“As both the victim and the administrative officer, I think I should,” she said, and pulled the stack of photographs to her.
“I thought Freddy was the administrative officer,” Mannberg said.
“Freddy is now the ‘executive assistant to the chief, DCI-Europe,’” Cronley said.
“What’s that all about?” Wallace asked.
“You were there when Freddy let us know he thought he was unappreciated,” Cronley said.
“Yes, I was,” Wallace said, smiling.
“I thought giving him that title might please him,” Cronley said. “And it did. He now thinks of himself as the DCI-Europe version of El Jefe.”
“Good thinking,” Wallace said, chuckling.
“This is the guy who had the knife at my throat,” Claudette said, sliding one 8×10 over to Mannberg, who studied it and shook his head, and then slid it over to Gehlen, who also shook his head.
“You asked a moment ago why I think identifying these people is important,” Mannberg said.
“I’m betting they’re NKGB. Both Ostrowski and I are convinced the guy at the monastery speaks Russian.”
Mannberg said something in Russian.
“I don’t speak Russian,” Cronley said. “But I’ll bet I can translate that: So do a number of Germans who used to be in the SS and just might be involved with Odessa. How close did I come?”
“You obviously have a flair for the language,” Mannberg said.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Cronley said. “What I do have a real flair for is overlooking the obvious.” He paused, then said: “Tiny, where’s Sergeant Finney?”
“Probably in the sergeants’ mess.”
“Just as soon as Dette, the general, and Colonel Mannberg finish going through those pictures, why don’t you take them over to Kaserne Two. Who should he give them to, Colonel?”
“Oberstleutnant Schulberg,” Mannberg said. “I’ll call and tell him what to do.”
He reached for the telephone.
“And give them to Oberstleutnant Schulberg, telling him that identifying these people is really important. And then run down Finney and send him here. On the way to the sergeants’ mess—where you will see they are well fed, it’s after the noon meal and the mess sergeant may have to be encouraged—make sure the sergeants understand why regaling anyone with tales of what they saw here would be ill-advised.”
“Yes, sir,” Dunwiddie said with a smile. “I will encourage the mess sergeant to do his best despite the hour.”
Cronley turned to the MP master sergeant.
“Sergeant, you didn’t hear anything that was said in here just now. You understand that? It’s important.”
“I’m getting the message, sir,” the MP said.
[ FIVE ]
Staff Sergeant Albert Finney, a very large, very black twenty-four-year-old, came into the room ten minutes later. He marched up to Cronley and saluted.
“Come on in, Al,” Cronley said, casually returning his salute. “Have a seat. We’re about to talk about Odessa.”
“Yes, sir,” Finney said, and then, “Guten Tag, Herr General, Herr Oberst.”
“And good afternoon to you, too, Finney,” Wallace said, smiling.
“No offense meant, sir.”