62.

“OK, what they’re saying is that you shot the woman.”

It’s a gruff voice on the phone.

“They’re saying that you grabbed the gun and shot the woman.”

It’s the operations sergeant at headquarters. A wave of cold goes through my stomach.

“That’s not true,” I say. “I was trying to get the gun away from him. I was trying to save her life. I was just doing my job.”

“The colonel’s not happy.”

I begin to shake. Maybe I did kill someone. Jesus. I’d never been in this kind of trouble before. The Man Who Wasn’t There Arrives. It’s all so perverse and wrong. I looked down at the bloodstain on my Harris Tweed sport coat. I got it when I leaned over the woman and haven’t been able to get it off.

“They’re saying your fingerprints are on the gun and that you fled the crime scene.”

I don’t know what to say.

“The German police want to talk with you.”

I try to speak but can’t form the words.

“What happened to the woman?”

I am shaking so much I can’t hold the phone to my ear.

“Let me talk with Edwards.”

Lance nods at me when I hand him the phone. He nods some more when he gets on the line.

“Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh,” he keeps saying, holding the phone close and occasionally looking at me.

“What’d he say?” I ask when Lance hangs up.

“You gonna get your ass out of Deutschland and the army, Ryan. Once you get out of the army they can’t touch your civilian ass. Don’t worry. You’re lucky. That German Badguy Group is messed up in this.”

“Baader,” I say. “Baader-Meinhof Gruppe.”

“Whatever. They’ll save your ass. That couple—they’re working for them. Bad-guy stuff all over the house. Posters, AK-47s, shit like that. The Germans will blame them.”

“Saved by the sixties. How funny.”

“But to be sure, you need to get your ass out of the army. Then they can’t touch you. You’ll be long gone.”

“Oh.”

“Got that Ryan? Long gone.”

“How about the woman?”

“She’s not your problem. The way I see it, she’s German Customs’s problem. And, by the way, here’s this. No time like the present.”

He hands me a large, white envelope.

“What is it?”

“Open it up.”

It’s an ARCOM—an Army Commendation Medal.

“Congratulations.”

“This seems like kind of a funny time . . .”

“You deserve it, Ryan. You did what you were told. Congratulations. You’ve been a good soldier.”

“What about the woman?”

“You’ve got other things to worry about.”

“Under sometimes difficult circumstances, Sergeant Ryan faithfully executed his duties as a customs military policeman,” reads the citation.

Boom, boom, snare.

Boom, boom, snare.