Sawyer pointed to the Chief’s Ford and waited for Clete to dismount.
Enrico rode up and slipped gracefully off the sorrel.
“Will you walk him for me, Enrico?” Clete asked.
“Sí, Señor.”
“Galahad dropped a message to us about an hour ago,” Sawyer said.
Chief Schultz appeared in the door of the house. “That’s that vicious sonofabitch who tried to kick me, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Nothing personal, Chief, he just doesn’t like sailors.”
“Thanks a lot. Just keep him away from me, thank you.”
“What’s the message?”
“He’s been ordered to Germany.”
“Oh, shit,” Clete said. He walked to the building, and Sawyer followed him.
The chief handed him von Wachtstein’s message. “Tough luck, huh?” he said when Clete had finished reading it.
“Yeah, that’s what it is.”
“You think he’ll be coming back, skipper?”
“He seems to think there’s some chance,” Clete said. “We’ll need to get this off right away.”
The chief looked at his watch. “Skipper,” he said, “if you can write it and I can encrypt it in nineteen minutes, we can get it off on the regular schedule.”
“I won’t be long,” Clete said, and sat down at the table in front of the battered Underwood typewriter (“borrowed” by the chief from the radio room of the destroyer). He laid von Wachtstein’s note down, then rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter and started to type. After a few seconds he stopped and turned his head toward Sawyer, who was looking over his shoulder. “You’re a man of imagination and culture, Madison,” he said. “I need some names for the high-level Krauts who will be coming here.”
“Sure.”
“One is a deputy foreign minister,” Clete said.
Sawyer grunted. “Metternich,” he said immediately. “For the diplomat.”
Clete chuckled and then typed quickly.
“Who else?” Sawyer asked.
“The SS Brigadier wearing a Wehrmacht uniform,” Clete said.
“What’s that all about, do you think, skipper?” the chief asked. “He’d rather not have people know he’s SS?”
“I suppose,” Clete replied.
“Did the wolf in sheep’s clothes have a name?” Sawyer asked thoughtfully.
“If he did, I don’t have a clue,” Clete said. The chief shrugged.
“OK,” Sawyer went on. “We have a máscarador—a guy in a mask—South America—What’s that name? Got it. Zorro.”
“As in ‘the mark of’?” Clete replied. “I thought he was a good guy.”
“I’m open to suggestion, Sir.”