"It means Egad's the deputy purchasing agent for the commissary system."
"Am I wrong, or does that translate to 'assistant buyer for the grocery stores'?"
"No, you're right, but don't look so condescending. It's a tough job, and he's absolutely amazing with details. And he knows everything there is to know about army logistics. Ask him sometime what's involved in getting fifty thousand quarts of Belgian strawberries onto the shelves in ninety commissaries in six different countries before they spoil, if you don't believe me."
"I believe you."
"Which probably won't do you any good. You'll hear about it anyway. Everybody does. But it's worth it. Without Egad-especially since Colonel Robey tends to be a little, well-"
"Off in the clouds?"
"Immersed in thought, I was going to say. Anyway, without Egad, peculiar as he can be, The Plundered Past would be a madhouse." She shook her head firmly. "Nope, sorry. I can't see him as the bad guy."
"All right, who can you see?"
"Well, I could see Earl. Not for any special reason, I mean, just
… What is it? Did I say something clever?"
"I was just remembering something. Harry's a little suspicious of him, too."
"He is? About what? Why?"
"I don't know. He was asking me what I knew about him."
"Oh yes, you knew him from before, didn't you?"
"A little. He's one of the most respected conservators in the States; nobody better. I grant you, though, he oesn't add much to the general hilarity level, does he?"
She laughed and pushed away her empty plate. "Are we going to look at some animals, or are we not?"
"By all means." I picked up her napkin. "Mustard," I said, and dabbed at the tip of her nose, thereby establishing a more intimate level between us, in my own mind at least.
We went from enclosure to enclosure in the handsome zoo, looking at the Elefanten, the Baren, the shaggy Buffel, and one grouchy, cold Kangaruh, and when we got cold ourselves, we went inside to watch the apes get fed.
"What about Robey?" I asked, while the keeper brought out cardboard boxes of oranges, bananas, and lettuce. "How much do you know about him?"
Anne burst out laughing. She had a way of doing it with a sudden little explosion of air, as if she'd been holding her breath, that always made me want to laugh, too.
I smiled, but I didn't know what about. "What's the joke?"
"What made you ask about Colonel Robey?"
"Well, he's the only one we haven't talked about, and-"
"No, I mean, why did you ask just now? This minute?" She was still snuffling with laughter, hardly able to talk, and with her eyes she motioned me to look at the glass-walled, tiled cell in front of us.
I frowned. "The orangutan…?" And then I shouted with laughter, too. It was impossible not to. The thing was, it looked exactly like Robey. Not something like him, but just like him: soft heavy body, dreamy drowsy eyes, even a wispy cloud of orange-red hair that covered but didn't hide his scalp. While the other animals ate, the orang sat placidly, slowly rotating a banana before its face, lost in contemplation of its mysteries.
"God," I sputtered, "put a pipe in its mouth and a uniform on it, and it could chair our next staff meeting. Nobody would know the difference."
We had to move on, to a morose gorilla, before we could stop laughing.
"That's better," I said. "More like Earl."
Her hand went to her mouth. "Chris, please, don't start me off again." She pulled in a deep breath. "Whew. Now, what was the question?"
'Tell me about Mark."
"Right. He's head of HNR-darn, did it again; it's an occupational hazard-Host-Nation Relations. As I understand it, The Plundered Past truly was his personal idea, and so he likes to oversee it, but Egad does all the real administration, and I help where I can."
The apes had gotten their food, and the building was getting stuffy, so we went outside again, averting our eyes from the orangutan. We stood for ten minutes in front of the cage with the famous Chinese pandas, waiting for them to do something, but they slept, snoring, the whole time, curled up in chubby balls of black and white.
Anne looked at them and laughed when they scratched their noses or turned over in their sleep with discreet little snorts. And I looked at Anne, trying to figure out what it was that was so devilishly attractive about her. She was pretty, but not that pretty. She reminded me, in fact, of the heroines in romance novels. Not quite beautiful in the usual sense (whatever that is); eyes set a little too far apart (never too close together); nose a trifle too pert, even tilted (never too long or hooked down); mouth a little too wide and generous (never narrow, and never, never ungenerous). The total effect was devastating.
She caught me looking at her, or maybe I let her catch me, and we turned away from the pandas to begin walking again. "I know a little about everyone involved with the show now, except for you," I said, cunningly shifting the conversation to a personal level. "Who's Anne Greene?"
"So I'm a suspect, too?"
"You wouldn't want me to play favorites, would you?" I was ready to kick myself for being arch. This fumbling, getting-to-know-each-other process was positively painful. It had me self-consciously chafing over almost everything I said. What had been titillating fun at eighteen or nineteen-at least that was the way I remembered it-was agony for an out-of-practice thirty-four-year-old.
But still titillating.
"Yes, I would," Anne said, "but I'll tell you anyway. I'm on special assignment to Colonel Robey. Ordinarily I work in Community Liaison Services-"
"Usually called CLS, of course."
"No; for some reason ordinarily called Community Liaison, but you're learning. I'm a sort of glorified tour guide, a contact between visiting VIPs-congressmen, foreign dignitaries, media people-and the military community. I have to make sure they get to see who they're supposed to, and don't get to see who or what they're not supposed to. And I seem to spend a lot of my time smoothing over rough spots before they become 'incidents'-not always successfully."
"You don't sound like a glorified tour guide to me. Where are you headquartered?"
"Berchtesgaden. That's where I'm taking off for tonight. The annual visit of the Congressional oversight committee on military morale starts tomorrow." She grimaced. "The big event of the social year."
"I didn't know there were any American facilities in
Berchtesgaden. Isn't that where Hilter had his mountaintop retreat-the Obersalzberg, is it called? Are you anywhere near there?"
"We're in it. Or on it. The whole Obersalzberg is a U.S. military R and R operation. Some of the Nazi-era buildings are still standing, and they're army hotels now. There are restaurants, a golf course, ski lift-it's a great place to show visitors, which is why I'm stationed there; lucky me."
"You like it?"
"Anybody would like it. Hilter had a great eye for scenery. The Bavarian Alps are breathtaking. It'll be like heaven after Berlin."
"I imagine so. How long will you be there?"
"Eight days. I'll be back next weekend for the reception."
Eight days? I wanted to groan with dismay. Eight whole days? I smiled and said, "That'll be nice for you."
We had left the zoo and turned into the Tiergarten, that elegant swath of woods and meadow in the heart of the city, green even in December. We walked up the Spreeweg, past the Schloss Belvedere, the delicate canary-yellow chateau that serves as the presidential residence in Berlin, and then along John-Foster-Dulles-Allee, where we watched chilled, miserable-looking scullers in sleek five-man shells gliding an ice-free quarter mile or so up and down the Spree.
For perhaps fifteen minutes we didn't talk while I moped along, and then I had an idea. "Berchtesgaden sounds great," I mused casually. "I wonder if my ID card would get me in. I'll probably be able to use a little R and R before long."