He swung around in his chair to face me. “Ever hear of a guy named Skorzeny?”
In the haze of the smoke, with my stomach doing back flips and a conga drummer in my head banging out a steady rhythm, I tried to focus. “Who?”
“Otto Skorzeny. He was one of Hitler’s right-hand men. Pulled off a lot of commando stuff for Der Fuehrer. Hitler thought he walked on water. When it became obvious the Third Reich’s party was over, he had the smarts to surrender to our side, no doubt preferring us to the gentle ministrations of the Red Army. If had they recognized him, they would’ve cut his balls off with a rusty tin can and take their time doing it. He’s been recently moved from the Wiesbaden prison. He’s right here in the Nuremberg lock-up. He’s gonna stand trial for a batch of war crimes allegedly taken place during the Battle of the Bulge. They’ve got him up on charges of ‘improper use of military insignia, theft of U.S. uniforms and theft of Red Cross parcels.’ All petty, chicken shit charges, but the International Military Tribunal is out for blood. They’re going after thousands of SS guys. The press, excluding us, is calling Skorzeny ‘the most dangerous man in Europe.’ They’ll probably throw his ass into prison for years. I want you to get his story before the locals wake up and beat us to it. I’ve arranged for a press pass. Get it and some background info on this guy from Doris on the way out.”
I rose to go. Sandy, glowering, pointed a finger at me. “Now, listen up. Stay the hell off the booze until I get a story on this guy and it better be good! Get cracking!”
“Right, Sandy.”
From Chapter 1, World War II Black Ops, Vol. II