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“You haven’t told me what you know about this meeting,” Rachel said.
“Mattingly called me at five this morning. He was more than a little pissed when he learned how long it was going to take me to get up here. That’s all I know. Except that when I get here, I’m not to speak unless spoken to, and I am forbidden to ask questions.”
There suddenly came from behind the sound of a siren.
Sirens, plural, Cronley thought as he turned to look behind the Chrysler.
He saw two M-8 armored cars—sort of light tanks, with wheels rather than tracks—coming up the road.
“What the hell is that?”
Rachel steered the car to the side of the road and stopped.
“I think it’s golf time,” she said.
“What?”
The M-8s were almost to them. Cronley saw they had chrome sirens and flashing red lights mounted on them. The men wore white Military Police accoutrements and chrome-plated steel helmets. He also saw they weren’t going as fast as he had thought.
And there’s nobody on the road ahead of them, so what’s with the sirens?
The first M-8 rumbled past them. The MPs in it looked down at them.
Arrogantly, Cronley thought. More than suspiciously, but that, too.
Then the second M-8 rumbled past.
Cronley saw that its bulk had concealed what was behind it: an olive drab Packard Clipper. A small American flag was mounted on the right fender, and on the left was mounted a red flag with five stars in a circle.
It was impossible to look into the Packard as it passed. The windows were darkened.
“That has to be Eisenhower,” Cronley said.
“God, you’re clever,” Rachel said, gently mocking him. Then she added, as a third M-8 passed them, bringing up the tail of the little convoy, “My love, even generals have to play golf.”
“He’s headed to the Schlosshotel to play golf?”
“Either that, or he’s going to your meeting. I’d bet on the golf.”
“And he needs that armored column to get to the golf course?”
“Ike didn’t think he needed it either. He hates it. Actually, he said it was preposterous. But he finally deferred to the professional judgment of General Greene.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Sometimes.”
“Those MPs are really CIC agents.”
“Really?” His surprise was evident.
“You didn’t know that CIC is in charge of protecting Ike and Patton and people like that?”
“Not until just now.”
“And running those security details is an additional duty for Tony. My husband.”
