Armageddon (20 page)

“Drive to my office,” Sean said coldly.

When they were there Sean slammed the door behind them. Dante began to cry and Sean slapped his face.

“You stupid son of a bitch!”

“Oh God! What will my mother and father say?”

“You stupid son of a bitch!”

“She loves me!” Dante cried in desperation.

“She loves her father! You’ve been had! You’re a stupid son of a bitch! “

“Oh God! I’ve brought shame to my family ... oh God ...”

“Thanks for remembering them.”

Dante began to shake and sweat at the same instant. “What are you going to do to me, Sean?”

Chapter Twenty-eight

C
OUNT
L
UDWIG
V
ON
R
OMSTEIN
could feel any shift in the wind. Already, he could detect a softening attitude on the part of the Americans. New American troops, who had not been in the battle for Germany, were coming in; they were not nearly so filled with righteous anger. Chinks were showing in the nonfraternization armor. It was a ridiculous rule, particularly for Americans. Americans wanted to be loved, even by their enemy. This was an exploitable weakness.

Weakness? The Americans were full of them. Another conqueror would have left the German people to shift for themselves in the ashes. They would have taken what they wanted as booty ... as the Russians were doing; but the noble American seemed inflamed by the desire to restore city, state, and country to its inhabitants and return the rule to them. The Americans showed little physical brutality ... they were childish in their de-Nazification procedures with their silly questionnaire.

There was one sure way to de-Nazify Rombaden that Ludwig knew of. That was, line them up against a wall and shoot them down. If, indeed, the first month had passed without an execution, the Nazis would worm their way back into power. To be sure they would keep in hiding until the climate was more receptive, but they would return, nonetheless. Germany boasted of sixteen million Nazis. Germany had no other trained people capable of running the country ... the Nazis would return.

“Good morning, my dear Major O’Sullivan,” Ludwig said with contempt when Blessing brought him in. I am informed by your police that I am to be arrested.”

Sean was haggard from the ordeal of the affair with Dante Arosa and grunted hoarsely at the German.

“And for what horrendous crime am I to be charged?”

“Don’t glorify yourself. You’re being locked up as a common thief.”

Ludwig Von Romstein smarted. “I beg your ...”

“Your passion for post-impressionist art ran away with you.”

“You refer of course to the Van Goghs, Gauguins, and so forth in my apartment in Castle Romstein.”

Sean nodded.

“Well, that can be easily explained. If I had any guilt, I would have hidden them. They were gifts.”

“The Glyptotek in Copenhagen begs to differ.”

Lout! Ludwig thought Had he again underestimated the American? How the devil did he find out so quickly? “I ... I am astonished to hear they belong to a museum.”

“I’ll bet you are.”

“On my word, they were presents to me from various high officials in occupied countries. You see, I had occasion to visit Denmark, the Low Countries, and France as a member of the armaments board ...”

“Stop the horse crap. I’m tired. We have located the entire cache in the basement of your hunting lodge and the caves near the Roman antiquities.”

Good Lord! The German cleared his throat and thought with great rapidity. “Those ... were ... sent to me by Goering from France for safekeeping.”

“Safekeeping from whom? The rightful owners?”

“I demand the right to prove my innocence. I should like to go before an American court immediately.”

“First things first. You’re going to be reinterrogated by the new CIC officer.”

These words crashed in on him; his immaculate composure became threadbare. Von Romstein looked away from Sean’s hard, disgust-filled eyes. Now he felt entirely boxed, trapped. He tried to ask about Marla ... he couldn’t.

“In case you are wondering, your daughter was put in prison this morning.”

Beads of sweat popped out on the German’s brow. They fell down his face, into his dueling scar. “If Marla committed any indiscretion, you certainly cannot blame me.”

“Sure. You’re just an innocent victim of a lot of uncouth people. Your brother the Nazi, Goering, and now your daughter. They were all out to get you, weren’t they?”

“My innocence will be proved in court.”

“You’re not going before an American court, Von Romstein. I make that my personal mission. When we find enough anti-Nazis in Rombaden, we are going to license a German court.”

“A German court!”

“Certainly you want justice from your own people.”

The implications were clear. The first German courts would be on a binge of vengeance to show the world they were going to purge the Nazi era without mercy. Ludwig Von Romstein became faint with fright at the idea. All the calculations, all the carefully built plans crumbled. Why the hell hadn’t he made the dash for Switzerland? Oh Lord, the German courts would be bloodthirsty for revenge. Twenty years ... thirty ... forty ... Oh Lord ... what has this mad fool Hitler brought me to?

“What are you going to do with Arosa,” Maurice Duquesne demanded of Sean.

“I know what I’d like to do.”

“You’ve got to protect that boy.”

“Like hell I do.”

“If he is court-martialed under this idiotic nonfraternization law ...”

“He happens to be a counter-intelligence officer in the United States Army!”

“You know what that means, Major. Dishonorable discharge. He will be disbarred as a lawyer. What was his crime? Being human? Taking a woman to bed?”

“He picked the wrong woman.”

“The army of saints!”

“Don’t be so goddamned sanctimonious, Duquesne. When we entered your precious France your proud, proud citizens shaved the hair from the heads of the women who slept with Germans and sent them packing down the road, naked.”

“And so? When the Americans leave and the German prisoners return, they will shave the heads of their women who slept with Americans. How fortunate! How utterly fortunate your lovely American womanhood is spared these indignities!”

“This mingling of sweat with the enemy is no justification.”

“Ah, my dear Sean O’Sullivan. You have such a conveniently short memory. Have you forgotten about yourself and the English woman?”

“That’s different.”

“Certainly it is different You got away with it.”

Dante Arosa was gaunt and distraught when Sean went to his room. He looked up at Sean, then lowered his head. The black curly hair was in disarray ... the swashbuckle, the vitality was flat, lifeless. Outside the long green lawn dipped into the Landau, muddy from a fresh rain.

“Say something,” Dante croaked at last, “tell me what a prick I am. Tell me what I’ve done to my family. Tell me ... how everyone on the team would like to spit in my face.”

Sean told him nothing.

“I can’t explain,” Dante whispered. “It was as though ... as though Marla was trying to kill both of us in that bed ... like she was a messenger of death and was luring me with something wonderful ... death and danger was in the room with us every time and it taunted me. And she pulled me closer and closer to it ... and I couldn’t break away.... It was hard to breathe ... to think ...”

Sean gripped him by the collar and jerked him to his feet. “A German woman! How could you do it with a German woman?”

And then, upset by his own violence, he opened his hands and let Dante free.

“We’re just men,” Sean said futilely, “just men. They made the rules too tough for some of us ... you are confined to quarters until a new CIC man is brought in. You will acquaint him with the operations here. After that, you will be transferred to a service unit. At the soonest possible moment you will tender your resignation from the Army. I’ve ... seen to it that you will receive a fully honorable discharge.”

Drained of the venom of fear, Dante began to sob. “You’re too decent. I don’t deserve that kind of a break, Sean. I don’t deserve it.”

“Maybe there’s some punishment in it for you, Dante. You have to go on living and knowing that if this ever leaks out, I’ll have to stand the court-martial in your place.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

DELIVER BY PERSONAL COURIER TO MAJOR SEAN O’SULLIVAN

Dear Sean,

I am using this unusual method of communicating with you for reasons you’ll quickly understand.

World opinion is creating a furor over the revelations of the extermination camps. The pressure on us for “action” is becoming unbearable.

Acting on instructions directly from Washington, Supreme Headquarters here will issue a proclamation within twenty-four hours: namely,
PROCLAMATION
#22. The proclamation will say, in effect, that a local military governor may request an extraordinary military tribunal for the trial of extraordinary cases. We refer, of course, to SS atrocities. The tribunal will be empowered to impose the death sentence.

Well, Sean, I’m handing the ball to you again. As my Pilot Team Commander we’ve tried quite a few new wrinkles out in your territory so I’m going with you again on
PROCLAMATION
#22. By happy coincidence you have the mother and daddy of them all in the persons of Klaus and Emma Stoll. We at Supreme Headquarters feel they’re perfect for the first trial under
PROCLAMATION
#22.

We’ve got to get moving on this to let a little steam out of the vent and to show both the world and the German people we’re going to be tough. We are particularly interested in banging Emma Stoll. The fact that she is a woman will make a heavy impact.

Have your legal officer draw up indictments (recommending death sentences) and a simple paper for your signature requesting an extraordinary tribunal under #22. We’ll have the court in session in Rombaden within seventy-two hours.

Destroy this document after you’ve studied it.

Kindest regards,

A. J. Hansen

Lieutenant Bolinski frowned and shook his head as he read Hansen’s secret letter. “Well, there is obviously a lot of pressure on Washington to put up a showcase trial.”

“What do you think about the legality of Proclamation 22?”

“Hell, Major, we won the war. We can do anything we want without splitting legal hairs. Now, Klaus Stoll could be hanged before any court in the world off the evidence.”

“Emma?”

Bolinski frowned again, picking those little legal threads upon which a lawyer can build a mountain. “I’d say that with the interrogations and evidence I could spring her from a death sentence in any fair court.”

“Go on.”

“She’s guilty of beating prisoners ... none of whom suffered either death or serious injury, and she’s guilty of sexual perversion. Her main crime is grand theft in the collection of Winter Relief Funds from the German people. That’s enough to stash her away for life. On the other hand, if the story of the silverware handles being carved from human skulls holds up in truth ...”

Sean opened a file, slid a report across the desk to Bolinski. He lit a cigarette and read the letterhead. It was from a Swedish silvermaker with an attachment from a laboratory. “This came in last night,” Sean said. “I sent samples of the handles to Stockholm, the States, and to Switzerland.”

Bolinski drew hard on his cigarette.

IN CONCLUSION, WE HAVE ANALYZED THESE SAMPLES BY EVERY KNOWN METHOD. IN OUR OPINION THEY ARE NOTHING MORE OR LESS THAN CARVINGS ON COMMON ELEPHANT TUSKS OF AN EAST AFRICAN VARIETY.

“Christ!”

“I phoned the Swiss firm in Zurich this morning. They haven’t written up their findings yet, but they told me essentially the same thing—elephant tusks.”

“Thank you, Cornelia Hollingshead.”

“The whole thing starts to take on the aspect of a legalized lynching.”

“But what the hell are you going to do about it, Major? You can’t stand up against this kind of brass.”

Sean put Hansen’s letter into the big crystal ashtray, lit a match to it, and watched it burst, flicker, and crumple into a hundred charred bits.

A few moments later he entered the prison cell of Emma Stoll and dismissed the guard. She knew nothing of the stories raging around the world that had made her symbolic of the evil of Nazism. He had met her before, many times. Emma, sloppy and dowdy, glowered at him with a return of some of her former arrogance.

The Americans had not killed her or Klaus and therefore they revealed their weakness. The SS had known how to rid itself of Germany’s enemies. The Americans were weak ... weak.

“You are about to be brought to trial, Emma. The only chance you have of living is by answering my questions.’’

“You are trying to trap me.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“You lie!”

“Emma, you’re not being logical. I said that you were as good as dead. What do you have to lose by telling the truth?”

It was a puzzling proposition, indeed, to the shopgirl. Lie or truth ... what difference did it make now? They’d get her if they wanted to ... but, “Why are you going out of your way to protect me? Why?”

“Not to protect you, Emma. To protect the name of my country.”

The slow-witted girl was baffled. This Major O’Sullivan was a baffling man. Was he really as soft as she suspected? What meanings were there that she could not comprehend? “What is it you want to know?” she asked cautiously.

“I have only a few questions. None of them are tricks. Just give me straight answers. First, did you know what was going on inside Schwabenwald?”

Emma was about to make an automatic plea of innocence. She stopped herself short. She had planned to scream out her ignorance of Schwabenwald to the end ... but ... now ... he did say she was good as dead. She sulked, and slumped to her cot. All the jacked-up, painted-on, manufactured attempts to be sexy had split apart in the dank cell. Her hands held a head of uncombed dirty hair. “I lived outside the actual camp,” she said slowly. “You must remember that I am a German woman, a German wife. In Germany, the men run things. My husband never spoke to me about business inside the camp and I never asked him. I am a German wife.”