I don't vouch for the language or the professional terminology. As I say, I never learned how it was really done; and I never was a general or even a West Point graduate; and as far as aviation was concerned, it was all I could do, even during the war, to tell a Spitfire from a Messerschmidt. Planes were just something I climbed into, rode in a while, and then climbed out of after we'd landed on some strange and bumpy field in the dark-or jumped out of with a parachute, which always scared me silly. Given a choice, I always preferred to start a mission with a boat ride. I suppose that is another thing I owe to some ancestral Viking; for a man brought up in the middle of what used to be called the Great American Desert, I turned out to be a pretty good sailor. Unfortunately, a great deal of Europe can't be reached by boat.

The German general's name was actually von Lausche instead of von Schmidt, and he was based near Kronheim instead of St. Marie-if such a place exists- but he was, as I've indicated, a military genius and an 18-carat bastard. He had his quarters-you could spot them by the armed guard in front-only a few doors down the street from the tavern I've already mentioned. I kept a long-range watch over the house after I'd made my contact. It wasn't in the orders, precisely. In fact, I was supposed to show no interest in the place at all, until the time came. I didn't really know what I was watching for, since I U already received from Tina a full report on von Lausche's habits and the routine of the guards, but it was the first time I'd worked with a woman, let alone a young and attractive girl who'd deliberately placed herself in such a position, and I had a feeling I'd better keep myself handy.

The feeling paid off later in the week. It was a gray evening, and Kronheim was having a little wet, belated snow just to make things more pleasant. There was a stir of movement and Tina came running into sight partially undressed, a small white figure in my night glasses. She stumbled past the guards out into the slush of the street, carrying in her arms what was apparently the cheap dark skirt and jacket she'd worn into the place an hour earlier.

I hurried out and intercepted her as she came around a nearby corner. I don't know where she was going, and I don't think she knew, either. It was strictly against instructions and common sense for me to contact her so openly and so close to our target; and taking her back to my place was sheer criminal folly, endangering the whole mission as well as the French family sheltering me. But I could see that I had an emergency on my hands and it was time to shoot the works.

Luck was with us-luck and the lousy weather. I got her inside unseen, made sure of the lock on the door and the blind on the window, and lit a candle; it was an attic room, not wired for lights. She was still hugging the bundle of clothes to her breasts. Without speaking she swung around to show me her back. The whip had made a mess of her cheap blouse and underwear, and had drawn considerable blood from the skin beneath. -

"I'll kill the pig," she whispered. "I'll kill him!"

"Yes," I said. "On the seventeenth of the month, two days from now, at four in the morning, you'll kill him."

That was what I was there for, to see that she didn't go off half-cocked-it was her first mission with us-to make sure of the touch, and to get her out alive afterwards, if possible. There might be guards to silence; that was also my job. I was kind of a specialist at silencing guards silently. I never touched her, or even indicated that I might like to, those first half dozen days. After all, I was in charge and it would have been bad for discipline.

"You mean," she whispered, "you mean, you want me to go back?" Her eyes were wide and dark, violetblack now, deep and alive as I'd never seen them. "Back to that swine?"

I drew a long breath and said, "Hell, kid, you're supposed to enjoy it."

Slowly the darkness died out of her eyes. She sighed, and touched her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. When she spoke again, her voice had changed, becoming flat and toneless: "But of course, chйri. You are quite right, as always. I am being stupid, I love to be whipped by the general. Help me on with the clothes, gently…

Now as she walked past me into the center of my studio, fifteen years later and five thousand miles away from Kronheim, I could see a little hairline mark across the back of her bare arm. It wasn't pronounced enough to be called a scar. I picked up her stole and took my Colt automatic from a concealed pocket in the satin lining and tucked it inside my belt. I took a revolver- presumably Barbara Herrera's-from her purse and found that the girl had packed a real weapon under all those skirts and petticoats: one of the compact, aluminum-framed.38 Specials. I'd read about them in the sporting magazines to which I contribute fishing yarns from time to time. It was only a handful, light as a toy; and I was willing to bet that with so little weight to soak up the recoil of a full-charge load, it would kick like a pile-driver. I stuck it into the hip pocket of my jeans.

Then I took Tina's gun and carried it, with the rest of her belongings, to where she stood looking thoughtfully at the open bathroom door as if she hadn't quite decided what should be done with what was inside. I put the purse and pistol into her hands, and laid the furs over her shoulders. I touched the little mark on her arm, and she glanced at me.

"Does it still show?"

"Very little," I said, and she turned to look at me fully, and her eyes were remembering exactly how it had been.

"We killed the pig, didn't we?" she murmured. "We killed him good. And we killed the one who almost caught us as we were getting away, and, hiding in the bushes, waiting, we made love like animals to wipe out for me the memory of that Nazi beast, while they hunted us in the dark and rain. And then the planes came in, those beautiful planes, those beautiful American planes, coming right on the hour, on the minute, coming in with the dawn, filling the sky with thunder and the earth with fire… And now you have a wife and three pretty children and write stories about cowboys and Indians!"

"Yes," I said, "and you seem to be doing your best to break up my happy home. Did you have to shoot the girl?"

"But yes," she said, "of course we had to shoot the girl. Why do you think Mac sent us here, my love, except to shoot her?"

CHAPTER 11

IT changed things. Somehow, even after learning how well she'd been armed, I'd assumed Barbara Herrera was merely a minor character who'd blundered into the line of fire, so to speak. But if she'd been important enough that Mac had made her the target of a full-scale mission.. -.

Before I could frame a question, somebody knocked on the door. Tina and I looked at each other, startled; then I cast a hasty, appraising glance around the studio, reflecting that Beth must have seen the truck still standing in the yard and my lights on, and come over to help me pack, perhaps with a cup of coffee. The only things I could see that might attract her attention were the shotgun by the door, the pistol in my belt, and, of course, Tina.

"Into the bathroom, quick,"! whispered, "and flush the john when you get there. Count ten, then close and lock the door." She nodded, and hurried away, moving on tiptoe so the sound of her heels would not betray her. I turned towards the front door and called: "Just a minute. I'll be right out."

The john flushed-our timing was good-and I tucked the.22 inside my wool shirt, made sure the.38 was well buried in my hip pocket, and stuck the shotgun back in the rack. The bathroom door was just closing. It occurred to me, rather unpleasantly, that it was my wife I was deceiving with such nice, clock-like precision, and with the aid of another woman, a former mistress, to boot. But there was no alternative. I could hardly explain Tina's presence without going into details I wasn't free to divulge, nor could I very well escort Beth into the bathroom, show her the thing in the tub, and suggest that she grab a shovel from the garage and start digging… Thinking along these lines, I pulled the studio door open, and saw Frank Loris's bulky figure outside.