Operation Slick Chick: Some Fly Others Spy

By Norman Phillips

Lt. Col. Mike Skora, a decorated World War II fighter pilot, is assigned to the US Embassy in Bonn, Germany, in 1955, during the Cold War. The East Germany Stasi intelligence network buzzed like a hornets nest, gathering NATOs military secrets. Mikes mission is to work with CIA operatives to find the sources of the information being leaked to Soviet Bloc agents. He navigates through a complex tangle of relationships, unraveling spy networks in European cities, ski resorts, and military bases. Exploring a world of multifaceted people and events, Mike descends into the arena of duplicity and mistrust.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984515261

Norman Phillips

Norman Phillips was raised by illiterate Polish grandparents. He enlisted in the Army Air Corps and eventually became a decorated fighter pilot in World War II. He was a parachutist and mountain climber. He was shot down in Laos in 1968 and, after a high-speed ejection and a hair-raising rescue, retired from the Air Force. He then earned a BFA and MFA and taught sculpture at the University of Massachusetts for nineteen years. He started writing about ten years ago and is the author of Throw A Nickel On The Grass

Book preview

Chapter 1

AIR FORCE COMMAND

AND STAFF COLLEGE

He looked at his watch; it was eight o’clock sharp. Stragglers carrying coffee were still filling up the seats in his row. The hum of voices and the clatter of lowered seats began to subside.

Major Mike Skora, a US Air Force decorated pilot sat in his seat in the auditorium of the Air Force Command and Staff College. He felt elated when he was selected to attend the AFCSC, but now halfway through the year-long program, an abundance of lectures by experts in foreign policy, intelligence, strategy and other topics, had caused his interest to wane. Mike looked up at the stage. Colonel Claiborne, the Commandant, stepped to the podium, tapped the microphone, and introduced the speaker, a Dr. Dillingham, the Director of Foreign Affairs in the State Department.

Mike slumped in his seat, yawned and thought, here we go again…another desk jockey’s going to tell us all about the war.

Dr. Dillingham began his lecture saying he would tell his audience about NATO’s future vis-a-vie the Soviet Union and the Cold War." He adjusted his glasses, raised his eyebrows and looked up. Those glasses enlarged his eyes and made him look like a smiling, rosy-cheeked owl. Mike closed his eyes. He was bored.

Dr. Dillingham droned on, and now, our former enemies, the Germans, and Italians are on our side of the line, on our team, part of the NATO force and they are scheduled for jet training by our air force at an airbase in Furstenfeldbruck, Germany.

Those words got Mike’s attention, and he sat up and thought, What? Are kraut pilots going to be trained to join us? I can’t believe this!

… pilots will be trained for the new German Luftwaffe both in Europe and in the US. The early pilots, those trained at Furstenfeldbruck are World War II pilots many of whom are well known German aces. Kurt Gerhardt was an ace with 127 kills. He is now a Major General and Chief of the new Luftwaffe and a reconstructed Allied leader…blah—blah—blah.

Mike remembered General Gerhardt; he was called Colonel Gerhardt while in Hitler’s Luftwaffe. He was a killer fighter pilot, during the war, and now he’s on our side? What the hell would I be like if we lost? He tried to picture himself as a defeated fighter pilot asked to join and fight with a former enemy. He couldn’t imagine it. He thought, No way, Jose! We both defended what we believed. He must have agreed with Hitler, or he couldn’t have done what we both had to do.

The lecture ended at eleven-forty-five. There were no questions, so Colonel Claiborne dismissed the assemblage. The sound of voices in the lecture hall rose over the thumps of seats flipped back. Notebooks were stowed and zippers on briefcases closed.

Mike spotted Carl Yetman several rows back, caught his eye and made an eating gesture with his hand. Carl nodded and pointed to the exit door. Mike shuffled up the aisle and stepped out, watching Carl as he lit a cigarette.

Wha’d’ya think of the lecture Carl?

Carl rolled his eyes and said, ‘Foggy Bottom’s’ words and music. What did you think Mike?"

"I’d like to believe it, but frankly, I don’t feel comfortable with those Kraut officers becoming generals in the new Luftwaffe. I don’t know what they’ll do when the shit hits the fan¹."

Yeah, I can’t see us saluting those guys and saying, ‘Yes sir.’

It’s not that Carl, but do you believe they’re as ready as we are to fight the Russkies?

Carl gave a wry look of disbelief, shook his head and said, "Hard to believe they’d take it all the way if the balloon goes up²." He tapped the ash from his cigarette and took a long drag.

And think about it Carl, a big hunk of Germany is in the East Zone now! Mike added vehemently.

Yeah, it’s like somebody split the US in half. Who’s the enemy now?

Mike went on, And they’re even bringing Mussolini’s fly boys into it, well at least they’re good, at swapping sides. He chuckled to himself. Major Skora and many of his classmates had flown and fought in WW-2 less than a decade before.¹

Carl suppressed a laugh and said, Yeah, they’ll be ‘here today, gone tomorrow,’ but I guess it looks good on paper to some highfalutin desk jockey in Washington.

Mike said, Like that Dr. Dillingham today, Mike said, I thought it was all over in ’45, but the pot over here is simmering again, I just hope Nato can keep the lid on it.

They strolled into the dining hall, picked up trays, slid them down the rack along a row of steam tables. They filled them with food, found a table and sat down. The energy in the dining room was palpable, heads were bent forward, and gestures flew back and forth. Carl looked up from his lunch and asked, Got your thesis nailed down yet Mike?

More or less, I’ve been trying to come up with something worthwhile. I’m not going to write about flying or running a squadron, and I’m sure as hell not going to try to tell them how to run the Air Force. How ’bout you?

Carl chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and said, You know how we always bitched about consolidated maintenance? Well, I thought that I’d try to convince somebody up there that consolidated maintenance won’t work for tactical fighter squadrons.

"Sounds interesting. I like the idea, but it’ll be an upstream swim. All the SAC³ generals coming into the tactical arena are bringing their ideas with them, and consolidated maintenance is one of ’em. It isn’t going to go away."

Yeah those SAC* bombers are squatting on huge bases. Production line maintenance works for them, but us guys? Carl tapped a cigarette on his fingernail, lit it and took a drag. He blew the smoke out and continued, Moving squadrons back and forth, following the Army all over the world. We can’t take the production line with us, only the mechanics. Centralized maintenance is okay, but not for fighter outfits.

Carl had been an aircraft maintenance officer in his squadron and spoke from experience. Mike liked Carl because he always said what was on his mind and had a good sense of humor. He was a hell of a good pilot and a damned good officer too.

Carl pushed his food a little and asked Mike, What do you think you’ll write?

I’m a little uneasy about the Kraut Air Force—the Italians too, I think I might write and tell them we shouldn’t share our nuclear weapons and our know-how with them.

Well, it’ll be all over for us here in another twelve weeks, I can’t wait to get back to flying.

You can say that again, Mike said.²

For the next few days, Mike spent every spare minute in the library. His research unfolded the post-WW-2 peace treaty that separated Germany into two countries. West Germany became a Nato partner in 1955, and East Germany became a Soviet satellite state. After the war had ended, Allen Dulles made postwar plans for Europe based on the American principle of ‘forgive and forget.’ His view that we must rebuild the nations of our vanquished enemies was shared by the US foreign policy establishment and the highest levels of international governance.

In the 1950s the Cold War was sending a chill across Europe, that Mike felt. Now he didn’t believe former enemy fighter pilots could erase their enmity and become loyal allies. He thought Dulles’s policy was naive.

Was it easier for Washington politicians to trust former enemies? Perhaps. Mike remembered that after the war, German occupants of Dachau, a village close to the concentration camp, denied that they knew what had been going on in the camp. How could that have been possible? Inmates were trucked through those towns. The military guards lived there, drank beer with their friends, sent their children to the schools, yet they denied what they knew.

Mike didn’t think their beliefs of Arian superiority could be erased. Even though he believed most humans adapt, look for new beginnings, opportunities, even new allegiances, he doubted that those dedicated German warriors could change so fast.

Mike’s thesis, The emerging German and Italian leadership in NATO, questioned the wisdom of sharing military equipment and nuclear knowledge with current enemies. He doubted that the German and Italian officers could be relied on to fulfill their role in NATO. It was a sincere but naive analysis. However, it attracted the attention of intelligence officials. As the AFCSC wound down, the student’s assignments were announced. Mike didn’t know it, but the intelligence network had a plan for him. He was selected for intelligence training and subsequent assignment as an assistant air attaché to the US Embassy in Bonn, Germany.

He was disappointed. His hope was for another assignment to a fighter unit, but he knew that Air Force planning prepared selected officers for future responsibilities and graduates of the ACSC were often steered to staff duties. He had begun to realize that, when he and about a third of the Majors in his class were promoted to Lt. Col.

As May rolled by the year’s studies ended The Air Force Command, and Staff College became like any college campus in the summer. The energy, hustle, and bustle that students exuded were gone. Student officers and faculty went on leave. Groundskeepers were visible as they went about their work, slowed by the Alabama summer sun.

Mike flew home to Amherst for a short leave before he reported for the directed intelligence training. When he landed at Bradley, the airport near Hartford, Professor Stanley Skora, Mike’s dad, met him.

Those silver leaves look good on you Mike. So now you’re a Colonel.

Mike’s father was proud and pleased with Mike’s promotion. His paternal, professorial tone had taken on the respectful manner of a commoner talking to royalty.

Mike answered, Well, Lieutenant Colonel, but you’re right. Verbally it’s Colonel’

And tell me, sir, about your next assignment to Germany. You’re an air attaché?

An assistant air attaché dad. You’re teaching this summer aren’t you?

Yes, one course. I’m taking a sabbatical next spring. I’d rather take the whole year, but unless I can tuck a little money aside, half the pay won’t work. I’d like to finish the book I’ve been working on for four years. Well, enough about me, tell me what this intelligence training is.

"Mostly language. I’ll be studying German along with a bunch of spook⁴ stuff like camera work for covert intelligence gathering, how to spot a tail if you don’t want to be followed, and uh, you know, how to get out of a tight spot and all that stuff. We even get a week of defensive driving on a speedway—that will be fun!"

That’s a big program. I’m surprised you can do all that in such a short time.

Mike laughed. Needling his father, he said, It’s not like your school dad, we go eight hours a day and forty-four hours a week, and you’re expected to do outside work. Think about it; I’ll be getting 1,000 hours of language training in a year. That’d take at least four years at the University.

His dad nodded solemnly, Yes, it’s different. Not like this world. Some of the stuff you’re learning could make the difference between living or dying. Mike felt drawn closer to his father. He was beginning to understand the difference between their interests.

How’s mom?

Fine, really fine. The band she started at school is attracting a lot of attention. For a small town like Hadley to have a high school jazz band is remarkable. The locals are fully supporting her music program.

Mike was silent as the highway rolled past. When they turned onto Route 9 Mike glanced at Skinner Mountain and the Connecticut River. He thought of Rachel, and he turned to his father and said, How’s Rachel doing—ever see her out?

Mike’s dad glanced at him, cleared his throat and said, Yes, we were at the Fischer’s a couple of weeks ago. They had a big barbecue in the garden and Rachel was there with Leonel Garcia. You know he divorced his wife last winter, or I should say, she divorced him.

That son of a bitch, Mike snarled.

Don’t let it get to you son; she turned out to be what was inside her. It’s just as well, you pushed her out of your life.

Do the Fischers have any bad feelings about me?

No, no Mike, Professor Fischer knows the score. You know Rachel was giving him trouble before you met her.

Well dad, keep in mind that I don’t want to have anything to do with that family, any of them.

I understand son. You won’t have to.

Mike settled himself and looked forward to seeing his mother. He thought about the tortured relationship with Rachel…that fucking little liar. It’s a good thing I found her out. Well, a couple more days in Amherst and I’ll be on my way to good old Deutschland.

Chapter 2

US EMBASSY, BONN, FRG

Colonel Frank Schulstad pulled into a parking space marked Reserved for Air Attache. He grabbed his briefcase, slid out and slammed the door. He glanced up at the fluttering Stars & Stripes on the pole in front of the embassy, straightened up and marched up the embassy stairs.

Inside at a desk, a Marine sergeant dropped his newspaper, snapped to attention and barked, Good morning sir!

Colonel Schulstad doffed his hat and said, Good morning Sergeant., anything new in that paper?

Same-o same-o sir.

If Sergeant Doyle comes by ask him to come see me—no hurry on that.

"Yes, sir! Wilco!⁵" Colonel Schulstad strode down the corridor and into the Air Attache office.

Good morning Meg—coffee ready? Margaret Clark was Colonel Schulstad’s administrative assistant. Clark had two German secretaries, Eva Scharnhorst and Ingrid Wasserman. They came in at 09:00, but she was always there an hour earlier.

Yes, sir, I made it about fifteen minutes ago. Can I pour you one?

No thanks Meg, I’ll get it.

The Colonel hung his hat and coat and poured coffee into a carafe. He gave it a splash of milk and two spoons of sugar. Schulstad opened his office door and set the carafe on his desk. He stretched, yawned, picked up a mug, glanced at the West Point logo on it, and sat down. His In basket held the day’s mail, and he didn’t look forward to plowing through it.

The phone in Colonel Schulstad’s office rang twice, paused, and then a buzz sounded. He picked up the phone and asked, Who is it, Meg?

It’s Mr. Bauer Colonel. He’d like to see you this morning.

Sure, Meg, tell Alex any time before noon—I’ve got lunch scheduled.

Schulstad leafed through the diplomatic mail quickly. Then he perused the intelligence reports that came from the code room. Reading the highly classified information, he paused and remembered Alex Bauer’s call and thought, hmm, haven’t talked to Alex for quite a while. I wonder what’s up?

Meanwhile at the other end of the embassy, behind a door with a small, sign reading, Office of Cultural Affairs. Alex Bauer was clearing his desk of folders. He stowed them in his safe, locked it, then picked up his phone and hit a button.

Watkins I’m going over to Colonel Schulstad’s office. I’ll be back, or I’ll call you. Alex walked down a long corridor, passing secretaries, military officers, embassy officials and assorted civilians. He never attracted attention. He was of average height with a trim body. His straight brown hair was parted in the middle. He wore rimless glasses. You’d pass him on the street, but more than likely wouldn’t remember him. Luckily his brain was far from unremarkable. He had a Master’s degree in international relations from Harvard and was beginning a Doctoral program when he was recruited by the CIA.

Schulstad heard a knock on his door and his loud, Come on in Alex! brought in Alex to a chair close to Colonel Schulstad’s desk.

Morning Alex. Must be something important, right?

Colonel, I wouldn’t say it was important but, umm, I’d like to share some questions that have been surfacing lately. He paused. Of course this stuff and the related information is umm, highly classified.

Schulstad laughed. Oh, so now you’re going to tell me something instead of me telling you?

Alex smiled briefly, then became serious, I think you’re familiar with the 36th Group at Bitburg. Schulstad nodded, and Alex went on. Well, there’s going to be a couple of new airplanes there, F-100s, they’re part of an operation called ‘Slick Chick.’ The birds don’t have guns, only cameras and the pilots are umm, working for, umm, my guys.

"Recce⁶ eh? What’re they going to take pictures off?"

They can go supersonic in level flight—the Migs can’t catch them.

So they’re going east, right? Schulstad inquired.

Alex nodded, There’ll be a lot of interest in those birds, and I’d like you to help me to keep it the way we want it.

Schulstad nodded thoughtfully. Does Colonel Childs know all the details?

Only what he needs to know. They’ll have a fenced in area with their security, all he has to do is give them the support they require. Alex paused then continued, You fly out of Bitburg, don’t you? If you spot anything unusual, let me know.

Schulstad nodded. Well, I’ll keep my ears perked up, and if I hear anything interesting, I’ll let you know pronto.

Chapter 3

THE LUFTWAFFE

The dawning sky was like a gray blanket cast over the mighty river flowing through the valley. The steps of the terraced slope drop down to the river’s edge. On each terrace, orderly vines hung, waiting for the spring sun to stir their growth. Vineyard workers with bent backs moved slowly across the terraces snipping and pruning for the fall harvest.

Major General Kurt Gerhardt looked across a stone patio to the vineyard sloping down to the Rhine. On the river’s east bank, the vineyards continued. Schloss Gerhardt was Kurt Gerhardt’s ancestral home, where several generations had harvested the grapes for a white Rhine wine famous for its quality.

Kurt sipped his morning coffee, and his mind drifted. He fingered a scar that crossed his left cheek bone down to his chin. Remembering Heidelberg, the University, the dueling societies, his youthful need for that saber scar, a sardonic smile lifted a corner of his mouth. Greta Steinmiller nudged into his thoughts, and his heart became heavy.

He’d met Greta at the University in 1932. She was a classic Aryan beauty, wide-set blue eyes, flaxen hair and an alluring smile. During a weekend of skiing in Reutte, Kurt saw that Greta was a good skier. She had a shapely body, and he later learned that she had a promising career as a concert pianist. They soon fell in love and married after graduating. And then for Kurt came flight school, the squadron, his baptism in combat in Spain, the war, and now…

As Gerhardt stared into the dark remains of his coffee, a cloud inside him dimmed the light of that nostalgic daydream as a depressing memory of the Allied bombing of Dresden pushed itself into his thoughts. Greta and their two precious children were incinerated in the firestorm that followed the Dresden bombing in 1945.

He heard the patio door behind him slide open. Hildegard came in carrying a cardigan sweater with silver buttons. Guten Morgen (good morning) Herr Kurt, she said, you must be cold? You should put this on. Hildegard was the family housekeeper. When Kurt was a child, she was his nanny, and now she continued serving the Gerhardt domicile as the housekeeper. Kurt and Hildegard had a long-standing affectionate relationship, and she still called him Kurt, his childhood name and had added ‘Herr’ as a show of respect. To her, he was still the young boy who needed her care.

The General said, Danke Schoen (thank you) Hildegard-, and he slipped into the sweater and felt the warmth of his nanny. The unpleasant parts of his past dimmed as he remembered Hildegard bundling him in the clothes that kept him warm when winter came.

The door slid open again, Hildegard turned and her face became expressionless. When Helga stepped in Hildegard said, Guten Morgen Frau Gerhardt.

Helga glanced at Hildegard as she walked by and muttered, Guten Morgen.

Kurt smiled and said, Good morning Liebling did you sleep well? Helga set her cup on the table. It clicked, and the spoon slid off the saucer and clattered on the table’s tiles. Helga frowned at her clumsiness, but her face brightened.

Yes, I did. I was tired after that long drive yesterday.

Kurt thoughts slid back into the quiet and private backwaters where they were kept at bay by his acceptance of all that passed and all that was here. He rarely talked about the past. iI was what it was, and now…

Well it’s too bad I couldn’t have driven you there, but these days…

Yes, I know. You are too important to NATO to risk being taken by the Russians.

I don’t understand why your friend and Elise can’t come here, Kurt said.

Helga interrupted, You know it’s difficult for her to travel. She has no car, and the train is dangerous for her since she skipped out of the East Zone.

Isn’t it bad for her in Berlin?

Helga brushed Kurt’s concerns aside, Yes, but she is cautious, and she has many friends there who help her.

Oh well, I suppose you have to keep up with your young friends. I’m afraid my job takes up too much time these days, and I’m not as young as you. The last he said like a scolding parent. Helga was twenty-two years younger than Kurt. He met her at the Officer’s Club at Furstenfeldbruck where she worked as a bar waitress. Her resemblance to Greta and her Sachsen accent had charmed him. When Kurt proposed a year ago, she eagerly agreed to marry him.

Helga’s expression changed. She looked like a mildly scolded child. She reached down and toyed with the diamond ring on her finger. The stone must have been at least four or five karats, and she moved it back and forth over her finger. Kurt looked down as she played with the ring and said, That is a lovely ring Helga., Did you say it belonged to your grandmother?

Yes. I was my grandmother’s favorite, and she left it for me. It worries me that I might lose it. It’s been in my family for fifty or more years.

I’m sure it would be wise to have it reset because if that diamond falls out you might lose it. It looks large now on your finger, but if it fell in the grass?

I wish I had a safe place to keep it. It bothers me that such a valuable and personal part of my past could be easily lost or even stolen.

Kurt’s face softened. Helga, my dear, let me take it to Schubert in Dusseldorf, he is the father of my good friend Hans. He can reset it and then we will put it in the small safe I have in my study.

Helga looked surprised and said, You have a safe in your study? I have not seen it.

Kurt smiled broadly. It is because you do not go into my study and, he chuckled, the safe is hidden.

Hidden? Why is that? she asked, sounding like a curious child.

Because I sometimes have papers to keep that I do not wish to make available to interested people.

But I am not curious—will you show me it?

Kurt rose, extended his left hand and said, Let’s go to the study, I’ll show you where it is.

Does it have a combination Kurt? Would you give me the number so I can take my ring when I want it?

Kurt walked over to a large painting of the Zugspitze, swung it aside and showed Helga the dial on the small safe.

I will give you the number Liebling, but you must always remember first to pull the switch… he turned to a lamp on a small table, the one with the bulb that doesn’t light. It disconnects an alarm that warns me if someone is trying to open the safe, Kurt checked the switch on the lamp. and after the safe is again closed, you must click this switch again to activate the warning device.

Helga, looking like an innocent school girl said, Yes, yes, I will always do as you say. Her manner became animated, like a happy child.

Kurt looked down at her at his side, and thought, How lucky can a man be to have a woman like this at my age.

Chapter 4

FLIGHT TO FRANKFORT

The steady hum of four engines and two Bloody Marys blurred Mike Skora’s sharp edged mind, and he slid into a half-somnolent state. He yawned, looked at his watch. It was 11:30, or 23:30 military time but Mike knew it was already 5:30 in Germany. He was heading to his assignment at the American Embassy in Bonn in the Federal Republic of Germany. Too dark to see anything through the window and an empty seat next to him, Mike decided to take a nap. He unfastened his seat belt, slid lower in his seat and nodded off. His dreams swirled in a euphoric bank of pleasant memories and anticipation of his new job. Time ticked on.

Sometime later, while he dozed, Mike became aware that someone was fumbling across his groin. He cracked open his eyes and saw a stewardess fumbling with his safety belt across the front of his trousers. Her knuckles rubbed across his groin—he had been dreaming of a long forgotten girl and had an erection. He squirmed upright and tightened the seatbelt himself. She smiled as she looked at him and said, We’re getting ready to land sir—you were sleeping so I fastened your belt. Sheepishly Mike said, Thank you, as he looked at her inviting smile and thought she was attractive.

The 747 dropped its landing gear with a thud; Mike felt the flaps extending. He looked out at the gray morning. With another bump and a rumble, the engines reversed. They were on the ground. The aircraft turned off the runway and into a parking spot. Mike felt like a little boy coming home. He looked at Rhein-Main airport and saw how the Germans had spent the years after their crushing defeat. There were no visible signs of the destruction that he remembered. In the terminal, he saw men in civilian dress coming and going. Only a discerning eye could tell who were civilians and who were military men wearing civilian clothes. Mike noticed that there weren’t many Germans his age. The destructive war marked many of the men walking through the airport. Scarred faces, a missing limb, a limping walk, an expressionless face—those were assuredly German soldiers.

There were groups of American military families with tired children who brightened when greeted by their military fathers, dog tags dangling under those civilian shirts.

Mike glanced around the airport. He sensed an uncertainty that he hadn’t felt before, not even during his duty in the occupation forces. Back then, he knew what his role was, but now he wasn’t sure. These Germans were in their home country. Mike felt a faint flicker of misgiving that merged with his thoughts about his assignment. He wouldn’t be in an outfit surrounded by fighter pilots. His natural self-confidence became ever so slightly clouded.

Coming through the crowd swinging a small bag he saw the stewardess from his flight. He caught her eye, and she smiled and turned toward him. Hello Colonel, the first time in Germany? Mike smiled, looked her up and down, she was quite attractive.

He said, No, I finished the war here and stayed a couple of years in the occupation.

Her brown eyes widened and her eyebrows lifted. Sorry, dumb question. I should have known that from your medals.

Mike laughed. No, not a dumb question. I could’ve earned these flying out of England, she put her bag down, and Mike continued, now I’ll ask you a dumb question. Do you come here often?

Smirking she said, The last time I heard that question was in PJ Clarke’s, yes, actually I stay over here a couple of times a month. There was a gleam in her eyes.

I’m Christine Haralsted, She extended her hand, Now, where are you headed?

Mike shook Christine’s hand and said, Mike Skora. I’m heading to Bonn. I’m the new assistant air attaché at our Embassy.

Christine cocked her head and made an approving nod. Well, I didn’t know we had a VIP flying with us. Are they going to pick you up here?

No, I’m to wait until six-thirty tonight. The embassy is sending a diplomatic courier here to meet an Air Force bird leaving for Washington at seven-fifteen. I’ll take the staff car back.

Christine pursed her lips, a slightly mischievous smile crept into her cheeks. Well, I have a suite all to myself today, she hurriedly added, the airline keeps one here for the aircrew. There’re two bedrooms and a sitting room and no one there today but me. You could hit the sack and get a few winks before your car gets here.

She looked into Mike’s eyes. At that moment sleep was not on his agenda, and Christine’s offer was a tantalizing.

Gee Christine, that sounds good to me. I could use a shower and shave before I show up at the embassy.

She said, The hotel is close to the terminal, but you’ve got two huge bags—let’s take a cab.

Mike followed her out, and she signaled a cab. The driver opened the Mercedes trunk and muscled Mike’s heavy bags, slammed the lid. They sat in the back.

Christine said, The Post Hotel bitte. The driver looked in the rearview mirror and said, Ya, I haf taking you dare twice before.

Thank you for remembering me driver. The driver nodded and drove off. In a couple of minutes the taxi stopped at the door of the Post hotel. A uniformed doorman opened the door. When he saw Mike’s bags he signaled to a bellhop for a luggage carrier At the desk, Christine said, We can each sign in separately. Mike relaxed. He expected to have to use a ruse to register together. They took the elevator to the room. The bellhop opened the door to the suite and dropped Mike’s bags inside.

Christine opened the door to the sitting room, pointed to a door inside and said, You can crash there. I’ll be in this one.

Mike left the larger bag in the sitting room, carried the other into his bedroom, unzipped it, took out his toiletries kit and put it in the bathroom. When he came out, Christine was bent over at the small refrigerator.

"I’m going to have a bit of a toddy