"I don't see why I always have to wait on the table at Klink's dinner parties," complained Carter, pulling on the white cotton gloves he wore for these occasions.

"We don't have a choice, Carter," replied Hogan. "LeBeau will be in the kitchen, and Klink doesn't trust Newkirk around the silverware."

"I have to say, sir, I'm insulted by that remark," said Newkirk. "It's all electroplate, not worth the trouble. I have standards, you know."

"I'll bear that in mind. Okay, Carter, we don't know exactly how Madame Rochaud is going to make the transfer, but we might need a diversion, maybe an accident with the dessert. Think you can handle it?"

"Oh, sure, Colonel. Piece of pie."

"We're not having pie, Carter," said LeBeau scornfully. "We're having cake."

"Pie or cake, if you want it dropped, Carter's your man," observed Newkirk.

"Yeah, he's had a lot of practice," added Kinch, regarding Carter with a smile. Hogan was glad to see it; Kinch had been too grave for the last couple of days. That Mahndorf business had really got to him.

Carter looked as if he wasn't sure whether to be offended or not. "Well, it takes skill, you know. It's not just dropping stuff, it's making it look natural. It's an art."

"And one you've mastered, Carter," said Hogan, putting a hand on Carter's shoulder. Carter gave an uncertain, one-sided grin, as he tried to work out if he'd just been flattered or insulted.

"Couldn't he make it something other than the dessert, mon Colonel?" LeBeau seemed a little put out. "I have something special planned, it would be vandalism to spoil it."

Hogan grinned. "Fine by me. Carter, spill the coffee instead."

Carter looked vaguely worried by the amendment, but Hogan had already changed the subject. "LeBeau, did you say Madame Rochaud was a widow?"

"That's what she said. Well, she said her husband was French, but she spoke of him in the past tense, so I guess that means he's dead."

"That might explain why Klink's so interested. And Staremberg,"

LeBeau scowled. "He hasn't got a chance."

"Well, can't blame a man for trying," observed Hogan. "She's available, she's attractive - okay, not young, but neither is..."

"Colonel, what about Staremberg, anyway?" interrupted Newkirk. "We're not letting him off the hook, are we?"

Hogan glanced at Kinch before answering. "For now, unfortunately, we don't have a choice. Until we've got the microfilm, and sent it on..."

"Colonel, you mean to tell us..."

"Mais, Colonel..."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, sir..."

Kinch's voice cut across the chorus of protest. "The Colonel's right," he said quietly. "What are we going to do, shoot the man right here? Where does that get us?"

There was a puzzled silence, before Newkirk said, "Well, there's always Carter's grenade."

"And what if the lady decides to accept Staremberg's offer to drive her to Hammelburg?" responded Kinch. "We can't take the chance. You know we can't, no matter how much..." He broke off, looking away.

"We'll get him," said Hogan, after a moment. "Maybe not tonight, but he's at the top of our priority list. There's no way I'm letting him get control of the POW camps. Trust me, guys. His time's coming, soon."

The sombre hush following this was broken when the barracks door opened and Schultz lumbered in. "Colonel Hogan, the Kommandant has sent me to fetch LeBeau and Carter. And he said he would be very pleased if you would join them now."

"He's not usually that keen for your company, Colonel," observed Newkirk, with a doubtful frown.

Schultz lowered his voice, and took on a confidential air. "I don't think the Kommandant is very comfortable with having General Staremberg stay to dinner. Maybe he thinks you might talk to the general, so he doesn't have to."

"I'd rather talk to the lady," said Hogan, with a grin. "Okay, Schultz, anything to oblige."

As they crossed the yard, Schultz turned to the chef. "LeBeau, what are we having for dinner?" he asked.

LeBeau rolled his eyes. "Schultz, for once can't you wait and see?"

Seeing Schultz occupied, Hogan dropped back a little. "Carter," he murmured, "I'm not saying we'll need it, but just in case we do, is the grenade still in your mattress?"

"No, Colonel," replied Carter. "Newkirk made such a big deal about it, I thought I'd better move it somewhere else."

"Well? Where is it?"

"I put it in Newkirk's mattress."

"Carter, are you crazy? There's no way he's not going to notice."

"Yeah, I know. Boy, I can't wait to see the look on his face when he does."

Hogan had to smile. It wasn't often Carter decided to get his own back, but when he did, he made sure of it.

LeBeau had got a little agitated when he realised how little time he would actually have to get this dinner on the table; no time for his usual repertoire of slow-cooked, lovingly prepared masterpieces.

Nobody but Kinch had known what he meant, when he started muttering about cervelles au beurre noir, and Kinch had just grinned and said nothing. The plan had fallen through anyway, when LeBeau realised he'd never be able to find lamb's brains at such short notice, not at this time of year.

He was now disclosing to Schultz the results of his deliberation: "Soupe au pistou, followed by noisettes de veau aux herbes, with a vegetable timbale. And for dessert, a raspberry and hazelnut gateau with créme chantilly."

Schultz almost glowed with eager anticipation.

Klink wasn't nearly as happy as his sergeant. He had been thrown into confusion, from the moment he recognised Marie. Astonishment and joy were still fighting it out with the despair which had held him ever since Burkhalter's telephone call. Added to the mix was a sense of unease - how did she come to be on such close terms with a man like Staremberg?

The general was making a determined effort to monopolise her attention, and much as Klink wanted to step in, he couldn't find the nerve to do anything. In truth, that was why he'd invited Hogan to join them so early. He didn't want his childhood friend talking to that man, and he knew Hogan would be able to cut Staremberg out.

There was so much he wanted to ask her, so much he wanted to tell her, and he was already certain he'd never get the chance, not tonight, maybe not ever.

"It's a pleasure to have you join us, Hogan," said Staremberg, in a cool voice.

"Believe me, General," replied Hogan affably, "the pleasure's all yours."

LeBeau disappeared into the kitchen, with Schultz in anxious attendance, while Carter went to set the table. He'd done this often enough so he no longer went looking for the ketchup bottle, but he still wore a slightly anxious look, and paused occasionally to run through the settings in his mind, making sure he was doing it the way LeBeau had taught him.

With Hogan's arrival, Marie had detached herself from the conversation. She was looking around the room, as if impressing it on her memory. The bookcase caught her eye; she ran her fingers along the spines of the books.

"Now, there's an old friend," she murmured. "Das Schwäbische Mädchen. The hours I spent ploughing through that..."

"Madame Rochaud is an authority in the field of comparative literature," remarked Staremberg. "We first met at an academic conference."

Hogan wasn't listening to him. "I gather it's not very good," he said to Marie.

"It's dreadful," she replied frankly. "Really, it's just The Girl from Kythera without the pirates. And without the pirates, what's the point?"

She was leafing through the volume as she spoke, and suddenly she paused. Klink caught his breath; he had forgotten putting the little yellow flower in there, that evening in spring. It was faded now, a colourless, paper-thin shadow. Marie looked up at him, with a sudden bright smile.

"Riemenschneider had no originality," she added. "He borrowed from folk tales as well as Athenian comedies, and he never improved them. This one's just a variation on the Lost Child story, and not a very well-conceived one."

Ask me about the Lost Child story, Willi. She might as well have spoken the words aloud. But it was Hogan who obliged.

"The Lost Child?" he said, with a slow smile.

"Yes, it's a common theme in folk literature. Usually...oh, no, Colonel, you mustn't get me started. There's nothing worse than listening to someone going on about their pet subject." Her eyes flickered briefly in Staremberg's direction, and Klink's spirits took an upward turn. Apparently she found his conversation a little hard to take, when he got on to his own area of interest.

"No, please, Madame," Hogan persisted. "I'm really interested."

Of course he was; just like he always was, when he was making a play. Klink suppressed the thought, and added his own mite to the discussion, certain that Marie wanted to talk, and had good reason for doing so. "Oh, yes, Mar- Madame Rochaud. Please do tell us."

Marie smiled, a curiously wistful smile. "Well, it is interesting, you know. It's such a common story, you find it everywhere. It involves a child - usually a girl - somehow separated from her family, and tells of her attempts to be reunited with her loved ones. There's a fascinating regional variation, from quite near here, around Rosenthal. You've been to Rosenthal, Willi, haven't you?"

Klink felt a tingling at the back of his neck. Rosenthal, where he and Marie had met as children, where he'd made what he now knew was his first, perhaps his only real friendship. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I have been there."

Marie sat down, folding her hands over the book in her lap. "The story starts, as always, with a wealthy man - a merchant, or a nobleman, it doesn't seem to matter much. He had a wife, and two sons. And he went on a journey to a town not far from home, where he met a young woman - a miller's daughter, or a peasant's daughter, something of the sort. Then he returned home, to...well, let's say Leipzig, shall we?" Her eyes were on Klink's face, as he tried to follow the story, picking up the clues as she laid them out before him.

"After some months, he hears from the peasant's daughter. She has a child. A girl." Marie's voice dropped a little in both tone and volume. "The merchant does the honourable thing, and provides for his new family, for some years, but never visits them. Time passes, and hard times come. Business isn't so good, or the estate doesn't prosper. Suddenly our wealthy man is not so wealthy. And he decides he can't afford to maintain an illegitimate child. So he cuts them off. Completely."

There was silence in the room. Hogan was watching the lady with a puzzled look, seemingly aware there was more to this story than she was giving away, but unable to put his finger on it. Staremberg looked at Klink, then back at Marie, his eyes bright with mistrust. Even Carter had become still, sensing something in the atmosphere. Klink almost stopped breathing, as the meaning of the tale began to take shape.

"Things get a bit difficult for our peasant's daughter after that," Marie went on, "so she decides on a fairly bold move. She hears the merchant's wife is travelling to a little town in the mountains, with her younger son. To Rosenthal. So the peasant's daughter takes her own child there as well, intending to make acquaintance with her lover's wife. Once she has done that, she hopes to either throw herself on the lady's charity, or perhaps convince the merchant to take up his responsibilities again, in return for her silence." She paused, then added quietly. "It didn't work out."

"How does it end?" asked Klink, after a long pause.

"For the peasant's daughter? Not well," said Marie. "For her child...well, I don't know the end of her story yet. But I'm sure she will find her family, one day. She really wants to, you know."

She was gazing at him with a look he had never seen on her face, in their brief friendship, so many years ago. A gentle, affectionate look. Klink wasn't a man to pick up subtle clues, but he couldn't fail to understand, remembering what had happened years ago, when his mother had taken him to Rosenthal. Where Marie's mother had claimed friendship with Mamma, until Mamma received a letter, telling her...

She's my sister. Every other thought was driven from his conscious mind. He'd never imagined... Marie is my sister, and nobody ever told me.

Note: as mentioned at the end of Chapter 1, Das Schwäbische Mädchen doesn't exist. Neither does The Girl From Kythera. With or without the pirates.