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As he shut down the Storch, Cronley saw that Colonel Harold Wallace was waiting, hands on his hips, for them.
Otto Niedermeyer climbed down from the Storch first. He and Wallace shook hands. Cronley climbed down.
“Where the hell have you been?” Wallace demanded.
“Good morning, Colonel, sir. And how are you this morning?”
“I asked where you’ve been, Cronley.”
“In Vienna. Looking for von Dietelburg.”
“And where’s your bodyguard?”
“In Vienna. Looking for von Dietelburg. You seem a bit upset. May I ask why?”
“At quarter to eight, Justice Jackson called and asked if I knew where you were. And of course I had to tell him you were supposed to be in Nuremberg providing his security and I had no goddamn idea where you were.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“He said he had just been informed that Sturmführer Luther Stauffer—your cousin Luther—had committed suicide by biting on a cyanide capsule in the mess hall and he thought you should know.”
Jesus Christ!
Luther killed himself?
The last time I saw him, he was an arrogant SS officer.
How the hell am I going to explain this to Mom?
“Interesting,” Cronley said.
“What I found interesting is that he was in the Tribunal prison. You want to explain that?”
No, I don’t.
“I had him transferred there. For interrogation.”
The look on Wallace’s face showed that he didn’t like—or believe—Cronley’s answer.
“I suppose it’s really futile to ask what you and Oberst Niedermeyer were really doing in Vienna.”
“It’s no longer Oberst Niedermeyer, Colonel,” Niedermeyer said.
“Excuse me?”
“I should have told you this earlier, I’m sorry.”
“Told me what?”
“I’m no longer a former German soldier employed by the Süd-Deutsche Industrielle Entwicklungsorganisation.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“I’m an Argentine national employed by the Argentine-American Tourist Board.”
He handed Wallace an Argentine passport and a business card.
When he had examined them, Wallace admitted, “Now I’m really confused.”
