clothing of the victims, including an untold number of British sailors, and when the doctors and nurses handled them, they picked up traces of the agent as well. Poor buggers.”
Perkin nodded uncomfortably. He didn’t want to be in the position of defending the American stockpile of the poison gas, nor the actions of the colonel who had disclosed the information to Grossmann’s agent, Antoniette Bernardi.
Perkin continued. He told the assembled officers what he knew of Grossmann’s background—where he went to school in California, what was known of his family, his major at college.
“Where did you say he went to university?” The questioner was a man with an English accent that Perkin hadn’t noticed before. Two men wearing civilian clothes were sitting in the back of the room in a dark corner not reached by the light of the slide projector. One of the men, a small gray-haired man wearing a crumpled suit, stood.
Perkin stared into the darkness for a moment, then answered, “I didn’t say, sir. I was about to mention that he went to the University of Heidelberg.”
“That makes sense, doesn’t it? Heidelberg isn’t far from Darmstadt. Were you aware that Heidelberg is a fanatical pro-Nazi university?” The small man stood and walked forward until he was in the edge of the shadows.
“No, sir, I wasn’t.”
“Yes. The Nazis took over the university in the middle part of the last decade and released those that had, well, democratic sympathies. They even made redundant a few old monarchists. Naturally, they were replaced by professors of a National Socialist bent, and the student body underwent a strict indoctrination into Nazism. In past centuries, Heidelberg was known for the fighting fraternities. Today, for feeding the officer corps of the SS.”
“Thank you, sir. I didn’t know that. I would note, however, that interrogations of the soldiers that we captured in Pisciotta indicated that while Grossmann considered himself to be a German patriot, he was also apolitical.”
The small civilian spoke again, “Thank you, Dr. Berger, that’s worth knowing. Please continue.”
Perkin stared briefly back into the shadows and then shared with the audience the remainder of what he knew about Grossmann, Bernardi, and Gerschoffer.
The small man stood and spoke again, “Would you please detail your encounter with Captain Gerschoffer for us?”
Perkin nodded and took a deep breath. This was not a subject he wanted to discuss. “Yes, sir. I was conducting a reconnaissance of the village of San Pietro, and I had acquired a German uniform. During my reconnaissance in the village, I met Gerschoffer by chance and we struck up a conversation. I realized at that point that I was talking to one of the men responsible for the terror bombings in Naples. He thought I was a panzer grenadier, so he offered to give me a ride back to my unit. I accepted, and when we were out of San Pietro, I produced a weapon and interrogated him. He told me of Grossmann’s unit of Auslandsdeutsche, and of Bernardi, although he wouldn’t give me her name, and of the penetration of the Fifth Army staff and the mustard gas at Bari.”
A British major spoke, his tone incredulous: “Am I to understand you put on a German uniform and simply strolled through the village?”
“Yes, sir. Something like that.”
“Is your German that good?”
Perkin’s audience sat forward in their seats, and he felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. For one of the few times in his life, he did not relish the attention.
“No, sir. I had, um, been wounded . . .” Perkin indicated the scars and bruises on his face. “And my face was pretty heavily bandaged. I couldn’t hardly move my lips . . . he didn’t question it.”
“Good God, man!” the British officer exclaimed. “They would have executed you!”
“It was one of those ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time’ experiences, sir. Now, if we could move on to the issue of—”
“Pardon me, Dr. Berger. How did you induce Gerschoffer to speak and what ultimately happened to him? Is he available for further interrogation?” Perkin was interrupted by the small man in the back.
A long silence. “He’s not. As I was saying, maybe we should move on to the issue of Grossmann’s training . . .” Perkin had brief flashback where he was sitting in a bloody car with Gerschoffer, the German officer pleading for his life—a plea that was answered with a scream of hatred and revenge as Perkin pulled the trigger on his Colt.
Perkin stopped for a glass of water and was glad to see his hand wasn’t trembling. He composed himself, the small man took his seat again, and the briefing continued without further questions. When Perkin finished, his audience filed out, and while Private Kulis was putting away the slides and pictures, Perkin was joined by the British colonel and the two civilians.
“Professor Berger—” the small man began.
“Excuse me, sir. I’ve not been on a faculty. I haven’t earned that title, and quite honestly, I am surprised to hear it from you, as I don’t believe I mentioned my degree. In any case, Perkin works just fine, or you can call me Captain if you prefer.”
“OK, Perkin.” It was the taller of the two civilians speaking. Also gray-haired, he was lean and fit, and spoke in an American accent. “My name is George Hill. My colleague is Charles Ackernley. We work in a combined counterintelligence task force on special issues on behalf of General Alexander. I’m on loan to the War Department from the FBI, and Mr. Ackernley worked for the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police.”
“You’re cops?”
“Police? No. Not anymore,” Ackernly said. “We’re detectives from previous lives. We have investigative skills that most soldiers don’t have. Colonel Scrope,” he nodded to the British officer, “asked us to listen in, to see if we can help.”
“You see, Captain . . .” Scrope said, and then turned to the listening Kulis. “Private, would you step outside for a moment?”
Kulis looked to Perkin and, at Perkin’s nod, left the room.
Scrope continued, “Major Grossmann’s outfit has come to our—meaning British—attention before—and you were present when he did. When we learned of your, ah, intervention on behalf of Father Riley, and Riley told us through his brother of the events and of the American-accented German soldiers, we put out inquiries to our network in Rome. We learned enough to sketch a picture, figuratively speaking, of his Abwehr office in Rome. All of this was coming together for us about as time-coincident as it did for Fifth Army. I must say, old boy, that I’m truly grateful for your presence here today, as well as for your excellent briefing. It helps us to complete our profile, and adds many more pieces to the puzzle. We are deeply indebted for the photographs by the by, and I can assure you, they’ll be put to good use in short order.”
Perkin looked at the group and sized up the men before him. There was something going on, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He paused for a moment, then asked, “What have you learned that we don’t know, and what is your interest in me?”
Scrope didn’t answer. He looked at the American civilian, Mr. Hill, who said, “As for you, Perkin, you naturally came to our attention at Pisciotta. Were you really going to execute those soldiers before the priest arrived?” He stopped speaking and an understanding smile flitted across his face. “Don’t look so alarmed. But I should tell you that through our counterparts at Fifth Army, we’ve had a look at your file and read your after-action reports from both Salerno and San Pietro. In addition to your reconnaissance at San Pietro, we were particularly impressed with your handling of the affair at the monastery. You’re a decorated combat soldier; you seem to have a knack at being at the right place at the right time; and you don’t seem to shy away from . . . well, hard work. We have a common interest in Major Grossmann, and we’d like to pay him back for the trouble he caused from Naples to Bari—and when we get the opportunity to do so, we’ll do so in spades. If we can count on your support, we’d like it.