cleared, however these bastards are fanatics. I wouldn’t cross over yet.”
“How long?”
“Well, we think we have the last of them trapped at the Schwabenwald Concentration Camp. They’re using the prisoners as shields. We’ve got to go slow.”
“Where can I reach you?”
“Ludwigsdorf. The village is in our hands now. What’s the news?”
“They say Patton has hit the Czech border and the British are about ready to break in to Hamburg. Won’t be long now.”
“Son of a bitch. I wanted to hit the Austrian-Swiss border before Patton got to Czechoslovakia. How are the krauts behaving over there?”
“They’re real peaceful.”
‘Talk to you later.”
O’Toole entered as Sean hung up. “Couple krauts outside want to talk to you, Major.”
“No more personal interviews today.”
O’Toole handed Sean a pair of calling cards. One read: Graf Ludwig Von Romstein, Chancellor, Romstein Landkreis. The second card introduced Baron Sigmund Von Romstein, Oberburgermeister, City of Rombaden.
“Well, well. The mayor’s welcoming committee. Have them wait. Round up Duquesne and Dante Arosa.”
Dante Arosa and the Frenchman flanked Sean on either side of his desk. O’Toole was told to bring the Germans in. The expressions of the three men deliberately concealed their anxiety at finding the centuries-old ruling family of the area. Sean knew them instantly from their identification photos.
Count Ludwig Von Romstein was a German’s German complete with dueling scar. Tall, Teutonic crew-cut blond ... pin-striped ... ramrod ... a grace that belied his fifty years ... a study in German nobility ... the head of the Von Romstein family, the chancellor.
The short, fat, nervous one walked behind him. He was Sigmund, the mayor of Rombaden. Sean now sat in his chair.
They stopped before the desk, the count remaining a step ahead of his brother. He waited for several seconds for the officers to rise and shake hands. Sean neither stood nor did he offer the Germans chairs. Count Ludwig understood that the slight was deliberate, but hid any trace of having noticed it.
“Graf Ludwig Von Romstein,” he said in a clipped, immaculate English, “and my brother, Baron Sigmund Von Romstein.”
“O’Sullivan, Allied Military Governor. My aides, Captain Duquesne and Lieutenant Arosa.”
Count Ludwig nodded his head three times, once in the direction of each. His brother made three deep bows. The little fat one was nervous; he wrung his hands as though he were washing them.
“I should have, reported here earlier,” Ludwig said, obviously speaking for the two of them. “The military capitulation of Rombaden found us across the river at Castle Romstein. It was not until a few hours ago that I was able to get back here.”
Sean said that he understood and considered the delay reasonable.
“I am at your service,” Ludwig said, with a meaningless acceptance of the status quo. His brother, the mayor, had nothing to say.
Intelligence reports were correct. Ludwig completely dominated the family. The baron was not only washing his hands but began sweating profusely.
“Your brother Kurt Von Romstein was Nazi Gauleiter of this district. Is that not so?” Duquesne asked.
“It is correct.”
“He has committed suicide.”
“I have been so informed,” Ludwig said, with a passionless abruptness that startled them. “Now that Ludwigsdorf has fallen, I should like to have my brother’s body transferred to the church there, which has been the traditional family burial ...”
“That can wait,” Sean said.
The German nodded acceptance, showing neither anger nor emotion. Dante handed Sean a thick folder. The photos matched their subjects very well. Sean flipped page after page, scanning the known activities that told a sordid story. He closed it abruptly, having made a sudden decision.
He undipped a single sheet of white paper, glanced at it, slid it to the front of the desk. “This constitutes notification that
“How long?”
“Well, we think we have the last of them trapped at the Schwabenwald Concentration Camp. They’re using the prisoners as shields. We’ve got to go slow.”
“Where can I reach you?”
“Ludwigsdorf. The village is in our hands now. What’s the news?”
“They say Patton has hit the Czech border and the British are about ready to break in to Hamburg. Won’t be long now.”
“Son of a bitch. I wanted to hit the Austrian-Swiss border before Patton got to Czechoslovakia. How are the krauts behaving over there?”
“They’re real peaceful.”
‘Talk to you later.”
O’Toole entered as Sean hung up. “Couple krauts outside want to talk to you, Major.”
“No more personal interviews today.”
O’Toole handed Sean a pair of calling cards. One read: Graf Ludwig Von Romstein, Chancellor, Romstein Landkreis. The second card introduced Baron Sigmund Von Romstein, Oberburgermeister, City of Rombaden.
“Well, well. The mayor’s welcoming committee. Have them wait. Round up Duquesne and Dante Arosa.”
Dante Arosa and the Frenchman flanked Sean on either side of his desk. O’Toole was told to bring the Germans in. The expressions of the three men deliberately concealed their anxiety at finding the centuries-old ruling family of the area. Sean knew them instantly from their identification photos.
Count Ludwig Von Romstein was a German’s German complete with dueling scar. Tall, Teutonic crew-cut blond ... pin-striped ... ramrod ... a grace that belied his fifty years ... a study in German nobility ... the head of the Von Romstein family, the chancellor.
The short, fat, nervous one walked behind him. He was Sigmund, the mayor of Rombaden. Sean now sat in his chair.
They stopped before the desk, the count remaining a step ahead of his brother. He waited for several seconds for the officers to rise and shake hands. Sean neither stood nor did he offer the Germans chairs. Count Ludwig understood that the slight was deliberate, but hid any trace of having noticed it.
“Graf Ludwig Von Romstein,” he said in a clipped, immaculate English, “and my brother, Baron Sigmund Von Romstein.”
“O’Sullivan, Allied Military Governor. My aides, Captain Duquesne and Lieutenant Arosa.”
Count Ludwig nodded his head three times, once in the direction of each. His brother made three deep bows. The little fat one was nervous; he wrung his hands as though he were washing them.
“I should have, reported here earlier,” Ludwig said, obviously speaking for the two of them. “The military capitulation of Rombaden found us across the river at Castle Romstein. It was not until a few hours ago that I was able to get back here.”
Sean said that he understood and considered the delay reasonable.
“I am at your service,” Ludwig said, with a meaningless acceptance of the status quo. His brother, the mayor, had nothing to say.
Intelligence reports were correct. Ludwig completely dominated the family. The baron was not only washing his hands but began sweating profusely.
“Your brother Kurt Von Romstein was Nazi Gauleiter of this district. Is that not so?” Duquesne asked.
“It is correct.”
“He has committed suicide.”
“I have been so informed,” Ludwig said, with a passionless abruptness that startled them. “Now that Ludwigsdorf has fallen, I should like to have my brother’s body transferred to the church there, which has been the traditional family burial ...”
“That can wait,” Sean said.
The German nodded acceptance, showing neither anger nor emotion. Dante handed Sean a thick folder. The photos matched their subjects very well. Sean flipped page after page, scanning the known activities that told a sordid story. He closed it abruptly, having made a sudden decision.
He undipped a single sheet of white paper, glanced at it, slid it to the front of the desk. “This constitutes notification that
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