Shortly before two o'clock, the staff car drew up in a side street, not far from the recruiting office.

"Okay, this is it," said Hogan quietly. "LeBeau, Hartnell, you get out here. Hartnell, you okay?"

"Fine and dandy, sir," said Hartnell cheerfully.

"Good. Remember, LeBeau is in charge, you follow his instructions to the letter." Hartnell didn't reply, but gave LeBeau a slightly wicked grin. LeBeau rolled his eyes. Hartnell was starting to get on his nerves.

Hogan glanced at Carter, who had been very quiet since they had left Stalag 13. "Are you ready, Carter?"

"Sure, Colonel," said Carter, gazing out of the window. His anxiety had settled, now that things were about to kick off. Hogan, as usual, had given him a general outline of how he should play it, and left it at that. Experience had taught that at times like this Carter could be trusted to wing it, and against all intuition it always seemed to work out.

By the time the car pulled up in front of the two-story Neoclassical building that housed both the administrative department and induction centre for the recruiting office, Carter was pretty well in character; however, his concentration wavered a little, as Newkirk opened the door for him. He got out, passing close to the driver, then turned a startled look on him, and murmured, "You should have gotten rid of the mustard plaster."

Newkirk went red, though his expression didn't so much as flicker. "I couldn't get it off. LeBeau used too much tape sticking it on."

Hogan, coming around from the other side of the car, raised his head a little, and took a cautious inward breath. "What the hell did he put in that?"

"I have no idea, Colonel," replied Newkirk. "It's working, whatever it is, but I'd rather have kept the cold. At least I wouldn't be able to smell the ruddy thing."

"Count yourself lucky. He skipped the garlic this time. But don't stand too close to anyone," Hogan advised quietly. "Especially not me." He looked up at the wide ornate entrance to the building. "Is this the door they used, when they brought you in?"

"No, there's a side entrance, goes straight into the induction centre," said Newkirk. "It's not nearly as flash as this one."

"Good enough for the common herd," replied Hogan. "Okay, let's go."

It was always slightly disturbing, seeing the change that came over Carter at this point in any operation. His customary awkwardness dropped away, replaced by a kind of instinctive dominance. This time, as instructed, he'd gone into cool, controlled mode; there would be no shouting, and no violence, but as he strode into the foyer of the recruiting office, the staff instinctively shrank back. Carter in this incarnation was about as intimidating as it got. Neither Hogan nor Newkirk ever admitted how much it sometimes spooked them.

With Hogan two paces behind on his right, and Newkirk a step further back on the left, he advanced on the reception desk, eyed the young soldier on duty as if he was wondering whether it was worth the effort of squashing him, then turned an ice-cold glare on Hogan, who stepped forward, cleared his throat, and murmured, "General Friedlieb. Major Pintz is expecting us."

The young man, who looked all of nineteen, had jumped to his feet on their arrival, but the look Carter had bestowed on him seemed to have robbed him of whatever wits he may have possessed, and he just stood there, apparently unable to move. Hogan cast an uneasy look at his purported superior, then leaned forward. "The General doesn't like to be kept waiting," he said quietly.

Before the man could pull himself together, Major Pintz made his appearance, descending the massive staircase with more haste than dignity. Whatever Kinch had told him on the phone, it had been effective; the man looked as if he'd just heard that the entire General Staff was on his doorstep. He stopped short, made a pathetic effort to compose himself, and saluted, with a slightly strangled "Heil!"

Hogan returned the salute snappily; Carter, in the weary manner of a man for whom dealing with fools was an occupational necessity. "Major Pintz?" he said.

"Yes, Herr General," Pintz gasped. He seemed to be having some difficulty breathing. Kinch had really done a number on him.

Carter regarded him in silence for half a minute. Pintz was as tall as Hogan, broad-shouldered, red-haired, with a vacuously inoffensive countenance. At the moment he looked thoroughly alarmed, but Hogan could imagine him dealing with someone weaker than himself, and he didn't like the picture.

Finally, Carter spoke. "I've heard a lot about you, Pintz," he said.

Steady, Carter, thought Hogan.

Pintz went scarlet, tried to answer but failed miserably. On the second attempt, he managed to choke out, "My office is this way, Herr General. If you would like to..."

"After you, Major," replied Carter, with a tight, chilly smile. He was really on form today.

Pintz's office was on the first floor, accessed by a short passage at the end of the main gallery that ran the length of the building. It was an elegant room, half-panelled in oak, with a high, ornately moulded ceiling. "Very nice," said Carter acidly, and at once the decor seemed excessively elaborate.

"May I offer you some refreshment, Herr General?" stammered Pintz.

Carter gave him another of those devastating looks, then turned to Hogan. "Tell me, Hans, are we making a social visit?"

"I don't believe so, sir," replied Hogan meekly. The slightest tremor of a smirk flitted across Newkirk's face, as he stood at attention by the door, surreptitiously taking a survey of the room and its contents.

"No, I thought not. We will begin the inspection."

"Certainly, Herr General," said Pintz. "Where would you like to..I mean, is there any particular part of...I mean..." His voice dwindled to nothing under Carter's gaze.

"Perhaps the major could start by telling us how he has his department arranged," suggested Hogan kindly. "What else is on this floor, Major?"

Pintz blinked at him, then took a deep breath. "My secretary has the next room, then there is the main clerical administrative area, the telephone switchboard and mail room. The ground floor is mostly given over to the induction centre and uniform store. The basement is just the records repository."

Carter held up one hand, and Pintz fell silent. "Records repository..." murmured Carter. "Hans, there is a records repository."

Realising where Carter was going with this, Hogan murmured, "The General is always very interested in official documentation."

"I always judge a man by how well organised his files are," said Carter reflectively. "A tidy filing system means a tidy mind, and a tidy mind is a military mind. Efficient record keeping is what will win this war, Pintz. I will begin with the basement." The furthest possible point from Pintz's office. It couldn't be more perfect.

As the major, by now very effectively flattened, ushered his visitors toward the stairs, Carter threw an order over his shoulder at Newkirk. "Meier, you may return to the car."

"Meier's not interested in records," explained Hogan, in a conversational tone.

"He doesn't like them. He doesn't...relate to them," Carter went on, almost dreamily. "That's why he's still a private. You will always be a private, Meier."

"Jawohl, Herr General," replied Newkirk, looking downcast.

He fell behind a little as they descended to the ground floor; as soon as the others had passed the first turn of the stairs, he backtracked towards Pintz's office. The secretary's room, which he checked in passing, was empty at the moment; so much the better.

Outside the building, LeBeau and Hartnell had taken up their position, making use of the limited cover available at the tree-lined boundary of a small public garden situated next to the recruitment office. LeBeau was finding that Hartnell did not improve on acquaintance. The accountant apparently had a short attention span, when not dealing with numbers. He had lost interest very quickly in just waiting, and was amusing himself by juggling, using some pine cones he had found. He was actually quite good at it. "First thing they teach us at accounting school," he explained airily.

"Well, they don't teach it in the Wehrmacht," said LeBeau. "And the first thing we learn is not to attract attention."

Hartnell brought the performance to an end with a flourish.

"So you guys do a lot of just hanging around, right?" he asked, after a while. "Don't you ever get bored?"

"Always. It's just part of the job," replied LeBeau. "We're not here for fun, Hartnell." He was watching the window at the top of the fire escape, and he almost cheered with relief when Newkirk appeared. After a quick but thorough look in all directions, he pushed Hartnell forward. "Up the ladder. Dépêche-toi!"

Hartnell ascended, looking rather like a long-legged spider, albeit a very ungainly one. Newkirk hauled him in through the window, and then leaned out to throw the car keys down to LeBeau.

"You're welcome to him," LeBeau muttered.

Pintz had not been so flustered as to forget to lock the door when leaving his office, but that presented no obstacle for Newkirk's nimble fingers. Nor did the safe give him any grief. "Might as well have kept it in a shoe box," he said, as he extracted a large, heavy ledger-book and dumped it on the desk. "All yours, mate."

Hartnell took a seat, then glanced at Newkirk and wrinkled his nose. "Can you stand back a bit?" he said.

Newkirk scowled. "I'm going to have to get rid of this bleedin' mustard plaster," he muttered.

"It's not the mustard," observed Hartnell. "It's the goose fat."

He chuckled at the look of stupefaction on Newkirk's face. "My grandma always said a good layer of well-aged goose fat was the best cure for a cold," he added.

"Right. I bet she did. Wait till I get hold of that little..." Newkirk's voice died away into grumblings as he went to keep watch at the door.

Hartnell turned to the matter at hand. He stretched his arms, interlocking his fingers, until his knuckles gave a startlingly loud crack. "Just warming up," he explained. Then, with a delicate movement, he opened the book. "Single entry system. That's good, for us. It's much easier to fake entries if you only have to do it once. Poor administrative practice, though."

Newkirk shook his head. "And I thought it was bad enough that he was an complete bastard with no morals and no decency. Now you tell me he's a rotten manager as well." He sighed. "Destroys your faith in human nature, doesn't it?"

Hartnell nodded, but he didn't seem to be listening. He was reading through the accounts very rapidly, running a finger down each column, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. Newkirk glanced at him once or twice, but didn't interrupt.

Finally Hartnell looked up. "There's nothing here," he said. "It's absolutely clean."

"Shame," murmured Newkirk. "Can we fix that?"

Hartnell leafed back through the last few pages. "Not easy. His entries are immaculate. Not so much as a correction, or a figure in the wrong column. It's going to be hard to insert any entries." He paused for a moment, then added in a meditative voice. "It's too clean. Nobody's that perfect. Not unless they're covering up for something."

"We heard that Pintz spends more money than he should," said Newkirk. "He's getting it from somewhere. Maybe he just doesn't keep a record of it."

Hartnell gave him a slightly superior smile. "They always keep a record of it. He's got another ledger, somewhere. This one's just for show."

Newkirk nodded slowly. "That's why he didn't bother with a decent safe. He doesn't care who sees that book, so why spend the money to keep it secure?" He glanced around the office again. "Watch the door," he said, and began to work his way around the walls, checking behind the paintings, then running his fingers along the upper edge of the half-panelling.

"Here we go." He had found something, a tiny raised section of wood. He pressed it down, and there was a soft click, as a section of panelling swung open. "Now that's what I call a proper safe," murmured Newkirk appreciatively.

He checked his watch. Just on twenty minutes until they had to be out of there. Well, they'd have to be quick, then. But it took nearly five minutes to get the safe open.

Hartnell made a quick start on the ledger that was inside. It was almost identical on the outside to the first one, but the expression on his face as he got to work on it made it clear that it was a very different set of figures indeed.

"Holy mother of..." he whispered after a few minutes. Then he looked up, almost awed. "It's all here. Extortion, black market deals, phony wages claims, fake supply invoices. He must have cleared forty thousand just in the last year."

"Bloody Nora!" said Newkirk.

"He can't have spent it all," Hartnell went on. "This is serious money, Newkirk. He has to have stashed it somewhere. Is there anything else in there?"

Newkirk rummaged in the safe again. "Just this," he said, holding out an envelope. Inside was a sheet of paper, with some numbers scribbled on it.

"Looks like bank account numbers," said Hartnell, giving it a glance. "Switzerland, maybe."

He had gone back to studying the book. Suddenly he stopped. "I don't like this page," he said.

Newkirk came over to look. It was a list of names. There were no entries in the financial columns, but some of the names had been marked with a tick. They were all women. Apparently Pintz felt it necessary to write down even that. The last name on the list, with no mark against it, was Sabine Richter.

"Tear it out," said Newkirk brusquely. Hartnell did so, and handed the page to Newkirk, who stuffed it into his pocket.

"You know, it would be terrible if Major Pintz accidentally put these two books in the wrong safes," observed Hartnell, in a thoughtful tone.

"Could happen to anybody," Newkirk agreed, shaking his head. "It's remarkable how absent-minded those clever chaps can be, sometimes. And just when the auditors are coming, too. What a catastrophe that would be."

He picked up the fake ledger, and put it into the concealed safe, while Hartnell carefully tucked the list of bank numbers inside the real book, and filed it safely in the shoe box.

"Right, that's done," said Newkirk. "Time to get out of here." He opened the door carefully, then gestured to Hartnell to go first.

Hartnell's slow Stan Laurel grin emerged again. "After you, Ollie," he murmured.