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“And for almost forgetting your lovely bride in there just now,” Dorotea said.
“I am groveling, my love.”
“Good.”
“And I wanted Stein to tell Fischer—who glared in outrage at me when I told José’s wife to tie Grandma to a chair—who’s the real Nazi in there.”
“Unequivocally, she is, Mr. Fischer,” Stein said. “She thinks Hitler was sent by God to save the world from the likes of you and me.” He saw the look on Fischer’s face and added: “I shit you not, Lieutenant. Grandma not only is a real Nazi—but a three-star bitch to boot. Sorry, Dorotea.”
Dorotea made an It’s not important gesture.
“Call me Len,” Fischer said idly, then went on. “Well, neither one of them is what I expected. He looks like a librarian, and she looks like . . . well, ‘grandma’ fits. Not at all what I expected.”
“That’s probably because you expected them to look like the evil men in the black uniforms in Hollywood Nazi movies,” Stein said.
“Probably,” Fischer admitted, chuckling.
“Most of the Nazis you see in movies are Jews, Len, I hope you know.”
“Are they really?” Fischer asked, smiling.
“So my father tells me,” Stein went on. “He tells me that when he goes on the Sabbath to Temple Israel on Hollywood Boulevard, he sees so many familiar Nazi faces that if it wasn’t for the yarmulkes he’d think he was in the Reichstag.”
“You’re teasing, right?” Dorotea asked.
“No, I’m not,” Stein said.
“Let’s talk about the Nazi librarian,” Frade said. “Did you get anything out of him, Siggy?”
“I don’t know how good it is, but I got a lot out of him,” Stein said. “That’s one of the reasons Grandma is pissed at him. But I don’t know if that’s an act, too.”
“What did you get?”
“All sorts of lists and organizational charts about the German embassy. You know, boxes and arrows, saying who’s responsible for what, and who takes orders from whom. Phone numbers. Addresses. Things like that. Shall I get it?”
“What would I do with it now? We’ll have to have von Wachtstein look at it”—he saw the look on Stein’s face, stopped, then went on—“to see if he’s telling us the truth.”
Then he stopped again, and formed his thoughts before going on.
“Fischer, you now know who we have in the German embassy. If the wrong people learn that name, he—and a lot of other good people—are going to die as painfully as the Krauts can kill them.”
“How do you know you can trust . . . Who did you say, von Wachtstein?”
“Major Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein, of the Luftwaffe,” Frade said. “Onetime fighter pilot. Awarded the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross by Hitler himself.”
“And you trust him?”
Frade nodded solemnly. “He saved my life. And there’s more, but I just decided you don’t need to know more.”
“You mind telling me why?”
“There’s a very strong possibility that the wrong people will be asking you questions. And you obviously can’t tell them something you don’t know.”
“Do I get an explanation of that?” Stein asked.
Frade looked at Stein a moment.
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “If this operation of ours blows up the way I think it might—probably will—you, Siggy, are going to be the Lone Ranger out here.”
