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“She customarily went around armed?” Ziegler asked.
“We all do,” Cronley said. He chuckled and pointed at Hessinger. “Freddy even wears his with his bathrobe.”
“Hessinger’s carrying a .45,” Ziegler said. “Colbert had a non-issue S&W .38 with the thumb part of the hammer filed off. It could only be fired double-action. One of your fancy weapons?”
“No. But I’m going to say it is, so we—she—gets it back. Is there going to be a problem with that?”
“Far be it from me to deny a good-looking blonde her right to file three notches in the grip of her trusty .38,” Ziegler said.
“Here it is!” Hessinger called, waving a credentials folder in the air. “She left it in the safe.”
“One more point for my yet-to-be-proven, or disproven, theory,” Cronley said.
“Which is, Mr. Cronley?” Kellogg asked.
“Sir, I think the NKGB may have attempted to kidnap Miss Colbert and Sergeant Miller.”
“The NKGB?” Kellogg asked incredulously. “Why?”
“To see what they know about certain subjects.”
“What certain subjects? Isn’t that germane to this investigation?”
Ziegler thought: Dumb question, Colonel.
“Colonel, with all respect, answering that would cross a line I’m not willing to cross.”
“I understand,” Kellogg said, his face and tone making it clear that while he understood, he didn’t like being told it was none of his business.
Then he stood up.
“I’d better get over to the scene,” Kellogg said. “The post commander by now has heard of the shooting and is liable to be there. What do I tell him?”
“That DCI-Europe has taken over the investigation, and you have been told the less said about it, the better.”
Kellogg nodded at Cronley, and then walked out of the room without saying another word.
“I think he’s pissed,” Ziegler observed.
“Can’t be helped,” Cronley said, and added: “I’m used to people being pissed at me.”
He looked at Hessinger.
“Get dressed, Freddy, and go with Ziegler and bring our Claudette home.”
“What about Sergeant Miller?” Hessinger asked.
“If she’s been sedated, she’s better off in the hospital. When Max gets here, I’ll have him send people to sit on her.”
“You ever hear of the 711th MKRC?” Ziegler asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“Right next to the ambulance with the bodies was another one, red crosses painted over, with those bumper markings.”
“And what did Miss Colbert tell you about that?” Cronley asked.
“All Miss Colbert said to me—again and again—was that she wasn’t going to say a thing—actually she said ‘a fucking thing’—until you were either in the room or on the telephone.”
