Death at Nuremberg

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Ten minutes later?” Dunwiddie asked. “I thought cyanide works immediately.”

  “That’s what they tell people who may have to bite one,” Cohen said. “It took Himmler ten minutes to die. They propped the corpse up in a hospital bed, folded his hands on his chest, made a formal identification, performed an autopsy, and then buried him somewhere around three a.m. the next day.”

  “Where?” Serov asked.

  “In a remote farmer’s field outside Lüneburg. In an unmarked grave.”

  “Do you know where, precisely?” Serov asked.

  “Colonel Murphy reminded me that the more people who know a secret, the less likely it is that it will remain a secret, and with impeccable British tact told me to butt out.”

  “Obviously, the Brits didn’t want the faithful turning his grave into a shrine,” Serov said.

  “Too late,” Dunwiddie said. “He already has his shrine in Castle Wewelsburg.”

  “I’m afraid Tiny is right,” Cohen said. “Unless we can convince the German people that Wewelsburg is more than just one more place where Nazi nastiness occurred.”

  “How are you going to do that?” Cronley asked.

  “I don’t know. Tying it to the smelting of all those Totenkopfrings back into gold which then went into the pocket of some senior SS officer would help, and so would finding the contents of Himmler’s empty safe. My gut tells me it was loaded with a good deal of stuff—probably tens of millions of dollars’ worth of stuff—that Himmler stole from the German people.”

  “Your problem there . . . Am I permitted to comment?” Hessinger asked.

  “Why not?” Cohen said.

  “When Colonel Frade was in Berlin—”

  “What was he doing in Berlin?” Cohen asked.

  “Officially, he was there as the captain of an SAA Constellation making a routine flight to Germany. Actually, he came to help with getting Mattingly back.”

  “I thought he had retired from—” Cohen said, and stopped abruptly.

  He suddenly realized he’s having dinner with the NKGB, who would be fascinated to hear what he was about to say.

  It’s comforting to realize that Cohen also makes mistakes.

  Correction: almost makes mistakes. He stopped in time.

  Which is the difference between him and me.

  I almost never am smart enough to stop in time.

  “You were saying, Friedrich?” Cohen said.

  “I had the chance to ask him about that ransoming operation. He said he had heard and believed that while it went high up in the SS, it didn’t go as far as Himmler, that the senior SS officer involved was probably Himmler’s adjutant, SS-Brigadeführer Franz von Dietelburg.”

  “Am I permitted to ask what you’re talking about?” Serov asked.

  “Rich Jews in the States, England, and some other places were permitted to buy their relatives’ way out of the concentration camps and be given safe passage to Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay. Senior SS officers made a lot of money,” Hessinger explained.

  “I hadn’t heard that story,” Serov said. “Not even a rumor. It’s amazing how common criminals could rise so high in government.”

  “Isn’t it?” Ostrowski asked. “And how they remain in power by continuing to be criminals.”

  That was a shot at Russia. At Serov.

  I understand why, of course. He’s probably thinking of some Free Polish Army buddy who made the mistake of going home to Poland, where he was promptly shot by the Russians.

  But I’m going to have to tell him—order him—not to antagonize Serov.

  At least until we find out what the sonofabitch is up to.

  “What happened to . . . What did you say? Brigadeführer Franz von Dietelburg?” Cronley asked. “Do we know? Have we got him?”

  “No, we don’t have him, and no, we don’t know what happened to him,” Cohen said. “But since he was already skilled in getting people out of Germany, I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t deeply involved—perhaps even running it—with Odessa. He’s high on that OSS—now DCI—list of wanted people.”

  “Maybe he’s running it from Spain,” Cronley said.

  “Possibly,” Cohen said. “If he is running Odessa, he’s running it from where he thinks he’s most safe. Possibly in East Berlin or East Germany.”

  “You’re not suggesting we’re harboring this man?” Serov said.

  “No, I’m not,” Cohen said. “You were saying, Friedrich?”

  “I was making the point,” Hessinger said, “that if we can’t tar Himmler with the brush of common criminal, and make the Germans accept that, he’s likely to be thought of as a martyr, and Castle Wewelsburg—”

  “Will become his shrine,” Serov finished for him. “I’d love to have a look at that place.”

  “Cronley’s going to fly me up there in the morning. Your Storch carries three people, doesn’t it, Jim? There would be room for Friend Ivan?”

  I didn’t say I was going to fly up there tomorrow.

  It was going to be sometime in the future.

  With Janice.

  Who will be highly pissed—at me, not Cohen—if she’s bumped by Serov.

  So what do I do?

  I go along with ol’ Morty, who has some kind of agenda vis-à-vis Serov.

  “Sure,” Cronley said.

  “Soldier’s Field at 0800?” Cohen asked.

  “I’ll be there,” Serov said. “Thank you, James.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “And when do I get to see the Cathedral of Nazism?” Janice demanded.

  Cronley’s mouth went on automatic: “All things come to he, or she, who waits.”

  Janice gave him both the finger and an icy glare.

  She really is pissed.

  Guess who will sleep alone tonight in the Duchess Suite?

  “Well, since I’ll be flying tomorrow morning, I can’t have any more to drink,” Cronley said. “I think I’ll go have a look at the Mansion.”

  “What’s that?” Serov asked.

  “Our newly assigned quarters, formerly the modest home of the local Gauleiter. I’m told it has twenty-eight rooms. We got it today, but I’ve never seen it.”

  “And I, too, must take my leave of this company,” Serov said.

  “Where do you live, Ivan?” Cronley asked.

  “We have another requisitioned mansion, but like you, James, I have a room here.”

  So you can keep an eye on me, and pick the right moment to kidnap me?

  “Wonderful. We can have breakfast together at, say, seven? And then go to the airfield together. In my Horch. It used to belong to Colonel Mattingly.”

  “How nice of Robert to turn it over to you,” Serov said, as he got to his feet. “I’m a little surprised, frankly. During our chats, I got the impression he didn’t like you very much.”

  Robert? You sonofabitch!

  Just in time, Cronley shut off his automatic mouth before asking, You mean the chats you had with him when you had him chained to a chair?

  Instead he said, “See you here at seven, Ivan.”

  Serov bowed to everyone at the table and then, with Major Sergei Alekseevich following him, walked out of the dining room.

  Cronley waited until they were out of sight, and then said, “Come on, Max. Let’s have a look at the Mansion.”

  [TWO]

  It had been Cronley’s intention that once they were in the Horch, he would “counsel” Ostrowski about his insulting Serov, but even before they left the hotel Ostrowski put his hand on Cronley’s arm and stopped him.

  “I’m really sorry for showing my contempt for Colonel Serov and all things Russian. It won’t happen again.”

  “However justified, Max, I’m glad you stopped when you did. Colonel Cohen has an agenda for Serov, and we
shouldn’t fuck it up.”

  “Too late, I figured that out. What’s he up to?”

  “I have no idea, and we won’t know until he decides to tell us.”

  “You think it might have something to do with Cohen suggesting this chap, Brigadeführer von Dietelburg, might be in East Berlin or East Germany?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, Max. Turning to another subject: What do you think of assigning Karwowski as chief of Judge Biddle’s security detail?”

  “A very good idea. He’s a good man. I thought he was really wasted guarding the SIGABA.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I was going to wait until things settled down.”

  “Next time, don’t.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I was planning, if you thought giving him the job was a good idea, of introducing him to Biddle tomorrow. But now I’m going to Wewelsburg. Will you handle Biddle?”

  “I will if you say so, but I think it’s a bad idea.”

  “Why?”

  “My English is good, but I have an accent. Karwowski sounds like the King of England. If I were Biddle, and a man with an accent shows up to introduce his new bodyguard, I’d wonder where the American in charge was, and if he was being snubbed. If Karwowski walks into his office in pinks and greens, flashes his DCI credentials, and announces—looking and sounding as if he graduated from Sandhurst—that he’s been named Judge Biddle’s chief of security, no problem.”

  “Good thinking. That’s what we’ll do.”

  [THREE]

  Offenbach Platz 101

  Nuremberg, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  2105 21 February 1946

  “Gauleiters lived pretty high on the hog, didn’t they?” Cronley observed, as he stopped the car before the wide marble stairs leading up to the imposing double doors of the mansion.

  “I don’t know what ‘high on the hog’ means,” Ostrowski confessed.

  “That’s Texan for ‘like Roman emperors.’”

  “Or high priests,” Ostrowski said.

  As they walked up the stairs, Florence Miller came through the doors. She wasn’t wearing her tunic, which revealed the snub-nosed .38 revolver on her hip.

  “You must be the lady in charge of tours of the mansion,” Cronley greeted her.

  “Wait till you see this place,” she said. “Unbelievable!”

  “Lead on.”

  —

  “I saved this for last,” she said, pushing open one of the double doors on the second floor. “This is the lair of the laird of the manor, in other words, yours.”

  Beyond the doors was an elegantly furnished three-room suite, plus an all-marble bathroom. After a second look at the smaller of the rooms, Cronley realized it was a wardrobe.

  “Tell you what, Flo,” Cronley said, “in addition to your other duties, you are herewith appointed general manager of the Mansion. As such, you get the best room, to share it with the SIGABA.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ll take that room under the staircase.”

  “But it’s small and there’s no window.”

  “Making it impossible for anyone to take a shot at me through a window. Anyway, I’m keeping my room at Farber Palast, so the room downstairs is sort of a backup.”

  “Are you going to tell me why?”

  “Because former senior major of State Security Ivan Serov, now sporting the shoulder boards of an infantry colonel, is also staying at the Palast, as is his aide-de-camp, ostensibly an infantry major named Sergei Alekseevich.”

  “What the hell is that all about?”

  “His cover is that he’s in charge of the Russian judge’s security. Somehow I don’t think that’s the whole truth.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “He bought us all dinner, and tomorrow morning, at Colonel Cohen’s suggestion, the three of us are going to fly to Paderborn for a look at Castle Wewelsburg.”

  “Jesus Christ! What’s with Castle . . . what you said?”

  “Wewelsburg. And while I’m gone, Max can tell you all about it.”

  “So you’re not going to tell me why you’re going there? What am I supposed to say if someone—Colonel Wallace—asks where you are?”

  “The reason I’m going is because Cohen has got some sort of agenda vis-à-vis Serov. I don’t know what, but Cohen isn’t taking Serov there to be nice. So far as Colonel Wallace is concerned—Mr. Cronley didn’t share with me, Colonel, sir, where he was going, just that he would be unavailable until 1730. Would you like to speak with Captain Dunwiddie, Colonel, sir?”

  Florence chuckled. “Got it.”

  “Tomorrow, I want the SIGABA moved here. And tomorrow, once that’s done, Sigmund Karwowski becomes chief of security for Judge Biddle, and you’re in charge of the SIGABA. See that Karwowski is assigned a room in keeping with his new status, which is Number Two to Max here.”

  “Got it,” Flo said. “Boss, do you think Serov may be here to kidnap somebody else?”

  “That unpleasant scenario has flashed through my mind, Flo. I’ve been wondering if I might be the desired kidnappee. When we got Colonel Mattingly back, Serov had to be humiliated. And I think he blames me. And they still want Colonel Likharev and family back in Mother Russia. He might be thinking kidnapping me is a splendid idea.”

  “Do you suspect Serov was responsible for Lieutenant Moriarty’s . . .”

  “Assassination? With Serov, anything is possible. And at dinner he offered his condolences for Moriarty.”

  “Which means he has a mole in the Compound,” Max said.

  “And wants us to know he has,” Flo said.

  “And now, General Manager of the Mansion, I will take my leave,” Cronley said.

  “I don’t like you driving back to the Palast alone,” Max said.

  “I’m a big boy, Max.”

  “So I’m going to send somebody with you. I agree with your scenario that Serov may be here because of you.”

  “Listen to him, boss,” Flo said.

  “I’m too tired to argue.”

  “Are you too tired to hear a request?” Flo asked.

  “Shoot.”

  “I’m going to need some ASA type help around here.”

  “Okay. What? How many?”

  “I could use two cryptographers, basically. With debugging skills. Holders of Top Secret clearances you’d feel comfortable to upgrade to Top Secret–Presidential.”

  “Why do I think you have two old pals from your ASA days in mind?”

  “Because I do. I already asked Tiny. He said he’d ask Colonel Wallace, but that he’d have to check with you first. Now you’ll be gone tomorrow . . .”

  “And you need them right away?”

  “I really want to very carefully sweep this place for bugs. And you see how big it is. It will take forever if I do it myself.”

  “Well, I’m glad you asked me before Tiny called Wallace. We’re not going to ask him. Give me the names and I’ll get on the SIGABA to General Greene, ask him to put them on temporary duty with Detachment ‘A.’ He’s turning out to be one of the really good guys.”

  “And Wallace is not?” Max asked.

  “I sometimes feel he’s turning into Mattingly. Which means he doesn’t particularly like me, and that he’ll do whatever he has to do to cover his ass. Like deny, or at least delay, adding two female ASA types to us.”

  Flo reached into her shirt pocket and came out with a slip of paper, which she handed to Cronley.

  “You’re always selling that Boy Scout line, ‘Be Prepared,’ boss, so I was. Am.”

  “I’ll call General Greene as soon as I get to the Palast,” Cronley said. “Bring on my bodyguard, Max.”

  [FOUR]

  Farber Palast

  Stein, n
ear Nuremberg

  American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  2155 21 February 1946

  Sigmund Karwowski was sitting in a Louis XIV chair in the Duchess Suite when Cronley walked in. A Thompson submachine gun rested against the wall.

  “You can go to the Mansion now, Sigmund, and get a good night’s rest before assuming your new duties.”

  “Sir?”

  “As soon as you turn over the SIGABA to Flo Miller tomorrow, you, as Number Two to Ostrowski, will be in charge of security for Judge Biddle.”

  “I don’t know what to say, sir.”

  “Try ‘Good night, Jim. Sleep well.’”

  Karwowski smiled and shook his head.

  “Have you ever heard the expression ‘WASP’?” Cronley asked.

  “The insect?”

  “It stands for ‘White, Anglo-Saxon Protestant.’ WASPs are sort of the American version of British Landed Gentry. They think of themselves as slightly superior to everyone else. Judge Biddle is known as a Super-WASP. Keep that in mind when you introduce yourself to him tomorrow.”

  “You’re not going to introduce me?”

  “I’m going to Castle Wewelsburg with Colonel Cohen tomorrow, and Max thinks his accent would be a problem, but that the judge will be dazzled with your Buckingham Palace accent, so you’re on your own.”

  Karwowski again smiled and shook his head.

  “Max thinks I need a bodyguard, so he sent one with me. As you leave, take him with you. There’s a car outside.”

  “And if he doesn’t want to go?”

  “You are now Max’s Number Two. You have that authority to tell him what to do.”

  “Two questions: Should I leave the Thompson with you, and what’s Castle Wewelsburg?”

  “Leave the Thompson, you can pick it up in the morning. And Max will explain the Castle Wewelsburg situation to you when you get to the Mansion.”

  After a moment, Karwowski said, “Good night, Jim. Sleep well. And thank you.”

  —

  When the door had closed after him, Cronley went into the wardrobe, hung his tunic on a hanger, and then sat down at the SIGABA.

  “Fulda.”

  “James D. Cronley for General Greene.”