"Enrico Rodriguez, my father's... sergeant," Clete said. "He never goes... went... anywhere without him."
"Clete, I just don't know," Graham said.
"Cletus, I'm sorry," the Old Man said. "I-"
"Those sonsofbitches," Clete said bitterly. "They couldn't get me, so they got him!"
"We don't know that, Clete," Graham said.
Clete snorted.
"What do you mean, 'they couldn't get you'?" Martha asked, horrified.
"Nothing," Clete said.
"I want to know," Martha went on, "what Cletus meant when he said they tried to get him!"
Graham, visibly uncomfortable, looked as if he was carefully framing a re-ply.
"If you're thinking about telling me this is none of my business, save your breath," Martha said.
Graham looked at her directly for a long moment before deciding that she could not be cowed.
"An attempt was made on Clete's life, Mrs. Howell," Graham replied. "Ob-viously, it failed."
"An attempt was made on his life? By whom?"
"In Clete's case, we have reason to believe it was the Germans," Graham said.
"Christ," Clete said. "We know it was the Germans. And it was the Ger-mans who killed my father."
"We don't know that," Graham argued.
"I'll damned sure find out when I get down there."
"We have to talk about that, Clete," Graham said.
"What do you mean, talk about it?"
"This unfortunate development opens a number of other possibilities for us," Graham said, "which we really should not-I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Howell- discuss in your presence."
"Us meaning the OSS?" the Old Man interrupted.
"Yes," Graham said, simply.
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Clete said.
"We've been thinking-" Graham began.
"We is who?" the Old Man interrupted, and when Graham looked at him in shock and annoyance at the interruption, went on: "And don't tell me this is none of my business, Graham. We're in my library, and I have been involved in this whole business from the beginning. And for that matter, so has Mrs. How-ell, so don't try to exclude her, either."
Graham's face was stiff for a moment, but then he smiled and shrugged.
Then he turned to one of the men who came with him, a slim man in his thirties, who wore his hair combed straight back and, like Graham, sported a pencil-line mustache. "Delojo," he said, "this is one of those circumstances we were talking about when it is necessary to deviate from procedure."
Delojo nodded but did not smile.
"Excuse me," Graham went on. "Mrs. Howell, Mr. Howell, may I present Lieutenant Commander Frederico Delojo, U.S. Navy, and Mr. Quinn?"