"Reasoning is secondary to Bollinger. Motives come first. Stay well, stay alive, and be terribly careful."
In the embassy's infirmary, actually a modern clinic of six rooms with state-of-the-art medical equipment, Gerhardt Kroeger was strapped to the table. A single transparent tube combining the flows from two plastic pouches above his head was inserted into his left arm, the needle penetrating the antecubital vein. He had been tranquilized prior to the procedure, a passive patient who had no idea what was in store for him.
"If he dies," said the embassy doctor, his eyes on the electrocardiogram screen, "you pricks take the fall. I'm here to save lives, not execute them."
"Tell that to the families of the men he shot to death without knowing who they were," replied Drew.
Stanley Witkowski elbowed Latham aside.
"Let me know when he's reaching comatose," he ordered the Ohysician.
Drew stepped back, standing beside Karin as they all watched, both fascinated and repulsed by what was taking place.
"He's entering the mode of least resistance," said the doctor.
"Now," he added severely.
"And orders or no orders, I'm shutting the IV off in two minutes! Christ, a minute after that, and he's dead! . I don't need this job, fellas. I can pay off the government for medical school in three or four years, but I can't erase this for all the bread in the Treasury Department."
"Then stand aside, youngster, and let me go to work." Witkowski bent over Kroeger's body, speaking at first softly into his left ear, asking the usual questions about his identity and his position in the neo-Nazi movement. They were answered briefly, succinctly, in a monotone, and then the colonel raised his voice; it became gradually threatening until it began to echo off the walls.
"Now we've reached the nucleus, Doktor! Why do you want Harry Latham killed?"
Kroeger writhed on the table, straining to break the straps as he coughed and spat out gray phlegm. The embassy physician grabbed Witkowski's 'arm; the colonel shook it off violently.
"You've got thirty seconds," said the doctor.
"Tell me, you tenth-rate Hitler, or you die now! I have no use for you, you son of a bitch! Tell me or go join your Oberf4ihrer in hell.
It's now or, you're gone! Oblivion, Herr Doktor!"
"Now you must stop," said the embassy's physician, again grabbing the colonel's arm.
"Get the fuck away from me, pissant! .. . Did you hear that, Kroeger? I don't give a goddamn if you live or die! Tell me! Why do you have to kill Harry Latham? Tell me! "
"It's his brain!" shrieked Gerhardt Kroeger, thrashing on the table with such force he broke one of the leather straps.
"His brain!" the Nazi repeated, then fell into unconsciousness.
"That's all you get, Witkowski," said the doctor firmly, shutting off the valves of the combined intravenous injections.
"His heart rate is up to a hundred and forty. Another five points, he's finished."
"Let me tell you something, medicine man," said the veteran G-2 colonel, "do you know what the heart rate is of the two hotel employees this scuzball blew across the lobby? It's zero, Doctor, and I don't think that's very nice.
The three of them sat at a table in an outdoor cafe on the rue de Varenne, Drew still in civilian clothes, Karin holding his hand underneath. Witkowski kept shaking his head, his bewilderment obvious.
"What the hell did the son of a bitch mean when he kept saying 'his brain'?"
"The first thought that comes to mind," said Latham reluctantly, "is brainwashing, which I find hard to believe."
"I agree," said De Vries.
"I knew that side of Harry, his obsession with control, if you like, and I can't imagine his being mentally warped. He had too many defenses."
"So where are we?" asked the colonel.
"An autopsy?" suggested Karin.
"What could it tell us, that he was poisoned?" answered Witkowski.
"We can assume that, or something like it. Besides, all autopsies are assigned by the courts and must be registered with the Ministry of Health with accompanying medical records. We can't take the chance. Remember, Harry's not Harry now."
"Then it's back to the beginning," said Drew.
"And I don't even know where that is."
In the morgue on the rue Fontenay, the attendant whose duty it was to check on the corpses in their refrigerated, temporary tombs, went down the line, sliding out each body -to ascertain that the bloodless corpses were properly identified, and not moved due to overcrowding. He reached number one hundred one, a special case as determined by a red check mark signifying no removal, and opened it.