The Russian colonel quickly briefed MacCleary on the situation. As he spoke, the seated German continued to murmur softly to himself, repeating only one word.

"He speaks nonsense," the colonel insisted in heavily accented English. "I speak German well, and that is not a word I have ever heard."

With a glance at the Russians, MacCleary leaned forward. He cocked an ear, listening closely.

The German continued to hiss softly. Eyelids fluttered at half-mast over his twitching eyes. MacCleary frowned. "Whatever it is, it ain't German," he concluded.

"What does it mean?" asked a Russian colonel. MacCleary shrugged. He listened hard once more.

Maybe the kraut had some kind of speech impediment. But try as he might, Conn could hear no German in what the man was saying.

"... Sinanju... Sinanju... Sinanju... Sinanju..."

It was like a mantra to the poor battered soldier. "Beats the hell out of me," Conn admitted eventually, his voice a hoarse grumble. "Just another crazy German in a country of crazy Germans. Let him join Hitler in Hell."

It was the Nazi leader's name that did it. Something triggered in the soldier's face. A spark of raw terror. The seated soldier snatched MacCleary by the wrist that would one day end in a hook. Fingers dug into bone.

"The Master of Sinanju is coming," the soldier hissed in German. "Tell the fuhrer that death is on the way."

The fear in his wounded face was deeper and stronger than anything MacCleary had seen in his life. The German's bloodshot eyes were pleading. It was as if the fear that his message would not get through was far greater than his fear at what the Germans, Russians or Americans might do to him.

When the German lunged, the two Russian soldiers jumped forward. They pinned the captain back to his seat. The Russian colonel came to MacCleary's aide. It took all their strength to pry the man's hands off Conn's wrist.