frade still had no idea what was going on. Admiral Sourer had quizzed him skillfully and at length on the flight to Boston, but had not made any accusations. Or threats of Leavenworth, either, if Clete didn’t fess up that he was smuggling Nazis from Germany to Argentina.

Admiral Sourer trooped the line of Hell on Wheels tankers, shook hands with the tough-looking two-star Clete was now pretty sure was I. D. White, and then climbed into a 1940 Packard limousine and, preceded and followed by M-8 armored cars, roared off the tarmac.

Commander Portman appeared at the passenger door and waved for Clete to debark.

A car—an Opel Kapitän, a Chevrolet-sized sedan now bearing U.S. Army markings—was waiting for them.

“Can I ask now if we’re going to Berlin?”