The guy was a cold bastard if ever there was one, yet the two men shared an unspoken bond of friendship. He was a man who could be trusted. But when Conn switched from the OSS to the peacetime CIA, his friend briefly opted for civilian life. Time to complete his education, get married, have a kid. Not Conn. He was part of that holy first generation. The anointed team of warriors to first enter into the decades-long twilight struggle.

It was in 1952, while the Cold War was heating up, that MacCleary next encountered the mystery of his German captain.

Conn didn't meet the soldier himself-if the Russians were true to form, the babbling man was long dead.

It was during the undeclared war on the Korean peninsula. MacCleary was in Seoul in an advisory capacity to General MacArthur. At a special meeting the South Korean military leadership was adamant that the American-led army not come within a country mile of a particular fishing village north of the Thirty-eighth Parallel.

"With all due respect, nothing can get in the way of complete victory," MacArthur had insisted.

"If you choose to invade Sinanju, you do it without our cooperation," a South Korean general replied. In a corner of the conference room, Conn MacCleary looked sharply at the man.

"Did you say Sinanju?"

The man nodded. There was fear in his hooded eyes. It was matched by the looks of dread on the sweating faces of the remaining South Korean military delegation.

"Is there someone there-what the hell was that title?" Conn snapped his fingers. "Is there someone called the Master of Sinanju there?"

The fear grew greater. Nods all around. MacArthur was growing impatient with the interrupting CIA man, as well as with the Koreans.

"Is there a point to all this?" the general demanded.

"I'm not sure, sir," Conn replied. "But I'd suggest you do as they say until I can get some research done."