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Kaltenbrunner looked at Cronley with mingled curiosity and disdain.
“Mr. Cronley, this is the former chief of the RSHA, former Obergruppenführer und General der Polizei und Waffen-SS Dr. Ernst Kaltenbrunner,” Cohen said.
“And may I ask who this gentleman is?” Kaltenbrunner asked in good English.
Cronley held out his DCI credentials. Kaltenbrunner examined them as if he was reluctantly doing Cronley a favor.
“And what might I do for the Central Intelligence Directorate?” Kaltenbrunner asked, then added, “Whatever that is.”
“I’m surprised you don’t know what the DCI is,” Cronley said, in German. “But to answer your question, my superior told me I should take a look at you.”
“Which superior would that be?” Kaltenbrunner asked, in German. “The admiral or President Truman?”
“Colonel Cohen has led me to believe that the way things work around here is that we ask the questions and people like you answer them, if not often truthfully.”
“So you have a question, or questions, for me?”
“Not at the moment. Possibly, even probably, later. But not at the moment. Right now all I’m doing is having a look at you. My superior, my Führer, if you like, asked me to do that. He wants me to tell him what being face-to-face with you and Göring is like.”
“You mean President Truman?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“And what is it like?”
“We’re back to who gets to ask questions and who doesn’t,” Cronley replied.
He turned to Ziegler and asked, still speaking German, “Seen enough, Augie?”
“There’s not much to see, is there?” Ziegler replied, in German.
Cronley turned and walked out of the cell. He saw for the first time the sanitary facilities. A tiny, doorless cubicle held a toilet—no seat—and above it a small washbasin and a stainless steel mirror. Ziegler and then Cohen followed him out.
“Close it up,” Cohen ordered, and then when the door had been closed and locked, asked, “Göring?”
“No,” Cronley said. “Not now. I told him I was going to have a look at Göring. When he finds out I didn’t—and I’m sure he will—he’ll wonder why.”
“You are devious, Cronley. I say that with admiration,” Cohen said.
When they left the cell block, the lieutenant who had signed them in was waiting for them with the clipboard to sign them out. A sergeant and a PFC were standing behind him holding the pistols they had surrendered. The actions were racked back, and the magazines had been removed.
“This is yours, Colonel,” the sergeant said, as the PFC handed him the pistol and the magazine he held. “Who gets the .45 with the fancy rubber grips?”
“That’s mine,” Ziegler said, taking the pistol and its magazine from him. The sergeant then handed Cronley his pistol and its magazine.
Colonel Cohen closed the action of his pistol, inserted the magazine, and then holstered the weapon. Both Ziegler and Cronley inserted the magazines into their pistols before closing the action, which caused a round to be loaded in the chamber before holstering them.
“You always go around with a round in the chamber?” Colonel Cohen asked.
“You know what they say—‘You never need a gun until you really need one,’” Ziegler said. “I interpret that to mean ‘You never need a gun until you really need a ready-to-fire-right-now gun.’”
“You think that’s worth the risk of an accident with a round in the chamber of the ready-to-fire-right-now gun?” Cohen challenged.
“If you’re prone to having accidents with a gun, you shouldn’t be carrying one,” Ziegler replied.
Cohen chuckled. “Point taken. I gather you’ve had experiences with a ready-to-fire-right-now pistol?”
“Unfortunately,” Ziegler replied. “The only thing good about having to take somebody out is that you’re alive, and they’re not. I was thinking about that just now when we were having our chat with that bastard Kaltenbrunner. What I wanted to do was shoot him in the ear.”
