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“I put him where we had Colonel Likharev,” Ostrowski said. “I did so because he’s in rather bad shape. His shoulder joint was shattered. They showed me the X-rays, and I felt sorry for him. In other words, I thought it better to put him there right away than have to move him later.”
“I would have put him there right away,” Bischoff said.
“But you would have done that, Konrad, to make him uncomfortable,” Cronley said. “We are going to start to conduct our interrogation of our guest with kindness. You did the right thing, Max. Let’s go see the sonofabitch.”
The men climbed into the jeep.
“You need fuel for the Storch?” Ostrowski asked.
“Normally,” Cronley said, “I top off whenever possible. Since we’re only going back to the Compound, I think we’re all right. But thanks.”
The jeep lurched into motion.
—
They stopped before an ancient, cross-topped building, and everyone got out and went inside. There were no pews or other religious trappings, but Winters could see what had obviously been the altar, and high above it was a small leaded multicolored glass window centered with a cross.
Tedworth led the way through the area where worshippers had once prayed and listened to homilies, then through a door. Inside was an area Winters, who had once been an altarboy, strongly suspected had been where priests and altarboys had once changed into—and out of—their vestments.
It was now occupied by four men, two American sergeants and two men in black-dyed ODs. All were armed with .45 pistols. Four Thompson submachine guns with fifty-round drum magazines hung from wooden pegs on the wall.
The four men popped to attention when they saw Cronley.
“Rest,” Cronley ordered, gesturing with his hand. He then said, “He’s not alone, is he? He’s one of the guys who tried to kidnap Colbert and Sergeant Miller last night.”
“Sergeant Tedworth told us, sir,” a very tall, very thin, coffee-skinned staff sergeant said. “We got one of each downstairs and one of each in with him. Tedworth said she popped three others. She all right, Captain?”
Cronley nodded.
“That is one tough lady,” he said, and then gestured for Tedworth to proceed through a door.
It opened on a stairway. They went down it and found themselves in a small room. In it were a Pole and an American, this one an ebony-skinned sergeant. Both had Thompsons slung from their shoulders and .45 pistols in holsters. Pegs on the wall held two more Thompsons and web belts with holstered .45s.
The men came to attention. Wordlessly, Cronley signaled for them to relax.
“You heard what this guy did?” Cronley asked.
“Abe Lincoln told us,” the sergeant said.
“I don’t want anybody to hurt him, or even be mean to him,” Cronley said. “Anybody. You understand that?”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant and the Pole said on top of each other.
“Max, when we get in there, say ‘Good morning’ in Russian. Maybe he’ll slip and reply or start to.”
Ostrowski nodded.
“Open the door, Honest Abe,” Cronley ordered.
Tedworth pulled a heavy wooden door outward. The hiss of Coleman gas lanterns could be heard.
Cronley went through the door. There was another American sergeant and another Pole, unarmed, in a small windowless chamber. They were in straight-backed chairs.
There was a hospital bed, cranked up so that the man in it was half sitting up. He looked to be Slavic and in his mid-thirties. He was wearing hospital pajamas and a bathrobe. Beside the bed was a white hospital table, and under it a hospital bedpan.
“Good morning,” Max said in Russian.
The man in the bed didn’t respond.
