When the drinks were served, Cronley took a healthy swallow and Winters a small—very small—sip.
“Did Wallace tell you why he was transferring you to Detachment ‘A’ and giving me another airplane?”
“He said he wanted to be sure you have all the assets you need,” Winters said.
“That was nice of him, presuming he doesn’t have an ulterior motive. And, if I have to say this, I’m glad to have you.”
“An ulterior motive such as getting the Storch out of the Compound, where if some Air Corps type with stars on his epaulets asks Wallace what we’re doing with an illegal airplane, he would have to answer?”
“And if it’s—they’re—here, and questions were asked, I would have to answer them?”
Winters nodded.
“Not a problem. I have a place to hide the airplanes, and if anybody but General Bull asks what I’m doing with them, I will dazzle them with my DCI credentials.”
“They do dazzle people, don’t they?”
“How’s the baby?”
“When he’s on his back getting his diaper changed, he can piss on the ceiling.”
Cronley laughed and then asked, “How does Barbara feel about coming down here, moving again?”
Winters looked uncomfortable.
“She doesn’t like it?”
“Captain . . .”
“Captain?”
What the hell is this?
“Sir, I might as well bite the bullet.”
“So bite it.”
“My wife, sir, blames you for Bonehead’s murder.”
“She’s right. So do I.”
“And she’s afraid the same thing will happen to me. She wants me to go to General White and ask him to transfer me back into the Constabulary.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“No. For two reasons.”
“Which are?”
“I think the contribution I can make to DCI is more important than flying an L-4 spotting artillery or flying the brass from Point A to Point B.”
“True. And?”
“I’m not going to ask General White to do something like that for me. That’s not in my genes.”
“I know where you’re coming from, Tom. At Bonehead’s funeral, Ginger lost it and screamed at my mother, ‘If it wasn’t for that goddamn hotshot son of yours, my baby would still have his father.’ And unfortunately she had every right.”
“I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that the Officer of the Day was sleeping on duty in your bed when he was shot?”
“That ran through my head. But Bonehead wouldn’t have been sleeping in my bed if I hadn’t recruited him for DCI. That’s the bottom line.”
“No. Bonehead’s death is not on your shoulders. Period.”
“Thank you. So what are you going to do about Barbara?”
“As soon as we’re assigned quarters here, she moves into them. And I will, without much hope of success, continue to reason with her. I just thought you should know the situation.”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus, look at that. A full-bird Russian. What is this place, anyway?”
“With a little bit of luck, we can get him to pick up our tab.” He raised his voice. “Polkovnik Serov! Over here.”
Serov, trailed by Major Alekseevich, walked, smiling cordially, up to the table.
Winters quickly stood up. Cronley resisted the Pavlovian urge to stand.
“May we join you?” Serov asked.
“If you’re buying, Ivan, we would be honored,” Cronley said.
“And this gentleman is?”
“Lieutenant Thomas H. Winters the Third, may I introduce Colonel Ivan Serov and Major Sergei Alekseevich?”
The men shook hands.
Winters said, “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine,” Serov said, as he waved for the waiter. “It is always a pleasure to meet a member of a distinguished military family such as yours.”
“Excuse me?” Winters said.
“Your father does command the 1st Cavalry Division in Japan, does he not?”
“Yes, sir, he does.”
That didn’t come out of left field.
That’s off Serov’s Order of Battle for the DCI.
And he wants me to know he has one, and that it’s pretty thorough.
And does that make Tom a candidate for kidnapping?
A U.S. general’s son for a defected Russian colonel?
Or a U.S. general’s grandson?
And didn’t I hear that Barbara is an Army brat?
Isn’t she the daughter of a general officer?
A general’s daughter and a baby who has two general officer grandfathers for a Russian colonel and his family?
Barbara Winters and baby are safe in the Compound.
But they wouldn’t be nearly as safe in ordinary dependents’ quarters here.
What the hell am I going to do about that?
“We’re all friends here,” Serov said. “Isn’t that so, James?”
“How about drinking buddies?” Cronley said.
“I would be pleased if you could find your way to call Sergei and myself by our Christian names,” Serov said.
The waiter appeared.
“Bring us a bottle of whatever they’re drinking, and put it on my tab,” Serov ordered.
“Beware of Russians bearing booze,” Cronley said.
“Consider the booze to be a small token of my gratitude,” Serov said.
“For what?”
“For my tour of that castle.”
“Oh.”
“What?” Winters asked. “What castle?”
“I gather Thomas is not in the castle loop?”
“Only because he just got here, and I haven’t had time to tell him.”
“And I wanted to wait until I had your permission before I told Sergei about it.”
Oh, bullshit!
“What are you going to tell the NKGB about it?”
“Actually, I’m still thinking about that.”
“And if I give you permission to tell Sergei what you probably have already told him, what is he going to tell the NKGB?”
I am pissing in the wind. He told Sergei about the castle as soon as he could after we got back. And by now that report is being read in that building on Lubyanka Square in Moscow.
“Nothing until I tell him to, and then only what I tell him to,” Serov said. “You really should learn to trust me, Jim.”
“I do.”
About as far as half the distance I could throw Tiny Dunwiddie.
“When I saw you, I thought perhaps you would be kind enough to have dinner with Sergei and myself, and we could both bring him into the loop. I think it’s important that he hear everything, and I suggest that’s also true for Thomas.”
“And what would we chat about over dinner?”
“I agree that the tale of the castle would ruin my appetite for anything but spirits, so why don’t we drink our dinner?”
“Why not?” Cronley said.
IX
[ONE]
Farber Palast
Stein, near Nuremberg
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1925 23 February 1946
“I never heard anything about this,” Tom Winters said. “And now that I have, I’m having a hard time believing it.”
And I’m having a hard time believing my gut feeling that this is the first time Sergei has heard about it.
But to judge from the look on ol’ Sergei’s face, and in his eyes as we revealed the secrets of Wewelsburg Castle, it was.
Which means that ol’ Ivan was telling me the truth.
“What about you, Sergei?” Cronle
y said. “If you heard all this from me, not from Polkovnik Serov, would you believe it?”
“I would have the trouble I’m having to believe it if I heard it from Nikolayevich Merkulov.”
“Who’s he?” Winters asked, just a little thickly. He had begun sipping scotch five minutes into Serov and Cronley’s recitation.
“He’s Ivan’s NKGB boss, the commissar of State Security,” Cronley said.
“I think he’s heard something about it,” Serov said. “And dismissed it as nonsense . . .”
He didn’t challenge that, which is admitting he’s still working for Merkulov.
Is that the scotch talking? For every sip Winters took, ol’ Ivan took a healthy gulp.
On the other hand, he knows I don’t believe the scenario that he’s here in Nuremberg to protect the Soviet judges, so why keep up the pretense?
“. . . otherwise, the Soviet liaison team, which is authorized to go anywhere in the U.S. Zone, would have taken an interest in the castle. And when Colonel Cohen’s people denied them entrance, that would not only increase their curiosity but cause an incident. And a public incident would alert the people we’re looking for to our interest. So you will understand, Sergei, why the less Commissar Merkulov hears about what we’ve been discussing, the better.”
Is that to try to convince me that he’s not filing a daily After Action Report to Merkulov?
Or does he mean it?
“I understand, sir,” Sergei said.
“Who are you looking for?” Winters asked.
Serov looked at Cronley.
“I think there’s a connection between the castle and Odessa,” he said. “Would you agree, Jim?”
Cronley nodded.
“Gut feeling. But what? Who? Von Dietelburg?”
“Who else?”
“Who’s he?” Winters asked.
He’s plastered. Because of a combination of what he heard just now, and his problems with his wife. The latter, I think, more than the former, but both.
“Brigadeführer Franz von Dietelburg,” Cronley said. “He was Himmler’s adjutant. He sent Macher to blow up Wewelsburg Castle. And, Ivan, Cohen, and I strongly suspect, to empty Himmler’s safe and do something with those thousands of gold Totenkopfrings.”
“And I gather he’s among the missing?” Winters said.
“Yeah. Vanished into the blue. I talked to Macher today. He professed to have no idea where the contents of the safe, or the rings, are. And he told me I should know that von Dietelburg is dead. I brought the noose into the conversation, and he may eventually have a change of mind. But we can’t wait for that to happen, can we?”
“So what are you thinking, Jim?” Serov asked.
“I’m going to have another chat with Commandant Fortin and my cousin Luther. I also had a chat with Heimstadter today. I saw something in his eyes when I mentioned the former Sturmführer Luther Stauffer.”
“Good idea,” Serov said. “Actually, any idea right now is a good idea.”
“If you’re going to be flying, you better lay off the booze,” Winters said, more than a little self-righteously.
“Polkovnik Serov,” Cronley said, “Lieutenant Winters is reminding me that U.S. Army aviators are prohibited from flying U.S. Army airplanes if they have imbibed intoxicants within the previous twelve hours.”
“Sounds like a reasonable regulation.”
“But since I am not a U.S. Army aviator, and will be flying an illegal airplane, that regulation obviously does not apply to me. I will follow the rule for Texas aviators, which is that if you can climb into the cockpit without assistance, and can find the master buss switch in less than five minutes, you’re sober enough to fly.”
“So you’re going to continue drinking?” Sergei asked.
That’s genuine concern, not just disbelief, in his voice.
Truth being stranger than fiction, can Sergei be one of the good guys?
Or are both of them playing me for the fool they know I am?
“Sergei, my friend, that was what is known as Texas humor. What I am going to do is have a glass of Cabernet with the enormous steak I am about to eat in the dining room. And then I’m going to bed, from which I will rise with the roosters and fly to Strasbourg. Presuming, of course, that God is willing and the creek don’t rise.”
[TWO]
There was a note Scotch-taped to the mirror in the toilet of the Duchess Suite:
They caught two colonels—one a chaplain—black-marketing big-time in Heidelberg. Got to cover it. Be back tomorrow. Wash behind your ears. J.
“Fortune smiles on the pure of heart,” he said aloud.
I really didn’t want to explain where I’ve been and with whom, and I really am in no shape for bedroom gymnastics.
He stripped out of his clothes, intending to shower.
“Shit!” he said. “First things first.”
He went naked into the bedroom, sat on the bed, and picked up the telephone.
“Nuremberg 4897,” a slightly accented voice answered.
“Get Captain Dunwiddie on here, please.”
“There’s no one here by that name.”
“This is Cronley.”
“One moment, sir.”
“Captain Dunwiddie.”
“Tiny, Winters is on his way there. Pretty well bombed. Make sure he gets into a bed all right.”
“You corrupted Winters?”
“He corrupted himself. With good reason. Barbara is really unhappy that Wallace transferred him to us. She wants him to go to General White and ask to be returned to the Constab.”
“I can’t imagine him doing that.”
“He’s not going to. That’s his problem. And I told him about Castle Wewelsburg.”
“Why did Wallace transfer him?”
“I think (a) to get him out of the new DCI-Europe headquarters, and (b) to cover his ass by sending the other Storch down here. If El Jefe were to ask, he would say, ‘I wanted Cronley to have all the assets he needed.’”
“I hate to admit this, but I think you’re right.”
“See what you can do about getting them some really secure quarters. Really secure in Barbara’s eyes.”
“And what will you be doing when I’m on my knees before the Nuremberg Military Post housing officer?”
“Don’t go to him, go to the post commander.”
“While you’re doing what?”
“Having a chat with my cousin Luther in Strasbourg.”
“I knew you would have a credible excuse for dumping your commanding officer’s responsibilities on my weary shoulders.”
“Carry on, Captain Dunwiddie,” Cronley said, and hung up.
[THREE]
The South German Industrial Development Organization Compound
Pullach, Bavaria
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
0915 24 February 1946
Cronley had indeed risen with the roosters intending to get to Strasbourg as early as possible and was at Soldier’s Field before seven. At seven-twenty, he was at the threshold of Runway Two Four, cleared for a VFR flight to Strasbourg.
He had an epiphany.
Goddamn you, Tiny, for so subtly reminding me of a “commanding officer’s responsibilities.”
Then he had picked up the microphone.
“Soldier’s Departure Control, Army Six One Six.”
“Six One Six. Go.”
“Change of flight plan. Scrap VFR Soldier’s-Entzheim. File VFR Soldier’s-Schleissheim.”
“Six One Six, sir, you’re required to go to Flight Planning to change your flight plan.”
“Soldier’s, if you do this for me, you will be rewarded in heaven. It’s important.”
After a thirty-second pause, Soldier’s Departure Control came back on th
e air.
“Army Six One Six is cleared for VFR Soldier’s-Schleissheim and for immediate departure Runway Two Four.”
“Six One Six rolling. Muchas gracias, which means Vielen Dank!”
—
Barbara Winters answered the door with Thomas H. Winters IV in her arms.
“What’s happened to Tom, Jim?”
“Aside from being hungover, Mrs. Winters, Lieutenant Winters is fine.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“They call it ‘the counseling of the wives under one’s command,’ Mrs. Winters. May I come in?”
“Frankly, Jim, you’re not welcome here.”
“Nevertheless, Mrs. Winters, your husband’s commanding officer is at your door. May I come in?”
She stepped aside and gestured with her head for him to enter.
“The reason Lieutenant Winters had too much to drink last night, Mrs. Winters, is because you asked him to do something he finds it difficult to do.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Winters, but I think you do. And what you asked him to do does not, speaking frankly, reflect well on you.”
“If you mean my asking him to go back to the Constabulary—”
“I mean your asking him to go to General White to ask for that. Surely you know he doesn’t want to do that.”
“You tell me why he doesn’t, Captain Cronley.”
“Surely, as the daughter of a general officer . . . your father is a general officer, correct, Mrs. Winters?”
“My father is . . . He’s deputy commander of Fort Knox. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I presume he’s a friend of General White?”
“He commanded the 175th Armored Field Artillery of Hell on Wheels. Until he was wounded in Normandy.”
“Then I presume he’s also a friend, at least an acquaintance, of General Harmon?”
“Yes, he is. A friend, more than an acquaintance.”
“That makes you an Army brat, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t like that term, frankly.”
“Like it or not, Mrs. Winters, that’s what you are. And as such, if you haven’t considered what would happen if Lieutenant Winters went to General White asking for a transfer back to relatively safer duties in the Constabulary, I suggest you should.”
Death at Nuremberg Page 19