MO for this file is based on long-ago surveillance of
German immigrants at the beginning of World War H. In the opinion of this field officer, it should be terminated.
Thank heavens, it wasn't, thought Sorenson. If Charles Karl Schneider was really a Sonnenkind recipient, a wealth of information might be extracted from him on the assumption that the Sonnenkinder had a network. It would be asinine to assume that it did not have one. The legal and technical paperwork involved in the U.S. immigration procedures were complex to the point of total confusion; a support system was mandatory. It could well be past the time when it should have happened, but a crack in the ice now might release the fouled waters below, exposing dirt that was relevant to the present. Sorenson picked up his phone and pressed the button for his secretary.
"Yes, sir?"
Chapter Twenty-Three
"Book me on an airline that flies into Centralia, Illinois,
or whatever's closest. Under an assumed name, of course, which, I trust, you'll tell me."
"For when, Mr. Director?"
"Early this afternoon, if you can. Then get my wife on the phone.
I won't be home for dinner."
Claude Moreau studied the transcript from Nuremberg, Germany, the decoded dossier on one Dr. Hans Traupman, chief surgeon in residence at the Nuremberg Hospital.
Hans Traupman, born April 21, 1922, in Berlin, the son of two physicians, Drs. Erich and Marlene Traupman, showed early signs of a high intelligence quotient, according to his initial school years .. .
The dossier went on to describe Traupman's academic achievements, including a brief period in the Hitler Youth movement, ordered by decree, and his duty after medical school in Nuremberg as a young doctor in the Sanitdtstruppe, the Wehrmacht's medical corps.
After the conflict, Traupman returned to Nuremberg, where he was trained in residence and specialized in surgeries of the brain. Within ten years, with scores of operations behind him, he was considered one of the leading cranial surgeons in the country, if not the Free World. As to his personal life, little is known. He was married to an ElkeMueller, said marriage dissolved by divorce after five years and no children. Since that time be has resided in an elegant apartment in
Nuremberg's most fashionable section. He is a wealthy man, frequently dining at the most expensive restaurants and known to be an excessive tipper. His guests range from medical colleagues to political fl9ures from Bonn and various celebrities from the motion pictures and television. To summarize, if such a summary is possible, be is a bon vivant with the medical skills to permit his extravagant living.
Moreau picked up his phone and touched the button that put him in direct contact with their man in Nuremberg.
"Yes?" said the voice in Germany.
"It is L"
"I sent you everything there was."
"No, you didn't. Dig up everything you can on Elke Mueller."
"Traupman's former wife? Why? She's history."
"Because she's the key, you idiot. A divorce after a year or two is understandable, after twenty perfectly acceptable but not after five.
There's a story there. Do as I ask, and send me the material as fast as you can."
"It's a whole different agenda," protested the agent in Nuremberg.
"She's living in Munich now, under her maiden name."
"Mueller, of course. Do you have an address?"
"Naturally." The Deuxieme agent gave it to him.
"Then forget my previous order. I've changed my mind. Alert Munich that I'm flying in. I wish to confront this lady myself."
"Whatever you say, but I think you're crazy."
'Everyone's crazy," said Moreau.
"It's the times we're living in."
Sorenson's plane landed in Mount Vernon, Illinois, roughly thirty miles south of Centralia. Using the false driver's license and credit card provided by Consular Operations, he rented a car and, following the routes highlighted for him by the rental agency's clerk, drove north to the city. Cons-Op had also given him a street map of Centralia, the address, 121 Cyprus Street, clearly marked, and the directions from the city limits on Highway 51 specific. Twenty minutes later Sorenson drove down the quiet tree lined street looking for number 121. The street itself was, indeed, central America, but of a different, bygone era. It was upper-middle-class Norman Rockwell, the houses large, with generous front porches, profuse with latticework, even rocking chairs. One could easily imagine the owners sitting in them and drinking afternoon tea with their neighbors.
Then he saw the mailbox, 121. Only this house was different, not in style or size, but something else, something subtle. What was it? The windows, thought the director of Consular Operations.
The windows on the second