Death at Nuremberg (Clandestine Operations 4)

Cronley opened the bottle and, ignoring the silver shot dispenser, quickly poured whisky into glasses, half filling them.

“Inasmuch as you have to drive Colonel Cohen to wherever the hell he’s going, you don’t get no booze, Casey,” Cronley said.

“I understand, sir.”

Cohen, Serov, and Cronley wordlessly touched glasses and then took healthy swallows from them.

“I guess I should have raised that glass to your people at the castle,” Cronley said. “Christ, imagine having to live there.”

“It poses a strain on them . . .”

“I saw that on their faces when we landed. At the time, I thought it was normal CIC agent behavior.”

“Excuse me?” Cohen asked.

“When I was—I admit briefly—a CIC agent in Marburg, I noticed that the real agents always tried to keep a stone face, so people would know they were serious.”

“That’s called ‘maintaining a serious demeanor,’” Cohen said. “So far as the strain on my people at Wewelsburg is concerned, I first select the more mature of my agents for that assignment, then I ensure that they spend every third week at Berchtesgaden, with their families, if they have families.”

“At Hitler’s ‘Eagle’s Nest’?” Serov asked incredulously.

“No, Ivan. I should have said ‘Garmisch.’ The Army runs a resort there. And then I get them out of Wewelsburg when they seem to have had all the strain they can handle.”

“That place seems more evil to me than even the extermination camps,” Cronley said. “And yeah, I’ve been to Auschwitz-Birkenau, and seen the movies of the others.”

“That was mass murder,” Cohen said. “The point I’ve been trying to get across is that a religion that permits, even encourages, mass murder of inferior people in the name of God is actually worse than mass murder itself.”

“Don’t let this go to your head, Professor, but your lectures and guided tour of Wewelsburg made me a convert to your way of thinking.”

“I didn’t need to be converted,” Serov said. “When I first heard of what was going on at Wewelsburg, I came to that conclusion. However, actually being there . . .”

He left the sentence unfinished.

Cronley picked up the Jack Daniel’s bottle and refilled Serov’s and his empty glasses. When he turned to Cohen’s glass, he saw that it was not only not empty, but that Cohen was holding his hand over it.

“I really have to meet with Colonel Rasberry,” Cohen said. “He has a problem with the jail he’s asked me to help deal with. And while I’m there, I’ll ask him to arrange a chat with Sturmbannführer Macher for you, Jim.”

“Thank you,” Cronley said.

“Aren’t you going to thank me for the tour of Castle Wewelsburg?”

“That would be like me thanking my mother for having taken me to the dentist and having him pull two wisdom teeth. Right now, I wish I had never been in the place.”

“Most of what you’re feeling, I felt,” Cohen said. “Most of it, I suggest, will pass.”

“I think if that feeling of mingled contempt, disgust, and fear completely went away, that would make us lesser human beings,” Serov said. “People in our line of work have to learn to deal with the scum of the earth, and learn not to have them contaminate us.”

Scum of the earth like Polkovnik Sergei Likharev and family, Ivan?

Or, really wild thought, does he mean NKGB scum?

“Good night, gentlemen,” Cohen said. “Come on, Casey.”

“Meet me for breakfast, Casey,” Cronley ordered. “Early—0730.”

“Yes, sir,” Casey said, and then followed Cohen out of the bar.

“As soon as I finish this,” Serov said, holding up his glass, “I’m going to have to leave myself. Are you going to be all right, James? Drinking oneself into oblivion is not wise for people in our business.”