Curtain of Death Page 15

  Instead of answering, Cronley asked, “Is that what this Joint Intelligence Objectives Agency did?”

  Hammersmith nodded and said, “So I understand.”

  “What I understand happened,” Cronley said, “is that after we shipped the known Abwehr Ost Nazis and their families to Cletus Frade in Argentina, Wallace and Colonel Robert Mattingly ran the others through the Denazification Court process and got them cleared.”

  “Gehlen, too?” Hammersmith said.

  Cronley nodded.

  “The chief of Abwehr Ost wasn’t a Nazi?” Hammersmith said.

  “He was. And so were all of his senior officers. But they got a pass, because Gehlen—and Obersts Ludwig Mannberg and Otto Niedermeyer . . .”

  “Niedermeyer?” Ziegler said.

  “. . . were up to their ears in most of the plots to take out Hitler. Not just the von Stauffenberg bomb plot.”

  “But didn’t get caught?” Hammersmith asked incredulously.

  “Just before the war ended, the SS was looking for them so they could hang them from butcher’s hooks like the others.”

  “Who’s Oberst Niedermeyer?” Ziegler pursued.

  “He’s the guy Gehlen sent to Cletus Frade in Argentina to keep an eye on the Nazis we sent there. He’s even more anti-Nazi than the others. Devout Catholic and a pal of von Stauffenberg.”

  “So you didn’t pass any Nazis through the courts by faking their records?” Hammersmith asked.

  “One we did. Major Konrad Bischoff. You met him. He was Himmler’s mole in Abwehr Ost, a dedicated Nazi who deserved to be hung from a butcher’s hook by his nuts.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When Gehlen caught him, early on, he realized that if Bischoff had some sort of fatal accident in the East, somebody would replace him. So he turned him. Instead of being Himmler’s mole in Abwehr Ost, Bischoff became Gehlen’s mole in the Sicherheitsdienst.

  “And Gehlen trusts him?”

  “Put it this way: Bischoff has been around Gehlen long enough to fully appreciate what happens to people who betray Gehlen.”

  “Off the top of my head,” Hammersmith said, “the Joint Intelligence Objectives Agency denazified hundreds, maybe thousands, of Nazis in questionable circumstances. Since they did, they probably assume you did the same thing. I mean, denazified a bunch of people. If they can prove that, and if—when—they get caught, they can say, ‘The DCI did the same thing.’ Therefore, they really want to catch you. And will do anything they have to in order to do so.”

  “Off the top of my head, Comrade Hammersmith, I would judge that to be a splendid analysis of the plans of our enemy. Enemies.”

  “Thank you, Comrade Cronley.”

  “We’re getting off the subject,” Hessinger said. “I think you were about to tell Comrade Hammersmith about our friend in Russia.”

  “So I was,” Cronley said. “Where did I get sidetracked?”

  “You were about to tell Jack and Augie about Seven-K,” Claudette said.

  “Right. Caveat, Jack and Augie: talking about Seven-K is right at the head of the list of things that you talking about will get you killed.”

  “I took your point, Captain Cronley, the first time you made it,” Hammersmith said, his annoyance showing.

  “Better safe than sorry, Mr. Hammersmith,” Cronley said. “Is your ego so sorely outraged that we can’t go back to ‘Jim’ and ‘Jack’?”

  “That would be nice, Jim, if we could do that.”

  “Well, Jack, Seven-K is an NKGB colonel with whom Gehlen has been doing business since the Wehrmacht was at the gates of Moscow. And probably before that. She’s also a Mossad agent . . .”

  “She?” Ziegler said.

  “. . . who during the war, and now, gets Russian Jews—Zionists—out of Russia so that they can go to Palestine. To do this, she needs money. Lots of money. Gehlen used to give it to her. Now we do. In exchange, she answers questions and does things for us.”

  “What sort of things?” Ziegler asked.

  “The last thing she did for us was get an NKGB colonel’s wife and two kids from their apartment in Leningrad to a field in Thuringia, where they could be picked up and then sent to join Daddy in Argentina.”

  “Holy Christ!” Augie said. “What was that all about?”

  “What the hell did that cost?” Hammersmith asked.

  “Two hundred thousand dollars,” Cronley said matter-of-factly.

  “That’s a hell of a lot of money!” Augie exclaimed.

  “Not to put an NKGB colonel on the path of righteousness, it’s not,” Cronley said. “Anyway, I think we should ask Seven-K what she can tell us about Odessa. At the very least, I’m sure she can—more importantly, will—tell us which guys on the list Gehlen’s going to give us have gone to, as I have learned from the general to say, the East.”

  “Yeah,” Hammersmith said thoughtfully, and then asked, “Who picked up this woman and her children in East Germany?”

  “Max Ostrowski, Kurt Schröder, and me. We used our Storches.”

  “Who’s Schröder?” Ziegler asked.

  “He used to fly the general around those steppes in Russia. He taught Max to fly Storches. Max used to fly Spitfires in the Free Polish Air Force.”

  “And they’re now working for the DCI?” Hammersmith asked. “You have the authority to recruit people like that?”

  “They’re in the DCI and have DCI credentials to prove it,” Cronley said. “Which reminds me. Dette, would you get Comrade Hammersmith and the Dutchman credentials?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I think what we have to do now is go see the general,” Cronley said, and stood up. “And after that we’ll see to getting two refrigerators to the Engineer Depot for our French friends.”

  [ TWO ]

  Ward 17 (Secure Psychiatric)

  98th General Hospital

  Munich, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  2050 25 January 1946

  “Colonel, I told these people that they had to have permission from you, sir, to even be in this ward, much less to visit the patient in 303,” Major Bethany Cramer, ANC, an intense woman who stood five feet three inches tall and weighed 105 pounds, announced, righteously indignant. “They refused to leave, and I called you.”

  Colonel Oscar J. Davis, MC, who was serving as Medical Officer of the Day for the 98th General Hospital, looked coldly between Augie Ziegler and the woman with him.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  “My name is Ziegler, Colonel. I’m with the CID.”

  Ziegler showed the colonel his credentials.

  Colonel Davis examined them and then said, “These don’t give you the right to be here.”

  “No, they don’t, Colonel,” Claudette Colbert said. “But these give me the right to be here, and Mr. Ziegler works for me.”

  She held out her DCI credentials.

  “Well, Miss Colbert,” Colonel Davis said after he had examined them, “I was told you DCI people—frankly, no offense intended, I didn’t expect a woman—would be involved and to cooperate fully with you. If you had checked in with me before you came here, we wouldn’t have had this misunderstanding.”

  “Since I knew the hospital had been made aware of DCI’s interest in Sergeant Miller, I didn’t think that would be necessary.”

  “Well, what can we do for you, Miss Colbert?”

  “We have been informed that the sergeant has fully recovered from the effects of sedation she was given. True?”

  Colonel Davis looked at Major Cramer, who nodded.

  “That being the case, all DCI is here to do is take the sergeant off your hands,” Claudette said. “I suspect the presence of the MPs and our security people has disrupted the major’s running of her ward . . .”

  She nodded towa
rd the two MPs and two PSO guards in the hall.

  “. . . and that she’ll be glad to see the sergeant go.”

  “Is there any reason the patient can’t be discharged, Major?” Colonel Davis asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then how about unlocking that door so I can get in to see the sergeant?” Claudette asked.

  “Unlock the door, Major, please,” Colonel Davis said.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Colonel,” Claudette said.

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” Colonel Davis said.

  “Wait here, Mr. Ziegler,” Claudette said as Major Cramer unlocked the door. “The PSO people will come with us. Your call what to do with the MPs.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ziegler said.

  —

  Technical Sergeant Florence J. Miller was in the bed, the top of which had been cranked up, when Claudette walked in and closed the door after her.

  “Smile,” Claudette said, “Princess Charming is here to rescue you.”

  “It’s about fucking time,” Florence said. And then quickly demanded, “Give me a cigarette.”

  “Cigarettes are bad for your health, as I’m sure Major Cramer told you. But I’ll give you one if you say please.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Okay, no cigarette. Put your clothes on and we’ll get out of here.”

  “Everything but my goddamn bra and panties was covered with blood and brains, and I had to beg that bitch to give me them back so I could wash them.”

  “I’m delighted to see that you’re in such good spirits. Come on, let’s go.”

  “Wearing what?”

  “That bathrobe,” Claudette said, pointing. “I didn’t think about your clothes. So what I’ll do is call the Compound and have one of the girls send a fresh uniform to the Vier Jahreszeiten.”

  She picked up the bedside telephone and did so.

  When she had finished, Florence said, “Please,” and Claudette handed her a package of Parliaments and a Zippo lighter.

  “Okay,” Claudette said, “your uniform will probably be at the Vier Jahreszeiten before we get there. Outside is a guy named Augie Ziegler. CID agent. Now works for us. We’re in his car. We go to the Vier Jahreszeiten, you put your uniform on, and we’ll call room service and get you something to eat.”

  “And a double Jack Daniel’s,” Florence said.

  “And a double Jack Daniel’s,” Claudette said.

  “I forgot,” Florence said.

  “Forgot what?”

  “To say thank you for saving my life. I owe you a big one, Dette.”

  —

  “I don’t need a goddamn wheelchair,” Florence said thirty seconds later.

  “Hospital regulation, Sergeant,” Major Cramer said. “All patients being discharged—”

  “Shut up and get in it, Flo,” Claudette interrupted.

  Florence got into the wheelchair, and Major Cramer pushed it down the corridor and into an elevator. Augie and Claudette then got on, and then two PSO men who had Thompson submachine guns slung from their shoulders got on.

  Claudette reached for the elevator control panel.

  “Hold it!” Florence ordered.

  “What?” Claudette asked.

  “What about my fu . . . upgefukt uniform?”

  “It’s in the CID forensic lab in Heidelberg,” Augie said. “They’re matching the . . . stuff . . . on it with the guys Dette took out.”

  “Great! And when am I going to get it back?”

  “Probably never,” Augie said. “It has become what we call evidence.”

  “And what’s with these guys?” Florence asked, pointing at the PSO men.

  “Get used to them, Flo,” Claudette said.

  “We’re your security detail, miss,” one of them said. He had a pronounced British accent. “Wherever you go, we do.”

  “What if I have to go to the ladies’ room?” Florence challenged, and then without waiting for a reply, made another challenge: “You sound like an Englishman.”

  “Any more questions, Flo? Or can I push the down button?” Claudette asked.

  “Push away,” Florence said.

  “I’ve spent some time in England, Miss Miller,” the PSO man said.

  “I never would have guessed,” Florence said.

  [ THREE ]

  Suite 507

  Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten

  Maximilianstrasse 178

  Munich, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  2130 25 January 1946

  When Florence walked through the doorway that Augie Ziegler had just opened for her, she saw that her uniform had indeed reached the hotel before they had. Her uniform skirt was draped over the edge of Hessinger’s desk, with a pair of shoes, a shirt, a necktie, and a pair of stockings sitting on it. And she saw Hessinger was cutting at her chevrons with a razor blade.

  “Freddy, you sonofabitch, what the fuck are you doing to my fucking stripes?”

  Captain James D. Cronley Jr. answered for him.

  “Cutting them off. You can’t wear triangles and stripes.”

  She looked at him in utter confusion.

  “We have a new rule around here,” Cronley went on. “That whenever the bad guys try to kidnap one of our enlisted people and said enlisted person behaves well during such attempted kidnapping, they get promoted. Welcome to the DCI, Special Agent Miller.”

  “Shit!” Florence said.

  And then started to sob.

  Claudette rushed to her and somewhat awkwardly put her arms around her.

  “That isn’t quite the reaction I expected,” Cronley said.

  “Captain,” Augie Ziegler said, “she’s still pretty shook up.”

  Florence freed herself from Claudette’s embrace and faced Cronley. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Captain, with respect. I goddamned sure didn’t behave well when those bastards grabbed us. I fucking lost it. I really want to wear triangles, but because I’m doing what Dette’s doing, not because you feel sorry for me. So thanks, but no fucking thanks.”

  Cronley didn’t reply for a long moment.

  “Miller,” he said finally, “now that you’re a DCI special agent, you’re going to have to stop cussing like a bull dyke WAC sergeant. Clear?”

  After another long moment, Florence asked, “Is that what I sound like?”

  “That’s what you sounded like just now.”

  “Sir, with respect, you know that I’m no—”

  Cronley held up his hand to silence her.

  “And you’re going to have to learn not to question my judgment. I decide who has behaved well, and who hasn’t. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now that Hessinger has finished removing your chevrons, I think you should take your uniform to the room Hessinger arranged for you, sew triangles on the lapels, and then hang it up. Then go to bed. In the morning, put your uniform with triangles on and report to Dette for duty. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, permission to speak?”

  “Speak.”

  “Sir, in Mr. Ziegler’s car, on the way here, Dette said that she and Mr. Ziegler had a briefcase full of stuff that had to be Leica-ed. I’m good at that.”

  “Dette?” Cronley asked.

  “It would free Augie and me to get the refrigerators to the Engineer Depot.”

  “Freddy, as soon as Florence can sew triangles on her uniform, take her and the Odessa material to the photo lab.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hessinger said.

  [ FOUR ]

  The Cocktail Lounge

  Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten

  Maximilianstrasse 178

  Munich, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  2215 25 January 1946

  Alphonse Bitte
rmann, the senior bartender of the cocktail lounge, who was sixty-two and had the reddish plump cheeks of a postcard Bavarian, had worked continuously at the Vier Jahreszeiten for forty-six years.

  He had never been called to serve in uniform because of an unusual heartbeat pattern, until the very last days of the war, when he had been mustered into the Volkssturm. Heinrich Himmler had drafted, at Hitler’s orders, every male from age sixteen to sixty-five who was not already in uniform into the militia.

  Alphonse was captured by the U.S. 20th Armored Division, which (together with the 3rd, 44th, and 45th Infantry Divisions) took Munich against light resistance on April 29–30, 1945. He was then serving as an interpreter. He had become fluent in French, Italian, Spanish, Hungarian, Polish, and English while working his way up from dishwasher to senior bartender in the Vier Jahreszeiten, and was conversant in several other tongues, including Russian.

  He had been a POW for two weeks when the POW camp commander, for whom Alphonse had been serving as an interpreter/bartender, decided Alphonse was just the man to take over the bar in the Vier Jahreszeiten, which had just been requisitioned by the U.S. Army for service as a senior officers’ hotel.

  Six weeks after he had been mustered into the Volkssturm, Alphonse was again wearing his white jacket and mixing drinks in what he thought of as his bar.

  Alphonse quickly became friendly with the American officers, majors and up, who patronized the bar off the Vier Jahreszeiten’s lobby. While Alphonse was, perhaps understandably, something of a snob, he could tolerate most of the Americans, even though he quickly decided that only a very few of them genuinely could be called gentlemen.

  Conversely, he didn’t dislike many of his American customers, although there were a few that he really disliked.

  When the Army had taken over the Vier Jahreszeiten, among the first people to move in were officers of the Office of Strategic Services. They took over the entire fifth floor of one of the wings.

  Their commanding officer met Alphonse’s criteria as a gentleman. His name was Robert Mattingly and he was a colonel of cavalry. His uniforms were impeccable, he was never in need of a haircut or a shave, and he spoke German fluently with a Hessian accent.