Winters jumped out of his chair and went to her and took the telephone.
His face brightened as he listened.
“I’ll be right there,” he announced after a moment, handed the telephone to Florence, and looked at Cronley.
“Sorry, I have to go,” he said.
“You have to go where?”
“The stork is about to land at the Compound.”
“Where the hell was the Storch?” Cronley demanded, and then understood. “Oh! Christ, she can’t have a baby in the Compound.”
“That’s why I have to go. To take her to the 98th General.”
“Calm down, Tom,” Cronley said. “Get on the horn to Bonehead. Have him take Barbara to the hospital. You meet her there.”
“Bonehead is already there. He took Ginger there at about five this morning. I didn’t have the chance to tell you.”
“Well then, what the hell are you waiting for?” Cronley said. “Get going! Tell the ladies good luck.”
“Talk about timing!” Winters said, and headed for the door.
After a moment, Ziegler said, “Well, I guess Tom won’t be going with us to Wissembourg. He and Bonehead will be holding hands in the waiting room of the maternity ward.”
That triggered laughter and chuckles.
“There’s no point in anybody going to Wissembourg,” Cronley said.
“I thought you and the colonel had to see Fortin,” Major Wallace challenged.
“We do,” McMullen said. “But I’d be surprised if there’s an airfield there. So we’d have to drive. Forty-odd miles on bad roads. And w
hen we get there, then what? We wander around what Wagner describes as a little dorf, stopping people and asking, ‘Excuse me, Madam—or Gnädige Frau—we’re looking for a senior officer of French intelligence named Fortin who’s chasing a chap named Stauffer. Can you point out either of them to us, please?’”
“Ouch!” Wallace said. “I will try to atone for that stupid suggestion, Colonel, sir, by suggesting that I stick around here until we get the stuff from the photo lab. I will then have someone fly me to Frankfurt, where I will catch the Air Force courier flight to Berlin. Meanwhile, you and Cronley can fly to Strasbourg and wait for Fortin to return from Wissembourg.”
He paused long enough for that to sink in, then asked, “How’s that sound to you, Cronley?”
That wasn’t an announcement. He’s asking my permission.
What’s that all about?
“That’s fine with me, if it’s all right with you, Colonel McMullen.”
“It’s either that, or go over to the 98th and offer our moral support to the fathers-to-be.”
“Thank you,” Wallace said. “I’d really like to get a feel about what’s going on in Berlin. And I’ve been thinking that if I show up at the Glienicke Bridge with the film of the funeral, Serov will accept that I’m simply your messenger. And it might help Bob Mattingly’s morale if he sees me there.”
“How does Colonel Mattingly feel about attractive women?” Janice asked. “Would seeing me on that bridge do anything for his morale?”
Cronley shut off his automatic mouth just in time. He was about to say, You’re not going anywhere near that goddamn bridge!
Instead, he asked, “Colonel, do you think Comrade Serov would shoot our Janice if she walked out onto the bridge, taking pictures with her Leica, beside Major Wallace?”
McMullen considered that for five seconds, which seemed longer, before replying.
“Possibly, but unlikely,” he said. “We haven’t paid a lot of attention to public relations in this, have we?”