“yes, sir.” Masters managed to pull the fang out of the record groove and said, “We’re at the building now, sir.”
“Let me guess: Colonel Klink?” I asked.
“General von Koeppen,” she corrected as the front wheels of her Merc hit the driveway a little too fast and the oil pan clanged on the road.
“Yeah, that’s what I said—Colonel Klink. Can you ring him back and tell him I know nuh-sink, nuh-sink…”
Masters and I stood at attention. Wolfgang von Koeppen looked nothing like the buffoon in Hogan’s Heroes, which was disappointing. Instead, he was tall, lean, and tanned, with blond hair and blue eyes. He wouldn’t have been out of place in a Ralph Lauren ad, standing behind the spoked wheel of an old sloop, sweater tied around his shoulders, a pretty young thing behind him laughing in the breeze. Or perhaps sitting in the backseat of a black Mercedes wearing the uniform of the Gestapo Reichsführer, directing a somber queue of women and children toward a railway car.
“That will be all, Anna,” he said to Masters in an accent that was vaguely English. Something in the way she turned and walked out told me that Masters didn’t appreciate being dismissed. We were, after all, conducting this investigation together. I was at a loss as to why she didn’t stand her ground. She would have been within her rights to do so. “At ease, Major,” he said, giving me the once-over.
“Special Agent,” I said, getting up the German’s nose from the starting gate.
“Yes, of course. Special Agent.”
Ordinarily, I’d have been in civilian clothes while on the job: a suit, or maybe pants and a blazer for that relaxed, hard-ass look. It’s easier to interview an officer, especially one higher up the ladder than you, when he or she has no idea what your rank is. Back at Brandywine, when Arlen had grouped “your passport” and “Ramstein” in the same sentence, I’d decided to put on an ACU. If I was headed to an air base in Germany, wearing a standard Army Combat Uniform would make moving around the place a lot easier. In a suit, I’d be stopped every other minute and asked to show ID. But I was now experiencing the downside of that decision. General von Koeppen looked me up and down and I could tell he didn’t like what he was seeing: an officer of inferior rank, and a rumpled one at that. Maybe Masters was right about the whole neatness thing. At least the feeling between Himmler and me was mutual from the get-go.
The general motioned for me to sit. He said, “The circumstances that have brought you to Ramstein are indeed unfortunate—” At that moment, one of his phones rang. He apologized and picked up the handset. “Ja,” he began. The call immediately consumed his attention. He swiveled in his seat and looked out the window at the C-5s and C-130s parked on the apron below. I couldn’t understand anything he was saying, given that ja was the sum total of my grasp of the language. With his back to me, I used the opportunity to scope out his office. The place smelled powerfully of pine and vanilla—an air-freshener, I guessed—and the room was spotless. I wondered if he would have the chair I was sitting in disinfected after I left.
Occupying one complete wall was a bookshelf with glass doors, presumably to keep out the nonexistent dust, which housed a number of rows of red and green leather-bound tomes. Against another wall was a glass cabinet containing a pilot’s flight helmet, complete with oxygen mask, as well as a beautifully finished scale model of a Jaguar, a fighter, the German air force’s equivalent of our F-15 Eagle. Above this cabinet, a number of framed photos, some black-and-white but most in color, were symmetrically arrayed. A few showed the general with his squadron buddies, presumably, at various postings throughout Europe. Others had him riding at show-jumping events or standing beside assorted nags with ribbons around their necks. I recognized a face in
“Let me guess: Colonel Klink?” I asked.
“General von Koeppen,” she corrected as the front wheels of her Merc hit the driveway a little too fast and the oil pan clanged on the road.
“Yeah, that’s what I said—Colonel Klink. Can you ring him back and tell him I know nuh-sink, nuh-sink…”
Masters and I stood at attention. Wolfgang von Koeppen looked nothing like the buffoon in Hogan’s Heroes, which was disappointing. Instead, he was tall, lean, and tanned, with blond hair and blue eyes. He wouldn’t have been out of place in a Ralph Lauren ad, standing behind the spoked wheel of an old sloop, sweater tied around his shoulders, a pretty young thing behind him laughing in the breeze. Or perhaps sitting in the backseat of a black Mercedes wearing the uniform of the Gestapo Reichsführer, directing a somber queue of women and children toward a railway car.
“That will be all, Anna,” he said to Masters in an accent that was vaguely English. Something in the way she turned and walked out told me that Masters didn’t appreciate being dismissed. We were, after all, conducting this investigation together. I was at a loss as to why she didn’t stand her ground. She would have been within her rights to do so. “At ease, Major,” he said, giving me the once-over.
“Special Agent,” I said, getting up the German’s nose from the starting gate.
“Yes, of course. Special Agent.”
Ordinarily, I’d have been in civilian clothes while on the job: a suit, or maybe pants and a blazer for that relaxed, hard-ass look. It’s easier to interview an officer, especially one higher up the ladder than you, when he or she has no idea what your rank is. Back at Brandywine, when Arlen had grouped “your passport” and “Ramstein” in the same sentence, I’d decided to put on an ACU. If I was headed to an air base in Germany, wearing a standard Army Combat Uniform would make moving around the place a lot easier. In a suit, I’d be stopped every other minute and asked to show ID. But I was now experiencing the downside of that decision. General von Koeppen looked me up and down and I could tell he didn’t like what he was seeing: an officer of inferior rank, and a rumpled one at that. Maybe Masters was right about the whole neatness thing. At least the feeling between Himmler and me was mutual from the get-go.
The general motioned for me to sit. He said, “The circumstances that have brought you to Ramstein are indeed unfortunate—” At that moment, one of his phones rang. He apologized and picked up the handset. “Ja,” he began. The call immediately consumed his attention. He swiveled in his seat and looked out the window at the C-5s and C-130s parked on the apron below. I couldn’t understand anything he was saying, given that ja was the sum total of my grasp of the language. With his back to me, I used the opportunity to scope out his office. The place smelled powerfully of pine and vanilla—an air-freshener, I guessed—and the room was spotless. I wondered if he would have the chair I was sitting in disinfected after I left.
Occupying one complete wall was a bookshelf with glass doors, presumably to keep out the nonexistent dust, which housed a number of rows of red and green leather-bound tomes. Against another wall was a glass cabinet containing a pilot’s flight helmet, complete with oxygen mask, as well as a beautifully finished scale model of a Jaguar, a fighter, the German air force’s equivalent of our F-15 Eagle. Above this cabinet, a number of framed photos, some black-and-white but most in color, were symmetrically arrayed. A few showed the general with his squadron buddies, presumably, at various postings throughout Europe. Others had him riding at show-jumping events or standing beside assorted nags with ribbons around their necks. I recognized a face in
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