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“Each Kennkarte, printed on hard-to-forge paper, bears a unique number. And every issuing office made a list of who had a Kennkarte. And shared that list with at least two, often three, other German offices.

“This made it relatively easy, when the time came, for us to round up the Nazis we want. First, we made a master list of all the Kennkarten ever issued, including in what is now the Russian Zone. The Russians shared their Kennkarte files with us and we shared ours with them.

“Say we were looking for Hitler, Adolf. The list made it possible for us to check the master files and learn where Adolf’s Kennkarte had been issued.

“Then we started a list of bad guys’ Kennkarten. And then started checking everybody’s Kennkarte. If your name wasn’t on the bad guy list, you were home free.

“But if your name was in fact on the bad guy list, or you didn’t have a Kennkarte, it was a different story—you’re in handcuffs, taken off to whoever wants to try you or hang you, or both.

“Now, if you say you lost your Kennkarte and you tell us where it was issued, and provided you’re not on the bad guy list, then you can get another one issued.

“If, however, the place you said issued your card reports that you’re on the bad guy list, or that they never heard of you, you’re in—what is that charming phrase?—‘deep shit.’

“So, what we are going to do, Mr. Wynne, is ask each of your employees for a look at their Kennkarte. Starting right about now, and for however long it takes. Got it?”

An annoyed Wynne, stone-faced, nodded.

Cronley then held out his right hand to the man at the typewriter and in German said, “May I see your identity card, please?”

Cronley thought, His expression shows that (a) he is surprised by—and doesn’t like—an American who speaks fluent German and (b) doesn’t want to show me his Kennkarte.

The German made an involved pretense of looking for his identity document, then made a frown and confessed that he must have left it at home.

“Not a problem,” Cronley said. “You can get it over lunch.”

I will graciously offer to give you a ride home.

And if you ever look like you’re going to run, arrest you.

[FIVE]

Kreis Paderborn, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

0630 29 April 1946

In the distance, the last of Jim Cronley’s M8 sirens died down as General White and his men surveilled the farmhouse in the woods for at least ten minutes. They saw no sign of movement.

Then, with troopers ten feet apart, they formed a line while other troopers went to cover the rear. At a signal from General White, the line closed on the farmhouse.

At the house, White looked through an opening that had once held a window.

He saw nothing and signaled that before signaling two sergeants to rush through the doorway. They did, Thompsons at the ready.

There was no reaction from within the house.

White, holding his General Officer’s Model 1911-A1 Colt .45 ACP pistol upright at shoulder height, marched through the door, followed by General Serov and Colonel Cohen.

The sergeants were in what had been the kitchen before being bombed. They had their weapons pointing to the same spot of the floor. They motioned, pointing to evidence of fresh boot prints in the dirt that led to, and under, a tattered rug.

Another sergeant and a very large PFC wen

t to the rug. When they attempted to pull it back, it would not slide. They then yanked on it, in the process tearing it. As it tore, a section of the wooden floor moved up with it—a four-foot square that covered access to below. They realized that the rug had been purposefully attached to the square of wooden flooring.

The large PFC used his foot to remove the square from the opening.

Colonel Cohen walked to the opening and then, in German, shouted down into it. “Come on out! I don’t know what’s happened, but Wynne’s shitting a brick! He wants everybody out of here right now! Did you hear the sirens? There’s Constabulary all over the place!”

There was no reply, but a minute later a briefcase came flying out of the opening. Serov moved quickly to it and opened it.