“Get it out, Cronley,” Souers said.
“Yes, sir. In the Vatican Bank. And we have the proof. We caught Cardinal von Hassburger trying to deliver just over two million dollars to Odessa.”
“Who the hell is Cardinal von Hassburger?” Souers asked.
“May I suggest, again,” Clay asked, impatiently, “that we hold our questions until Cronley is finished?”
“Some questions won’t wait, Lucius,” Justice Jackson said. “Starting with the press. There has been an obvious explosion. Since we can’t afford to have it get out what really happened at the safe house, what are we going to say?”
“I suggest the following,” Oscar Shultz said. “That two Americans were among the nine people found dead in the transient hotel of South American Airways in the Berlin suburb of Zehlendorf today. German police believe their deaths were the result of a botched burglary of the often empty villa, and the subsequent fire was meant to cover up any evidence. The victims were tentatively identified as Mrs. Virginia Moriarty, from Texas, and the Reverend J. R. McGrath, D.D., a professor of religion at the University of the South. Et cetera, et cetera.”
“That’ll do it,” Clay said. “Especially if we can sell it to that American reporter . . . What’s her name?”
“The AP’s Janice Johansen, sir,” Cronley said. “She has been very cooperative.”
“General Makamson,” Clay said, “get with the PIO, locate Miss Johansen, and bring her here. No. To the hospital.”
“The hospital, sir?” Cronley asked. “Why the hospital?”
“Because, Captain Cronley, that’s where you’re going to be. This conference will resume at seventeen-hundred hours. Let’s go, Makamson.”
Clay and Makamson stood up and walked out of the Operations Room.
“Admiral Souers, sir?” Cronley said. “Oscar?”
There was no answer, and he realized they had broken down the SIGABA connection.
Cronley was looking at the closed door, wondering what was going to happen next, when it opened. Two men wearing doctor smocks entered, followed by a pair of nurses and three burly hospital corpsmen.
Then a middle-aged, gray-haired woman came into the room. She headed right for Cronley. She put her face nose to nose to the infant.
“Hello, beautiful boy,” she said.
Then she looked up at Cronley.
“I’m Alice Clay. Can I hold him while they fix you up?”
Cronley neither replied nor even reacted.
“James,” Serov said, “give her the infant. You cannot hold him forever. And he is in dire need of a change of diaper.”
After some hesitation, he handed the infant to her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Clay.”
“Of course, Captain. And my deep condolences at the loss of your fiancée.”
He nodded.
She forced a small smile, then quickly left the room with the infant, followed by the pediatric team.
Cronley’s throat tightened, his eyes watered, and he had an almost irresistible urge to weep.
He was brought back when one of the doctors asked, “How bad’s your leg, Captain?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my leg.”
“Where’d all the blood come from?”