“He’s a good guy, Captain. Not too smart, but a good guy. I can’t see him giving a cyanide capsule to anybody.”
“What if he didn’t know what he was smuggling into the mess was a cyanide capsule?” Cronley pursued.
“I didn’t think about that,” Casey admitted.
“I think we should have a talk with Sergeant Brownlee,” Justice Jackson said.
—
Ken Brewster led Sergeant Robert J. Brownlee Jr. into the office and put him in the chair the doctor had just vacated.
Cronley thought, He’s a nice-looking twenty-odd-year-old with crew-cut light brown hair who knows he’s in trouble.
“I guess you know you’re in the deep shit, Sergeant,” Cronley said.
Brownlee did not reply.
“You know Sergeant Wagner, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I should have said, ‘You think you know Sergeant Wagner,’” Cronley said. “Because you really don’t. Wagner, show Sergeant Brownlee your credentials.”
Brownlee examined the folder, looked confused, and then confessed, “Sir, I don’t know what this is, this DCI.”
“Few people do,” Cronley said. “It is an organization answerable only to the President. Among the responsibilities President Truman has given the DCI is the protection of Judge Biddle, Justice Jackson, and the prisoners in the Tribunal prison. With me so far?”
“Yes, sir. I think so.”
“It is the desire of President Truman that, after a fair trial to prove what monsters Göring and the other people in the prison are, that they be hanged for their crimes. You understand, I hope, that a President’s desires are legal orders?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When it came to our attention that messages and other items were being smuggled into and out of the prison, I sent DCI Special Agent Wagner into the prison, with the cover of translator, to determine who was doing the smuggling.
“He had already determined before the death of former Sturmführer Luther Stauffer this morning that you were the smuggler.”
The poor bastard looks like he’s going to faint. Or throw up.
I think I’ve got him.
“The decision was made by Colonel Cohen and myself that, rather than arrest and court-martial you immediately, that Sergeant Wagner would keep you under observation and see where that led.
“That decision was bad luck for you, Sergeant. If we had arrested you yesterday, all you would have been charged with would have been failure to obey standing orders, dereliction of duty, something like that. Special court-martial charges, maybe a year in the Frankfurt stockade. Now, following the murder of Stauffer, you’ll be charged, in a general court-martial, with being an accessory before the fact to first degree, that is to say, premeditated murder.”
Sergeant Brownlee threw up on the floor, narrowly missing Justice Jackson’s desk.
Cronley waited until Brownlee had wiped his face with a well-used handkerchief before continuing, “There’s no use, Brownlee, in denying what you did. We know.”
“I didn’t know it was cyanide,” Brownlee said. “I swear to God.”
“What did you think it was?”
“Laxative. Like German Ex-Lax.”
“Laxative?” Cohen said. “You thought you were smuggling laxative into the prison?”
“Come on, Brownlee!” Cronley said.
“Sir, I swear to God that’s what I thought it was. Trude’s uncle has constipation, and our medics won’t give him anything.”
“Trude?”
“My fiancée, sir. We’ve applied for permission to get married.”
“And Trude’s uncle is?”
“His name is Macher.”
“I know him,” Cohen said. “I had him transferred here from Darmstadt when we learned of his connection to Castle Wewelsburg.”
“Bring me up to speed on that, please, Colonel,” Justice Jackson asked.
“I think Cronley has told you what was going on at Castle Wewelsburg?”
“The Vatican, so to speak, of the new religion Himmler was trying to establish? Oh, yes, Jim told me all about it. Just as soon as I can, I’m going to have a look at that place. What is this man Macher’s connection with that?”
“Himmler and/or von Dietelburg sent him to blow the place up when 3rd Armored Division was getting close. His orders were to tell SS General Siegfried Taubert, who was in charge of the castle, to remove, quote, all sacred items, end quote, and then blow the place up.
“When Macher got to the castle, he found that Taubert had left, presumably with the sacred items. But when we captured Taubert trying to get into Italy, no sacred items. He stashed them somewhere—we’re still looking.”
“Macher didn’t have enough explosives, couldn’t blow up the castle,” Cohen said. “He used what he had—anti-tank mines—to blow up—take down—the southeast tower and the guard and SS buildings. Then he tried, unsuccessfully, to burn the castle down. Then he took off for Italy. We caught him, not knowing who he was, and the CIC put him in the unimportant-SS-prisoner enclosure in Darmstadt. When I heard he was there, I had him moved here.
“Castle Wewelsburg, the people who ran that, Cronley and I believe, are the people running Odessa. And yes, Colonel Thomas, Odessa is real, active, and dangerous.”
“So your fiancée’s uncle, it would seem, Sergeant Brownlee,” Cronley said, “is not some gentle soul suffering from constipation, but rather somebody who participated—almost certainly at the orders of former SS-Brigadeführer Franz von Dietelburg—in the murder of Sturmführer Luther Stauffer, almost certainly because Stauffer was in Odessa and they were afraid he’d start talking to us.
“Does this give you any idea of how your incredible stupidity has fucked things up?”
Brownlee didn’t reply.
“Who did you pass the cyanide capsules to?”
“Wilhelm.”
“Wilhelm who?”
“I don’t know his last name. He runs the chow line.”
“Wilhelm Reiss,” Casey furnished.
“Right,” Brownlee confirmed.
“The idea being that he would pass the Ex-Lax to Macher as he went through the chow line?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Casey, was this guy Reiss in the chow line among the people you ordered locked up?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Brownlee, give Mr. Ziegler your fiancée’s name and address.”
“Trude didn’t know the laxative pills were cyanide—she’s a good woman.”
“Your loyalty to your beloved is touching, Sergeant,” Cronley said.
“Are you through with Sergeant Brownlee, Mr. Cronley?” Colonel Rasberry asked.
“Just as soon as he gives Ziegler his girlfriend’s name and address, I will be.”
“Mr. Justice Jackson, sir?” Rasberry asked.
“I have nothing to ask him at this time,” Jackson said.
“Then with your permission, sir, I will place Sergeant Brownlee under arrest, pending proceedings under Article 31 of the Manual for Courts-Martial 1928.”
“That seems to be the appropriate action, Colonel.”
“Sergeant Major, take Sergeant Brownlee into custody and place him somewhere where he cannot make contact with anybody and ensure that someone is watching him twenty-four/seven to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”
“Yes, sir. Let’s go, Brownlee.”
Sergeant Brownlee, tears running down his cheeks, stood up.
“Would anyone care to offer odds,” Cronley asked, “on whether Wilhelm Reiss has somehow slipped away from where Casey ordered he be locked up, or that when we get to Sergeant Brownlee’s love nest, his fiancée will have departed for parts unknown?”
There were no takers.
“And I don’t suppose anyone
knows where I can acquire a coffin at a reasonable price?”
“Why do you want to buy a coffin?” Colonel Thomas asked.
“The late Sturmführer Luther Stauffer was my cousin, Colonel. My mother would want me to see that he receives a proper burial.”
XV
[ONE]
The Bar
Farber Palast
Stein, near Nuremberg
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1955 1 March 1946
Miss Janice Johansen of the Associated Press was sitting at a table when Cronley walked in with Tiny Dunwiddie and their bodyguards.
“I wonder how long Guinevere has been patiently—maybe impatiently—waiting for her Galahad to come home,” Dunwiddie asked softly.
“Fuck you,” Cronley said, and then as they approached the table, “Well, if it isn’t Miss Johansen of the Associated Press. What a pleasant surprise!”
“Sit down, Super Spook, and tell me all about Murder in the Tribunal Prison.”
“You know he can’t talk about that,” Tiny said.
“After I have a double Johnnie Walker Black on your tab and you swear on your mother’s grave that you won’t file it until I tell you you can,” Cronley said.
“Deal,” she said, and waved to attract the attention of a waiter. “I’ll even buy one for Tiny.”
As the drinks were being served, Ivan Serov and his aide-de-camp, Major Sergei Alekseevich, approached the table. Alekseevich was carrying a large bundle of flowers and Serov two bottles, one champagne and the other vodka.
“And now I wonder how long they’ve been waiting,” Tiny said softly.
Alekseevich handed the flowers to Cronley, and Serov set the bottles on the table.
“With the compliments of General Iona Nikitchenko,” Serov said.
“I’m flattered that the Number Two Soviet judge sends me flowers, but you’re going to have to tell him that Janice has already won my heart,” Cronley said.
Alekseevich’s face tightened at the implication. Serov laughed heartily.
“The general knows we’re chums . . .”
Chums?
Is that what we are?
My trouble with Comrade Ivan is that while my brain knows what an unmitigated—and dangerous—sonofabitch he is, I still like him.
Like him? I’m actually fond of the sonofabitch!
“. . . and hopes that I can take advantage of our relationship and have you tell me about what happened to your cousin, former Sturmführer Luther Stauffer.”
“In other words, Justice Jackson wouldn’t tell him?”
“I think the general would like confirmation of what Justice Jackson has told him.”
“Well, chum, I guess General Nikitchenko knows the way to have me abandon my virtue is to send me flowers and champagne. So what do you want to know?”
“My God, Jimmy,” Dunwiddie blurted, “it was agreed that this couldn’t get out of the tent.”
“And I have just decided Ivan gets into the tent,” Cronley replied.
“Tiny,” Serov said, “the Soviet Union considers it immensely important that the Nazis in the Tribunal prison not be allowed to become martyrs to National Socialism by taking their own lives before we can prove them in court to be common criminals, and hang them—publicly—as such.”
“So does the President of the United States,” Cronley said.
“So what happened, Jim?” Serov asked.
“A well-meaning young sergeant, because his fiancée asked him to, smuggled what he believed to be laxatives into the prison intended to provide relief, which our medics cruelly refused to supply, to our sergeant’s girlfriend’s uncle for his constipation.”
“And the constipated uncle is?” Serov asked.
“SS Major Heinz Macher.”
“The one Morty Cohen brought here from the Darmstadt compound?”
“One and the same.”
“Because Morty thought there was an Odessa connection?”
“Correct.”
“So Odessa—von Dietelburg or Burgdorf—wanted Macher eliminated?”
“‘Or Burgdorf’? Who the hell is Burgdorf?” Cronley asked.
“General der Infanterie Wilhelm Burgdorf. Another former personal adjutant to Hitler,” Serov replied. “Specializing in eliminating threats—real or perceived—to Der Führer.”
“Wasn’t he one of the generals who went to Stuttgart? . . .” Tiny asked.
“At Hitler’s orders to convince General Rommel that biting on a cyanide capsule was his best option under the circumstances? That was Burgdorf,” Serov said.
“I thought Burgdorf committed suicide in the Führerbunker. That you found his body there,” Dunwiddie said.
“That was his intention. That we find his body outside the Führerbunker. And stop looking for him.”
“I never heard any of this before,” Cronley confessed.
“Why is it so important to you that you find this guy?” Dunwiddie asked.
“Because of his relationship with Operation Phoenix, with Odessa, Himmler, and what went on at Castle Wewelsburg.”
“What was his connection with Himmler?” Cronley asked.
“I’ve heard he was the only man Himmler feared,” Serov said. “Toward the end, when Hitler became really paranoid—especially after the bomb von Stauffenberg planted at his Wolf’s Lair failed to take him out—Hitler began, with some reason, to distrust not only Wehrmacht and Navy officers—Rommel, most notably, and Canaris—but others high in the Nazi hierarchy. Göring, Himmler, and others.
“But not Burgdorf, whom Hitler—correctly—believed to be absolutely devoted to National Socialism and to himself, personally,” Serov said. “One credible scenario is that Hitler began to take a closer look—sent Burgdorf to take a closer look—at what was going on at Castle Wewelsburg under Himmler’s adjutant von Dietelburg.
“This scenario suggests that Burgdorf turned von Dietelburg, who was—is—an opportunist of the first order. A variation of this scenario suggests that when Burgdorf put his nose in Wewelsburg, von Dietelburg went to him and proclaimed that his loyalty was to the Führer, not Himmler. And that he suspected, but could not prove, that Himmler planned to use Odessa to escape Germany if the situation seemed to be going wrong.”
“And you didn’t think I would be interested in any of this? That this Burgdorf guy didn’t die in the Führerbunker, or either scenario?” Cronley challenged. “I thought we were chums.”
Serov made a gesture—both hands extended, palms up—of helplessness.
“If we had told you—DCI or USFET intelligence—that Burgdorf was still alive and on the run and almost certainly involved with Odessa, he would learn of this from an Odessa mole either in the Farben Building or Gehlen’s compound.”
Cronley didn’t reply.
“And we know there are moles, don’t we?” Serov asked. “One of them killed your friend.” He paused. “Thinking it was you.”
“Point taken,” Cronley agreed.
“So, now that I have told you, can we get back to the details of what happened? General Nikitchenko really wants to know.”
“I was about to say, ‘providing it doesn’t go any further than your general,’” Cronley said, “but if I did that it would once again reveal my naiveté, wouldn’t it?”
Serov made another both-hands-palms-up gesture of You’ve got me!
“And you, Janice, if I let you sit here and listen to what I tell Ivan, will I see it on the front page of tomorrow’s Stars and Stripes?”
“If you’re asking, Super Spook, will I sit on it until you say I can write it, no, I won’t. I will sit on it for ninety-six hours or until the story breaks, which I’m sure it will. Deal?”
“Deal. Thanks. Okay, Ivan, what do you want to know?”
“The details.�
�
“Casey Wagner’s scenario—and I think he’s on the money—is that Sergeant Brownlee smuggled what he thought—what his Schatzi told him—was laxative—”
“Her name?” Serov asked.
“Trude Wahlheim,” Cronley said. “Or that’s what she told Brownlee.”
Sergei Alekseevich scribbled this into a notebook.
“Ivan, my chum, how about letting me give you Wagner’s scenario and then you ask your questions?”
“Sorry.”
“Brownlee smuggled what he thought was German Ex-Lax into the prison by hiding it under his balls in his underwear. He then passed it to the guy—a German named Wilhelm Reiss—in charge of the chow line. Reiss would then pass the Ex-Lax to Macher as he passed through the chow line.
“What we have cleverly figured out is (a) the Ex-Lax was really one or more capsules of potassium cyanide, (b) that instead of passing the cyanide capsules to Major Macher, Reiss put one of them into a slice of cobbler and put that slice on Cousin Luther’s tray as he passed through the chow line. Auf Wiedersehen, Cousin Luther.”
“I suppose it’s too much to hope you have this Reiss chap?” Serov asked.
“He and the sergeant’s Schatzi are not to be found,” Cronley said.
“So what are your plans?” Serov asked.
“The general wants to know that, too, huh?” Cronley replied, and then went on without waiting for a reply. “I’m going to give the sonofabitch a Christian burial. I know how important Christian burials are to you.”
Serov ignored the reference to the Russian Orthodox burials he had asked Cronley to provide—and Cronley had provided—for the NKGB agents whom DCI agent Claudette Colbert had killed when they attempted to kidnap her and Tech Sergeant—now DCI agent—Florence Miller.
“I thought the disposal protocol for the remains of Tribunal prisoners was cremation, with the ashes then to be secretly scattered into the Neckar River,” Serov said.
“That’s my understanding,” Cronley replied. “But Cousin Luther wasn’t a Tribunal prisoner awaiting trial and the gallows. He just thought he was. I brought him here thinking that he might decide giving me von Dietelburg was a better option than the gallows.”
“I would hazard the guess that Odessa was concerned that Stauffer would give him up,” Serov said.
Death at Nuremberg Page 31
