“Hold One.”
“Greene.”
“James D. Cronley for you, sir. The line is secure.”
“Put him on.”
“Good evening, sir.”
“What has Colonel Cohen done to you now, Jim?”
“Actually, sir, we’re getting along pretty well.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sir. Tomorrow he’s going to show Ivan Serov and me Castle Wewelsburg.”
“Serov is in Nuremberg?”
“Yes, sir. He is wearing the shoulder boards of an infantry colonel and told us over dinner—which he paid for—that he’s now in charge of security for the Soviet judges.”
“What the hell is that all about?”
“I don’t know, General. I think Colonel Cohen has some sort of agenda.”
“He usually does. You’re going to Wewelsburg? And taking Serov with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I gather you’ve deduced Colonel Cohen is obsessed with Castle Wewelsburg?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s going to be annoyed to learn you called me to tell me about this. Why did you?”
“Sir, I didn’t call to do that. I called to ask a favor. You raised the question of how I’m getting along with Colonel Cohen.”
“So I did. And you want a favor? Why does that worry me? What kind of a favor?”
“Sir, I need a couple of ASA people. Florence Miller needs some help.”
“How is she doing?”
“Pretty well.”
“Does she know Serov is in Nuremberg? I’m presuming she knows he’s responsible for trying to kidnap her.”
“I’m sure she knows both, sir. That’s probably why she has a pistol strapped to her hip.”
“You’re protecting her against the possibility that something like that could happen again?”
“General, she’s living in a secure building with at least twenty heavily armed men.”
“What kind of a secure building?”
“A fenced-in, twenty-eight-room mansion that used to be the home of the Munich Gauleiter.”
“A twenty-eight-room mansion? How the hell did you pull that off, Cronley?”
“Mr. Justice Jackson had a word with the Munich Military Post commander on my behalf.”
“Which suggests you haven’t so far really pissed him off.”
“We get along pretty well, sir.”
“Why do you need two of my people? What kind of people? And why didn’t you go through channels, instead of calling me late at night on the SIGABA net?”
“Sir, I decided that the less I trouble Colonel Wallace with things like this, the better.”
“Bullshit. What kind of people is Miller asking for?”
“She gave me two names, sir. Of a tech sergeant and a Spec-6.”
“Both WACs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Against my better judgment, you can have them. Give me the names, and I’ll have orders cut in the morning. And I won’t tell Wallace.”
“Tech Sergeant Helene Williamson and Spec-6 Martha Howell.”
“Surprising me not at all, two of my best WACs. I will miss them.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Anything else, Jim?”
“Sir, what happens to people who use SIGABA for a personal call?”
“It starts with castration with a rusty bayonet followed by a long recovery period in a Fort Leavenworth cell. Who do you want to call?”
“My father, sir.”
“Why?”
“Chief Schultz took Lieutenant Moriarty’s body from Washington to home. I’m sure he told my father what happened . . .”
“That whoever killed the lieutenant thought it was you he was whacking?”
“Yes, sir. And I want to assure him I’m all right.”
“Are you? Are you covering your ass, Jim? Somebody wants you dead.”
“I’m all right, sir.”
“Famous last words. Your father was a light colonel under Wild Bill Donovan in the First War, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Dunwiddie has SIGABA access, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have Dunwiddie place the call to Colonel Cronley.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fulda Operator?”
“Yes, sir, General?”
“Destroy the recording of my chat with Mr. Cronley, and when you break down the Dunwiddie–Colonel Cronley call, destroy that recording, too.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, I’ll have to make a report of doing that.”
“Yes, son, you will. You are required to. That report will end up in my in-basket. And when I read it, I will read a report of what I just told you to do. Ruminate on that, son.”
“Yes, sir.”
Before Cronley could say thank you, Greene ordered, “Break it down, Fulda.”
[FIVE]
“Fulda.”
“Dunwiddie, Chauncey. I need to speak to Lieutenant Colonel James D. Cronley Senior, in Midland, Texas.”
“Hold One.”
“Vint Hill.”
“I need a number in Midland, Texas, for Lieutenant Colonel Cronley.”
“Fulda, that’ll have to go through the White House switchboard.”
“Vint Hill, do it.”
“White House.”
“White House, this is Fulda. I need Lieutenant Colonel Cronley in Midland, Texas. The line is not, repeat not, secure.”
“Wait, please.”
“Operator.”
“This is the White House switchboard. I need the number for a Lieutenant Colonel Cronley in Midland.”
“The White House?”
“This is the White House switchboard.”
“Please hold.”
“The only Cronley I have is James D. Senior, at the F-Bar-Z Ranch.”
“Can you connect me, please?”
“Please hold.”
“Hello?”
“This is the White House calling for Lieutenant Colonel James Cronley.”
“You’re serious?”
“Is this Colonel Cronley?”
“A long time ago it was.”
“Fulda, I have Captain Cronley on the line. The line is not, repeat not, secure.”
“Dad?”
“Jimmy, good to hear your voice, son. I guess you finally got my message.”
“What message?”
“The one I left with Major Kramer . . . where you work.”
“Major who?” Cronley asked, and then remembered Kramer was one of the ex–OSS officers recruited for the DCI by El Jefe and now assigned to DCI-Europe.
“He said his name was Kramer, and that you were not available at the moment, but that he would try to get word to you to call.”
“He didn’t. Is everything all right? Is Mom all right?”
“Physically, she’s fine. The question is, how are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Chief Schultz told us what happened to Bruce Moriarty. What really happened to him, as opposed to the ‘while cleaning his pistol’ version. So we were worried about you and I decided to call.”
“I’m all right, Dad. I’m in the Duchess Suite of a fancy hotel in Nuremberg used to house reporters.”
“Schultz told me about your new job. How’s it going?”
“Fine. Physically?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said Mom was fine physically. What does that mean?”
“It means she’s a little shaken up, emotionally.”
“About what?”
“Well, for one thing Ginger Moriarty lost control at the funeral.”
“‘Lost control’?”
“As she was being led away from the gravesite, she spotted us and screamed, ‘If it wasn’t for that goddamn hotshot son of yours, my baby would still have his father.’”
“Oh, shit!”
“It was painful for your mother.”
“Unfortunately, that’s true. I recruited Bonehead for DCI. I thought I was doing him a favor. He was sleeping in what had been my bed when some sonofabitch shot him in the head and six other places with a silenced Colt Woodsman .22, thinking he was whacking me.”
“Schultz told us that. So your mother is upset about the scene in the cemetery, and even more upset knowing that somebody is trying to kill you.”
“Nobody’s going to kill me.”
“I think it would be helpful if you personally tried to convince her of that.”
“Sure, get her on the phone.”
“Before I do—she’s taking a nap—there’s one more thing. She got a letter from Frau Stauffer yesterday, your cousin Luther’s wife. She said that Luther has been arrested on trumped-up charges by some French policeman who hates him because he was drafted into the Wehrmacht. She went on to say she tried to call you to beg you to use your influence to get him set free, but that you have refused to take her calls, to talk to her.”
“And she wants Mom to lean on me?”
“That’s the sum of it. If you were to tell your mother you’ll do what you can . . .”
“Won’t happen, Dad.”
“Why not?”
“That bitch never tried to call me—and I would have heard if she did—because she knows I know her husband, former SS-Sturmführer Luther Stauffer—”
“You’re saying he was in the SS?”
“—did not desert as soon as he could to come home to Strasbourg, but instead was sent to Strasbourg by Odessa—Organisation der Ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen, or the organization of former members of the SS—to facilitate the escape of big-shot Nazis to South America and elsewhere.”
“That’s a hell of an accusation, Jimmy. Are you sure of your facts? Did this come from some French officer you met who hates Strasbourgers who were drafted into the German Army? I have to ask.”
“Cousin Luther was arrested by a friend of mine, Commandant Jean-Paul Fortin, who is probably really a colonel, and who commands the DST—Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire in Alsace-Lorraine.”
“And he told you this about Luther Stauffer?”
“No. I already knew. I turned my cousin Luther over to Fortin after my people—my people, Dad—caught him trying to get two real Nazi bastards—SS-Brigadeführer Ulrich Heimstadter and his deputy, Standartenführer Oskar Müller—across the Franco–German border and then to Spain. These were the sonsofbitches who massacred all the slave laborers—men and women, some of whom were buried alive—at Peenemünde so they couldn’t tell the Russians or us—whoever got to Peenemünde first—what SS-Sturmbannführer Wernher von Braun and his rocket scientists had been up to.”
“Von Braun was in the SS, too?”
“Yes, he was.”
“Why did you turn Stauffer over to this French officer?”
“Because he asked, and because I knew the French have interrogation techniques I’m not allowed to use. I really want to get the bastards in Odessa.”
“I don’t want your mother to hear this,” Cronley’s father said softly.
“And I don’t want to lie to her. So, what do I do?”
“I won’t tell her we talked. It’s a lie, but . . .”
“I’m sorry I’m putting you on the spot, Dad.”
“The reverse is true, son. I love you, and I’m very proud of you.”
There was a click on the line, and after a moment Cronley realized his father had hung up.
“Break it down, Fulda,” he said.
He sat for several moments at the SIGABA device, inhaling and exhaling audibly.
When he rose and went into the bedroom, Janice Johansen was sitting up in the bed.
“You look, Adonis,” she said, “as if you need a little tender care. Why don’t you take a shower and come to bed?”
He did.
VII
[ONE]
Soldier’s Field
Nuremberg, American Zone of Occupation, Germany
0805 22 February 1946
When Colonel Serov and Major Alekseevich sat down for breakfast with Cronley and “Casey” Wagner, the Russians were wearing “regular” as opposed to the ornate dress uniforms they had been wearing the night before.
These consisted of a brimmed cap with a black crown and a red band; a high-collared light brown tunic, with the insignia of their rank on tabs at the neck; what Cronley thought of as black “riding breeches”; knee-high black boots; and a brown leather belt. No medals at all. Both had pistols in tan leather holsters, held up by a leather belt across the chest. Major Alekseevich had what looked to Cronley like a leather-cased Leica 35mm camera hanging from his neck.
“Good morning,” Serov said. “And who is this handsome young man?”
“Karl-Christoph Wagner,” Cronley replied. “We call him ‘Casey.’ Casey, this is Polkovnik Serov and Major Alekseevich, his aide-de-camp.”
The men shook hands as a waiter appeared. After he had taken their order and left, Serov asked, “Why do I suspect, James, that Casey here is your aide-de-camp?”
“Maybe because you have a naturally suspicious nature?” Cronley replied. “Actually, Casey is a DCI agent. I’m telling you that because I know your naturally suspicious nature will make you check him out, and you’d learn that anyway.”
“Please don’t take offense, Casey, if I say I think you must be the youngest agent in the DCI.”
Casey gave him a dirty look, but didn’t say anything.
“That’s true, Ivan,” Cronley said. “But you shouldn’t judge people by their appearance. Casey was responsible for finding out how Odessa was moving people around Europe in Stars and Stripes trucks.”
“Really?”
“Really, Ivan. And Casey was largely responsible for the entire operation in which we bagged SS-Brigadeführer Heimstadter and SS-Standartenführer Müller.”
“And who were they?”
“The guys responsible for massacring the slave laborers at Peenemünde.”
“And where are they now? Here?”
“Yes, they are.”
“I’d really like to talk to them.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged.”
“But I’m afraid it would be a waste of my time.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You might think me impolite.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Your permitted interrogation techniques don’t work well on people like that. Especially if Russians, or those of the Hebrew persuasion, are asking the questions . . .”
He’s talking about Cohen.
“. . . then refusing to answer questions becomes far more than refusing answers beyond the ‘name, rank, and serial number’ obligation of the Geneva Convention. It becomes, for Nazis like those two, senior SS officers, more like something noble, even a sacred obligation. They would rather be hung, shot, or literally burned at the stake than betray their holy faith by telling of its secrets.”
And that’s a reference to Castle Wewelsburg and what went on there.
How much does this bastard already know about Wewelsburg?
As the waiter approached with their breakfast order, Serov changed the subject to the superior quality of American waffles over Belgian.
[TWO]
When Cronley stopped the Horch on the tarmac in front of Hangar Two at Soldier’s Field Army Airfield, Colonel Mortimer Cohen was waiting for them.
He walked up to it and announced that “When I saw you driving up in that Nazimobile, I was tempted to stick my arm out straight and bellow �
��Sieg Heil!’”
“It’s a very nice car, perfect in all details except for a couple of bullet holes in the doors,” Cronley replied.
“How are you on this unusually sunny winter day, Polkovnik?” Cohen asked of Serov, who was in the backseat with Major Alekseevich.
Cronley had not been surprised that Serov’s aide-de-camp had been with Serov at breakfast, but he was a little surprised when they got to the Horch and Alekseevich got in the backseat with Serov.
Cronley had shut off his automatic mouth in time for him not to say, There’s no reason for you to come out to the airfield, Major. My airplane only holds three people.
“I’m really looking forward to seeing the castle,” Serov said.
“And I see you brought Major Alekseevich along to photograph you as you take off on what—considering what I’ve heard about Cronley’s flying skills—may be your last flight.”
“Actually, I thought I would take Alekseevich’s camera with me, and photograph all of us for posterity.”
“Not only unnecessary, as my people at the castle can do that, but impractical. I don’t think there’s room for you and the camera in Cronley’s little airplane.”
In other words, Ivan, Cohen doesn’t want you taking pictures in the castle.
And with that lame excuse, he wants you to know he doesn’t.
Why not?
Why is he afraid that Ivan wants pictures?
Of what?
“Well, if we can get the hangar doors open, can push the Storch outside without giving ourselves a hernia, and I can get it started, why don’t we go flying?”
[THREE]
Airstrip Y-97
Paderborn, American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1035 22 February 1946
Cronley made a second pass over what was obviously a deserted airfield to confirm what he had seen on the first.
“Did you see those great big X’s painted at both ends of the runway?” he asked into the intercom. “They mean ‘This ain’t no functioning airport. Don’t land here.’”
“I had the runway so marked to keep the curious away,” Cohen replied matter-of-factly.
“So I can land here?”
“Please do. I urgently require the gentlemen’s restroom.”
Death at Nuremberg Page 15