“Oh, I reckon you do.” The senator locked eyes with Cole. There was nothing soft there—they were as flinty as his own. Then Whitlock nodded. “You don’t need to answer the question, Mr. Cole. I can see it in your eyes.”

“So what kind of man are you, Senator?”

Whitlock spread his hands as if the answer was obvious. “I am a man who gets things done. I would consider this a personal favor to me, one that I could repay someday.”

“There ain’t nothin’ I need.”

Whitlock laughed. “I’m not talking about getting you a carton of cigarettes and a week’s furlough, Cole. I am talking about a personal favor from a United States senator, the sort who pulls ropes, by the way, not strings. That favor is the kind of thing you bury in the Mason jar out back for a rainy day.”

“Like I said—”

Whitlock touched Cole’s knee. “I know that you are a proud man, Cole. I wouldn’t expect anything less. We can all use a favor now and then. Even you. However, here’s the real reason that you’ll take on this mission.”

“And what’s that, Senator?”

The senator leaned in close and spoke quietly. “You’ll do this because you’re bored now that there’s no one left to fight. You miss it. Are you going to argue with that?”

Cole said nothing.

Senator Whitlock nodded. “Now, let’s get the general and the major back in here and talk details, shall we?”

CHAPTER 12

Two days later, the mission briefing was held at the Munchshofen Air Base in Germany, where the Army Air Corps had taken over the former Luftwaffe hanger and the surrounding airfield. Senator Whitlock wasn’t there, but the briefing was run by Major Leon Dickey, who had been present at the initial meeting between Cole and the senator.

During that meeting, a couple of other understandings had been reached between the senator and Cole. The first was that Cole would not be in charge. Senator Whitlock explained that while the mission was off the books, it was still a quasi-military operation, and Major Dickey wanted someone he already knew and trusted in charge of the team. That was all right with Cole, who preferred to be the lone wolf. The second accommodation was that Cole managed to get Vaccaro added to the team.

The major met Cole outside the door of the briefing room, and gave him a hearty handshake. “Good to see you again, Sergeant.” Then he turned to Vaccaro with an uncertain expression. “Who’s this?”

“This here is Corporal Vaccaro,” Cole explained to Major Dickey. “Second-best shot in the Twenty-ninth Division. I reckoned we could use another man.”

Dickey shook his head. “Maybe you talked the senator into it, but I’ve already assembled a team. We need to keep this small and tight.”

“The way I see it, major, is that you got your team, and I got mine.”

“Like I said, Cole. We’ve got everyone we need.”

“There’s two in this here poke. You want me, you got to take him.”

“Poke?”

“That’s what I said, ain’t it? Now, do we go in or do we leave?”

The major looked from Cole, then to Vaccaro. “It’s your funeral, soldier. Go on in, the two of you.”

They entered the cramped, windowless room. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and smelled strongly of aftershave. Cole could smell someone’s spearmint gum. Two men already sat in folding chairs around a battered table. They looked up with interest as the door opened.

Cole’s impression of the man on the left was that he was a big son of a bitch. The furniture looked too small for him, like maybe he was sitting in a chair meant for a kindergartner. He had shoulders the width of a fireplace mantel. The big hands on the table in front of him nearly smothered a coffee mug. Despite his intimidating size, his face was placid and almost simple—a gentle giant.

The second man took longer to notice, but he was just as hard to forget. At first, it was almost as if Cole was looking in a mirror. The second man had the same lean build and appeared to be of similar height. That was where the similarity ended. This man had dirty blond hair that was a little too long for a soldier’s. He had dark eyes rather than Cole’s cut-glass ones. The contrast between his light-colored hair and dark eyes was disconcerting, like wearing a striped tie with a plaid shirt. A twin set of scars ran along his cheeks. They were not fresh war wounds, however, but long faded—scars from some childhood injury perhaps. The man seemed to struggle to contain either nervousness or energy—one foot was tapping away when Cole and Vaccaro walked in, and never stopped during the briefing.

“Gentlemen, here’s the rest of our team. This is Cole. And this is, uh—”

“Vaccaro.”

The major nodded at the big man. “The big guy here is Samson. And that’s Honaker. He’s our team leader.”

The big man smiled agreeably. He heartily shook hands with Cole and Vaccaro.

“Samson, huh?” Cole asked.

The big guy nodded. “Uh, huh. You know, like in the Bible.”

Honaker nodded in their direction and offered a forced smile as an afterthought.

“Like you guys, Samson here landed at D-Day,” Dickey said. “Since the war ended he has done some work for the OSS.”