“I read about German POWs escaping,” Honey said, “but most of them turn out to be funny stories.”

“They’re picked up in a couple of days,” Kevin said, “walking around with PW painted on their work clothes. Or they get hungry, miss three squares a day at the camp, and give themselves up.”

“So it’s not a problem.”

Kevin said, “Except I’ve got a guy calling me, a U.S. marshal-” and stopped.

Honey watched him bring out a pack of Chesterfields and hold it out to offer her one. The good-looking special agent seemed right at home on her sofa. Honey took a cigarette and leaned over him for a light, saying, “You look so comfortable, I hope you don’t fall asleep.” Close to him, Kevin trying to keep his nose out of Honey’s orange, red, and ochre kimono. She sat on the sofa now, the middle cushion between them.

“You’ve got a federal marshal calling you?”

“From the Tulsa office, yeah. He asks for me by name since I’m the one spoke to him the first time he called.”

“He knew you from home?”

“Actually,” Kevin said, “I’m originally from Bixby, across the river from Tulsa. I don’t know this marshal but I’d heard of him and I find out he’s famous. Law enforcement people respect him, so you listen to what he has to say. He makes remarks the way you do, with a straight face. Anyway, he had the Bureau office in Tulsa send us additional information about the two escaped POWs. They’re from a camp near Okmulgee, Afrika Korps officers, one of them a major in the SS. With the information was a statement from the Tulsa marshal saying he knows one of them from lengthy conversations and observing him for a time.”

“Which one,” Honey said, “the SS guy?”

“The other one.” Kevin checked his notebook and Honey laid her arm along the sofa’s backrest. Kevin looked up saying, “The marshal claims he knows the guy, and knows-doesn’t just have reason to believe-he knows they came here when they escaped.”