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“How are we going to do that?”
“I think the first thing to do is see if we can find the Strasbourg office of the DST.”
“The what?”
“The Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire,” Hessinger said. “It’s sort of the French CIC, except that it’s run by the French National Police, not the army. They may have something on Cousin Luther.”
“Okay.”
“And before we do that, I suggest we change out of our Quartermaster Corps uniforms,” Hessinger said. “I think we’ll get more cooperation from our French Allies as CIC agents than we would as dishwasher machine repairmen.”
“Why don’t we go whole hog and dazzle them with our DCI credentials?”
“Because (a) I would be surprised if word of the DCI’s establishment has worked its way through the French bureaucracy, and (b) even if it has, we want to make discreet inquiries.”
[FOUR]
Office of the Chief
Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire
Département Bas-Rhin
Strasbourg, France
1335 10 January 1946
When his sergeant showed Cronley, Hessinger, and Finney into his office, Commandant Jean-Paul Fortin of the Strasbourg office of the DST rose behind his desk.
He was a natty man in his early thirties with a trim mustache. He was wearing U.S. Army ODs with French insignia. There were shoulder boards with four gold stripes attached to the epaulets, and a brass representation of a flaming bomb pinned to his left breast pocket. On his desk, in what Cronley thought of as an in-basket, was his uniform cap.
Cronley thought the hat was called a “kepi.” It had a flat circular top and what looked like a patent leather visor. The top was red. There were four gold stripes on a dark blue crown, and in t
he center of the top was another flaming bomb.
Cronley remembered what Luther had said about his being conscripted into the German grenadiers. A flaming bomb was a grenade.
“Thank you for seeing us, Commandant,” Cronley said.
He offered his CIC credentials. Commandant Fortin examined them and then looked questioningly at Hessinger and Finney. They produced their credentials and Fortin examined them carefully.
“Bon,” he said. “I regret that I have not much the English.”
Oh, shit!
“It is to be hoped that you have the French?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Hessinger said.
“Is possible German?”
“We all speak German, Major,” Cronley said.
“Wunderbar!” Fortin said. “But of course, being in the CIC, you would. Now, how may the DST be of service to the CIC?”
“We’re interested in a man named Luther Stauffer,” Cronley said. “We’ve heard he was originally from Strasbourg, and we’re wondering if the DST has anything on him.”
“Herr Cronley, if you don’t mind me saying so, you sound like a Strasbourger yourself.”
