Claudette rushed to her and somewhat awkwardly put her arms around her.
“That isn’t quite the reaction I expected,” Cronley said.
“Captain,” Augie Ziegler said, “she’s still pretty shook up.”
Florence freed herself from Claudette’s embrace and faced Cronley. Tears ran down her cheeks.
“Captain, with respect. I goddamned sure didn’t behave well when those bastards grabbed us. I fucking lost it. I really want to wear triangles, but because I’m doing what Dette’s doing, not because you feel sorry for me. So thanks, but no fucking thanks.”
Cronley didn’t reply for a long moment.
“Miller,” he said finally, “now that you’re a DCI special agent, you’re going to have to stop cussing like a bull dyke WAC sergeant. Clear?”
After another long moment, Florence asked, “Is that what I sound like?”
“That’s what you sounded like just now.”
“Sir, with respect, you know that I’m no—”
Cronley held up his hand to silence her.
“And you’re going to have to learn not to question my judgment. I decide who has behaved well, and who hasn’t. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now that Hessinger has finished removing your chevrons, I think you should take your uniform to the room Hessinger arranged for you, sew triangles on the lapels, and then hang it up. Then go to bed. In the morning, put your uniform with triangles on and report to Dette for duty. Clear?”
“Yes, sir. Sir, permission to speak?”
“Speak.”
“Sir, in Mr. Ziegler’s car, on the way here, Dette said that she and Mr. Ziegler had a briefcase full of stuff that had to be Leica-ed. I’m good at that.”
“Dette?” Cronley asked.
“It would free Augie and me to get the refrigerators to the Engineer Depot.”
“Freddy, as soon as Florence can sew triangles on her uniform, take her and the Odessa material to the photo lab.”
“Yes, sir,” Hessinger said.
[ FOUR ]
The Cocktail Lounge
Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten
Maximilianstrasse 178
Munich, American Zone of Occupation, Germany
2215 25 January 1946
Alphonse Bitte
rmann, the senior bartender of the cocktail lounge, who was sixty-two and had the reddish plump cheeks of a postcard Bavarian, had worked continuously at the Vier Jahreszeiten for forty-six years.
He had never been called to serve in uniform because of an unusual heartbeat pattern, until the very last days of the war, when he had been mustered into the Volkssturm. Heinrich Himmler had drafted, at Hitler’s orders, every male from age sixteen to sixty-five who was not already in uniform into the militia.