"I don't know what's wrong with you, Fritz, but your fuhrer's already on ice," MacCleary snapped in German. He massaged the pain in his wrist with one hand while he flexed the fingers of his left hand.

The captain blinked in confusion. It was as if he were coming out of a dream. "On ice?" he asked.

"Yeah," MacCleary replied bitterly. "On ice. Dead. Courtesy of Little Joe Stalin and a damned politician's conference at Yalta I sure as hell wasn't invited to."

The relief that washed over the face of the captured German captain was great. He released a heavy sigh. As MacCleary was ushered from the room, the Russians were resuming their questioning. The last thing Conn saw was the two Russian soldiers working over the German. He accepted their blows with a smile. It was as if the captain had already endured all the pain one man could possibly suffer.

It was a strange chapter that, for Conrad MacCleary, should have closed out this part of his personal story of World War II. But for some reason it stuck with him.

The rational part of MacCleary's brain wanted to chalk it up to the craziness of war, but that weird episode with the German captain just wouldn't get into the box. A tour in Asia and the end of hostilities didn't stop him from thinking of that frightened German captain from time to time.

Life went on. For Conrad MacCleary, World War II was just the start of the real spy game.

Although the Cold War presented new challenges, many of the same men who had fought in secret in the Second World War found themselves transferred to a new life and a new cause. There were still battles to be fought, dragons to be slain.

As before, MacCleary largely worked alone. There was only one man he had ever fought beside whom he would have trusted to guard his back during the early CIA days. But that man had taken a break from the game.

Conn had met the best friend he'd ever had while in the OSS.