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him in good grace with God, and therefore he was protected.
    “You are convinced we are losing this war,” Bruckner told Steuben. “I don’t blame you for that. In fact, I may believe it myself. But you are content to stay where you are, in the comforting bosom of America, the international tit. Your only concern is survival and, beyond that, repatriation. Some of these two hundred-odd men don’t share that view. Mueller, for instance. You keep putting him off, expecting him to come around to your point of view and realize that escape is hopeless. But some of our men do not believe it is over. And they have grown rather unhappy with you.”
    Steuben was surprised to hear all this from Bruckner. “You mean they’re finally paying attention to your portents of doom?” he said.
    “No.” Bruckner smiled. “I believe what I believe. They have their own ideas. And I...” He frowned, then gazed into space. “I live with what I know.”
    He shook Churchill’s leash and made kissing sounds. The dog followed him down the corridor and out the door.
    Steuben stepped back into his room and shut the door. Bruckner was right. His only interest was survival and, beyond that, going home. If there was a home to go back to. And it wasn’t just for himself that he hoped. It was for all two hundred of the men in” his care.
    Steuben unbuttoned his tunic and lay down on his bunk. He closed his eyes and wished everyone away. Bruckner, Mueller, Hopkins, even Gilman. Send them all to another planet. The only thing he wanted right now was a glass of schnapps and the warm flesh of his wife.
    Lust faded quickly as he thought of his family back in Germany, trapped like helpless mice, directly in the path of the advancing Russian Army. And here he sat in the comforting bosom of America—safe.
     
     

 
    Chapter 4
     
     
    “Hi.”
    Loring held the door open. Warren Clark was leaning against the jamb—clothes rumpled, tie askew, damp stains on his shirt, drunk, and regarding her with a look of complete disgust. His head bobbed, and it seemed as if any second it might roll off his shoulders.
    “It’s past midnight, Warren. What do you want?”
    “Me? What do I want?” He laughed then spoke again, trying to control a slur. “My pumpkin has become a coach, my footman has become a dog, and oops, my glass slippers have become huaraches.” He laughed again and sagged against the jamb. His coat rode up, pulling his shirttail out on one side.
    “You’re a mess. Go home and sleep it off.”
    Warren’s face darkened. His foot lashed out, kicking the door wide. He tumbled into the room. “May I come in?”
    Loring thought quickly. She decided it would be better to let him pass out in her apartment. In the morning, he would be his usual contrite, cooperative self, easier to get rid of. She shut the door. He fell onto the sofa, stretched out in a long heap, and stared at her.
    “I’ve hit a dead end,” he said. “I can’t help you anymore. What do you think of that?”
    Loring leaned against the door. “What sort of dead end?”
    “You know. Delaware Trader.”
    “What have you found out?”
    “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
    “Yes, I would. Do I have to pull your teeth to find out?”
    “Maybe—you might have to pull something.”
    “Look, Warren, if you’ve got some gripe with me, can we settle it later? If you have any information about that ship, I would appreciate hearing it right now. It’s vital!”
    Warren lay motionless a moment then erupted. “Of course it’s vital! Everything is vital to you except us! Well, shit! I’m tired of playing the lapdog! Warren, will you do this? Warren, will you check into that? Warren, would you use your connections? Warren, I don’t want to tell you this, but I really think you’re nothing more than the perfect doormat! And that’s what I think of you!” He waved a demonstrative hand. “Isn’t it?”
    “No, and I’m sorry you feel that way.”
    “You’re sorry for