Nuremberg, American Zone of Occupation, Germany
0735 24 April 1946
Executive Officer Kenneth Brewster opened the door to Justice Jackson’s office and formally announced, “Mr. Justice, General Serov, Colonel Cohen, Father McKenna, and Captain Cronley.”
Justice Jackson’s response was far less formal. He came quickly from behind his desk, went to Cronley, and put his hands on the captain’s arms.
Then he hugged him.
“Jim, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Mrs. Moriarty. I’m so damn sorry.”
“I guess it wasn’t meant to be,” Cronley said.
Jackson patted Cronley’s arms, then turned to the priest.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure . . .” he said.
“This is Father McKenna,” Cronley said. “He’s here to hear your confession and save your soul.”
“Cronley,” the priest snapped, “I’ve had about all I can stand of you and your so-called wit.”
“But you’re stuck with me, right? Or can you go to Cardinal von Hassburger and complain I’m not being nice?”
“And who is Cardinal von Hassburger?” Jackson asked.
“A Vatican big shot,” Cronley said, “who is worried (a) that the world is about to hear they’ve been guarding Odessa’s money for them and (b) that General Serov, Colonel Cohen, and I are right that the Church of Saint Heinrich the Divine poses a greater threat to Holy Mother Church than does communism.”
“The first is a hell of an accusation,” Jackson said. “Easy—but dangerous—to make and hard to prove. How’re you going to do that?”
“Well, for one thing,” Serov said, then paused and dramatically put his briefcase on Jackson’s desk, “there’s a little over two million dollars in various hard currencies in there. We snatched it from one of von Hassburger’s bishops while he was trying to hand it over to Odessa, maybe even to von Dietelburg himself.”
“Are you giving me that money?” Jackson asked.
Cronley couldn’t tell if Jackson was joking. He was reminded of his observation about Serov and his men using the captured small Mercedes and the fact that the Soviets essentially were broke.
“You jest,” Serov said.
“I hope you’re not thinking of sending it to Lubyanka Square,” Jackson said.
Serov chuckled and shook his head.
“I spoke to the President yesterday,” Jackson volunteered. “Surprising me only a little, he had heard from General Clay about the attack on the safe house. For some reason, Clay didn’t mention to the President that Mrs. Moriarty was murdered in the attack.
“The President now harbors the opinion that the target of the safe house attack was you, Super Spook. As very well it may have been. And he made it clear that he is holding me responsible for keeping you alive. Get yourself a bodyguard, Cronley. Better yet, get two.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And yet a better idea than that . . .” Jackson said, pulling his telephone to him and then dialing a number from memory. “Ostrowski, Justice Jackson. Further on our conversation designating you as Captain Cronley’s bodyguard, pick two good men to assist you and bring them to my office prepared to guard Cronley around the clock whither in the wide world his duties may take him.”
Visibly pleased with himself, Jackson hung the telephone up, and asked Cronley, “Now tell me when I—and, more important, our commander in chief—can expect you to have von Dietelburg and Burgdorf back in the Tribunal Prison?”
“I have no idea where they are, sir, nor do Colonel Cohen, General Serov, or General Gehlen.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“I agree. Which made me wonder why. And then on the way over here from the Compound, I had one of my famous epiphanies.”
“Oh, really, Super Spook?” Cohen said, sarcastically. “Please do share it with us.”