“At this place? At the Viktoria Palast?”
“No. It’s not a brothel. He goes with them. And that’s what’s made it difficult—impossible—to surveil him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The girls use private apartments—not theirs, apartments of ordinary people down on their luck who really need the money—or the carton of cigarettes, pound of coffee—the girls give them for the use of a room. My people can follow him until he enters a usually bomb-damaged and yet-to-be-repaired building. But they don’t know where he’s going in the building. Or if he is going through the building to another location. Get the picture?”
“Yeah.”
“So, my people lose him at, say, three or four o’clock in the morning and don’t pick him up again until he shows up at the Vik at eight or eight-thirty that night.”
“Which means you don’t know where he is.”
“What I can do, Captain, is have one of my men intercept him as he’s about to enter the Vik and whisper in his ear that you’re here in the Bristol.”
“Or I could go to this place.”
“You know better than that, Captain Strasbourger,” Wangermann said.
“I don’t look like a successful black marketeer? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No offense, but you and Lieutenant Spurgeon look like those Boy Scouts you’re always talking about.”
“That leaves us only Bruno’s guy whispering in his ear when he shows up at the Viktoria tonight.”
“That’s what it looks like to me,” Wangermann said. “If you’re worried about the NKGB bursting in here, I can send you some company.”
Cronley considered that a moment.
“Thanks, many thanks, but no thanks. Maybe one guy, or two, drinking tea in the lobby. I don’t think Joe Stalin’s evil minions will try to whack us if they see you’re watching over us.”
Wangermann, who had been sitting in an armchair, rose with a grunt.
“Auf Wiedersehen, Captain Strasbourger,” he said.
“Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Wiener Schnitzel. Vielen Dank.”
[TWO]
Suite 330
The Hotel Bristol
Kaerntner Ring 1, Vienna, Austria
1715 3 March 1946
“I have just had a very dangerous thought,” Cronley said to Spurgeon. “We could probably, with Wangermann’s guys by now sipping tea in the lobby, manage to get across the lobby into the bar, for a cold Pilsen and pretzels without getting blown away.”
“Should we take the submachine guns with us?”
“If we take them with us, it will not only look as if we are looking for a fight, but cause consternation among the other guests in the lobby.”
“I vote for causing consternation,” Spurgeon said.
“Decisions, decisions,” Cronley said. “Let me ponder . . .”
There was a knuckle rapping at the door.
“Shit,” Cronley said as he picked up the Schmeisser. Spurgeon grabbed his Thompson and quickly ran to the door, putting his back against the wall beside it.
“Say when,” he said.
Cronley positioned himself in the bathroom door and leveled the Schmeisser at the door.
“If I forget to mention this, Charley, it’s been nice knowing you. When!”
“Likewise,” Spurgeon said, and pulled the door open.
Cezar Zieliński walked through it.
“I’m tempted to shoot you on general principles,” Cronley greeted him. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Waiting in a broom closet down the hall for you to finish with Wangermann and Holzknecht. I don’t suppose you have a beer?”
“There’s plenty of beer, all room temperature. The ice machine down the hall is on the fritz.”
“I learned to drink warm beer in Ol’ Blighty,” Zieliński said. “I also learned that you can cool beer by putting it outside one’s room on the windowsill.”
“You’re in a chipper mood.”
“I had a very good night last night,” Zieliński said. “How much of my winnings with your money do I get to keep?”
“How much have you left after paying the hooker?”
“Lots. Do I detect a tone of moral disapproval? And how did you hear about the hooker?”
“Hookers, plural. From Holzknecht.”
There came another knuckle rap at the door.
“Jesus Christ, now what?” Cronley said.
“The NKGB apparently saw you come out of the broom closet,” Spurgeon said, as he walked to the door and put his back to the wall beside it.
“If I had one of those, I could probably be of some assistance,” Zieliński said.
Cronley took his pistol from its holster and tossed it to Zieliński, who immediately saw that the hammer was cocked and locked.
“A round in the chamber? Jesus Christ! You are dangerous!” he said, then took up a position behind one of the armchairs.
“Now, Charley,” Cronley ordered.
Tom Winters came through the open door.
He raised his arms above his head and said, “I surrender.”
“You’re supposed to be in the Compound sitting on Rachel,” Cronley said.
“General Gehlen is sitting on Rachel. She’s safe. But I didn’t think Gehlen could protect me from Colonel Wallace.”
“Wallace knows about Rachel?”
“He had a guy at the Compound airstrip. He showed up in Gehlen’s quarters about three minutes after I got there with Rachel. The shit immediately thereafter began to strike the blades of the fan.”
“Go on.”
“Wallace wanted to take Rachel. Gehlen wouldn’t give her up. Wallace is sputtering. For a moment, I thought . . . I don’t know. Anyway, they got on the SIGABA to Mr. Schultz, and Wallace unloaded on him. Schultz said (a) Gehlen was to protect Rachel, and (b) he thought he had best come to Germany to see what the hell was going on.”
“Schultz is coming to Germany?”
“Arriving sometime tomorrow.”
“Jesus!”
“And he asked where you were. Wallace said he didn’t know, which was embarrassing. Wallace then called Nuremberg and they said they didn’t know where you were. He then asked me if I knew where you were, and I said, ‘Probably in Vienna,’ and when I truthfully said I did not know where in Vienna you were, said answer did not satisfy him.
“After saying ‘We’ll see how General Seidel feels about this debacle,’ or words to that effect, he stormed out of Gehlen’s quarters. I then went out the back door of Gehlen’s quarters, got on the general’s bicycle, and pedaled to the airstrip, where they had just finished refueling the Storch. And here I am. What’s going on?”
“Cezar,” Cronley said, “I’m afraid to ask this question. Do you know where von Dietelburg is?”
“Not at the moment, but I’m fairly sure he’ll be at the Viktoria Palast at, say, nine o’clock.”
“You’ve seen him?”
Zieliński nodded.
“And you didn’t tell Wasserman or Wangermann?”
“No. And I thought I’d better explain why in person. That’s why I sent that letter . . . by ordinary mail.”
Cronley made a Let’s have it gesture with his hands.
“Okay. Von Dietelburg has been hiding in plain sight right under our—and more important, Wangermann’s and Holzknecht’s—noses. He’s Olga Reithoffer’s brother, Alois, the used-car dealer.”
“Jesus! You’re sure?”
Zieliński nodded.
“The first night, I lost a little over five thousand of your dollars and met Colonel Gus Genetti, his friend Alois Reithoffer, and Inge—I never learned her last name. Inge cost you three hundred of your dollars, but she was worth every penny. Not only was she a skilled practitioner of her chosen profe
ssion, but when we were finished bringing the Kama Sutra to life, she confided in me a naughty story about Olga Reithoffer, Colonel Genetti, and Alois. Inge was Colonel Genetti’s devoted Schatzi as long as he was in town, but the minute he left, Alois moved into 71 Cobenzlgasse.”
“‘He’s her brother, what’s wrong with that?’ I challenged.
“Inge told me, ‘His name isn’t really Reithoffer. It’s von something. He’s a Nazi on the run.’ So naturally I asked her how she knows that—”
“Why is she telling you all this?” Winters asked.
“When I was in London, there were posters on just about every wall. Loose Lips Sink Ships. I took that to heart, slightly modified—And booze loosens lips. Inge likes champagne. French champagne. It’s fifty dollars a bottle. I took two bottles with us to our love nest.
“So Inge says she knows because she’s heard Willi call him Franz. So I ask, ‘Willi who?’ And she says she doesn’t know, just that Franz calls him ‘Herr General.’”
“Just maybe,” Cronley said thoughtfully, “General der Infanterie Wilhelm Burgdorf?”
“Inge says that sometimes Willi brings cars from the country to Vienna. Anyway, I thought I should bring this to your attention.”
“I would much rather have had a telephone call, saying that with the cooperation of the Austrian authorities, former SS-Brigadeführer Franz von Dietelburg has at long last been apprehended. Why the hell didn’t you go to Wangermann?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about face-to-face.”
“Start talking.”
“Did you know that fifty percent of the SS officer corps were Austrian?”
“I heard sixty, but so what?”
“You knew that Wangermann and Holzknecht almost got themselves hung by the SS?”
Cronley nodded. “There is a point, right?”
“Good Austrians—like Wangermann and Holzknecht—are embarrassed about Austria’s role with Nazism starting with the Anschluss. They would really like to put von Dietelburg on a Nuremberg-style trial to show the world that Austria—”
“I get the point. So what?”
“The Vienna prison is not the Tribunal prison. Von Dietelburg has answers to a lot of questions—about Odessa, Wewelsburg Castle, what happened to the contents of Himmler’s safe, und so weiter. Even if we grab von Dietelburg, there will still be faithful Odessa people out there. And if they could whack your cousin Luther in the Tribunal prison, they could damn sure whack von Dietelburg in Wangermann’s jail to close his mouth permanently.”
Cronley didn’t immediately reply.
“It’s your call, Jim. Do you want to have Wangermann put him on trial here? Or do you want to take the sonofabitch somewhere where we can get answers?”
“What are you proposing, Cezar?”
“That we snatch him as he arrives at the Viktoria Palast, take him to the airport, load him into a Storch, and fly him to the Compound. After Gehlen interrogates him, we announce his capture, lock him up in the Tribunal prison, and then try him.”
“I don’t want to rain on your parade, Cezar,” Tom Winters said, “but have you considered the collateral damage your kidnap scenario will probably cause?”
“Collateral damage to who?”
“To Jim, me, Charley, and you. If we got away with this, Wangermann would want our heads.”
“Your call, Jim,” Spurgeon said.
“There’s no time to get on the SIGABA and ask El Jefe what he thinks is there?” Cronley asked.
“‘General Greene, this is ASA Fulda. Captain Cronley just said something to Mr. Schultz that I thought I should bring to your attention immediately,’” Spurgeon said.
“Whereupon Greene would call Wasserman and tell him to sit on us to prevent an international incident,” Cronley said.
“Your call, Captain,” Zieliński said.
“Tell me the lay of the land around the Viktoria,” Cronley said.
“There’s an alley next to it. Valet parking. You drive in, get out of your car, and walk back to the entrance on Weihburggasse and go in the Viktoria. The valet then parks your car.”
“Where?” Winters asked.
“Various places. They don’t have a garage.”
“The valets drive further down the alley? What’s down there?”
“I don’t know. All I know is they drive further down the alley.”
“How do you get your car back?”
“They deliver it to the front of the Vik.”
“Do they bring it out of the alley, or does it show up on the street?”
“You sound as if you intend to go along with Cezar’s kidnapping scenario,” Winters said.
“I don’t think if we’re this close to von Dietelburg we can let him go,” Cronley said, and then asked, “How bad do we need him? How many people have been looking for him? For how long?”
“Point taken,” Winters said. “Points taken. Reluctantly.”
“I’m open to suggestion, Tom,” Cronley said.
Winters shrugged and threw up his hands in a gesture of helplessness and resignation.
“I think we should take a walk down Weihburggasse and see if we see what’s at the end of the alley.”
“We’re not going to look very innocent if I’m carrying a Thompson,” Spurgeon said.
“Then you better leave it here with Cezar.”
“You don’t want me to go?”
“Yours is a familiar face, Cezar. Don’t worry. Both Charley and I passed the Techniques of Surveillance course in Spy School.”
[THREE]
Near the Viktoria Palast
Weihburggasse, Vienna, Austria
2105 3 March 1946
A dark blue—almost black—1938 Mercedes-Benz 320B Cabriolet turned off Weihburggasse into the alley beside the Viktoria Palast.
“Nice,” Cezar Zieliński observed. “I wonder how long that was hidden in a haystack on some ex-Standartenführer’s farm?” And then he immediately added, as he saw a second Mercedes, this one slightly smaller than the first, come into the alley, “Shit, there’s another one!”
“I’ll take the second,” Cronley said, “you make sure von Dietelburg is in the first.”
The first convertible drove halfway down the alley and stopped. The second pulled in behind it.
Two men quickly appeared, one going to each car and opening its driver’s-side door.
“Hände hoch!” Cronley and Zieliński ordered just about simultaneously as they stepped away from the wall where they had concealed themselves. They held pistols in their hands, moving them from the faces of the men who had opened the doors, and those of the one man who had gotten out of his car, and the one still behind the wheel of the first.
“Guten Abend, Herr von Dietelburg,” Cronley said in German. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for some time.” He raised his voice. “I’ve got von Dietelburg!”
“And I think I have General Burgdorf,” Zieliński called back.
Tom Winters and Charley Spurgeon, both carrying Thompsons, ran down the alley toward them.
“Pat him down, Tom,” Cronley ordered, “while I deal with the valets.”
There came the sound and the muzzle blasts of a Thompson firing short bursts.
“What the hell?” Cronley called.
“Spurgeon just took out two guys who appeared out of nowhere carrying Schmeissers,” Zieliński called.
“If von Dietelburg tries to get away, Tom,” Cronley ordered, “kill him.”
He turned to the valet.
“On the ground. On your belly. If you move before we’re out of here, you’re dead.”
He went to the first car in time to see Charley Spurgeon first examine the corpses of the men he had killed and then throw up on the closest one.
Cronley looked at th
e corpulent man behind the wheel of the first car.
“Out, General,” he ordered, and then to the second valet, “On your belly on the ground!”
“You’re making a mistake,” the corpulent man said.
Zieliński grabbed his arm and jerked him out of the car and began to pat him down. He came up with a revolver, and showed it to Cronley.
“A Smith & Wesson .38,” Cronley said. “Favorite weapon of Nazi big shots. Göring had one. So much for the famed Luger Parabellum.” Then he raised his voice. “Charley, when you finish tossing your cookies, your services are required. We need the adhesive tape!”
“I’ll drive this one with Spurgeon,” Zieliński said. “And you the other one with Tom. Okay?”
“Do we adhesive-tape Chubby here or after we get him in the backseat?”
“He’s not going to fit in the backseat. He’ll have to go in the trunk.”
Spurgeon appeared.
“Sorry,” he said, and then made sort of an explanation. “The one I threw up on had his eyes open and looked surprised.”
“Tape him good, Charley, and then put him in the trunk.”
Not more than three minutes later, both Mercedeses drove to the end of the alley, turned right, and wound their way through several alleys until they emerged on Kaerntner Ring, where they turned left and headed for the Schwechat airport.
[FOUR]
The South German Industrial Development Organization Compound
Pullach, Bavaria
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
0405 4 March 1946
There was no air-to-ground radio link between the two Storchs and the Compound airstrip, which meant Cronley and Winters could not ask for the runway lights to be turned on. It was necessary to make several low-level passes before the lights flickered on.
Cronley was therefore not at all surprised, as he taxied up to what served as combined control tower and base operations, to find Colonel Harold Wallace and several members of his staff waiting for him. He also saw General Gehlen and former Obersten Ludwig Mannberg and Otto Niedermeyer. They were not standing with Wallace.
Death at Nuremberg Page 34
