Armageddon (19 page)

May 25. Three banks in full operation.

May 27. A makeshift public transportation system has begun using horse-drawn vehicles and carts pulled by bicycles.

June 1. The sewage plant is now in partial operation.

And so it went. Rombaden/Romstein became a pilot light. From all over the American and British sectors the urgent call was sent to Frankfurt, “What does Rombaden say about this?”

“What do the Rombaden people do in case of ...?”

“How are they handling this problem in Rombaden ...?”

“Clear it with Rombaden.”

That was the new password ... clear it with Rombaden, as men struggled to find the wisdom of Solomon and the strength of Atlas in this obliterated land. Germany’s cities were as bleak as the face of the moon and there was no railroad or barges or bridges ... no mail, no communications, no schools, no courts of law ... no radio, no press, and damned little food.

Three million angered liberated slaves raped and looted and destroyed the western sectors; three million Allied soldiers from the West walked her land; and seven million of her men were prisoners of the West.

Ration was cut back to a thousand calories, about two thirds the minimum needed to sustain human life.

It was not only the broken body of Germany, it was the degradation they had imposed upon humanity. It was the terrible German sickness shown naked.

There was but a handful of Ulrich Falkensteins. The Nazi era had stripped the nation of government, of police, of intellectuals. Germany’s jewel, her manhood, was dead, maimed, imprisoned. And a strange thing happened. For the first time, the second-class citizen, the German woman, was asked to take over the government as well as clean the mess from the streets.

June 5. I am happy to report we are beginning a master plan for the reconstruction of Rombaden.

June 7. Today, Lieutenant Shenandoah Blessing accepted and began the training of seven Germans as a nucleus for a new Rombaden police force.

June 10. Today Ulrich Falkenstein became the first German publisher of a German newspaper. In a week we are hopeful of operating a 25-watt, hand-powered radio station for the area.

June 12. Under Ulrich Falkenstein’s Educational Committee, the task of rewriting the elementary textbooks has begun.

One by one General Hansen tested new laws, new ideas on Rombaden to learn if it would work out for the rest of the zone. Feeling Sean O’Sullivan had complete control of the area Hansen issued the edict there that no former Nazi could be employed at anything but common labor. This sweeping ruling was quickly followed up by the Questionnaire, the
Fragebogen,
which every adult had to fill out, accounting in full for every action during the Nazi era. In 131 soul-searching questions nothing was omitted ... nothing left to chance. As the Fragebogen stripped every facade in Rombaden, pried behind blank eyes and sealed lips, Hansen made plans to use it in the entire American zone.

June 15. I am personally convinced that Ulrich Falkenstein has succeeded in purging the government of this district of all former Nazis. They have been replaced by people with undisputable anti-Nazi records. Unfortunately, most of them are totally inexperienced in government. However, the purging of all Nazis from official positions has brought Rombaden to an important plateau.

Henceforth, I shall turn over the responsibility and function of government to them, bit by bit, as they prove they can handle it. In due course I will allow divergent political parties to begin to operate.

I am personally hopeful we will be able to have a free election within a year.

Chapter Twenty-seven

T
HE MOST UNOBTRUSIVE MEMBER
of Pilot Team G-5 was H. W. Trueblood, an ex-curator of the British Museum. The old fellow was more than content, he was ecstatic spending his days in the cellars below the Rombaden Kuntshalle uncrating and cataloguing the museum’s works. Each evening he emerged looking like a pale gopher, but thoroughly enraptured by the stimulation of being surrounded by the work of the masters.

When Sean learned that Geoffrey Grimwood had “loaned” Castle Romstein to a field hospital, he sent Trueblood to the castle immediately to take down, catalogue, and store the art works against theft.

Trueblood chose the immense castle library as his workroom. Room by room, precious paintings, urns, statues and statuettes, armor and tapestries were removed to the library until it took on the appearance of a multimillion-dollar junk yard. A day and night guard was put on the library as Trueblood began the painstaking work of identifying and recording each single item.

On his third day at the castle, he phoned Sean O’Sullivan.

“I say, could you spare a bit of time, Major, and dash over here. I’ve struck the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. And bye the bye, bring the fat policeman with you.”

“Gawddamn,” Blessing said when he arrived with Sean, “looks like old Mr. Hawkins’ antique store.”

Trueblood led them to a corner holding a separate stack of paintings.

“I suppose you want to know why I called you over. It appears that Count Ludwig had a passion for the French post-impressionist period. Mind you, that is not my forte, but these works here have achieved such a measure of renown that they are commonly known.” He lifted the first in the line. “Toulouse-Lautrec’s ‘Portrait of Suzanne Valadon,’ vintage 1885.” Setting the painting aside he held the next two up, one by one. “These are Gauguins ... ‘Vahine no de Taire’ and, of course, ‘Seashore at Martinique.’ This one here we know is a Van Gogh ... ‘Field at Saint-Remy.’ Quite a foursome, would you not say? I took them out of Count Ludwig’s personal quarters.”

Blessing didn’t understand what was so hot about the paintings but was impressed that the Englishman called them off like names of his children.

Sean was already ahead of it. “Where are they from?”

“The Carlsberg Glyptotek in Copenhagen.”

Sean let out a long whistle.

“Let’s carry on, shall we? Van de Velde, seventeenth century, ‘Woman at a Window’... Royal Museum of Fine Art, Antwerp. Lemmen, ‘Harbor View’ ... Giroux Gallery in Brussels, and so forth and so forth. These last three are Renoirs from private collections in France.”

“You mean he stole these?” Blessing asked. “But, hell, we’ve got better painters than this in the Hook County Fair.”

“Certainly not. This lot represents in excess of a million dollars.”

“Gawd.”

“We have suspected all along that many high Nazi officials in occupied countries developed a sudden penchant for collecting art, other people’s art, that is. We think Goering alone has stolen millions from France.”

“Do you think there’s more of them here?” Sean asked.

“I’d wager on it.

Sean thought quickly. “Come back to Rombaden with me, Trueblood. We’ll try to get a line through to this museum in Copenhagen as a starter and find out under what conditions these were taken and what other pieces are missing. Blessing, round up everyone who worked in the castle or on the grounds. Grill their asses off. Promise them cigarettes, double rations, anything. We want to know every cellar, cave, secret passage ... any possible place a cache could be hidden ...

“What about the count?”

“Put a twenty-four-hour tail on him.”

Sean went immediately to Dante Arosa’s office.

“I’m going to need everything you have on Count Ludwig right away. Matter of fact, give me the records on the entire family.”

Dante was startled. “What the hell’s up?”

“I’ll know for sure in a few hours. Run the files into my office.”

Dante laughed weakly. “Hell, there’s nothing you can find out by breaking your head on the records. What is it you are after?”

In that instant, Sean sensed Dante’s uneasiness. An iota of suspicion had fallen on him. “I’m not quite sure what I’m after,” he said carefully.

Dante shrugged. “Well ... they’re really not up to date ...”

Sean was disturbed. “Let’s have them ... now.”

“Sure ... sure ...”

The voluminous files of the interrogation of Ludwig Von Romstein was studied for hours. Dates of his visits to Denmark, Belgium, Holland, and France could certainly concur with the thefts, but as Sean read on past midnight the finding of the art treasures began to take on a secondary meaning.

Dante Arosa’s files began to make an ugly revelation. “Oh God, no,” Sean whispered to himself. But he read on. He lifted the phone. “Operator, see if Lieutenant Arosa is in his quarters,” Sean asked.

Sean dropped his head on his hands, rubbed his temples, beat his fist slowly on the desk, counting each ring of the unanswered phone.

“Sorry, sir, Lieutenant Arosa doesn’t answer. Shall I try the jail. Sometimes he’s there late on interrogations.”

Sean looked at his watch. Almost one o’clock in the morning. “Try the jail.”

“No, sir, no one has seen Lieutenant Arosa ... shall I ...”

“Get Lieutenant Bolinski. Tell him to report here to me at once. Then call Castle Romstein, locate Blessing ... he’s either in the castle or on the grounds. Tell him to report here.”

Sean slumped back in his chair. His eyes welled with tears. Why in the name of God did Dante do it? Sean continued to read more deeply into the documents.

Bolinski was still drowsy from his rude awakening, but having worked under O’Sullivan he was used to having his sleep interrupted. Sean apologized to his legal officer for the hour; through a yawn Bolinski said it was okay.

Sean questioned him carefully. “Bo, you’ve been drawing up the recommendations for the indictments against the Von Romstein family. How far have you gotten on it?”

Bolinski scratched his jaw. “I’ve been going through the interrogations and recommendations. Matter of fact, I wanted to talk to you about it.”

“How do you feel about our case?”

“Dante Arosa seems to think the count is pretty clean.”

“Are we going to be able to link him with Schwabenwald?”

“Not according to Dante.”

“How about crimes against humanity for use of slave labor?”

Bolinski shook his head.

“Any known collusion between Ludwig and the Nazi brother?”

“According to the interrogations the count looks as pure as driven snow. If we go on Dante’s stuff we couldn’t get a conviction for jay walking.”

Sean nodded. “Thanks. Sorry I woke you up, Bo. Keep it quiet.”

“Sure.”

Sean watched from his south window, looking toward the bridge, waiting for Blessing’s headlights to come into view. He watched the jeep cross the bridge, park, and the fat man make his way out.

“Lord almighty,” Blessing said to Sean’s back, “I got twenty men digging around in passageways inside passageways. They’re turning the castle inside out.” Then the weariness of the hours fell on him. “Well, one thing good about nonfraternization—been working so hard I haven’t seen the end of my pecker for a month.”

Sean spun about. “Where’s Dante Arosa?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“If you’re my police chief, you damned well better know.”

“Hell’s afire. You call me over here just to ...”

“Don’t get folksy with me, Blessing!”

“Can’t talk to you when you’re riled up like this ...”

“You’ve been covering up for him, haven’t you?”

Blessing turned beet red.

Sean’s arm and shoulder muscles bulged with anger. “I ought to bust you in your fat stomach!”

Blessing fell into a chair. “I only knew about it for a week. I swear to you, Major, I just found out about it. I’ve been going through plain hell, Major ... just plain hell. I know Dante’s been doing something wrong but I swear ... I just couldn’t bring myself to telling you. I just hope to God he ain’t hurt you.”

Slowly Sean’s anger ebbed from him. Now there were two of them in the predicament

“In my work,” Blessing said, “I have to use informers. You hate the goddamned little wart who squeals, but you’ve got to use him. Informers are the lowest polecats in the world. I just didn’t want to become one myself. I was going to talk to Dante ... try to set him straight ...”

“Too late now.”

“What’s he gone and done?”

“Whitewashed the whole Von Romstein family. He’s doctored up every report, every interrogation.”

“How’d he figure he’d get away with it?”

“With so many tens of thousands of legal processes being drawn up he figured we’d be long gone from Rombaden before Von Romstein got into court. I suppose there’s a woman involved?”

Blessing nodded.

“Who? Von Romstein’s daughter?”

“Yeh. I followed him last week and waited until he left. I stayed until dawn and saw her come out and tailed her home.”

“Where are they?”

“Bombed-out apartment down near the factory.”

“Let’s go.”

They parked two blocks away from the apartment. They tiptoed the rest of the way through the silent streets. Blessing pointed to the second floor of a badly shattered house; then they retreated around the corner to where Dante’s jeep was hidden inside an archway of a courtyard.

“We can rush it.”

“No,” Sean whispered, “at least let him have the dignity of being caught with his pants on. I’ll stay here by his jeep. You watch the apartment and pick up the woman when she shows up later.”

One o’clock.

Sean sat in Dante’s jeep. Starving alley cats screamed in protest, for there was no garbage to scavenge. The rancid smell and the stillness of a death-haunted street enveloped him.

Two o’clock: Sean dozed for an instant and awoke, heart pounding with remembering where he was and what was happening. There might have been a tinge of envy, but it was drowned in anger and sorrow for Dante. What was it like to steal love in a slimy pit? ... burning with fear ... with guilt. What kind of love was it? Would not the urge to choke the German woman in her bed be too tempting?

Two-thirty: soft, quick footsteps. A shadow over the rubble. A trot. A long, deep and uneven sigh. Dante Arosa lit a cigar.

He felt someone alongside him. Bum joke in the darkness ... no ... he lit another match. Sean was there, beside him ... no dream! Dante gripped the steering wheel and emitted only a single pathetic groan of despair.