“Sorry to disturb your rest, Lieutenant Wilson.” The man bowed stiffly. “I am Domber.” He said it as though Stan ought to know him once he had mentioned his name.
Stan nodded and remained seated on his cot. Domber rubbed his hands together and smiled.
“You will go with me,” he said. “We will have a nice long talk.”
Stan got to his feet. Domber stepped to the door. He frowned at the two armed guards waiting for them.
“The military have odd ways. They always have guards about.”
“They are funny that way,” Stan agreed dryly.
They walked down the long hall and entered a small office. Its one wide window looked out upon a tree-lined street. There were no bars on the window and one of its side wings stood open. Stan saw people walking up and down the street. An expanse of smooth turf lay between the window and the sidewalk. Stan turned back to Domber, who had seated himself at a desk.
The office had nothing military about it. There were no war maps on the wall. The only picture was one of Hitler, hung back of the desk. There was an adding machine, two sets of files, several large cabinets with steel doors, and a desk with a typewriter on it. Stan smiled at the little blonde seated before the typewriter. She returned his smile with a severe and steady look out of her gray eyes. No help there, Stan thought.
“Be seated,” Domber said, pointing to a chair beside the desk. He fished out a box of cigars, flipped the lid open, and extended the box toward Stan. “Smoke?”
“No, thanks,” Stan said.