Death at Nuremberg (Clandestine Operations 4)

“What do you want with me?”

“I’m looking for the contents of Himmler’s safe you took from Wewelsburg Castle, the twelve thousand—or more—Totenkopfrings you also took from the castle, and most important, for Brigadeführer Franz von Dietelburg.”

“As I told the other investigators, Herr Cronley, I stole nothing from Castle Wewelsburg. And I think you know von Dietelburg is dead.”

“You and I both know he isn’t. And I didn’t say you stole the contents of the safe, or the rings. Theft of SS property would violate your SS officer’s Code of Honor, wouldn’t it? I said you took that stuff from the castle because those were your orders from Reichsführer-SS Himmler.”

Macher shrugged, more than a little condescendingly.

“But I know, and you know I know, that you know where all that stuff is. And we want it.”

“If I knew what happened to what you’re talking about, and I don’t, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“In a way, Heinz, I almost admire your dedication to keeping the faith. But the difference between you and me is that I wouldn’t go so far as getting myself hung because I wouldn’t cough up some rings and some gold and old paintings. That’s not the same thing as betraying the Reichsführer-SS’s secrets, is it? You ever hear ‘To the victor goes the spoils’?”

Macher didn’t reply.

“Well, we won,” Cronley said. “We’re the victors, and we want those spoils. Think about that, Heinz. What difference does it make? Reichsführer-SS Himmler doesn’t need that stuff anymore. He took the coward’s way out, didn’t he?”

Macher glared at Cronley.

“It is better to die at one’s own hand than to be hung by the Jews,” he said.

“The Jews weren’t going to hang Himmler, Heinz, and the Jews aren’t going to hang you. People like me—and I’m half-German, my mother was born and raised in Germany—would have hung him, and unless you come to your senses, will hang you.”

Macher didn’t reply.

“Think it over, Heinz. I’ll be back,” Cronley said, and walked out of the cell.

[FOUR]

The sergeant led Cronley back across the bridge to the left tier of cells, and then down the stairs to the second tier and then to Cell 14, on which was a sign: “Heimstadter, Ulrich.”

“Open it, soldier,” the sergeant ordered.

The guard outside, who looked even younger than Casey Wagner, worked the lock and then the sliding barrier, and Cronley entered the cell.

“And how are you on this snowy February day?” Cronley asked in German.

Heimstadter, Cronley saw, had shaved off the soup-strainer mustache he had on his chubby face when he had been captured.

But the bastard still looks like a postcard Bavarian in lederhosen with Gemütlichkeit oozing from every pore.

Heimstadter didn’t reply.

“Generals White and Harmon asked me to look in on you,” Cronley said.

Major General Ernest Harmon had commanded 2nd Armored Division and, on assuming command of the VI Corps, had turned over Hell on Wheels to I. D. White. Three weeks earlier, on 1 Feburary, White had assumed command of the Constabulary.

When the stone-faced Heimstadter did not respond, Cronley added, “They saw what you and Müller did at Peenemünde and are looking forward to your conviction and hanging.”

Heimstadter’s face blanched for a moment.

“Victory must be sweet for someone like you,” he said.

“I don’t think ‘sweet’ is the word that applies. But a mixture of satisfaction and shame for someone of German blood like me. I will find it uncomfortable to watch my cousin Luther swing with a broken neck under the gallows.”

“Your cousin?” Heimstadter blurted.