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  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 assist 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 damn. I think he’s decided that he’s as good as dead, so what the hell, 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 hell 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 butter 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 Class 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 Institute. 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?”

  Orlovsky’s face showed he was wondering if the question was innocent. And then Cronley saw disappointment on it when Orlovsky realized Cronley and Dunwiddie had an agenda.

  Is he sorry he fell for our charm, and didn’t immediately suspect an agenda?

  Or maybe he’s disappointed in me personally.

  That disorientation of Bischoff’s wasn’t entirely ineffective. He had a lot of time to think in that cell with no lights and no company but the smell of his own feces.

  And then I came along and was nice to him.

  And was even nicer today.

  He thought he
had found a friend, and what he’s disappointed about is that he knows he should have known better.

  And then Cronley saw what he thought was resignation.

  “No,” Orlovsky said. “The Leningrad State University has no connection with the military or the NKGB. Actually, I was sent there by the NKGB. I took what you Americans would call a master’s degree at Leningrad. Then I took what I suppose you could call my doctorate at the Felix Dzerzhinsky Federal Security Service Academy in Moscow. When I graduated, I was commissioned.”

  “As a second lieutenant?”

  “As a captain.”

  He’s telling the truth, which means (a) he suspects I already knew where NKGB officers come from, and (b) has decided that since he’s a dead man, it doesn’t matter what he tells me, unless it’s the names of the Germans he’s turned. And he’s not going to give them to me.

  “Who’s Felix whatever you said?” Dunwiddie asked.

  “Felix Dzerzhinsky founded the Cheka, which evolved over the years into the NKGB,” Orlovsky replied. Then he laid his knife and fork neatly on his plate, and then pushed it several inches away from him.

  “You can eat your breakfast, Konstantin,” Cronley said. “You’re not going to be shot. At least not by us.”

  When Orlovsky looked at him but made no move, Cronley said, “Don’t be a fool. After the starvation diet our pal Bischoff has had you on, you need the strength.”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard that we Americans always feed the condemned man a hearty meal,” Dunwiddie said, and smiled.

  Orlovsky considered both comments for a moment, then pulled the plate to him. He began to saw a piece off the ham steak, and finally said, “Thank you.”

  “Our pleasure,” Dunwiddie said. “Think nothing of it.”

  Orlovsky smiled as he forked a ham chunk into his mouth. When he had finished chewing it appreciatively, he said, “Delicious. Thank you for . . . encouraging . . . me to eat it.”

  “We could do no less, Konstantin,” Dunwiddie said.

  “What did you really hope to gain from your hospitality?” Orlovsky asked. “You know I am not going to give what you’re asking.”

  “I think you will,” Cronley said, hoping his voice conveyed more confidence than he felt. “We have three or four days for you to consider the advantages of telling us.”

  “And after four days, I’ll be shot?”

  “Not by us,” Cronley said.

  “By Bischoff? Or another of Gehlen’s people?”

  Well, here goes.

  This probably won’t work, but since I can think of nothing else . . .

  “If you are shot,” Cronley said, “I’d say the odds are the shooter will be a fellow alumnus of the Felix Dzerzhinsky Federal Security Service Academy.”

  Orlovsky looked intently at him, but his face showed nothing.

  “Your assets—the Germans you have turned, Konstantin, and are so nobly protecting—are going to be your downfall. Over the next few days, I’m going to make sure they see what great friends you and I have become. They’re clever fellows, and I have every confidence that they will know how to pass that information along to whoever was out there waiting for you the night Sergeant Tedworth caught you.”

  He let that sink in for a moment, then went on: “There had to be someone waiting for you, Konstantin. You didn’t miraculously appear at Kloster Grünau like the Christmas fairy does on Christmas Eve. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he—or they—are out there as we speak, peering at us through binoculars and wondering what the hell you’re doing in here right now. As a matter of fact, I hope they are.

  “Step Two, or Three or Four, presuming you remain uncooperative, will be your being trussed up like a Christmas turkey and loaded into my Storch. I will then fly you to Berlin, put you into the trunk of a staff car, and drive you into the Russian Zone, where I will leave you sitting on the curb.”

  Orlovsky looked as if he was going to say something, but Cronley put up his hand to stop him.

  “I don’t want to sound rude, but right now I want you to think things over very carefully before you say anything.”

  Cronley stood.

  “Finish your breakfast, Konstantin,” he said, then turned to Dunwiddie. “When he’s finished, have him taken back to das Gasthaus.”

  “Dressed like that?”

  “Oh, no. Dressed as he was when we brought him here. For the time being, let’s let everybody think we still don’t like him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll see you soon, Konstantin, after you’ve had a little time to think things over,” Cronley said, and then walked out of the sitting room.

  [ FOUR ]

  XXIIIrd CIC Detachment Officers’ Open Mess

  Kloster Grünau

  Schollbrunn, Bavaria

  American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  1505 31 October 1945

  Cronley was sitting alone at the bar with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s when Dunwiddie walked in ten minutes later.

  “It’s a little early for that, isn’t it, Captain, sir?” Dunwiddie greeted him.

  “I’ve already had my breakfast, so why not?”

  “Are you celebrating, drowning your sorrows, or just boozing it up?”

  “I’ve been trying to make up my mind about that.”

  “Drinking just because it makes you feel good is decadent and depraved.”

  “I’ll bet they taught you that at Maple Syrup U.”

  “Actually, my mother repeated that line to me no more than five million times.”

  Dunwiddie went behind the bar, took a bottle of Haig & Haig Pinch Scots whisky from the display, then sat on a stool next to Cronley.

  “However,” he went on, as he poured a glass nearly full, “under the circumstances, I feel a little taste is in order.”

  He took a very healthy swallow of the whisky, and smacked his lips appreciatively.

  If it’s true, Cronley thought, that the larger the corpus into which alcohol is introduced the less effect it has on said corpus, Tiny can do that all day without getting noticeably plastered.

  As far as normal-sized people like me are concerned, I better not have any more of this. Right now, getting even slightly plastered is something I can’t afford to do.

  “Speaking of your sainted mother, Tiny, I thought that story about her sending you maple syrup worked well with Konstantin. We’ve got to get him thinking about his mother, his wife, his family.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I wish I knew if his father is alive, if he has any kids.”

  “You’re thinking that if we can get him thinking about his mommy and daddy, his loving wife, and their little ones, if any . . . ?”

  “He might start to think that while a bullet in the back of his head might solve his problems, the NKGB might turn its kind attention to them. I’m pretty sure he’s been trying very hard not to think of them, so we have to make sure he does.”

  “He looked very unhappy when Tedworth was leading him back to his cell.”

  “He looked very unhappy when Tedworth led him in from his cell. What we have to do is give him some hope for the future.”

  “And reminding him that he’s got a family about to get sent to Siberia, or shot, because he got caught is going to give him hope for the future?”

  Tiny, looking past Jim, then quickly covered his mouth with his hand and said, “Change the subject.”

  Cronley looked over his shoulder. Former Oberst Ludwig Mannberg had entered the room and was walking toward them.

  “Ah, I’d hoped to find you here, Captain Cronley,” Mannberg said, smiling and offering his hand.

  Cronley smiled, remembering what Tiny had said about habitual handshaking German
s: “They can’t go to the can to take a leak unless they first shake hands with everybody in the room.”

  I don’t want to call him Herr Oberst, because he’s not a colonel anymore and I don’t want him to think I don’t know that.

  On the other hand, I don’t want to piss him off, either. Unintentionally.

  “Will you join us for a little taste, Herr Oberst?” Cronley said as they shook hands.

  “It’s a little early for me, thank you just the same,” Mannberg said. “I’m hoping you can spare a few minutes for me.”

  “Anytime, Herr Oberst. You know that.”

  Mannberg gave his hand to Tiny, said, “Herr Dunwiddie,” and then added, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I was hoping to have a few minutes alone with Captain Cronley.”

  “Dunwiddie’s my deputy, Herr Oberst. Anything you have to say to me—”

  “Of course, of course,” Mannberg said quickly. “No offense, Herr Dunwiddie.”

  “None taken,” Tiny said. “What can we do for you?”

  “It concerns the NKGB agent, Orlovsky.”

  “What about him?” Cronley asked.

  “Well, what’s happened is that Oberstleutnant Bischoff has gone to the general and said that somehow you and he got off on the wrong foot.”

  Cronley didn’t reply.

  “And the general asked me to see what I could do about straightening out the situation, the misunderstanding, between you.”

  “What misunderstanding is that?”

  “Well,” Mannberg said, “my understanding was that Herr Oberst Mattingly has told Herr Dunwiddie to keep an eye on the situation for him while we deal with it.”

  “He did.”

  “Well, Bischoff said that you had issued orders that he was not to be allowed to further interrogate the Russian.”

  “I did.”

  “I don’t understand, Herr Kapitän.”

  “I didn’t like what Bischoff was doing to Orlovsky, and I saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere with him, so I’ve taken over the interrogation.”