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could get back to her. No matter what Garrison Lee said or how much he begged, the OSS was not the life for him, not if it meant being away from Alice.
    His thoughts were interrupted by two large trucks speeding down the street. He half turned and watched as they pulled up to the loading platform at the station. He looked around, trying not to move his head, as though the trucks were of no interest to him. He saw three large Western-looking men start shouting orders in broken English to fifteen Ecuadorian workers as they piled out of the back of the first vehicle. They all ran for the covered bed of the second and started unloading crate after crate. Ben turned to his left and whistled. A man who was sitting at a shoeshine stand lowered his newspaper with the banner headline, HITLER DEAD! The medium-sized man saw Ben nod his head toward the trucks.
    The man stood, tossing the boy shining his shoes a quarter, a real prize for the kid or for almost anyone else in the country. He stepped down and then gestured to his right. Three men joined him. They walked to a car parked along the street and opened the trunk. As Hamilton watched, he unzipped his coat and made sure the Colt .45 he had was there along with his spare clips of ammunition. He zipped the jacket back up as the four men removed two Thompson submachine guns and two large shotguns. They double-checked their loads and then the lead man walked casually over to the train station. Hamilton stood and tossed a dollar on the table, then slowly made his way out of the café, electing to go around the far side of the small station and its loading platform.
    “One more mission, Alice, then your husband is coming home,” he said to himself with a smile as he dodged the few cars along the main thoroughfare of Quito.
    The four men approached the truck that was being loaded. Two men split off and checked the back of the first truck. Four wooden crates had already been placed on the platform. The first two approached a large blond man who was laughing with another European-looking man as they leaned against the back of the truck being unloaded. The third was in the back supervising the work.
    The sound of a shotgun being charged with a lethal round brought all the activity around the trucks to a halt.
    “Gentlemen, we are the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation. We need to see a bill of lading before you transport these items out of Quito.”
    The two men at the back of the truck straightened and the third poked his head out of the back and smiled.
    “The FBI, in Ecuador?” the large man asked, hopping expertly down from the bed of the truck. The speaker’s words were in very passable English.
    “We’re here at the invitation of the local government and the people of Ecuador, sir. Now, the bill of lading, please.”
    The third man kept smiling as he took in the guns and the other two men who came up from the first truck on either side. The Ecuadorian laborers stepped back as the confrontation ensued. The blond started removing a thick pair of gloves.
    “Would you mind if I saw some identification, gentlemen?” The man’s smile broadened as he shot a quick glance at the train station.
    The lead agent slowly lowered his shotgun and reached into his leather field jacket. He brought out a green ID card with “FBI” written in bold, golden letters.
    “Looks real enough,” the man said, leaning closer to the ID card, “Agent Ferguson.”
    Two of the agents suddenly turned as the doors to the station house opened and a small man with a long black leather coat emerged. He carried a satchel and his glasses reflected the light of the afternoon sun.
    “Is there a problem, gentlemen?”
    As Ben rounded the far side of the platform, he saw the small man who stood on it looking down at the scene below. Hamilton fumbled for his .45 and at the same time he brought out the picture the OSS in Brazil had forwarded to him a day earlier. Ben smiled as he recognized General Heinz