Spoils of Victory (35 page)

Toward the end, possibly for his own survival, Winstone had stepped up the investigation and hired informants: Hilda, from inside the Casa Carioca, and Yaakov, who had black market contacts. Yaakov had done invaluable work, following and questioning
people, gaining confidence—the perfect mole—and, at times, playing as a double agent. Yaakov would have made an incredible intelligence agent.

In the end, Winstone had obtained a damning set of documents. As he had said to Mason: “enough to shake the army to its core.” Schaeffer and Udahl were only the tip of the iceberg, though, surprisingly, Gamin was only a pawn, his malady exploited by evil men.

As Mason stared at one last photograph, he had to sit back in his chair. Not from his weakened state, but from what the photograph revealed. It made absolute sense, but was devastating all the same.

He looked up at Laura, who was furiously writing in her notebook. “Don't say I never gave you a valuable gift.”

Laura stopped writing, picked up her camera, and snapped a picture of him. “Memories can be priceless. You gave me those.”

They looked at each other for a moment, then Laura went back to photographing several pictures from Winstone's files.

“You publish whatever you want from all this,” Mason said. “I only ask that you do it in a way that doesn't make the army out to be the bad guy. With sixty Russian divisions licking their chops at the rest of Europe, the army shouldn't be hit with a massive scandal.”

“I told you before, I don't do that kind of journalism. That's like blaming the parents for their adult son's crime spree.”

“I'm only willing to share these documents with you to shut down the guilty. I don't want the innocent caught in the line of fire. There are too many good men and women out there doing their best.”

“Mason, I won't let this devolve into a raving diatribe. But what people read between the lines I can't control. You want to use me and the power of the press to bring the bad guys to justice, then let me do my job.”

“I want to ask another favor. Don't put this out there for another twenty-four hours. I need that much time to slip out before it all blows up.”

“Where will you go?”

Mason sat back in his chair. “That's an excellent question, Miss McKinnon.”

“I don't know how you're going to get very far with that leg of yours.”

“You patched me up pretty good. It should get me as far as I need. Where did you learn how to field dress a wound?”

“From spending time on the front lines in the Vosges Mountains.”

“How about you come away with me?”

“So I can dress your many wounds?”

“Heal my broken heart.”

Laura suddenly had a hard time holding Mason's gaze. “Why don't you spend the night and regain some of your strength?”

“Oh, no. That can't work. I may look tough, but I'm a squishy mass of sentiment on the inside. My heart couldn't take it.”

“That's not what I meant.”

Mason placed his hand on his heart as if suffering from pain. “You see? Even that could do me in.”

“You can look over what I've written in the morning.”

Mason smiled and looked into Laura's eyes. “I'll miss you, too. More than you can imagine.”

They looked at each other for what to Mason seemed like a long time. Laura's eyes were moist but there were no tears.

Laura finally said, “I'd ask you to write me from time to time, and let me know where you are, but wherever you go, headlines are sure to follow.”

They fell into silence for a moment.

Finally Mason said, “I should go. Did you have enough time for taking notes and pictures?”

Laura nodded. “Yes, and if I let you stay much longer, I might say or do something I'll regret later.”

Mason stood. “I don't want to be responsible for that.” He
gathered up the files, then tossed a few of the more damning photographs next to Laura's notes. “Keep those. Just in case . . .”

Laura stood and walked over to Mason. She stopped inches from his face. “Forget what I said. Write me. Okay? I need to know you're all right.”

They kissed for a long moment. Then Mason put on a coat from Ricky's closet, tucked the files under his arm, and left Laura watching him from the open front door.

T
he last of the troops passed in review in front of the dais on the parade ground, with Munich's sprawling McGraw Kaserne in the background. Presiding over the ceremonial inspection of Munich's armed forces were twenty-five officers wearing enough metal on their chests to forge a Sherman tank, while the army band played “The Washington Post” march. The officers finished their salutes of the passing troops and broke into informal groups.

Mason stood at semi-attention behind and to the left of the dais. One of the stipulations for allowing Mason onto the parade ground was that he had to wait until the ceremony had finished. He wore his CID uniform that Densmore had left for him at the hospital, another stipulation. He was fine with that, for it would probably be the last time he'd wear an army uniform, and he felt proud to do so.

The generals and colonels, military government officials, and U.S. congressmen began drifting down the stairs in twos and threes. Few paid much attention to him or seemed concerned that a CID criminal investigator stood at the base of the steps, eyeing each of the dignitaries.

A few of the officers lingered on the platform. General Lucius Clay, the deputy military governor of the American occupation zone,
was one of them. He talked with several other officers, while urging them to make their way to the steps. Finally the man Mason waited for began to climb down. He talked with a U.S. senator, unaware of or ignoring Mason's presence.

When General Pritchard stepped off the stairs, he finally looked at Mason. He stopped, turned, and displayed a big politician's smile. “Why, Mr. Collins. I'm gratified that you're still in one piece. Though probably unwise of you to show up here when you're a fugitive. The deputy provost marshal is still occupied on the dais, but I'm sure he'll be glad to take you into custody.”

Mason held out a bundle of file folders. “I found Winstone's missing files.”

Pritchard looked down at the files, then walked slowly up to Mason. The senator excused himself and walked on. The confrontation had drawn everyone's attention.

“Excellent work, Mason,” Pritchard said and took the files.

“Some interesting items in there,” Mason said. “You should have a look when you have a chance.”

Pritchard put his hand on Mason's shoulder and tried to corral him away from prying eyes and ears. “Let's talk over here.”

Mason refused to move. “General Clay found them very interesting, as well.”

Pritchard turned white even while maintaining his smile.

“He found it especially interesting that you were the principal facilitator and beneficiary of the murders and thefts occurring in Garmisch-Partenkirchen.”

“Whatever you think you read in there, or think you understand, is erroneous.”

“Agent Winstone left little to the imagination. He discovered that you coordinated OSS operations through the Joint Chiefs of Staff during the war and you worked closely with Colonel Udahl and Major Schaeffer. That you then directed and supported Major Schaeffer and Colonel Udahl in their criminal activities. Then it was
just a matter of recruiting various other players in power to aid in your enterprise. Colonel Middleton of the quartermaster's office, General Davis of transportation, Captain Miller of the MG's public safety branch. Plus ten others. A neat little circle of friends.”

Pritchard called out to four MPs guarding the entourage of brass. “You there. Arrest this man.”

The MPs remained where they stood.

“You see,” Mason said, “I worked out a deal with General Clay.”

Pritchard glanced up to General Clay, who still stood on the dais.

Mason said, “He's so grateful for exposing your and Udahl's organization that he allowed me to personally hand you these documents and look into the eye of a murderer and traitor.”

“You're still going to be arrested for shooting Colonel Udahl.”

“No, I've agreed to leave the army, saving the army the embarrassment and dilemma of what to do with me. The press will release an in-depth story about you and your buddies, though it will be delayed to give the army enough time to arrest the perpetrators and clean house before the story breaks.”

“You didn't get everyone. And they will hunt you down—”

General Clay must have signaled for the MPs to take Pritchard away, for they suddenly had Pritchard by the shoulders.

“You're dead, Collins. Dead!” Pritchard yelled as the MPs led him away.

Mason looked up to General Clay, who looked unhappy. He neither said nor signaled anything to Mason. Mason turned away, retrieved his cane that he'd propped against the side of the dais, and limped across the field, while the band played “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” He headed west, and he would keep going west until . . .

Well, that particular detail still eluded
him.

John A. Connell
is the author of
Ruins of War
, and has worked as a cameraman on films such as
Jurassic Park
and
Thelma & Louise
and on TV shows including
The Practice
and
NYPD Blue
. He now lives with his wife in Paris, France, where he is at work on his third Mason Collins novel. Visit him online at johnaconnell.com and facebook.com/johnconnellauthor1.

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