“Well, Herr Sturmführer, since we have you in here, I think I’m entitled to gloat. Odessa has lost the services of a valuable member. Whether or not I tell my mother that I’ve paid you a visit depends on how you react to the offer I’m about to make.”
Stauffer didn’t reply.
“I’m sure Brigadeführer Franz von Dietelburg has told you about our Operation Ost—”
“Who?”
“I’m sure you remember him. He was Himmler’s adjutant, the officer who ordered you to Strasbourg.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“One more display of that SS arrogance, Luther, and I will leave you to Colonel Fortin, who wants to shoot you in the elbow and knees with a .22 and then see how well you can swim.”
Stauffer didn’t reply.
“I don’t think of you as anything other than one more despicable SS officer, Stauffer. And the offer I came here to make has nothing to do with the unpleasant fact that my mother is your father’s sister. Do you understand that?”
Stauffer, after a moment, nodded.
“As I was saying, Herr Sturmführer, I’m sure Brigadeführer von Dietelburg has told you about Operation Ost. We do what von Dietelburg is doing and what you failed to do—send Nazi swine to South America so that they can escape the noose. Or a swim in the Rhine.
“Do you know where Paraguay is, Herr Sturmführer?”
“Of course.”
“There is a colonel named Stroessner in Paraguay. There’s a president, but he serves because Colonel Stroessner permits him to. Stroessner, who was born in Paraguay to German immigrant parents, is a devout believer in National Socialism. Not Nazism. He believes Hitler, Göring, Himmler, and company betrayed National Socialism and are the cause of the failure of the Thousand-Year Reich.
“We send the Nazis—and their families—we took to South America to Paraguay, to Colonel Stroessner. He sets them up on farms, or in business. In a new life, in other words. We are comfortable in doing this because we know that these Nazis will be stood against a wall and shot in a public ceremony if Colonel Stroessner finds out—or even deeply suspects—that they are holding their breath waiting for Nazism to rise phoenixlike from the ashes.
“Are you following me, Herr Sturmführer?”
“I don’t know why you’re telling me this.”
“Because—I’m a little surprised, Herr Sturmführer, that you haven’t figured this out—because I’m offering you—and of course your devoted wife—the opportunity to go to Paraguay. In exchange for telling me where I can find Brigadeführer von Dietelburg.”
“I don’t know where he is. And if I did, why should I trust you?”
“Because the only other option you have is taking a swim in the Rhine, which would, of course, leave Ingebord a widow.”
“Your mother would hear that you were complicit if something like that happened to me.”
“To which I would reply that I had no influence with the French, in how they deal with traitors.”
Stauffer glared at Cronley but said nothing.
“And I would tell her that I had no influence with Colonel Stroessner should you and Ingebord be shot in Paraguay for not behaving.
“Think it over, Herr Sturmführer. Von Dietelburg’s not even going to try to rescue you from Sainte Marguerite. It would be too risky for him, for Odessa. Talk it over with Ingebord. I understand Colonel Fortin has denied her permission to visit. So I will ask him to allow her a visit. One visit. You have twenty-four hours from right now—it’s now two-thirty-five—to make up your mind.”
He met Stauffer’s eyes and said, “In case we don’t meet again, auf Wiedersehen, Herr Sturmführer.”
“Get him out of here, out of my sight,” Fortin ordered.
When the guards had led Stauffer, shuffling, out of the room, Fortin said, “Don’t let this go to your head, James, but you did that rather well.”
“When you bring his wife here, let her sit here for at least an hour and worry about what’s going on before you let her see him.”
“I had planned to do just that, James.”
[SIX]
Soldier’s Field Army Airfield
Nuremberg, American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1705 24 February 1946
Lieutenant Tom Winters came out of the hangar and helped Cronley and the 26th Infantry guards push the Storch inside.
“I drove your Horch out here. Was that the right thing to do?” Winters asked.
“Since Casey is otherwise occupied, fine. But do I detect an agenda?”
“I have to ask for a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“Can Barbara stay at the Mansion until we get quarters?”
When Cronley did not immediately reply, Winters went on.
“There’s a hotel for transient junior officers. A madhouse.”
“When is she coming down?”
“She called just after lunch. She said she’d thought things over, that her place was to be with me, supporting me in whatever I want to do, and that she doesn’t want me to go to General White.”
“Well, as my mother often told me, women have a God-given right to change their minds.”
“Thank God! Remember what Lee said before he went to surrender at Appomattox Court House? ‘I would rather die a thousand deaths’? I felt that way about going to Sonthofen.”
“When is she coming?”
“She’s going to drive down tomorrow morning. It’s only about a hundred miles. All autobahn.”
“All autobahn covered with ice and snow,” Cronley said. “Let me tell you, Lieutenant Winters, what your commanding officer, ever mindful of the welfare of his subordinates, is going to do. We are going to rise with the roosters and fly you to the Compound and you can drive your family down the snow-covered autobahn. And I’m going to tell the ladies resident in the Mansion to prepare suitable quarters for your wife and Thomas H. Winters the Fourth.”
X
[ONE]
Near Soldier’s Field Army Airfield
Nuremberg, American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1710 24 February 1946
“Where the hell are we going?” Cronley asked when, on leaving the airfield, Winters took a left turn. “The hotel’s thataway.”
“Casey Wagner found a shortcut and told me.”
—
Two minutes later, Cronley said, “Christ, it’s narrow, winding, and cobblestone.”
“And will save us fifteen minutes getting to the hotel.”
“If we don’t skid off the icy cobblestones in the dark and run into a tree.”
“Oh ye of little faith!”
—
Five minutes later, Cronley said, “It looks like someone else has discovered your private autobahn. How are you going to get around that truck?”
“With superior driving skill,” Winters replied.
—
Two minutes later, Winters said, “Now the sonofabitch is stopping. What the hell!”
“Tom, I don’t like this!” Cronley said.
He turned in the seat and saw a car, a small Audi convertible, headlights off, was coming up behind them.
The truck stopped, forcing Winters to slam on the brakes. The Horch skidded into the rear of the truck.
The Audi pulled up behind the Horch and stopped. A man got quickly out of the passenger seat and raised a shoulder weapon.
“Watch it, Tom!” Cronley cried, as he pulled the latch on his door and then rolled out of the car.
There was a burst of submachine gun fire and then another as Cronley, now lying on his side, fumbled through his trench coat and Ike jacket to get at his pistol.
He finally found it, rolled onto his stomach, flipped off the safety, and holding the .45 in both hands, found the man standing
next to the Audi and fired three times.
The man disappeared in the darkness.
Cronley could not tell if he had hit him or not. He took aim at the windshield of the small sports car and emptied his magazine at it. Then he fumbled again through the layers of clothing until he found the spare magazine in his holster.
He heard the sound of the truck driving off as he fed the magazine into his pistol.
Now there was silence.
“Tom?” he called.
“Under the car. You all right? Did you get him?”
“I don’t know. Stay where you are!”
Cronley crawled to the rear of the Horch.
Now he could see by the right front wheel of the Audi, a man’s booted feet. After a moment’s thought, he fired at them. There came a muffled scream. Cronley raised his head and looked at the Audi’s windshield. There were four bullet holes in it, but he couldn’t see the driver.
“Jim?” Winters called.
“I think I got both of the bastards. Stay where you are.”
He crawled to the man down by the wheel. The man was moaning in pain. Cronley could now see the weapon, and recognized it as a Maschinenpistole 40. He jumped forward until he could grasp the barrel, and pulled it to him.
Then, holding the .45 in both hands, he slowly got to his feet and, stepping around the man on the ground, looked into the Audi.
A man—a very young man—wearing a hooded jacket was lying across the seat with his head in a pool of blood and brain tissue that was leaking from a bullet hole in his forehead.
Jesus Christ, he’s even younger than Casey.
“I got both of them, Tom.”
Winters appeared at his side a moment later.
“That one’s alive,” Cronley said. “That one isn’t.”
Winters dropped to his knees and examined the man on the ground.
“You got him twice, once in the shoulder, once in—I dunno, in the side, waist level. He’s bleeding pretty badly.”
“Three times. I also shot him in the foot,” Cronley said. “Can you stop the bleeding? I want the bastard alive.”
“I can try,” Winters replied. “What do we do now?”
“Well, since I don’t think waiting on Casey’s autobahn for a friendly Constabulary patrol to come along and render assistance will do us much good, we’re going to have to go to the hotel.”
“What do we do with this guy?”
“We take him with us. We take both of them with us.”
“The dead kid, too?”
“Maybe we can find out who he is. Was. You grab this one’s shoulders, I’ll grab his legs.”
—
They carried the man, who was moaning, to the car and laid him on the backseat.
“Not only is my upholstery going to be really fucked up, but my nearly new sixty-nine ninety-five trench coat already is,” Cronley said.
“Looking on the bright side, you’re alive.”
“And look at the fucking windshield! Half a dozen fucking holes!”
“As I said, looking on the bright side . . .”
“Yeah. Let’s go get the kid.”
—
“My God, this is a woman!” Winters said.
Cronley looked and saw that when Winters had begun to pull the body out of the Audi by the feet, the hood had come off the head. Not only could Cronley now see an obviously feminine face, but blond hair braided and pinned to the skull.
The next thing he knew, Winters was helping him to his feet, and trying to put his arms around him.
“I threw up,” Cronley said.
“I can smell it.”
“I just shot a blond teenage girl with braids in the middle of the forehead.”
“You were defending yourself, Jim.”
“Against a blond teenaged girl with braids?”
“Come on, let’s go. I already have the body in the Horch.”
“How long was I down there, crying like a baby and throwing up everything I ever ate?”
“Not very long, and just for the record, I tossed my cookies, too, after I got her in the car.” He paused. “We have to go, Jim.”
[TWO]
The Bar
Farber Palast
Stein, near Nuremberg
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1810 24 February 1946
A military police captain walked in the bar, looked around, and then marched to Tiny Dunwiddie, who was sitting with Cronley and Major Tony Henderson at a table.
“Are you Captain Cronley?” he asked Dunwiddie.
“I am,” Cronley said.
“You’re not wearing bars,” the MP captain said.
“I suggest we wait until the provost marshal arrives before this goes any further,” Henderson said.
“With respect, sir, this is a military police matter.”
“No,” Henderson said, “it’s not.”
He handed his DCI credentials to the captain, who examined them and then replied, “Major, I don’t know what this is.”
“The provost marshal will explain what they are when he gets here,” Henderson said.
“I don’t think I should wait for that.”
“I’m a major and you’re a captain. Consider that an order.”
After a moment the captain said, “Yes, sir.”
“Is he still alive?” Cronley asked.
“The wounded man?”
“Yes, the wounded man.”
“He was alive when they put him in the ambulance. They’re taking him to the 385th Station Hospital.”
“And the officer who was with him? Captain Winters? Where is he?”
Before the MP captain could reply, Winters came into the room. He walked to the table and sat down. Cronley slid a glass half full of whisky to him.
“I waited until they sent another ambulance for . . . the body,” Winters said.
“Tiny, get on the horn,” Cronley ordered. “I want people sitting on the wounded man and the body.”
“Yes, sir,” Dunwiddie said, and went in search of a telephone.
Winters picked up his glass and drained it. Cronley slid a bottle of Johnnie Walker across the table to him.
“Go easy, Tom. You’re going to have to fly yourself to the Compound in the morning.”
Winters looked at him, but said nothing.
“Barbara should hear about this from you,” Cronley said. “If she changes her mind about coming here tomorrow, which seems a distinct possibility, we’ll work something out.”
“I don’t have to go up there.”
“Consider it an order, Lieutenant, and say, ‘Yes, sir.’”
Winters shook his head and said, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Colonel Mortimer Cohen trailed by a full colonel in pinks and greens and two stone-faced CIC agents walked into the room and to the table. The MP captain and Winters stood up. Cronley and Henderson did not.
“When I saw the ambulance, I was afraid it might be one of you,” he said.
“It almost was. My Horch looks like a sieve. A blood-covered sieve.”
“What the hell happened?” the MP colonel asked.
“Before this gets started, Colonel,” Henderson said, and handed him his credentials.
“As the senior DCI officer present, sir, I inform you that this incident involves national security, that the DCI is taking over this investigation, and that all details are classified Top Secret–Presidential. Do you understand that, sir? And you, Captain?”
“Colonel Cohen brought me up to speed on the DCI,” the MP colonel said. “Which then raises the question, why am I here?”
“To bring you up to speed on what happened, to tell you its classification, and to ask you to provide what assistance may be required.�
�
“I understand,” the colonel said.
“Okay, Jim,” Henderson said, “tell everybody what you told me.”
Augie Ziegler hurried into the room.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell happened? Are you all right, boss?”
“I’m doing as well as can be expected for someone who just shot a blond teenaged female in the forehead,” Cronley said. “And shot a guy I’d already put two bullets in once more. This time in the foot.”
“I told you, Jim, those were acts of self-defense,” Winters said. “And I meant it.”
“The guy, sure. The teenaged blonde? Hell, no. All she was doing was driving the Audi.”
“Mr. Cronley,” Henderson said, “I will not ask ‘what Audi?’ and instead ask you to start at the beginning.”
“Winters met me at the airport. We started for the hotel taking a back route that Casey came up with. We were a couple of miles down the road when we came up on a truck. A German truck. Tom couldn’t get around it.
“Then the truck slowed and stopped. We skidded into it.
“I looked over my shoulder and saw an Audi sports car, headlights off, pulling up right behind us. So I bailed out of the Horch as a man got out of the Audi and started shooting at us with a Schmeisser.
“I finally got my .45 out and shot at him. I thought he went down, but I wasn’t sure. I then emptied the .45 at the driver’s windshield, and then reloaded. Then I crawled up near the Audi, saw a boot on the ground, and put a round in it. The guy screamed, so I knew I hit him. I heard the truck drive off, and then I got up and had a look.”
“Where were you, Winters, during all this?” Cohen asked.
“Under the Horch. When Cronley rolled out the right side, I rolled out the left.”
“You didn’t have the opportunity to use your weapon? Super Spook did all the shooting?”
“I didn’t have a weapon, sir.”
“I’m sure you’ve already considered that wasn’t very smart of you,” Cohen said.
“That occurred to me, sir, as I crawled under the Horch.”
“And then what, Cronley?” Henderson asked.
“We loaded the man, and the body of the driver, which we now knew was a girl, into the Horch, pushed the Audi off the road, which fucked up the fender of the Horch, and came here. I left Tom with the wounded guy and came in here and called Colonel Cohen.”
Death at Nuremberg Page 21
