“Cowboys and Indians,” Orlovsky said.
“Cavalry and Indians,” Dunwiddie said. “If it wasn’t for the Cavalry, the Indians would have run the cowboys out of the West.”
“How interesting,” Orlovsky said. “But you said you went to school in Vermont?”
“After the Spanish American War, 1898, especially after the Ninth Cavalry beat Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders up San Juan Hill in Cuba,” Dunwiddie continued his lecture, “the Army finally got around to admitting that maybe black people could be officers. But they had to be college graduates. So my grandfather, Joshua H. Dunwiddie, who had been first sergeant of Troop B of the Ninth Cavalry, took his discharge and Teddy Roosevelt got him into Norwich…”
“Which is?”
“… From which he was graduated in the Class of 1900 and commissioned a second lieutenant of Cavalry. My father is Norwich ’twenty, and I’m Norwich ’forty-five.”
“It’s a school, a military academy?”
Cronley offered: “We have a number of private military academies, Konstantin.”
“Of which Norwich is the oldest,” Dunwiddie said.
“I went to one of them, the Texas Agriculture and Military Academy,” Cronley added. “And General George C. Marshall, who is our senior officer, went to another of them, the Virginia Military Institute. General Patton, come to think of it, went to VMI before he went to West Point.”
“Anyway, we Dunwiddies go to Norwich. Where we learned to appreciate Vermont maple syrup, which is why, my mother having sent me a half dozen pints of it, you are now about to pour it on your waffles.”
Orlovsky smiled and chuckled.
“You said you’d gone to Leningrad State University,” Cronley said. “Is that where you got your commission?”
Orlovsky’s face showed he was wondering if the question was innocent. And then Cronley saw disappointment on it when Orlovsky realized Cronley and Dunwiddie had an agenda.
Is he sorry he fell for our charm, and didn’t immediately suspect an agenda?
Or maybe he’s disappointed in me personally.
That disorientation of Bischoff’s wasn’t entirely ineffective. He had a lot of time to think in that cell with no lights and no company but the smell of his own feces.
And then I came along and was nice to him.
And was even nicer today.
He thought he had found a friend, and what he’s disappointed about is that he knows he should have known better.
And then Cronley saw what he thought was resignation.
“No,” Orlovsky said. “The Leningrad State University has no connection with the military or the NKGB. Actually, I was sent there by the NKGB. I took what you Americans would call a master’s degree at Leningrad. Then I took what I suppose you could call my doctorate at the Felix Dzerzhinsky Federal Security Service Academy in Moscow. When I graduated, I was commissioned.”
“As a second lieutenant?”
“As a captain.”
He’s telling the truth, which means (a) he suspects I already knew where NKGB officers come from, and (b) has decided that since he’s a dead man, it doesn’t matter what he tells me, unless it’s the names of the Germans he’s turned. And he’s not going to give them to me.
“Who’s Felix whatever you said?” Dunwiddie asked.
“Felix Dzerzhinsky founded the Cheka, which evolved over the years into the NKGB,” Orlovsky replied. Then he laid his knife and fork neatly on his plate, and then pushed it several inches away from him.
“You can eat your breakfast, Konstantin,” Cronley said. “You’re not going to be shot. At least not by us.”
When Orlovsky looked at him but made no move, Cronley said, “Don’t be a fool. After the starvation diet our pal Bischoff has had you on, you need the strength.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard that we Americans always feed the condemned man a hearty meal,” Dunwiddie said, and smiled.
Orlovsky considered both comments for a moment, then pulled the plate to him. He began to saw a piece off the ham steak, and finally said, “Thank you.”
“Our pleasure,” Dunwiddie said. “Think nothing of it.”
Orlovsky smiled as he forked a ham chunk into his mouth. When he had finished chewing it appreciatively, he said, “Delicious. Thank you for… encouraging… me to eat it.”
“We could do no less, Konstantin,” Dunwiddie said.
“What did you really hope to gain from your hospitality?” Orlovsky asked. “You know I am not going to give what you’re asking.”
“I think you will,” Cronley said, hoping his voice conveyed more confidence than he felt. “We have three or four days for you to consider the advantages of telling us.”
“And after four days, I’ll be shot?”
“Not by us,” Cronley said.
“By Bischoff? Or another of Gehlen’s people?”
Well, here goes.
This probably won’t work, but since I can think of nothing else…
“If you are shot,” Cronley said, “I’d say the odds are the shooter will be a fellow alumnus of the Felix Dzerzhinsky Federal Security Service Academy.”
Orlovsky looked intently at him, but his face showed nothing.
“Your assets — the Germans you have turned, Konstantin, and are so nobly protecting — are going to be your downfall. Over the next few days, I’m going to make sure they see what great friends you and I have become. They’re clever fellows, and I have every confidence that they will know how to pass that information along to whoever was out there waiting for you the night Sergeant Tedworth caught you.”
He let that sink in for a moment, then went on: “There had to be someone waiting for you, Konstantin. You didn’t miraculously appear at Kloster Grünau like the Christmas fairy does on Christmas Eve. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he — or they — are out there as we speak, peering at us through binoculars and wondering what the hell you’re doing in here right now. As a matter of fact, I hope they are.
“Step Two, or Three or Four, presuming you remain uncooperative, will be your being trussed up like a Christmas turkey and loaded into my Storch. I will then fly you to Berlin, put you into the trunk of a staff car, and drive you into the Russian Zone, where I will leave you sitting on the curb.”
Orlovsky looked as if he was going to say something, but Cronley put up his hand to stop him.
“I don’t want to sound rude, but right now I want you to think things over very carefully before you say anything.”
Cronley stood.
“Finish your breakfast, Konstantin,” he said, then turned to Dunwiddie. “When he’s finished, have him taken back to das Gasthaus.”
“Dressed like that?”
“Oh, no. Dressed as he was when we brought him here. For the time being, let’s let everybody think we still don’t like him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll see you soon, Konstantin, after you’ve had a little time to think things over,” Cronley said, and then walked out of the sitting room.
[FOUR]
Cronley was sitting alone at the bar with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s when Dunwiddie walked in ten minutes later.