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“At least a dozen more. All Poles.”

“That’ll be awkward.”

“And probably two, three, four Americans. Admiral Souers told me DCI is going to really grow.”

“There’re three bird colonels who think they run things. One is from Nuremberg Military Post. The second is from the 1st Division. The third runs the CIC detachment. His name is Morty Cohen. German Jew, one who got out just before all his relatives wound up in Flossenbürg or some other resort on their way to the crematoria. Real prick. I suggest you deal with him first, as he has the final say on just about everything.”

Cronley stood up.

“I might as well get it over with,” he said. “Thanks for the history lesson, Sy.”

“Any pal of Janice’s is a pal of mine. Good luck, kid.”

“Give me a ring when you get back, sweetie. I’ll keep the home fires burning.”

III

[ONE]

The International Tribunal Compound

Nuremberg, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

1305 21 February 1946

There were six Kasernen—three-story-plus-attic tiled-roof buildings—three on each side of a cobblestone street. What had been the parade ground between them under German control was now essentially a motor pool, filled with Army trucks, most of which bore 1st Infantry Division insignia and bumper markings.

Concertina barbed wire laid on the ground separated one of the Kasernen from the others. Two signs read XXIST CIC RESTRICTED AREA AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

There was space for four vehicles in front of the CIC Kaserne. A Ford staff car and a jeep were in two of them. Cronley pulled the Horch into one of the empty spaces and only then saw another sign: FIELD-GRADE OFFICERS ONLY.

He debated for about two seconds and then decided, Fuck it. As a DCI agent, I’m an assimilated lieutenant colonel, whatever the hell “assimilated” means.

He got out of the Horch and walked to the door of the Kaserne. It wouldn’t open.

Then he saw a “Double Eight” field telephone mounted beside the door and one more sign: USE TELEPHONE FOR ADMITTANCE.

He picked up the handset and cranked the telephone.

“State your business,” a voice commanded.

“CIC Special Agent Cronley to see Colonel Cohen.”

“Wait one.”

The door opened.

A man in his early twenties in triangled ODs and wearing a .45 pistol suspended from a web belt appeared.

“Credentials?”

Cronley produced his CIC credentials.

The man examined them carefully and then said, “First door on the left.”

Cronley walked to the door, opened it, and stepped inside.

A master sergeant in his late twenties sat behind a desk.