Kinchloe spoke to LeBeau. "Who'd have thought that a Gestapo officer would be the means of getting that mustard plaster on the colonel's chest."

"You're just grateful you didn't have to sit on him," the Frenchman accused.

"Too bloody right," chimed Newkirk. "Still, do believe the job she did on him?"

The men had been horrified to see the colonel, unconscious and bleeding, unceremoniously dropped into the barracks. They'd moved him, as gently as they could, into his own bunk and dealt with his wounds.

"She could have done a lot more. I think this was just for effect—on Klink, if not us." Kinch was the voice of reason. "Look, guys, the colonel's only got a bloody nose, a split lip, and some nastily bruised ribs. There's no real blood, and no broken bones."

"Or bullet holes," added Carter.

"It's his being unconscious that's got us spooked."

"And with all the noise you're makin', how's a fella supposed stay that way?"

Hogan tried to sit up, but his head spun around too badly for that. If he'd thought the headache the night before had been bad, this was worse. His men gathered around. "Hey, fellas, I'm not dying." He squawked, "LeBeau."

"Oui, mon colonel?"

"What did I tell you?"

"You were in no condition to make good your threat. You still aren't." LeBeau looked at him, crossed his arms over his chest. "Furthermore, don't try to get up. You're confined to bed until further notice."

Hogan cocked his head. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Oui."

"Wonderful." He did sit up, but needed a steadying arm from Kinchloe to do it. "Our lovely Gestapo officer still here?

"Yes, sir, she is. Gettin' the grand tour from old Klink, who seems just a wee bit nervous with 'er."

"After what happened to you, colonel, I'd be nervous, too," opined Carter.

Hogan shot him a look, made that much worse by his swollen lip. "Well, she's Magic Flute, and she laying covering tracks."

Newkirk snorted. "So she needed to beat you up?"

"Kinch is right. She could have done a lot worse to me, including shooting me. She left just enough marks on me to make it convincing, but nothing really to hurt me." He flexed his knee. "Ow. Well, maybe, walking's going to be a problem for awhile." He looked at his watch. "Round two should commence any time now."

He motioned them to be silent. "It's the nice round—hot bath, good supper, chess game with Klink. All under her watchful eye. Somewhere around 11pm, Kinch, I want you to call Lieutenant Colonel Elena Schmidl in Klink's quarters. Tell her you're General Kinchmeyer; just say anything to get her out of there. At roughly midnight, Newkirk, you, Carter, and LeBeau," he fixed the Frenchman in his sight, "meet her on the Hammelburg road. Blow the car, grab her, and get the plans. Wait till she gets ready to leave, then go out. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," they chorused.

Hogan held Kinch back. He knew his men were unhappy with this plan. "I've got a little surprise for her."

"You don't trust her, do you, sir?"

"I'm not sure, Kinch. So I'll let London sort it out. She AND the schematics go back to London, all neatly tied up."

Kinchloe started to chuckle. "I doubt seriously that she's going to let us tie her up and bundle her back to London like a sack of potatoes."

"By the time she regains consciousness, she'll be halfway there." Hogan pressed his temple. "And speaking of consciousness, let me lose mine for awhile."

HH HH HH

Coming out of the colonel's room, Kinch noted Carter looked and sounded exasperated. "Actually, Newkirk, this works out better. I've got the stuff ready to go. We leave early, blow the bridge, at say 10:45pm. Kinch calls the Wicked Witch of the East to complain about saboteurs at 11pm. She gets on her broom and rides outta here and we go meet her. And the colonel can rest easy."

HH HH HH

Colonel Klink looked white as a ghost, Hogan thought as he sauntered, as best he could with a painfully stiff knee, into the kommandant's private quarters, robe and towel over his shoulder. Undoubtedly due to the gloomy, baleful presence of Elena Schmidl. I can't say as I disagree, colonel.

Cutting off the racy tune he'd been whistling, he practically leered at the Gestapo agent. "Come to join me in the bath? I do hope you brought your own rubber ducky."

Klink appeared ready to faint, but Magic Flute's lips twitched. A repressed giggle? wondered Hogan.

The hot bath was enormously relaxing, and supper was decent, if overdone. But cozy and fed, Hogan would have preferred to have just listened to the radio until he nodded off. Trying to concentrate on chess proved to be too much. And Klink struggled as much as he did. Both were making egregious errors of strategy and tactics. Schmidl sat perpendicular to them, forming the third point of the triangle. She had stared at him all night, and it took all his willpower not to jump up and scream out all sorts of information. Klink looked worse. They'd hardly said anything all evening, and the silence clearly weighed on the kommandant who stupidly put his queen in danger.

"I don't think you want to do that, colonel," Hogan advised softly.

Klink cradled his head in his palm. "Verdammt," he swore softly.

Before Hogan could do more than raise an eyebrow, the ground rumbled under their feet, startling everyone. "What was that?" asked Klink. His voice had risen an octave.

A bridge being blown up by a disobedient sergeant, Hogan answered silently.

The glowering shade of Schmidl walked to the window as if dazed. After a few moments, she turned to the men. "This seems to put the nails in your coffin, colonel." Neither man was precisely sure to whom she referred.

Before either could speak, the phone rang. Klink sprang out of his chair like a newly-released arrow. "General Kinchmeyer, for you, lieutenant-colonel."

"Thank you." The conversation was short, sharp, and unpleasant. Schmidl's little color faded completely. She announced, as she put the receiver in its cradle, "I've been recalled to Berlin immediately. If you will summon my car, Herr Kommandant."

"With pleasure, lieutenant-colonel."

Hogan chuckled softly at the heartfeltness of Klink's reply.

Her departure dispelled the tension, and with the mellowness came the realization of exhaustion. Hogan yawned hugely and started drifting to sleep where he sat. Klink's voice returned him to reality. "Are you all right, Colonel Hogan? You look very unwell." There was a proffered glass of schnapps in the German officer's hand.

You look pretty pasty yourself, Herr Kommandant, Hogan thought as he fought for a reply while drinking down the schnapps. He opted to keep it short. "Thank you for a wonderful evening, but I think that my nasty cold and I should leave you to a quiet rest of the night."

And as if to punctuate his message, he sneezed and blew his nose as he left. Honk. Honk.

HH HH HH

Although desiring nothing more than his bunk, Hogan remembered he had company. He got into the tunnels with Kinch's help just as his men returned from their excursion. From the side of the ladder he watched black-shod feet, black-stockinged legs, and a black-dressed body descend. But instead of coming straight into his arm's reach, she jumped outward and to the opposite side. She came up to look at him--from a safe 6 feet away.

"Did you honestly think I'd put myself in harm's way?"

He looked innocent. "Harm's way?"

She looked daggers at him, and her soprano voice was arch. "Spare me the innocent routine, Colonel Hogan. You can hardly have appreciated my giving you a bloody nose and a split lip. I expected you to try and repay me in kind, to ship me off to London tied up like old newspaper."

Newkirk brought the butt of his pistol down on the back of her neck. She collapsed in a heap of black wool jersey.

"Well done, Newkirk. Now, if you'll be so kind, tie her up." Hogan limped painfully over to Kinchloe. "Contact London and tell them we have their plans. And their potatoes."

He turned to Carter, who tried to slip away, but he tripped over his own satchel. Appearing to all the world like a caught-out little boy—he was rubbing one foot behind a leg--Carter mumbled sheepishly, "Yes, sir?"

"In my office, sergeant."

He gulped. "Yes, sir." He disappeared up the ladder, with Hogan coming more slowly behind him.

Newkirk looked at his mates. "I volunteered to go with Andrew on that mission." He took a deep breath. "I'd best get up there and take my share of the reward." He followed up the ladder as LeBeau and Kinchloe just shook their heads.

HH HH HH

Next morning at roll call, Hogan could barely stand—his knee painful and stiff, his chest racked with coughing. Schultz stopped before Hogan, looking at the slightly battered face. "I'm sorry, Colonel."

"It's all right, Schultz. I'll get over it."

Klink arrived. He had announcements. "I am sure that you all heard the explosions last night. It was simply several of your bombers shot down by the glorious Luftwaffe."

"Right. Like you guys could hit the broad side of a barn," yelled Olsen, a dark-haired airman. There was a general round of guffawing. Carter and Newkirk looked blankly forward.

Klink made a noise and swished his balled up fist in front of him. "Dis—missed."

Inside the barracks, Hogan reached for a cup of coffee, only to be handed tea. "Newkirk, you know I hate this stuff." It was almost a whine.

Kinch had something to say, but was cut off by Schultz barging in. The sergeant looked at the American officer and handed him a dark, wooden cane. "Until your knee gets better."

Hogan took it from him. "Thanks, Schultz." The German NCO left in a swirl of snow and cold air, muttering to himself, "What a naughty woman to hurt such a nice fellow."

Smiling, almost laughing, in spite of his pain, the colonel tried the cane out. Placing it on his left side, he walked cautiously. It did relieve his sore knee. But it was difficult to walk and drink his tea at the same time. He took a slug of the tea and grimaced. "You were going to say something, Kinch?"

"We have a problem."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"Because of the weather, we can't get our packages out."

"So? We hang on to them." Hogan took another mouthful of tea. How could Newkirk keep drinking this thin, ragged, uninspired swill? "So when do they estimate they'll try for a pickup?"

"Two, three days, colonel. But that's not the problem." Kinch paused. "London is not happy that you want to send Magic Flute back. In fact, they've got orders for you concerning her. You're not going to like them."

Hogan didn't like the way Kinchloe tap-danced around the issue. That wasn't his way. "What are they ordering me to do? Marry her?" There was snickering all around. Even Kinch smiled as he handed over the clipboard.

Hogan's own grin disappeared as he read it. He heaved a wheezy sigh that turned into a cough. "We've still got to knock off that German general and let Magic Flute lead the way." His eyes locked on Kinchloe. "Are they serious?"

"Very, sir, and they weren't pleased to know that we had detained Magic Flute."

"At least, she'll 'ave a 'eadhache to match yours, sir."

Hogan nodded as he put down the mug and attempted to head to the tunnel.

"You're going in the wrong direction, mon colonel."

"Excuse me, LeBeau, but who made you my nurse?"

"I did. And you are going back to bed where you belong." After a pregnant pause, LeBeau added a respectful, "Sir."

HH HH HH

Heaving another wheezy sigh, Hogan stumped off to his office and slammed the door behind him. he sat down to think then he started to sneeze. He pulled his handkerchief out, only to realize it was HER handkerchief. It was just a slip of linen trimmed with some very fancy, expensive lace. Examining it, he found no monogram, no embroidered decoration. Achoo. Achoo. His cold had to be letting up—either that or she wore an enormous amount of perfume. Heavy, a combination of sandalwood and musk, he thought.

Trying to figure her out was leaving him split—was she or wasn't she on their side? Had she turned? She certainly played the Gestapo officer well. Too well. That was the problem. What stopped her from being a really well done plant? What if in fact she WAS Elena Schmidl, Gestapo colonel?

Well, Rob, you're just going to have to talk to her yourself. Find out the story and judge from that.

HH HH HH

He had had to wait several hours before he could do that. He'd napped a bit, after which he felt marginally better, but LeBeau had remained on nurse duty until Schultz and Langenscheit removed the men for snow detail. With the coast finally clear, Hogan limped into the tunnels.

Magic Flute had come around, but was still tied up. She was even gagged with what appeared to be one of Newkirk's socks. Hogan carefully removed it. She practically spat at him, "What the hell is going on?"

God, she pushes all the wrong buttons with me. But he smiled sweetly and said, "Suffice to say I don't trust you. You played your part only too well. Who's to say you haven't turned?"

She turned her face up to him. Her eyes were ringed with dark smudges that stood out against her pale skin. "You are an infernally stubborn man. General Walters warned me of that."

"Name dropping won't do you any good." She made a sort of strangled noise. "Not as good as Hochstetter. So who are you really?"

His baritone was steel under silk.

"I'm surprised your voice can be so pleasant given the nastiness of your cold."

"Spare me the conversation, and just answer the questions." He hadn't liked her icy tone one bit.

"Could I have a cup of tea?"

"Only if I like your answers."

"Oh, very well. Walters warned me I was probably going to get this from you." She sighed before going on. "I am Major Miriam Siwân Broadbent, Royal Army Intelligence." The ice queen was suddenly gone, replaced with the coquette. "I am also a widow."

Hogan remained unmoved.

"I have been doing deepcover work since 1940. My German identity was Elena Schmidl of Vienna—Austrian as the Paperhanger himself--party member since 1931, recently promoted lieutenant colonel in the Gestapo." She started to tremble. "A role I am singularly grateful I no longer have to play."

While her shaking continued unabated, he looked at her expectantly.

"What more do you want? I have been feeding information to London for years; I have been involved in counterespionage work at the same time. Who do you think blew Robin Hood's cover?"

"Hans Teppel, alias Robert Morrison of Milwaukee."

"No. He got the job of dealing with Robin Hood. I found him, exposed him, and forced him to run. Right into Morrison."

Suddenly, her face went bleak. Concerned, Hogan asked, "What's wrong?"

"Morrison was compromised. He was shot last week."

That news sobered Hogan as he remembered the American agent. Her arch, angry voice returned him to the present. "If you could believe him, why not me? Or are you merely angry that I bloodied your nose?"

London should have codenamed her Quicksilver--it would have fit better, he thought, but that was probably due to sudden decompression. The shakes hadn't gone unnoticed. He recognized combat fatigue when he saw it. Her point was valid, though, even if it was expressed in the most obnoxious fashion, guaranteed to make him want to smack her in the mouth--a wide, generous mouth that could be put to far better use. He shook his head. That is no way to think about her, Rob, not if you want to say alive.

"I'll take that under advisement. Still want that cup of tea?"

"Oh, yes, please. And something to eat, if possible. I'm famished." The tremblers had stopped as suddenly as they'd begun.

It took him a bit to get her that tea and sandwich, but she fell on them with gusto when he released her. "You had dinner last night with me and Klink."

She looked up disgustedly. "Overdone Wiennerschintzel? If you really want the truth…"

"Yes?"

"I hate German food."

He laughed. At that moment, she reminded him of Major Bonacelli. "And English is any better?" She swatted playfully at him, but made no answer, as her mouth was full. "Seriously, Miriam…."

She swallowed hard. "And just when, ROBERT, did I give you leave to call me by my Christian name?"

"Excuse me, MAJOR BROADBENT…."

She interrupted him again. "Oh, Miriam is fine. Miri is better."

She gave him a lovely and alluring smile that put him back on full alert. Definitely quicksilver.

"Whatever. As I was about to say, before you so rudely interrupted me." She harrumphed, but he went on. "What is so important about this Kraut general that he needs to be killed?" Assassination was a last resort. Too many people started asking questions. "Or are you merely being Gestapo ruthless?"

"I am British Army ruthless," she snapped. "If any one general could actually devise an invasion of Britain plan which would actually get past that natural tank trap of the Channel, it is Marck. In addition to which, he keeps the other copy of the rocket schematics in his brain. He has a photographic memory. Assassination is the most effective way to eliminate the threat." Hogan tried to whistle, but no sound came out. "And last but not least, he is a most thorough-going Nazi. There is no way to break him—even using Gestapo methods. However, if we kill the general, we can pin it on the Gestapo."

She smiled, but he noticed it didn't reach to her eyes.

"How?"

"The assassination needs to look like a Gestapo execution. That will set them on themselves, freeing the Underground," she paused to jab his chest with a slim finger, "and you, to do what you do best. This will probably only last for a couple of weeks. But it could be a fun time."

Hogan sat down heavily. "Oh great. And how do we get to him, MIRI?" This had all the earmarks of a setup.

"General Marck's wife is a very pious, Bavarian-born Catholic who converted her Lutheran Junker husband. He's very devoted to her, especially now that she is very ill. They are currently in Hammelburg at their residence. There are always nuns in attendance on Alix Marck. We get in dressed as nuns, and take care of her husband."

"It won't do much for her, will it?"

"It will probably kill her."

"And you don't care."

"It will be mercy." She met his stare straight on. "She has cancer. Not a hope in heaven for her." Miri then really surprised Hogan, not that he thought she could have surprised him more—she crossed herself. "Do you know how long it's been since I've been able to do that?"

He didn't answer that last. "And where do we get nuns' habits? And who's going to go on this little farce?" He didn't think there was a hope in heaven for them, either.

"Really, Robert, for a man whose reputation is one for unorthodox solutions, you can be such a stick in the mud. For your information, there is a convent not far from here. I know the mother superior—she's actually in the Underground, though you'd never know it—and I'll get them from her. Two at least. Nuns at the bare minimum travel in pairs. YOU won't be among the sisters."

Before he could demand why not, he started sneezing. The fits were unpredictable at best. He used her hanky to blow his nose. Honk. Honk.

"I don't need any geese on this chase," she said as she moved very close to him.

That movement suddenly sparked and snapped the air with fire.

"Given your illness, I will lead the troops in this escapade, and you are going to bed, where you belong. Between the cold and the beating, you are out for this round."

The colonel stood up. "Yes, ma'am," he intoned solemnly as gave her a salute that more than verged on the insubordinate. He started toward the ladder.

She called to him, saucily, "So what do your friends call you? Rob, Bob, perhaps Bobby?"

He ignored the impertinence and went up the ladder. He called over his shoulder, "Robert." It wasn't true; his friends and siblings called him Rob, but he wanted her to use his full name. God knew why.