“That should keep you from trying to run away,” Frade said.
“Fuck you!” Stevenson said.
“Well, if you’re shy, Jerome, I can have Siggie and Hansel pour water all over you. That would keep you from running, and you and your pal could keep your undersized equipment secret.”
“Frade, you’re going to pay for this!”
“Siggie, there’s a water pitcher under the sink,” Frade said, pointing.
Stein had just about filled the water pitcher when Supervisory Special Agent Stevenson started taking off his shoes.
[FOUR]
Colonel Robert Mattingly walked into the room fifteen minutes later. On his heels was Master Sergeant Dunwiddie, now wearing an officer equivalent civilian employee uniform, and with a Thompson submachine gun slung from his shoulder.
Stevenson’s eyes widened at the sight of him.
“Good, you’re still up,” Mattingly said. “The convoy couldn’t get past the Russians.” He paused and then asked, “What the hell?”
“Sir, the fat one with his hands covering his crotch tells me that he’s a Secret Service agent sent here by Secretary of the Treasury Morgenthau to keep Nazis from escaping to South America. You ever hear anything about that?”
“No,” Mattingly said. “I haven’t.”
“Tell the colonel what you told me, Jerome,” Frade said.
“Who are you, Colonel?” Stevenson demanded.
“I’m the man asking the questions,” Mattingly said. “Question one: Why are you sitting there half naked?”
“That was my idea, sir. In case they decided to run,” Frade said.
“Good thinking!” Mattingly said. “Question two: What’s this about the secretary of the Treasury sending you over here?”
“We have been sent here by Secretary . . .” Stevenson began.
“If I am to believe you, Mr. Stevenson—and I’m finding it hard to do so, frankly—but what I am to understand,” Mattingly said, “is that without seeking the permission of SHAEF, the secretary of the Treasury has sent you here on a private Nazi-hunting operation. Does that about sum it up?”
“May we put our clothing on, Colonel?” Stevenson asked.
Mattingly made a gesture with his hand signaling that that was permissible.
“Thank you,” Stevenson said, and reached for his underpants.
“If what you have told me is true,” Mattingly said, “this will have to be brought to the attention of General Eisenhower—”
“Who will, I feel sure, be happy to accept, indeed be grateful for, the secretary’s desire to help—”
Mattingly silenced him by holding up his hand.
“A word of friendly advice, Mr. Stevenson,” Mattingly said. “Those of us who work closely with the Supreme Commander have learned that it is really ill-advised to predict what General Eisenhower will do in any circumstance.
“Now, there are several problems with bringing this situation to the Supreme Commander’s attention. One of these is the hour. It’s almost midnight. I’m sure the Supreme Commander, wherever he is, is sound asleep.”
“
Wherever he is?”
Mattingly went on: “SHAEF is in the process of moving here from France, which is another problem. No telling where ol’ Ike has laid his head tonight. But the real problem is that you have arrived at a most unfortunate time. We are in the midst of solving a rather difficult problem . . .”