peculiar gracefulness that some fat people develop from constantly fighting for their balance. In the first handshake, Sean detected both the deceptive quickness and the power of the man.
“You were sheriff of Hook County, Tennessee, for nine years?”
A voice filled with folksy sweetness emerged from Blessing’s moon face. He answered in the affirmative.
“And you went through a dozen special courses at F.B.L training schools ...”
Blessing modestly admitted to his credentials. There were a few more formal questions, but Sean had known all along that Blessing would be his man. Hook County was similar in size and population to Rombaden/Romstein. Hook County was rough territory with difficult police problems. Despite Blessing’s guise at modesty he had a known reputation for progressive law enforcement and his record was filled with innumerable examples of personal courage and ingenuity.
“The police problem in Rombaden is going to be particularly difficult because we haven’t enough whitelisted Germans to direct traffic. It’s Nazi top to bottom.”
“How many boys am I going to be able to take in with me?”
“I think I can get you twenty.”
Twenty men to handle a hundred thousand enemy civilians plus unknown numbers of soldiers, fanatics, displaced persons. They would have to be hand-picked, trained like spartans, and damned near fearless as well as cagey as hell.
“Can I pick my own people?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, I reckon we’ll muddle through, Major.”
The oldest man Sean had tabbed was also chosen without a shade of doubt. Captain H. W. Trueblood was sixty-two years of age. His unique qualifications and determination to participate in the war had brought him to Shrivenham. Trueblood had been a curator for the National Gallery in London, specializing in the middle German periods. He spoke a fluent German and was totally immersed in German history.
Trueblood was pale as only an Englishman who never sees the sun can be pale. He spoke in hushed tones, never really addressing anyone in particular. The perfect scholar, Sean thought.
“Are you familiar with the Roman Kunsthalle in Rombaden?”
“Yes, of course.” And Trueblood quickly refreshed his memory aloud. “Extraordinary representation of the second German period ... Hans Pleydenwurff, Wolgemut. They must have several Van Soests and I know of four Grünewalds. Then, of course, their own Schwaben masters, Konrad Witz and Lucas Moser ...”
“Of course,” Sean said, fascinated by the “foreign” language he spoke.
Trueblood suddenly reminded himself there was a layman before him and tried to correct himself. “I speak of course of the fifteenth-century Cologne and Flemish schools.”
“Sure.”
“There is an excellent portion given to Renaissance Germans. The Von Romstein family has supported the museum heavily, you know.”
“Just how difficult is it going to be to get an accurate catalogue which will also include the cathedral and the Romstein Castle?”
“Well, one hardly knows where the paintings have been transported since the bombings, does one?” And as an afterthought mumbled, “Be a terrible pity if they lost their Moser altar ...”
Another Englishman, Dr. Geoffrey Grimwood, had retired from the army as an Officer of the British Empire. He had served in India as a hospital director in a place where famine and epidemic were academic. After army retirement he took a high post in the public health service. Like Trueblood, he did not want the war to pass him by.
Through his sandy walrus moustache Grimwood imparted to Sean that he spoke passable German and had attended seminars on public health at the Rombaden Medical College before the war.
There was another British officer, W. W. Tidings, from the German department of Barclay’s Bank, who was a wizard in that mystic realm of international currency.
There was a Canadian, Bertrand Collier, who had been a foreign correspondent in Germany, and later, news
“You were sheriff of Hook County, Tennessee, for nine years?”
A voice filled with folksy sweetness emerged from Blessing’s moon face. He answered in the affirmative.
“And you went through a dozen special courses at F.B.L training schools ...”
Blessing modestly admitted to his credentials. There were a few more formal questions, but Sean had known all along that Blessing would be his man. Hook County was similar in size and population to Rombaden/Romstein. Hook County was rough territory with difficult police problems. Despite Blessing’s guise at modesty he had a known reputation for progressive law enforcement and his record was filled with innumerable examples of personal courage and ingenuity.
“The police problem in Rombaden is going to be particularly difficult because we haven’t enough whitelisted Germans to direct traffic. It’s Nazi top to bottom.”
“How many boys am I going to be able to take in with me?”
“I think I can get you twenty.”
Twenty men to handle a hundred thousand enemy civilians plus unknown numbers of soldiers, fanatics, displaced persons. They would have to be hand-picked, trained like spartans, and damned near fearless as well as cagey as hell.
“Can I pick my own people?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, I reckon we’ll muddle through, Major.”
The oldest man Sean had tabbed was also chosen without a shade of doubt. Captain H. W. Trueblood was sixty-two years of age. His unique qualifications and determination to participate in the war had brought him to Shrivenham. Trueblood had been a curator for the National Gallery in London, specializing in the middle German periods. He spoke a fluent German and was totally immersed in German history.
Trueblood was pale as only an Englishman who never sees the sun can be pale. He spoke in hushed tones, never really addressing anyone in particular. The perfect scholar, Sean thought.
“Are you familiar with the Roman Kunsthalle in Rombaden?”
“Yes, of course.” And Trueblood quickly refreshed his memory aloud. “Extraordinary representation of the second German period ... Hans Pleydenwurff, Wolgemut. They must have several Van Soests and I know of four Grünewalds. Then, of course, their own Schwaben masters, Konrad Witz and Lucas Moser ...”
“Of course,” Sean said, fascinated by the “foreign” language he spoke.
Trueblood suddenly reminded himself there was a layman before him and tried to correct himself. “I speak of course of the fifteenth-century Cologne and Flemish schools.”
“Sure.”
“There is an excellent portion given to Renaissance Germans. The Von Romstein family has supported the museum heavily, you know.”
“Just how difficult is it going to be to get an accurate catalogue which will also include the cathedral and the Romstein Castle?”
“Well, one hardly knows where the paintings have been transported since the bombings, does one?” And as an afterthought mumbled, “Be a terrible pity if they lost their Moser altar ...”
Another Englishman, Dr. Geoffrey Grimwood, had retired from the army as an Officer of the British Empire. He had served in India as a hospital director in a place where famine and epidemic were academic. After army retirement he took a high post in the public health service. Like Trueblood, he did not want the war to pass him by.
Through his sandy walrus moustache Grimwood imparted to Sean that he spoke passable German and had attended seminars on public health at the Rombaden Medical College before the war.
There was another British officer, W. W. Tidings, from the German department of Barclay’s Bank, who was a wizard in that mystic realm of international currency.
There was a Canadian, Bertrand Collier, who had been a foreign correspondent in Germany, and later, news
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