"Perfectly," Felter said. "Would you come with me, please, Sergeant Major?"

They went into General Hanrahan's office and closed the door.

"Winston here," he said to the telephone. "Joseph Hoare, Winston." "Yes, sir?"

"Winston, there are half a dozen people who are put right through to the director when they call here." "Yes, sir?"

"You have just made an ass of yourself, and thus of me, in front of one of them." "Sir?"

"Your superiors will, I am sure, discuss this at greater length with you, but for the moment, all you have to know is that the lieutenant colonel you ordered from General Hanrahan's office is the President's personal representative to the intelligence community. He holds the opinion that you are an arrogant ass whose delusions of self. importance threaten the working relationship between the Company and the army. The only tiny sliver of silver in this black cloud is that he chose to telephone me and not the director."

While J. Croom Winston III was trying to frame a reply, the telephone clicked twice and Joseph Hoare said, "Break this down."

And then there was only the hiss of the carrier on the line.

(Five) Known Distance Range Three Camp McCall, North Carolina 1340 Hours, 30 January 1962 The range had changed a great deal from the time when thousands of basic trainees had fired Garand rifles at bull's eye targets in World War II. The butts had been eroded by rain and time, and the target frames had long ago disintegrated. The area between the firing line and the butts at two hundred, three hundred, and five hundred yards was now crisscrossed with gulleys and grown heavily with weeds and trees, some dead, some cut off by bullets, and some miraculously intact. More than a dozen hulks of trucks, passenger cars, tanks, and armored personnel carriers, rusty and bullet-pocked, were scattered between what had been the firing line and the butts. There were bunkers, machine-gun emplacements, fox holes, and explosive-charge craters.

Despite the appearance of neglect and disarray, however, what had been Known Distance Range Three was in fact a carefully thought-out practical firing range. At some time during their Camp McCall training, Special Forces trainees, two at a time, in the buddy system, accompanied by an instructor, fired the course three times. They fired one course (M-14 rifle, grenade launcher, and M-60 machine gun) and then set up the range for the next firer.

Steel targets, outlines of torsos (in some cases, just of heads), were set up in the cabs of the trucks, where gunners would be in machine-gun emplacements, in bunkers, and in tank hatches. The targets would fall down when struck. The object of the exercise was to knock down all the targets with the ammunition ptovided, and to pass through the course in a specified period of time.

The instructor walked behind the trainees as they took one of five paths, chosen at random by him, making sure the steel targets of opportunity were struck. It was necessary to hit each target before moving on to the next. If the trainee ran out of ammunition before all the targets were struck, it was necessary for him to fire the course again, the next time during normal training hours, and the second and subsequent courses on Sunday, which was the only day the trainees were given off from training.

Private Geoffrey Craig had fired his first course and was reasonably sure that he could learn enough of it on his first (failing) run through so that he would possibly even be able to pass his second run, and more than likely pass it on his first Sunday excursion.

The first run was with the M-14 rifle. He had carried a double twenty-round magazine in the rifle and four more double magazines in pouches on his web harness. When that ammunition was exhausted, he would swap the empty magazines for full ones carried by his buddy, Private Karl-Heinz Wagner, for that purpose. He had been alarmed at how quickly he had exhausted his first two hundred rounds of ammunition, and he vowed to expend the second two-hundred-round supply with far greater care.

And then he had turned to the instructor for instruction, certain that with the hearing-protector ear sets in place that he had missed the instructor's right or left command.

The instructor signaled for him to remove the bright green ear protectors and then paid Private Geoffrey Craig the nicest compliment he could ever recall having been paid: "For a candy ass Craig, you're not a bad shot."

"That's it?" he had asked, in genuine surprise.

"That's it," the instructor said. "Clear the piece and hand me the magazine. I want to count the rounds."

Private Craig had then learned there was a more or less voluntary pool in effect. Everybody theoretically contributed to the pool a nickel for every round issued (four hundred rounds equaled twenty dollars) and was given a theoretical rebate of a nickel per round for every round left over when the course had been successfully completed. If you didn't have any rounds left over, no rebate. Craig had 106 rounds left over, and thus would be required to contribute "voluntarily" only $14.70 to the pool.

When all the trainees had successfully completed the rifle course (and the grenade launcher and machine-gun courses, which had different but similar rules, each requiring a maximum contribution of twenty dollars, less rebate) the money in the pool would be awarded to the three best (less expended ammo) shots on a ratio of 50:30:20.

It had been more or less tactfully mentioned that there was no reason the trainees could not afford the pool, since they were all, even Candy-Ass Craig, on parachutist's pay, and especially since the winners would almost certainly be happy to contribute half of their winnings to pay for a beer bust.

To Private Geoffrey Craig's genuine surprise and immense delight, he was the second best shot with the M-14, the best shot with the grenade launcher, and if luck was with him now and he didn't blow it, he was going to take the machine-gun course.

The only fly in the ointment was Karl-Heinz, who in spite of the Expert Medal he'd been wearing when Geoff met him had turned out to be a lousy shot, comparatively speaking. He had blown his first M-14 course and had only twelve rounds left when he successfully finished it on the second try. Thus he would be expected tomorrow on payday to contribute $39.60 to the pool for the M-14 part of it alone. He had made the grenade launcher the first time, but with only five rounds of fifty shells left (which meant that he would have to pay eighteen dollars into the pool). Geoff suspected that Karl-Heinz was not going to do much better with the M-60 machine gun than he had with the M-14, which meant that instead of having an extra fifty bucks jump pay on payday, his first jump pay would not even cover his contribution to the pool.

As he prepared to start the machine-gun course, Geoff psyched himself up for it. If he worried about Ursula and Karl Heinz being so pathetically poor, he was not going to be able to take the machine-gun course. If he took the machine-gun course, he was going to walk away from the pool with close to five hundred bucks. Even after contributing half of it to the beer bust, he would then have $250 or so left over in "explainable" money. Which he could then tactfully press on Karl Heinz to tide him over until they had graduated from John Wayne High School and they got their sergeant's stripes and the pay that went with it.

He was very much afraid that if Karl-Heinz learned that money was something he didn't have to worry about, Karl Heinz would break off their friendship. He was a proud sonofabitch, and Geoff had recently come to the unpleasant conclusion that he should have told them right off. Now, when it came out, Karl-Heinz was going to resent the deception.

But there was no solution to that that he could see. The only thing he could do was keep playing it by ear and hope for the best. The prospect of being denied Ursula was more than he could bear to think about. The only thing he'd actually gotten from her was a couple of sisterly kisses, no more than two or three on the mouth, but he could never get her out of his mind.

"If you think you can stagger through this thing, Candy Ass the instructor said, "without shooting yourself in the foot, I'm ready any time you are.

"Ready, Sergeant," Geoff said.

"Ready on the right, ready on the left, the flag is up, the flag is waving, the flag is down, commence firing."

The first target was a machine-gun nest, two torso silhouettes in a sandbag emplacement. It was one hundred yards from the starting point and was considered one of the easier targets. One simply assumed the prone position, supported the M-60 on its barrel bipod, and fired short, aimed, rifle like bursts at the torsos.

Geoff put the machine gun to his shoulder and fired two very short bursts. Both of the steel silhouettes fell down.

"Wise-ass!" the sergeant said, but he was smiling with approval.

Geoff ran onto the course, the M-60 at something like port arms, with Karl-Heinz carrying a can of ammo in each hand and the sergeant instructor trotting along behind him.

It was one of his good days. When he finished the course, Karl-Heinz hadn't even had to open the second can of ammo.

I think I have just won that fucking pool.

When they got back to the firing line, after setting up all the steel silhouettes Geoff had knocked down, there was a second jeep parked beside the jeep they had driven to the range. The driver was a young sergeant.

"Which one of you guys is Wagner?" he asked.

It was not required in the American army, and he tried not to do it, but habit was strong, and Karl-Heinz almost came to attention because he was being addressed by a superior.

"I am Private Wagner, Sergeant," he said.

"Get in: Colonel Mac wants to see you," the sergeant said.

"He's firing," the sergeant instructor said. "Won't it wait thirty minutes?"

"Colonel Mac said get him right away, I'm getting him right now."

"Shit," the instructor sergeant said. "Go ahead, Wagner."

When the jeep drove off, Geoff asked, "What was that all about? Who's Colonel Mac?"

"I don't know," the sergeant said. "Colonel Mac is the guy with the medal; he does all of the general's dirty jobs." "What medal?"

"Jesus! The one with the little white stars the Congressional." "Oh."

Geoff decided to take a chance.

"Can I say something to you in confidence?" he asked. "Go ahead."

"He can't afford this goddamned pool. He's supporting his sister on a private's pay."

"I heard," the sergeant said. "So what?" "So look the other way and let me run this course for him." The sergeant looked at him for a long moment. "Fuck you, Candy-Ass," he said finally. And then he walked to the firing line, picked up the M-60, and fed the belt to it. "You vill march behindt me vid your mo udt shud," he said, in a credible German accent. "You vill speak only yen spoken to. You vill den call me Herr Feldwebel. If one liddle vord of dis gets oudt, I will feed you your balls. You understandt all dat, Shless-for-Brains'i"

"Jawohi, Herr Feidwebel," Geoff said. "Vorwarts, marsch!" the sergeant said, and then, just to keep Candy-Ass Craig in his place, he fired a six-round burst from the M-60, holding it against his hip, and knocked down the two torso silhouettes in the machine-gun nest.

(Six) Office of the Deputy Commandant for Special Projects U.S. Special Warfare Center and School Fort Bragg, North Carolina 1425 Hours, 30 January 1962 "But my uniform, Sergeant Major," Private Karl-Heinz Wagner said to Taylor. "And my appearance."

He was in mussed and soiled fatigues and field jacket, and badly shaven.

They know where you've been," Taylor said. "Don't worry about it. Just knock at the door and go in when you're told to."

Karl-Heinz marched to within three feet of Lieutenant Colonel Rudolph G. MacMillan's desk and saluted, staring six inches over MacMillan's head.

"PFC Wagner, Karl-Heinz, reporting as ordered, sir."

Mac returned the salute.

"At ease, Wagner," he said with a smile. "Were you doing something interesting, or were you-glad to be hauled off from McCall?"

"I was about to fire the M-60 machine-gun course, sir," Wagner said.

"Well, I expect you've fired machine guns before," Mac said. "This is Colonel Felter and Mr. Winston. They want to talk to you."

Felter went to Wagner with his hands extended and spoke in German.

"You're a very interesting man, Wagner," he said. "I'm happy to meet you."

He has a Berlin accent, Karl-Heinz thought. And he thought that the little colonel was an interesting man too. He was unquestionably an infantry officer of considerable experience and personal courage. He wore, among other decorations, the second highest American award for valor.

"It is my honor, Herr Oberst," Wagner said.

"And this is Mr. Winston," Felter said.

Winston smiled but did not offer his hand.

"Do it in English, Sandy, please," Mac said.

"As often as the colonel has been in Germany," Felter said, "his German is limited to Another beer, Heir Ober," and Where is the men's room?"

That, Herr Oberst," MacMillan said in not at all bad, German, "I understood."

"We are about to have coffee," Felter said in English. "Will you have some, Wagner? It must have been cold in the jeep."

Why not? Wagner thought. They are buttering me up for something, but there is no reason I shouldn't take the butter.

"Thank you, sir," Wagner said.

There is a CIA officer in Berlin," Felter said, "who believes that you may possess certain information concerning the wall, areas near the wall, and presumably East German Pioneer equipment, which would be useful to him. Mr. Winston is here to ask you if you are willing to go to Berlin and provide such information. Are your Wagner was spared the necessity of an immediate reply by the appearance of Sergeant Major Taylor and a cleik cariying a stainless-steel pitcher of coffee, cups, and doughnuts.

"Sit down, Taylor," Felter said. "I want you in on this." "Yes, sir."

"I just asked Wagner if he will go to Berlin and make himself useful," Felter said. "I'm waiting for his reply."

"Do I have a choice in the matter, Colonel?" Wagner asked.

"Yes, of course," Felter said.

"Then, with respect, no, sir." "Okay," Felter said. That's it." "Colonel!" the civilian protested.

Felter looked at him.

"You have something to say, Mr. Winston?" he asked coldly.

"May I ask Wagner why not, sir?"

"You may ask him," Felter said, "but he is under no obligation to answer. Do you understand what I said, Wagner?"

"It is a matter of honor, sir," Wagner said.

"Didn't you make that decision when you came over the wall?" Winston said.

"That was a decision to leave," Felter said. "Which is a different matter. Wagner is, I believe, thinking about the oath he swore to the DDR when he was commissioned. Is that correct, Wagner?" "Yes, sir." "May I speak, Colonel?" Taylor asked. "I hoped you would," Felter said.

"There's a conflict of oaths," Taylor said. "The one he swore when he was commissioned, and the one he swore when he enlisted."

"When I enlisted, Sergeant Major," Wagner said, "it was with the understanding that I would not be sent to Germany."

"And you won't be," Felter said, "not involuntarily."

"We are not asking him to take up arms," Winston said. "All we want him to do is help us with the wall. And he knows from personal experience what a moral abomination that is!"

"I will ask you for your next contribution to this discussion, Mr. Winston," Felter said. "Is that clear?"

"Taylor's right," MacMillan said. "If he doesn't think he broke once and for all his East German oath, then the one he swore when he enlisted can't count."

"He swore to defend the Constitution and to obey the orders of officers and noncommissioned officers appointed over him, that's all," Felter said. "And it was with the understanding that he would not be sent to Germany."

"Bullshit, Sandy," MacMillan said. "He also swore that he had no mental reservations whatsoever." Now, he either did or he didn't."

"I grudgingly grant the point," Felter said. "But someone made him the deal no Germany and I won't see him ordered there."

"Colonel MacMillan, with your permission, may I ask what you would do in my circumstances?" Wagner asked.

"I'm not a West Pointer. You want to ask about the fine points of officers' honor, ask Colonel Felter. He's a West Pointer."

"What's that got to do with it?" Felter said impatiently. "What would you do as a man?" Wagner blurted.

"What would I do? I'd ask what was in it for me," MacMillan said.

"With respect, I don't understand," Wagner said.

"You're a lousy PFC," MacMillan said, "without a pot to piss in. You used to be an officer, so you're obviously smart enough to figure that out for yourself. You should also be smart enough to know when a couple of light colonels and somebody from the CIA call you in and ask you to do something that they think what you have to offer is valuable. If I were you, I'd ask what the deal was."