"No s.h.i.t. As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, Captain, sir, I thought that even if General White thought there had to be some reason for me to have suddenly come out of left field to call Mattingly a lying sonofab.i.t.c.h, he was leaving for the States the next day and he wouldn't have time to even ask Mattingly what the h.e.l.l was going on or do anything about my commission. So I kept my mouth shut."

"You should have told him, Tiny."

"I thought about that when you mentioned Mattingly being worried about this OSS pal of yours . . ."

"Cletus Frade," Cronley furnished.

". . . in Argentina.

"But that's what they call water under the bridge, Captain, sir. To return to your questions: Do I agree with your a.s.sessment of how he wants to handle the problem of Orlovsky? Yeah, I do. I think what Mattingly wants to do is be looking the other way while Gehlen's people are interrogating Orlovsky and then shooting him in the back of the head."

"And you're okay with that?"

"No. For two reasons. One, it ain't right. And two, if that happens and it comes out, the entire Judge Advocate Corps of the U.S. Army is going to come after me."

He met Cronley's eyes, and then recited, "'Article 118. Any person subject to this chapter who, without justification or excuse, unlawfully kills a human being, is guilty of murder, and shall suffer such death or such other punishment as a court-martial may direct.' That's not all of it, but you get the general idea."

"Actually, they'd come after me, Tiny. I'm in command here."

"That announcement answers your third question: Do I think your captain's bars have gone to your head? Yeah, I do. But in a good sense. You're thinking like a captain. You really grew up, Jimmy, doing whatever the h.e.l.l you did in Argentina."

Cronley said what he was thinking: "I wish you were wearing these captain's bars, Tiny."

"Yeah. But I'm not. Which brings us to what do we do about Orlovsky? Bearing in mind that whatever we do is liable to bring the Judge Advocate General's Corps down on us, either for simple disobedience to a lawful order, or plotting mutiny-and plotting a mutiny is right up there beside Article 118 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, 1928. 'Death or such other punishment as a court-martial may decide.'"

"Maybe we should just cave."

"That's not an option, Jim. What are you thinking?"

"I don't think that disorientation idea of Bischoff's is going to work. Orlovsky is either not going to give us the names, or he'll give us names of Germans who he hasn't turned."

"Agreed. Got a better idea?"

"Let's try something else."

"Like what?"

"It's going to sound pretty far off the wall," Cronley said, and then told him of his idea.

"You're right, that is off the wall. I wonder why Herr Bischoff, the Great Interrogator, didn't think of that really nasty approach. Or, for that matter, Mattingly. I would never have suspected that you're capable of being a bigger p.r.i.c.k than either of them."

"Life is full of little surprises, isn't it? I take it you think it might work?"

"I don't know. However, in the absence of any other idea, let's give it a shot."

[ THREE ].

Commanding Officer's Quarters Kloster Grnau Schollbrunn, Bavaria American Zone of Occupation, Germany 1410 31 October 1945 Technical Sergeant Abraham L. Tedworth and Staff Sergeant Harold Lewis Jr. led Major Konstantin Orlovsky of the NKGB into the sitting room of Captain James D. Cronley Jr.'s quarters. Cronley and CIC Special Agent Chauncey Dunwiddie were seated at a table at which three places had been set.

Orlovsky was shuffling in his bare feet. His ankles were tied together with handcuffs and a short length of rope. A GI blanket had been tied around his shoulders. His hands were handcuffed behind his back. His head was inside a GI duffel bag, closed at his neck with a GI web belt.

"Take the bag off his head," Cronley ordered.

Tedworth did so.

"Good morning, Konstantin," Cronley said cordially, as the Russian blinked his eyes against the sudden exposure to light.

Orlovsky looked nervously around the room but did not reply.

"I'm sorry I had to have you trussed up like that," Cronley went on conversationally, "but I knew General Gehlen's people were going to see you walking over here, and we wouldn't want them to think we've become friends, would we? And then I had to consider the possibility that you would try to do something foolish, like trying to get away from the sergeants."

Again Orlovsky didn't reply.

"Chauncey and I"-Cronley nodded toward Dunwiddie-"you've met Chauncey, I think, if only briefly-we were talking and decided that after your stay in-how shall I say this?-das Gasthaus-you'd probably like a shower and a shave and a change of linen. And afterward, that we could have a little chat over breakfast. So let's get to that."

He gestured to Tedworth and Lewis. Lewis dropped to his knees and started to free Orlovsky from the handcuffs around his ankles.

Cronley went on: "That long wooden pole, Konstantin, that Sergeant Tedworth is holding is a Louisville Slugger baseball bat. Normally used in our national sport. But in this case, I've told the sergeant that if you even look as if you have notions of declining our hospitality and leaving, he is to first smash your feet with it, and, if that doesn't have the desired effect, to start in on your knees."

Sergeant Lewis finished unshackling Orlovsky and then unlocked and removed his handcuffs.

"The sergeants will now a.s.sist you in your shower," Cronley said.

Lewis and Tedworth took Orlovsky's arms and marched him into Cronley's bedroom.

When the door was closed, Cronley said, "I hope that doesn't take long. I haven't had anything to eat since lunch yesterday."

"Feeding him breakfast was your idea," Dunwiddie replied, and then said, "You did a pretty good job on him. From the look on his face, he wouldn't have been surprised to find that he was being led into a Dachau gas chamber shower."

"Yeah. I saw that, too. And what worries me was that he didn't seem to give a d.a.m.n. I think he's decided that he's as good as dead, so what the h.e.l.l, get it over with."

- Sergeants Tedworth and Lewis led Orlovsky back into the sitting room ten minutes later. He was still barefoot, but he was now dressed in an olive drab woolen shirt and OD trousers.

"Well, my stuff seems to fit, Konstantin," Cronley said. "I thought we were about the same size."

Orlovsky didn't reply.

"Sergeant Tedworth, why don't you give the Louisville Slugger to Dunwiddie? And then you and Sergeant Lewis can leave us alone while we have our breakfast. Tell Sergeant Whatsisname we want it now."

"Yes, sir."

"I didn't know what you like for breakfast, Konstantin," Cronley said, "so I told Sergeant Whatsisname . . ."

"Sergeant Warner, sir," Tedworth furnished as he handed Dunwiddie the baseball bat. Dunwiddie rested it against the table.

". . . Right. Sergeant Warner. I don't know why I always forget his name. Unlike most mess sergeants, he's one h.e.l.l of a cook. Anyway, Konstantin, I told Sergeant Warner to bring you what Chauncey and I are having. Orange juice, ham and eggs, and waffles. I hope that's all right with you."

"Why don't you sit down, Konstantin?" Dunwiddie asked. "Get your feet off the cold floor?"

Orlovsky took his seat, with his hands folded in his lap.

Dunwiddie offered Orlovsky his pack of Chesterfield cigarettes.

Orlovsky shook his head, and then said, "No, thank you."

It was the first he had spoken.

Nothing more was said by anyone until Sergeant Warner, who was wearing cook's whites, including an enormous floppy white hat, came into the room, carrying a large tray holding plates covered with upside-down plates. Sergeant Lewis followed him carrying a steaming coffeepot.

"Just put it on the table," Dunwiddie ordered. "We'll take it from there."

Dunwiddie picked up the coffeepot and poured from it.

"I take mine black," Dunwiddie said. "How about you, Konstantin?"

"Black is fine, thank you."

Cronley removed the upside-down plate over his plate and looked appreciatively at what was to be his breakfast.

"Dig in, Konstantin," he suggested, "before it gets cold."

Orlovsky removed the plate over his breakfast and picked up a fork.

"Do they have waffles in Russia?" Cronley asked.

"We have something like what this appears to be."

"Your wife serves them like this, with maple syrup?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you put maple syrup on them?"

"I don't know what maple syrup is."

Dunwiddie moved a small white pitcher across the table.

"Maple syrup," he said. "It's sweet. Spread b.u.t.ter on your waffle and then pour a little syrup on it."

Curiosity took over.

"What is it?"

"They drill holes in maple trees," Cronley explained. "They stick taps in the holes to collect the maple sap in buckets, then boil that down."

"And this is the real stuff, genuine Vermont maple syrup," Dunwiddie went on. "The best kind. My mother sends it to me."

"You're from Vermont?" Orlovsky asked.

Cronley's and Dunwiddie's eyes met for a moment.

We've got him talking!

More important, talking family!

"From Kansas," Dunwiddie said. "Manhattan, Kansas. Or Fort Riley. Same thing. We go to school in Vermont. Norwich."

"Konstantin has no idea what you're talking about, Chauncey," Cronley said.

"My family is Cavalry," Dunwiddie said. "Fort Riley has been a cavalry post for a long time, almost a hundred years. And we Dunwiddies have been there since they put up the first stockade. We're Buffalo Soldiers."

"Now you're really confusing him," Cronley said.

"When we were fighting the Indians, before our Civil War, 1861 to 1865, the Indians called us Buffalo Soldiers because of this," Dunwiddie said as he ran his fingers over his scalp. "They said we had hair like buffaloes."

"Cowboys and Indians," Orlovsky said.

"Cavalry and Indians," Dunwiddie said. "If it wasn't for the Cavalry, the Indians would have run the cowboys out of the West."

"How interesting," Orlovsky said. "But you said you went to school in Vermont?"

"After the Spanish American War, 1898, especially after the Ninth Cavalry beat Teddy Roosevelt's Rough Riders up San Juan Hill in Cuba," Dunwiddie continued his lecture, "the Army finally got around to admitting that maybe black people could be officers. But they had to be college graduates. So my grandfather, Joshua H. Dunwiddie, who had been first sergeant of Troop B of the Ninth Cavalry, took his discharge and Teddy Roosevelt got him into Norwich . . ."

"Which is?"

". . . From which he was graduated in the Cla.s.s of 1900 and commissioned a second lieutenant of Cavalry. My father is Norwich 'twenty, and I'm Norwich 'forty-five."

"It's a school, a military academy?"

Cronley offered: "We have a number of private military academies, Konstantin."

"Of which Norwich is the oldest," Dunwiddie said.

"I went to one of them, the Texas Agriculture and Military Academy," Cronley added. "And General George C. Marshall, who is our senior officer, went to another of them, the Virginia Military Inst.i.tute. General Patton, come to think of it, went to VMI before he went to West Point."

"Anyway, we Dunwiddies go to Norwich. Where we learned to appreciate Vermont maple syrup, which is why, my mother having sent me a half dozen pints of it, you are now about to pour it on your waffles."

Orlovsky smiled and chuckled.

"You said you'd gone to Leningrad State University," Cronley said. "Is that where you got your commission?"