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“Not very long, and just for the record, I tossed my cookies, too, after I got her in the car.” He paused. “We have to go, Jim.”

[TWO]

The Bar

Farber Palast

Stein, near Nuremberg

American Zone of Occupation, Germany

1810 24 February 1946

A military police captain walked in the bar, looked around, and then marched to Tiny Dunwiddie, who was sitting with Cronley and Major Tony Henderson at a table.

“Are you Captain Cronley?” he asked Dunwiddie.

“I am,” Cronley said.

“You’re not wearing bars,” the MP captain said.

“I suggest we wait until the provost marshal arrives before this goes any further,” Henderson said.

“With respect, sir, this is a military police matter.”

“No,” Henderson said, “it’s not.”

He handed his DCI credentials to the captain, who examined them and then replied, “Major, I don’t know what this is.”

“The provost marshal will explain what they are when he gets here,” Henderson said.

“I don’t think I should wait for that.”

“I’m a major and you’re a captain. Consider that an order.”

After a moment the captain said, “Yes, sir.”

“Is he still alive?” Cronley asked.

“The wounded man?”

“Yes, the wounded man.”

“He was alive when they put him in the ambulance. They’re taking him to the 385th Station Hospital.”

“And the officer who was with him? Captain Winters? Where is he?”

Before the MP captain could reply, Winters came into the room. He walked to the table and sat down. Cronley slid a glass half full of whisky to him.

“I waited until they sent another ambulance for . . . the body,” Winters said.

“Tiny, get on the horn,” Cronley ordered. “I want people sitting on the wounded man and the body.”

“Yes, sir,” Dunwiddie said, and went in search of a telephone.

Winters picked up his glass and drained it. Cronley slid a bottle of Johnnie Walker across the table to him.

“Go easy, Tom. You’re going to have to fly yourself to the Compound in the morning.”