Death at Nuremberg

by W. E. B. Griffin

  Holzknecht nodded.

  “Say hello to Cezar Zieliński,” Cronley said, and then when he saw he had the attention of the others, went on, “who after he escaped from the displaced persons camp in Würzburg made a lot of money in the Munich black market, and loves both a friendly game of vingt-et-un and the ladies who gather around the table.”

  “That just might work,” Holzknecht said.

  “Cezar?” Cronley asked.

  “I’d need money. Lots of money. Preferably U.S. dollars.”

  “Five thousand?” Niedermeyer asked. “Ten?”

  “Ten would be better than five.”

  “I have it back at the Bristol,” Niedermeyer said.

  Which you brought with you in case you need it to get your wife out of Budapest, Cronley thought. So what are you going to do if you do need it?

  “Otto, as soon as I can get on the phone,” Cronley said, “I’ll have some cash sent down from Kloster Grünau. There’s probably time to get someone on the Blue Danube.”

  “Thank you,” Niedermeyer said simply.

  “You’ve got that kind of money?” Wasserman asked.

  Cronley nodded.

  “The DCI finally coughed up what I provided to pay Seven-K. I’m hiding it under the chapel at Kloster Grünau.”

  “So we start this operation as soon as possible,” Holzknecht said. “Which means who’s going to be in charge?”

  “You are,” Wangermann said, and then corrected himself. “We are. With the support of our American friends.”

  “Agreed, with thanks,” Wasserman said.

  “The—what did our young friend call him? ‘that jämmerlich Missgeburt’?—is an Austrian. So it’s only fair that we Austrians catch him, and then let the Americans hang him. So here’s what I think we should do—”

  “What we should do first,” Holzknecht interrupted him, “is have a chat with the chap who owns the Heuriger Oscar.”

  “That’s the one across the street from 71?” Wasserman asked.

  Holzknecht didn’t reply directly, instead saying, “During which I will tell him to tell all his friends that he has decided to renovate Heuriger Oscar and that the renovation will start tomorrow morning. Early tomorrow morning, a small army of renovators will appear . . .”

  “Some of whom will be your guys,” Cronley said.

  “. . . who will have with them one of Wasserman’s people, each with one of those marvelous U.S. Army radios.”

  “Done,” Wasserman said.

  “The radio in Heuriger Oscar will serve Operation Headquarters. There will be radios here in the Restaurant Cobenzl and in a van parked innocuously near the Grinzing streetcar turnaround. Radio Heuriger Oscar will report anyone leaving 71 Cobenzlgasse either on foot or by car or motorcycle, and whether they are going up Cobenzlgasse or toward the trolley turnaround. In either event, persons of interest will be trailed.

  “To do that effectively, we will need motorcycles, bicycles, and unmarked cars. I can provide motorcycles and bicycles, but . . .”

  “Tell me how many cars you need, and where you want them,” Wasserman said.

  “Six?”

  “Done.”

  “I think two here, and the rest at the trolley turnaround. Will they have radios?”

  “Yes,” Wasserman said.

  “Good,” Holzknecht said. “That should cover everything, unless Oberst Niedermeyer has . . .”

  “You seem to have covered everything,” Niedermeyer said.

  Cronley’s mouth went on automatic.

  “Except giving a serious pep talk to all concerned,” he said.

  “About what?” Wasserman asked.

  “The moment anybody coming out of 71 Cobenzlgasse even suspects they’re being surveilled, the whole operation is blown.”

  “You have a point, my young friend,” Holzknecht said.

  Cronley’s mouth continued on automatic.

  “Lieutenant Spurgeon and I were taught all about surveillance at Camp Holabird, the CIC school. By an officer who forgot to practice what he preached about the surveillor taking care to make sure he’s not being surveilled and wound up under a freight train in the Munich Hauptbahnhof.”

  “Major Derwin,” Spurgeon said softly.

  “Odessa?” Wasserman asked.

  “Either Odessa or the NKGB,” Cronley said.

  He thought, But most probably agents of the former Abwehr Ost, now known as the Süd-Deutsche Industrielle Entwicklungsorganisation.

  Maybe—even probably—the same guys who are trying to get Frau Niedermeyer and her brother out of Budapest.

  “If we’re finished here, I’ve got to get on the phone,” Cronley said.

  [TWO]

  The Hotel Bristol

  Kaerntner Ring 1

  Vienna, Austria

  1605 28 February 1946

  “Charley and I have some things to do,” Wasserman said as the staff car pulled up to the hotel. “So why don’t we just drop you guys off, and then meet later in the bar? Say at half past seven?”

  “Done,” Cronley said.

  “Are you mocking me, Cronley?”

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you, Colonel, sir, that imitation is the most sincere form of flattery?”

  —

  Seven-K was sitting with the dachshund puppy in her lap at a table in the lobby. Their eyes met briefly.

  On the elevator, Zieliński wondered aloud, “I wonder what she’s up to?”

  “She may be keeping an eye on us,” Niedermeyer said. “But it is equally possible that she’s keeping an eye on someone else. And just as possible that the NKGB is keeping an eye on her while she’s keeping an eye on us or someone else. Or that she is keeping an eye on an NKGB agent who is keeping an eye on us or someone else.”

  “Do you ever get the feeling that we live on the other side of Alice in Wonderland’s mirror?” Cronley asked.

  “Here in Vienna I do,” Niedermeyer replied. “Things are much simpler in Argentina.”

  “You are both warned,” Cronley said, as the elevator door opened, “when we get to the room, not to get between me and the bathroom door. My back teeth are floating.”

  —

  Cronley came out of the bathroom and was just about to lower himself into an armchair near the telephone when the door chimes sounded. When he saw that Zieliński and Niedermeyer were in the kitchenette of the suite, he went to the door and opened it.

  Seven-K was standing there, holding the puppy in her arms.

  “Let me in quickly,” she said, as she pushed past him.

  Cronley looked down the corridor to see if anyone was in it, and when he saw no one, closed the door.

  “Otto,” Seven-K called.

  Niedermeyer appeared in the kitchenette door.

  “Rahil?”

  “As quickly as you can, have General Gehlen call off the operation,” she said. “It’s too late.”

  “What do you mean, ‘too late’?”

  “They knew it was coming. You have a mole, Otto.”

  “How do you know it’s too late?” Niedermeyer asked.

  Seven-K handed him a small envelope.

  “I’m really sorry, Otto,” she said.

  She walked to the door.

  “Young man,” she ordered, “check the corridor.”

  Cronley did so.

  “Clear,” he reported.

  Seven-K pushed past him and went quickly down it to the stairwell.

  Cronley saw that Niedermeyer had taken photographs from the envelope Seven-K had given him.

  “Ach, Gott im Himmel,” Niedermeyer said, and threw the photographs to the ground.

  Zieliński picked them up, looked quickly at them, and then handed them to Cronley.

  “Ach, Gott im Himmel,” N
iedermeyer said again, softly. “Mein Károly. Mein Schätzchen, mein Liebling!”

  Cronley looked at the photographs. One of them showed a man hanging from some simple indoor gallows. He was obviously dead, but from strangulation, not a broken neck. The second showed a woman hanging from the same gallows, obviously strangled by her noose. The third showed the man and the woman hanging side by side from the gallows.

  Cronley looked at Niedermeyer. His head was bent and he was obviously trying and failing to suppress sobbing.

  Without thinking about it, Cronley went to him and wrapped his arms around him. After a moment, Zieliński crossed himself and then went to Cronley and Niedermeyer and wrapped his massive arms around both of them.

  XIV

  [ONE]

  Kloster Grünau

  Schollbrunn, Bavaria

  American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  0905 1 March 1946

  Cronley handed Niedermeyer two neatly wrapped packages of currency. The binders on each read $5,000 over and over in red lettering.

  “El Jefe would have repaid me for what I loaned you in Vienna,” Niedermeyer said.

  “When you see him, tell him DCI owes me ten thousand, but let’s not complicate things now. Follow my sacred principle.”

  “What sacred principle is that?”

  “When somebody offers you money, take it.”

  “Jim, there’s a car here. You don’t have to fly me to the Compound.”

  “If Colonel Wallace doesn’t already know we’re here, he will soon. I don’t want him to think I’m sneaking around. Besides, General Gehlen may have some thoughts about Vienna.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I’ll ask—you don’t have to tell me—what you’re going to talk about with Gehlen.”

  “Well, you already know some of it. Seven-K showed us the proof that it’s too late to execute that operation. But there were two parts to it, the second being taking out Gábor Péter. He may still want to carry that out. I want to dissuade him from doing so. Now is not the time. That may be difficult as my brother-in-law, former Oberstleutnant Sigmund Schneiber, was not only one of his best agents, but close to him personally. He wanted him back badly, and now that he’s dead, I’m afraid the general will want to take out Gábor Péter both professionally—it will send a message to both the Allamvedelmi Osztaly and the NKGB—and personally. In your terms, Jim, Gábor Péter is a three-star sonofabitch.”

  “You don’t have to answer this, either. How much is El Jefe involved in this?”

  “Oscar operates on gut feelings. He thinks—and you know we have no proof either way—that the NKGB killed your friend Moriarty. Oscar wanted to take out—he used the phrase ‘tit for tat’—Ivan Serov. I dissuaded him. So he asked me what NKGB surrogate most deserved elimination. I told him Gábor Péter. This was before he had taken either my brother-in-law or my wife. Oscar asked why Gábor Péter, and I told him it would send a message to both the NKGB and to their Hungarian surrogates that we have people everywhere.

  “I called him when my brother was arrested, and again when they took my wife. His reply was, ‘Well, with a little luck, maybe Gehlen’s guys can get them back at the same time they take out Gábor Péter.’”

  “What does Wallace know about this?”

  “Oscar apparently decided he doesn’t have the Need to Know. He told me not to tell him unless I have to. It’s a delicate situation.”

  “Delicate?”

  “Wallace believes he’s running the Gehlen Organization as chief, DCI-Europe. Oscar—and more important, the admiral—look at the Gehlen Organization as a DCI asset that can—and should—be used around the world. The Soviets are causing trouble in Japan, Korea, and all over South America. When he learns this, Wallace is likely to think he’s been demoted.”

  “So you’re going to tell him?”

  “As soon as the right moment arrives in Munich.”

  “Am I going to be in the way? I could just drop you at the Compound.”

  “Since I’m going to tell Wallace what’s going on, you probably should be there when I tell him Oscar told me to make it clear to him that you’re chasing Odessa and von Dietelburg at his orders, and Wallace isn’t to interfere.”

  [TWO]

  The South German Industrial Development Organization Compound

  Pullach, Bavaria

  American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  1015 1 March 1946

  As he shut down the Storch, Cronley saw that Colonel Harold Wallace was waiting, hands on his hips, for them.

  Otto Niedermeyer climbed down from the Storch first. He and Wallace shook hands. Cronley climbed down.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Wallace demanded.

  “Good morning, Colonel, sir. And how are you this morning?”

  “I asked where you’ve been, Cronley.”

  “In Vienna. Looking for von Dietelburg.”

  “And where’s your bodyguard?”

  “In Vienna. Looking for von Dietelburg. You seem a bit upset. May I ask why?”

  “At quarter to eight, Justice Jackson called and asked if I knew where you were. And of course I had to tell him you were supposed to be in Nuremberg providing his security and I had no goddamn idea where you were.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “He said he had just been informed that Sturmführer Luther Stauffer—your cousin Luther—had committed suicide by biting on a cyanide capsule in the mess hall and he thought you should know.”

  Jesus Christ!

  Luther killed himself?

  The last time I saw him, he was an arrogant SS officer.

  How the hell am I going to explain this to Mom?

  “Interesting,” Cronley said.

  “What I found interesting is that he was in the Tribunal prison. You want to explain that?”

  No, I don’t.

  “I had him transferred there. For interrogation.”

  The look on Wallace’s face showed that he didn’t like—or believe—Cronley’s answer.

  “I suppose it’s really futile to ask what you and Oberst Niedermeyer were really doing in Vienna.”

  “It’s no longer Oberst Niedermeyer, Colonel,” Niedermeyer said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I should have told you this earlier, I’m sorry.”

  “Told me what?”

  “I’m no longer a former German soldier employed by the Süd-Deutsche Industrielle Entwicklungsorganisation.”

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  “I’m an Argentine national employed by the Argentine-American Tourist Board.”

  He handed Wallace an Argentine passport and a business card.

  When he had examined them, Wallace admitted, “Now I’m really confused.”

  “It was Schultz’s idea,” Niedermeyer said. “And he talked his friend General Martín of the Argentine Bureau of Internal Security—BIS—to go along with it. Now when I’m wandering around Argentina—for that matter, the world—what I’m doing is promoting American tourism in Argentina, and vice versa.”

  “Makes sense,” Wallace admitted.

  “Schultz had another idea—this is what I should have told you—that I should take over certain DCI objectives. High on that list is the destruction of Odessa and putting the Odessa leadership in the Tribunal prison. And at the top of the list of Odessa leaders is former SS-Brigadeführer Franz von Dietelburg. Schultz has given me the authority to draw on any DCI assets to carry this out. He also told me that he had charged Cronley with taking out Odessa and suggested that I should get together with him.”

  “No one told me anything about any of this,” Wallace said.

  “Until I asked for your help with something, there was no need to tell you,” Niedermeyer said. “I’m only telling you now because yo
u’re questioning Cronley about his being in Vienna with me. But since that question has come up, Cronley was there because I wanted him to help me find von Dietelburg.”

  “He’s supposed to be in Nuremberg protecting Justice Jackson.”

  “He’s supposed to do whatever Mr. Schultz—or Mr. Schultz’s agent—tells him to do.”

  “And you’re ‘Mr. Schultz’s agent’?”

  “I was the first Abwehr Ost officer sent to Argentina. Schultz was then Colonel Frade’s deputy. I became Schultz’s deputy . . . not formally, but in practice. Colonel Frade’s OSS Buenos Aires station was run the way Frade and Schultz wanted it to run. Apparently when Schultz went to Washington as Number Two to Admiral Souers, he thought I would be more useful to DCI as his deputy there as Argentina was by then pretty much under control. The problem was that a former German officer serving as Schultz’s Number Two would raise eyebrows all over the Washington intelligence community. So it was decided that his Number Two would be based in Argentina, with the Argentine-American Tourist Board as his cover.”

  “In other words, you are Schultz’s deputy?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’m a little annoyed that I wasn’t told about this,” Wallace said.

  “El Jefe told me to tell you when the moment was right. This is the moment. You know what they say, the more people who know a secret, the quicker it gets out.”

  “Does General Gehlen know about this?”

  “I’m about to tell him what he doesn’t know.”

  “And then you’re going back to Argentina?”

  “Via Tokyo and Seoul, South Korea. The nose of the Russian bear is under our tent there, too.”

  “I don’t understand your role in that.”

  “There are two kinds of intelligence officers, the brash and the cautious. Schultz is the former, and I’m the latter. The greatest service I provided him in Argentina—and what the admiral hopes I will provide in my new role—is to keep him from acting impetuously.”

  “I don’t think I understand.”

  “It’s come to the admiral’s attention that General Gehlen wishes to—has plans to—assassinate a Hungarian named Gábor Péter, who runs the Allamvedelmi Osztaly for the NKGB.”