ever did things halfway, did he? Damn, I'm proud of that elderly gentleman!"
"You don't understand, Drew. Some-no, many of those names are among the most prominent people in our respective countries, men and women of high profiles and fine reputations. It's all so extraordinary."
"If Harry brought it out, it's also goddamned authentic. No one on earth could turn my brother."
"Yes, that's what I've been told."
"So what's the problem? Go after the bastards! Deep cover isn't simply a matter of weeks or months or even years. It could just as easily be decades, the dream of strategists in every intelligence think tank you can name."
"It's all so difficult to comprehend-"
"Don't comprehend. Go to work!"
"Heinrich Kreitz totally rejects four people on the Bonn list, three men and a woman."
"What makes him an-all-knowing God here?"
"They have Jewish blood; they lost relatives in the camps, I Specifically Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen."
"How does he know that?"
"They're in their sixties now, but each was an early student of his when he first taught in grammar school, each he protected-from the Ministry of Aryan Investigation at the risk of his own life."
"It's possible he was conned. From the two meetings we've had, he strikes me as being very conn able
"That's the academic in him. As with so many, he's both hesitant and loquacious, but neither weakness contradicts his brilliance. He's a perceptive man of enormous experience."
"The last part could also describe Harry. There's no way he'd bring out false information."
"I'm told there are some extraordinary names on the Washington list. Unbelievable was the word Sorenson used."
"So was Lindbergh; the Spirit of St. Louis was on Goering's side until young Charlie figured out that they were the evil people and then fought like hell for us."
"I don't think that kind of comparison is even called for."
"Probably not. I'm only trying to illustrate a point."
"Suppose your brother's right? Even half right, or a quarter right, or even half of that-or even far less than that?"
"He brought out the names, Mr. Ambassador. No one else did or could, so I suggest you proceed as if they were bona fides until proven otherwise."
"What you're saying, if I read you, is that they're all guilty until proven innocent."
"We're not talking law, sir, we're talking about the reemergence of the worst goddamned plague this world has ever seen, including the bubonic! There's no time for legal claptrap. We have to stop them now."
"We once said that about the Communists, and the reputed Communists, and the vast majority in our own country proved to be nothing of the sort."
"This is different! These ncos aren't boring within like the Nazis did in the thirties; they've had the power; they remember how they got it. Fear. Armed gangs roaming through the streets in blue jeans, streaked faces, and chopped hair; then come the uniform seven the shovels and the boots of the Schultse (ein, the first of Hitter's thugs -and everything goes berserk! We have to stop them!"
"With only the names we have?" asked Courtland softly.
"Men and women of such high regard that no one would ever suspect them of being remotely part of this insanity. How do we proceed?
How do any of us proceed?"
"With people like me, Mr. Ambassador. Men and women trained to break through the shells and get to the truth."
"That has a distinctly unattractive ring to it, Latham. Whose truth? "
"The truth, Courtland!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Forgive me-Mr. Courtland, or Mr. Ambassador. The time for diplomatic-even ethical-niceties are over! I could have been a riddled corpse in my bed at the Meurice. These bastards play hardball, and the balls are made of concrete exploded from weapons."
"I think I understand where you're coming from-"
"Try living it, sir. Try picturing your ambassadorial bed blown apart while you're crouched against the wall, wondering if one of those bursts will find your face or your throat or your chest. This is war-undercover war, I grant you, but war nevertheless."
"Where would you begin?"
"I've got a place to start, but I want Harry's list of names here in France while Moreau and I go after the one we have."
"The Deuxieme's not yet cleared for any conceivable French collaborators."
"What?"
"You heard me. Again, where would you start?"
"With the name of the man who rented the car that our famous, if crazy out-of-his-head, actor identified north of the Pont Neuf."
"Moreau gave it to you?"
"Of course he did. The car on the Montaigne that Bressard smashed into was a bust. It was from Marseilles, but the rental is so convoluted, it would take weeks