'The n.a.z.is?'

'Right. When you hear the stories you can't believe it. They're too incredible to be true vast underground factories hidden deep in the mountains; the a.s.sembly lines run night and day with slave labour and then you see places like that, the sheer enormity, the work behind it, and you have to accept that they could do it and that he must be part of it.'

'Wilson?'

'Yeah. He's always been a man to hide things. He hid his own past, hid his work in Iowa, hid his hangars in the wilds of Illinois, then went to hide himself in n.a.z.i Germany, to create G.o.d knows what. We saw those rockets, right? We know how advanced they are. And even though that's frightening enough, they're just the tip of the iceberg. Wilson's in the Harz Mountains. We don't know exactly where. We only hear about vast underground factories and the use of slave labour. Was it possible? I didn't think so. Not until I came here. Now, having seen what you've shown me, I know that it is... The Harz Mountains... Factories hidden inside the mountains... Yes, they could do it... And that b.a.s.t.a.r.d is using it.'

'Why?'

'I don't know... and that's exactly what frightens me.'

McArthur smiled gently, patted him on the shoulder, then climbed into the driver's seat in the jeep and c.o.c.ked a finger invitingly. When Bradley had climbed in beside him, he turned on the ignition, drove carefully around the bomb craters, and said, 'Thank G.o.d Paris has been liberated. A few days there will do you good.'

'I don't want to go there,' Bradley replied. 'I don't have the time.'

'I think you'll make the time,' McArthur said with a lopsided grin, 'because Gladys Kinder is there. Now, do we go there or not?'

'Faster!' Bradley said. 'Faster!'

Almost convulsed with laughter, McArthur manoeuvred around the last of the bomb craters, bounced off the high verge, then drove along the straight, tree-lined road that would take them to Paris.

The bar in the Ritz Hotel in the place Vendome was packed with British Tommies, American GIs, young men and women wearing armbands of the French Forces of the Interior FFI or Red Cross, and more than a few journalists, including the famous, and famously loud, bearded American novelist who, five days before Paris was freed, had entered Rambouillet where he had, according to what he was now loudly stating to those crowded around his bottle-strewn table, acted as an unofficial liaison offlcer between the 5th Infantry Division and the French partisan patrols. The roar of the conversation that came out of the swirling cigar and cigarette smoke was punctuated by the tinkle of gla.s.ses, the popping of champagne corks, the metallic clatter of M-1 army rifles, tommy guns, joggling hand grenades, and other weapons; and Gladys Kinder, looking flushed, was leaning sideways in her chair to take hold of Bradley's hand and tell him, 'It'd be a lot cheaper in the correspondents' mess in the Scribe Hotel, but this is, after all, a oncein-a-lifetime event and the Ritz is the only place to experience it.'

In this atmosphere of celebration, Bradley was almost sorry to have missed the previous day's victory march from the Arc de Triomphe and along the Champselysees and on to Notre Dame, but being here so unexpectedly with Gladys was doing his heart good.

'I'll never forget yesterday as long as I live,' Gladys continued while stroking Bradley's sweaty palm. She wasn't embarra.s.sed by the presence of Major General Ryan McArthur, who in any case was looking around the crowded bar with a broad grin on his face. 'There were thousands of people lining the Champselysees all the way up to the etoile. General Leclerc's division, including elements of the US 82nd Division, marched between the cheering thousands, to repeated shouts of 'Viva la France!' De Gaulle, on the reviewing stand in the place de la Concorde, surrounded by other dignitaries and a couple of US generals, was stiff as a board and proud as punch. And after that, when the parade disbanded, it was hugs and kisses all afternoon, with G.o.d knows how many gla.s.ses of Calvados and champagne and wine and I'm still not hung over!'

'It's the excitement,' Bradley said. 'You'll probably be as high as a kite for days, then come down with a bang.'

'We'll all come down with a bang when this war ends. That's a terrible truth.'

'It sure has its excitements,' Bradley replied with no great deal of pride, thinking of the death and destruction he had witnessed on the march through France, yet unable to deny that he had never felt more alive than he had felt these past few weeks. 'I can't deny that. But right now, the most exciting thing in the world is seeing you again, Gladys.'

'Aw, shucks,' she said, beaming, then kissed him on the cheek. 'You sure know how to please a gal!'

McArthur turned back to them, raised his gla.s.s of Calvados, and said solemnly, 'Ladies and gentlemen, lovebirds, a toast to the liberation of Paris.'

'I'll drink to that,' Bradley said, raising his gla.s.s.

'And so will I,' Gladys said, touching his gla.s.s with hers.

'You've been drinking to it for two days solid,' McArthur reminded her, 'but you're looking good on it. So, let's drink!'

They all emptied their gla.s.ses. As McArthur was refilling them from the bottle on the table, a drunken young member of the FFI kicked his chair back, stood up, and raised his gla.s.s above his flushed face. 'Vivent les Americains!' he declared in a ringing tone. He tossed down his champagne in one long gulp while the others at his table cheered and various British, Canadian, and Dutch troops booed and catcalled. The young FFI man, with a broad, sweaty grin, bowed theatrically to the packed room and fell back into his chair.

'Victory is sweet,' McArthur said, 'but can lead to more fighting.'

'Let's hope not,' Gladys said. 'So what have you two been up to since we last saw each other? Still in pursuit of rocket-bombs and mad American scientists?'

'We're not allowed to discuss it,' McArthur said, 'particularly to journalists.'

'This journalist has a personal interest in the case. Besides, this conversation's off the record. I just wanna know, kids.'

Bradley grinned. 'McArthur here's been showing me the V-1 and V-2 rocket launch sites, which have already been photographed for the newspaper. So no big secrets there.'

'And what did you think?'

'I think the Krauts are more advanced than we'd imagined and in more ways than one. I think that no matter how big the project, they'd know how to hide it.'

'Such as Wilson's project, for instance.'

'You got it, Gladys. Bright girl. If Wilson's trying to build a new kind of aircraft, we're talking about a big project, but no matter how big it is, I now think the Krauts could keep it well hidden.'

'Where?'

Bradley glanced at McArthur, who simply smiled and nodded. 'Underground,' Bradley said, turning his gaze back on Gladys. 'In great tunnels and factories hacked out of the interior of mountains. I think that's where our man is.'

'Where?'

'You've already asked that.'