Spoils of Victory Read Online Free Page A

in tow, Mason blew through the bar and out onto the street. To his left the five MPs guarded the few U.S. soldiers, a handful of Poles and Russians, and the Italians. The two battered Italian bodyguards tried their best to support their boss. The boss grimaced with pain, but managed to lock murderous eyes with Mason.
    Mason said to the MPs, “Are you getting some help?”
    â€œYes, sir,” a corporal MP said. “A truck and an ambulance should be here any minute.”
    Mason pointed to the Italian boss. “Make sure that one doesn’t get too comfortable, and isolate him from the rest.”
    Mason then marched over to the German arrestees. The German police had them lined up by the wall and were in the process of searching them. He headed for the first one in line, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shoved him against the wall. “Who set up Giessen and the rest? Who killed them? Where did they take Sergeant Olsen?”
    The German stared at Mason and muttered ignorance.
    â€œMajor Ernst Volker. Is he one of them?”
    â€œI don’t know an Ernst Volker.”
    Mason went down the line, asking the same questions. “Ernst Volker? Is he the leader? Did he take the American sergeant?”
    A German police sergeant followed Mason down the line, protesting Mason’s disregard for protocol, the protocol being that German police had authority over German citizens. Mason ignored the sergeant and continued the questioning. He received only defiant stares and claims of innocence.
    Abrams said in a calm voice, “Sir, why don’t we search the bar? The Germans have jurisdiction over these men.”
    Mason whirled around. “Not if Olsen is murdered.” He thenturned to face the entire group and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Anyone willing to step forward and identify the men responsible for killing Herr Giessen, Bachmann, or Plöbsch, or for taking Sergeant Olsen, will be released. Anyone who can confirm Ernst Volker was present and tell us where we can find him will be released.”
    No one stepped forward. Mason took a few deep breaths to calm himself and watched as the German police began loading their charges into an open-bed truck. Suddenly one of the German arrestees started yelling. Part of it was in German, but the rest was in a dialect that Mason didn’t recognize. The thin-faced man yelled out to Mason from the bed of the truck while the police jostled him. The German policemen stopped and looked to Mason for guidance.
    Abrams stepped forward and talked to the man in the same language. Then Mason realized they were speaking Yiddish. “What’s he saying?”
    â€œThat he’s not German. He’s a Polish Jew. That he shouldn’t be with those men.”
    â€œGet him off the truck and put him with the others,” Mason said.
    Abrams told the Germans to let him pass. The man jumped down and talked rapidly with Abrams. Mason could tell he was protesting his arrest—that much was clear in any language. Abrams had to cajole him to join the group of Americans and other foreign nationals held by the MPs, then returned to Mason.
    â€œClaims he’s innocent, right?” Mason asked.
    â€œHe says he just happened to go in for a beer.”
    â€œA Jew walks into a bar . . .” an MP said and chuckled to himself. “Get it? Sounds like the beginning of a joke?”
    Mason glared at the MP. “Just get them all to the Sheridan barracks, would you?”
    Mason and Abrams reentered the now-deserted Steinadler. Mason went behind the bar, while Abrams searched the tables and the floor.
    â€œYou didn’t answer me before,” Abrams said.
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œWho is this other guy you were talking about? This Ernst Volker?”
    â€œI didn’t see him, so I don’t really know if he was here or not.”
    â€œI don’t get it.”
    â€œI don’t have a better answer for