“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.