The Assassination Option

[ONE]

“How’d you do at the Ordnance Depot, Freddy?” Cronley asked, when Hessinger, trailed by First Sergeant Tedworth, came into what they were now calling “the sitting room.”

“I got us four 1942 Fords, one with three hundred miles on the odometer, one with forty-five thousand, and the other two somewhere between the extremes.”

“I was hoping for at least one Packard Clipper,” Cronley said.

“Even if you could get one, that would be stupid,” Hessinger said.

“Stupid? What have you got against Packards?”

“A Packard would draw unwanted attention. As will painting ‘Mess Kit Repair Company’ on the bumpers of the Fords. I came to talk to you about that.”

“Painting what on them?” Oscar Shultz asked.

He was sitting with Maksymilian Ostrowski at the bar. They were hunched over mugs of coffee and the Stars and Stripes. El Jefe had exchanged his naval uniform — and Ostrowski his dyed-black fatigues — for Army woolen OD Ike jackets and trousers. Civilian triangles were sewn to the lapels.

“You have to have your unit painted on the bumpers of your vehicles,” Cronley explained. “Since I didn’t want to paint CIC on them, and certainly don’t want to paint HQ DCI-Europe on them, I told Freddy to have what we have on all the other vehicles—711th MKRC — painted on them.”

“Which is?”

“It stands for the nonexistent 711th Mess Kit Repair Company,” Cronley explained.

“Very funny, but one day some MP is going to get really curious,” Hessinger said.

“What would you paint on them, Freddy?” El Jefe asked.

The question was unexpected, and it showed.

“Maybe some military government unit,” he said after a moment.

“Freddy, when you don’t like something, always be prepared to offer something better,” Schultz said. “Write that on your forehead. It’s up to Cronley, but I sort of like the sound of Seven-One-One-Em-Kay-Are-See.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And don’t call me ‘sir,’ Freddy. I am trying to pass myself off as a civilian.”

“I thought Captain Cronley would continue to be unreasonable,” Hessinger said, “so I got him and Captain Dunwiddie these.”

He handed each of them a small box.

“Oh, Freddy, you’re sweet, but you shouldn’t have!” Dunwiddie mocked.

“What the hell is this?” Cronley asked.

“Quartermaster Corps lapel insignia,” Hessinger said. “It is possible that when you are stopped by the MPs, they will be less suspicious if they think you’re in the Quartermaster Corps. Those swords you’re wearing now…”

“Sabers, Freddy,” Cronley corrected him. “Cavalry sabers.”

“… might make them curious.”

“He’s right,” El Jefe said.

“Again. That’s why I hate him. He’s right too often,” Cronley said. “Thanks, Freddy.”

“I will be disowned if anybody in my family hears I’m trying to pass myself off as a Quartermaster Corps officer,” Dunwiddie said.

“Say, ‘Thank you, Freddy,’” Cronley ordered.

“Thank you, Freddy,” Dunwiddie said.

One of the three telephones on the bar rang. The ring sound told them it was a leather-cased Signal Corps EE-8 field telephone connected to the guardhouse on the outer ring of fences.

Ostrowski picked it up, thumbed the TALK switch, answered it in Polish, listened, and then turned to Cronley.

“Captain, there are two CIC agents at the checkpoint. They have packages and letters for Lieutenant Cronley.”

“What?”

Ostrowski repeated what he had announced.

“Pass them in,” Dunwiddie ordered. “Have them report to me.”

The two CIC agents came into the sitting room. Both were in their early thirties. He recognized both of them from his days at the XXIInd CIC Detachment in Marburg.

He knew they were enlisted men because they had not been billeted with the officers. He also knew that they were “real” CIC agents, as opposed to Special Agent (2nd Lt) J. D. Cronley Jr., who had been sort of a joke CIC special agent, whose only qualification for the job was his fluent German.

What the hell is going on?

What are these two guys doing here?

With packages? And letters?

What kind of packages?

Letters from whom?

“How you been, Lieutenant?” the heavier of the two agents asked of Cronley.

Cronley now remembered — or thought he did — that the man’s name was Hammersmith. And that he was a master sergeant.

“Okay,” Cronley replied. “How’s things in Marburg?”

“About the same. What is this place?”

“If there is no objection from anyone, I’ll ask the questions,” Dunwiddie said.

The CIC agent displayed his credentials.

“No offense, Captain,” Special Agent Hammersmith said, “but this is a CIC matter. I’ll handle it from here.”

Dunwiddie pulled his own CIC credentials from his jacket and displayed them.

“As I was saying, I’ll ask the questions,” Dunwiddie said.

“Sorry, sir,” Hammersmith said. “I didn’t know.”

“You’ve got packages for Cronley?” Dunwiddie asked. “And letters?”

“Yes, sir,” Hammersmith said. He took two letter-sized envelopes from his Ike jacket and extended them to Dunwiddie.

“They’re addressed to Special Agent Cronley, sir.”

“Then give them to him,” Dunwiddie ordered. “Packages?”

“Four, sir. They’re in our car. They’re addressed to Lieutenant Cronley.”

“One of you go get the packages. Ostrowski, help him.”

“Yes, sir,” Hammersmith and Ostrowski said on top of one another. Then Hammersmith gestured to the other CIC agent to get the packages.

“Now, who sent you here?” Dunwiddie asked.

“Major Connell, who’s the Twenty-second CIC’s exec, sent us to General Greene’s office in the Farben Building. Then Colonel Mattingly sent us here.”

“Hessinger, did we get a heads-up about this?” Dunwiddie asked.

“No, sir.”

Dunwiddie looked at Cronley, who had just finished reading one of the letters.

He extended it to Dunwiddie.

“When you’re finished, give it to El Jefe,” he said.

When Dunwiddie had read the first letter, he passed it to Schultz and then looked at Cronley. Cronley was not finished with what looked like a very long handwritten letter.

It was.

Cronley was still reading the long letter when Ostrowski and the CIC agent came back with two heavy packages and announced there were two more. Dunwiddie waited until they had returned with these before reaching for the letter Cronley, finally finished reading it, was now holding thoughtfully.

“It’s personal,” Cronley said. “From my father.”

“Sorry,” Dunwiddie said.

Cronley changed his mind. He handed Dunwiddie the letter, and then went to one of the boxes — all of which had white tape with “Evidence” printed on it stuck all over them — and, using a knife, opened it.

He pulled out an enormous canned ham.

“Anyone for a ham sandwich?” he asked.

“Does that about conclude your business here?” Dunwiddie asked Special Agent Hammersmith.

“Sir, could I get a receipt?” Hammersmith asked.

“Hessinger, type up a receipt for the special agent,” Dunwiddie ordered. “Get his name. ‘I acknowledge receipt from Special Agent…’”

“Hammersmith,” Hammersmith furnished.

“‘… of one official letter, one personal letter, and four cartons, contents unknown.’ For Captain Cronley’s signature.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Captain Cronley?” Hammersmith asked.

Dunwiddie did not respond to the question, instead saying, “Special Agent Hessinger can arrange rooms for the night for you, if you’d like, in the Vier Jahreszeiten hotel in Munich.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Hammersmith said, adding, “Captain, can I ask what’s going on around here?”

“No, you can’t,” Dunwiddie said simply.

Hessinger came back into the sitting room with the announcement that the two CIC agents had gone.

“Jim, you knew those guys when you first came to Germany, right?” El Jefe asked.

Cronley nodded.

“In Marburg,” he said. “And the first thing they’re going to do when they get back there is tell Major Connell—”

“Who is he?” El Jefe asked.

“The Twenty-second’s executive officer. But he really runs the outfit. ‘Major, you’re not going to believe this, but that wet-behind-the-ears second lieutenant you put on the road block? He’s now a captain, and…’”

“That can’t be helped,” Dunwiddie said. “You are now a captain. And if this Major Connell is curious enough to ask Mattingly, Mattingly will either tell him how you got promoted or that it’s none of his business.”

“Or tell him,” Hessinger said, “just between them, that for reasons he doesn’t understand, Jim was transferred to the DCI. Where… witness the black market goodies… he has already shown he’s absolutely way over his head and a petty crook to boot.”

“You don’t like Colonel Mattingly much, do you, Freddy?” El Jefe asked.

“He is a man of low principle,” Hessinger announced righteously.

Cronley laughed.

“Don’t laugh,” Hessinger said. “He’s determined to get you out of chief, DCI-Europe, and himself in. You noticed he sent copies of that letter to the admiral and Ashton? Showing what a really nice guy he is and what an incompetent dummkopf black marketeer you are.”

“Where is Ashton, by the way?” Cronley asked.

“He asked for a car to take him into the PX in Munich,” Hessinger began.

“Christ, Freddy, we could have sent somebody shopping for him,” Cronley said. “I don’t want him breaking his other leg staggering around the PX on crutches.”

“I offered that,” Hessinger said. “He refused. But don’t worry.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because he really went to the orthopedic ward of the 98th General Hospital in Schwabing. I told Sergeant Miller—”

“Who?”

“Taddeus Miller. Staff sergeant. One of my guys,” Dunwiddie furnished.

“… to (a) not let him out of his sight, and (b) to call me and let me know where he really was.”

“You didn’t think he was going to the PX?”

“He was lying when he told me that. I could see that.”

“You could see that he was lying?”

“I could see that he was lying. I always know.”

“You always know?”

“Just about all the time, I know. You and General Gehlen are the only ones I can’t always tell.”

“Thank you very much,” Cronley said.

“I have to know why you think so,” El Jefe said.

“You don’t want to know. He knows,” Hessinger said. “It’s not a criticism, it’s a statement of fact.”

Which means he didn’t suspect a thing about Rachel until I fessed up.

Which makes me wonder how low I’ve fallen in his estimation?

Or Tiny’s?

How far is all the way down?

“Quickly changing the subject,” Dunwiddie said. “What are you going to do with your black market goodies, Captain, sir?”

“I’m tempted to burn them, give them to the Red Cross…”

“But you can’t, right, because of your mother?” Hessinger asked. “Your parents?”

Cronley gave him an icy look, but didn’t immediately reply. Finally he said, “I don’t have the time to just run off to Strasbourg to play the Good Samaritan, do I?”

“You might. You never know.”

“Freddy, you are aware that we’re waiting to hear from Seven-K?” Cronley asked.

“Of course I am. What I am suggesting is that I don’t think she’s going to say ‘Meet me at the Café Weitz tomorrow at noon.’ There will probably be four or five days between her message and the meeting. Perhaps there will be time then. Or perhaps our trip to Vienna can be tied in with your trip to Strasbourg.”

“Got it all figured out, have you, Freddy?” El Jefe said.

“Not all figured out. I learned about Jim’s family just now, when you did. But by the time we hear from Rahil, I will probably have a workable plan.”

“The thing I like about him is his immodesty,” El Jefe said.

“When one is a genius, one finds it hard to be modest,” Hessinger said solemnly.

“Jesus Christ, Freddy!” Cronley said, laughing.

“My own modesty compels me to admit that I didn’t make that up,” Hessinger said. “Frank Lloyd Wright, the architect, said it to a Chicago Tribune reporter.”

[TWO]

When the door closed on Lieutenant Colonel George H. Parsons and Major Warren W. Ashley, Cronley looked around the table at General Gehlen, Mannberg, El Jefe, Hessinger, and Tiny and said, “Why does it worry me that they were so charming?”

Gehlen chuckled.

“I would say that it has something to do with a ‘well done’ message General Magruder sent Colonel Parsons,” Hessinger said. “For the time being it is in their interest to be charming.”

“What are you talking about?” Dunwiddie asked.

“What ‘well done’ message?” Cronley asked.

“The Pentagon sent a request for an update on Russian troop strength, especially tanks, in Silesia. You knew that, right?”

“And the general got it for us. Them.”

“The general already had that intelligence on his Order of Battle. So the Pentagon asked for it one day, and the next day it was in Washington. Then General Magruder sent Colonel Parsons a ‘well done’ message. I am suggesting that if being charming to us produces ‘well done’ messages from General Magruder, Colonel Parsons is happy to polish our brass balls.”

“I don’t think you have that metaphor down perfectly, Freddy,” Tiny said, chuckling, “but I take your point.”

“How do you know Magruder sent the ‘well done’ message?” Cronley asked.

It took Hessinger a moment to frame his reply.

“I thought it would be in our interest to know what General Magruder and Colonel Parsons were saying to each other,” he said finally. “So I established a sort of sub-rosa arrangement with Technical Sergeant Colbert of the ASA.”

“This I have to hear,” El Jefe said. “A sub-rosa arrangement to do what?”

“Give us copies of every message back and forth.”

“In exchange for what?” El Jefe asked.

“You told me, when I told you we didn’t have enough people to do what we’re supposed to do, you said that I should keep my eyes open for people we could use, that you — we — now had the authority to recruit people from wherever for the DCI.”

“So?”

“Sergeant Colbert has ambitions to be a professional intelligence officer. She thinks the next step for her would be to get out of the ASA and join the DCI.”

“And you told him you could arrange that?” Cronley asked. “And then, ‘she’? ‘Her’?”

Hessinger nodded.

“I told her — her name is Claudette Colbert, like the movie actress—”

“Like the movie actress? Fascinating!” Cronley said. “Is there another one? Sergeant Betty Grable, maybe?”

“—that I would bring the subject up with you at the first opportunity. And I suggested to her that you would be favorably impressed if she could continue to get us all messages between the Pentagon and Colonel Parsons without getting caught.”

“Jesus!” Cronley exclaimed. “Freddy, I’m sure that you considered that if we had this movie star sergeant transferred to us, she would no longer be in a position to read Parsons’s messages.”

“I did. She tells me that it will not pose a problem.”

“Did Claudette Colbert tell you why not?” El Jefe asked.

“As a gentleman, I did not press her for details,” Hessinger said. “But I suspect it has something to do with her blond hair, blue eyes, and magnificent bosoms. Women so endowed generally get whatever they want from men.”

“Is that so?”

“That is so. When Claudette looked at me with those blue eyes and asked me for help in getting into the DCI, I was tempted for a moment to shoot you and offer her the chief, DCI-Europe, job.”

“Thinking with your dick again, were you?” Cronley asked.

“That was a joke,” Hessinger said. “I don’t do that. We all have seen what damage thinking with your dick can do.”

As Cronley thought, That was a shot at me for fucking Rachel Schumann, he simultaneously felt anger sweep through him, and sensed Tiny’s and General Gehlen’s eyes on him.

I can’t just take that. Friends or not, I’m still his commanding officer.

So what do I do?

Stand him at attention and demand an apology?

Royally eat his ass out?

His mouth went on automatic and he heard himself say,

“The damage that thinking with one’s male appendage can cause is usually proportional to the size of the organ, wouldn’t you agree, Professor Hessinger? In other words, it is three times more of a problem for me than it is for you?”

Dunwiddie chuckled nervously.

El Jefe smiled and shook his head.

Cronley realized that he was now standing up, legs spread, with his hands on his hips, glaring down at Hessinger, who was still in his chair.

“Okay, Sergeant Hessinger,” Cronley snapped. “The amusing repartee is over. Let’s hear exactly what I’ve done to so piss you off that you felt justified in going off half-cocked to enlist the services of a large-breasted ASA female non-com in a smart-ass scheme that could have caused — may still cause — enormous trouble for us without one goddamn word to me or Captain Dunwiddie?”

Hessinger got to his feet.

“I asked you a question, Sergeant!”

Hessinger’s eyes showed he was frightened, even terrified.

“I was out of line, Captain. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry’s not good enough, fish!”

Where the hell did that come from? “Fish”?

College Station.

The last time I stood with my hands on my hips screaming at a terrified kid, a fish, scaring the shit out of him, I was an eighteen-year-old corporal in the Corps…

He saw the kid, the fish, standing at rigid attention, staring straight ahead, as he was abusing him, reciting, “Sir, not being informed to the highest degree of accuracy, I hesitate to articulate for fear that I may deviate from the true course of rectitude. In short, sir, I am a very dumb fish, and do not know, sir.”

I didn’t like abusing a helpless guy then, and I don’t like doing it here.

“Sit down, Freddy,” Cronley said, putting his hand on Hessinger’s shoulder. “Just kidding.”

Hessinger sat — collapsed — back into his chair.

“But you will admit, I hope, that going off that way to corrupt the blue-eyed nicely teated blond without telling either Tiny or me was pretty stupid.”

“Yes, sir. I can see that now.”

“So what were you pissed off about?”

Hessinger met his eyes for a moment, then averted them, then met them again.

“You really want me to tell you?”

“Yeah, Freddy, I really do.”

And I really do. I didn’t say that to Freddy to make nice.

“My skills are underutilized around here,” Hessinger said.

“Freddy,” Tiny said, “this place would collapse without you. And we all know it.”

“You mean, I am very good at such things as making hotel reservations, getting vehicles and other things from supply depots, et cetera?”

“And getting us paid,” Tiny said. “Don’t forget that.”

“Those are the things a company clerk does. So what you’re saying is that I am a very good company clerk and supply sergeant.”

“Actually, Freddy, I think of you as our adjutant, our administrative officer.”

“Sergeants — and that’s what I am, a pay grade E-4 sergeant — can’t be adjutants or administrative officers.”

“You’re also a special agent of the CIC,” Cronley argued.

“Nobody here is a bona fide CIC agent,” Hessinger said. “You just kept the badges so you can get away with doing things you shouldn’t be doing.”

Jesus, he’s pissed off because I promoted Tedworth to first sergeant!

Or, that’s part of it.

“Sergeant Hessinger,” Cronley said, “at your earliest convenience, cut a promotion order promoting you to master sergeant.”

“You can’t do that,” Hessinger said.

“Why not? You told me I had the authority to promote Sergeant Tedworth.”

“Sergeant Tedworth was a technical sergeant, pay grade E-6. You had the authority to promote him one grade, to first sergeant pay grade E-7. You can’t skip grades when you promote people. People can be promoted not more than one pay grade at a time, and not more often than once a month.”

“Okay. Problem solved,” Tiny said. “Cut an order today, promoting you to staff sergeant. Then, a month from today, cut another one making you a technical sergeant. And a month after that… getting the picture?”

“That would work. Thank you.”

“Happy now, Freddy?” Cronley asked.

“That I will get my overdue promotions, yes, but that does not deal with the basic problem of my being underutilized in the past, and will continue to be underutilized in the DCI.”

“And how, Staff Sergeant Hessinger,” Cronley asked, “would you suggest I deal with that?”

“If you would transfer Sergeant Miller to me — right now I am borrowing him from First Sergeant Tedworth — that would free me to spend more time doing more important things than making hotel reservations and stocking the bar here.”

“Presumably, Captain Dunwiddie, you are aware that Sergeant Hessinger has been borrowing Sergeant Miller from Sergeant Tedworth?” Cronley asked.

Dunwiddie nodded.

“It’s okay with Tedworth. He said we’ve been overworking Freddy. Miller’s a good man.”

“That raises the question in my mind whether Sergeant Miller is anxious to solve our personnel problem, or whether Abraham Lincoln Tedworth pointed his finger at him and said, ‘Get your ass over to Hessinger’s office and do what you’re told.’”

“He came to me asking if I could use him,” Hessinger said.

“I would like to hear that he’s a volunteer from his lips,” Cronley said. “And now that I think about it, I would like to hear from Claudette Colbert’s ruby-red lips that she, too, is really a volunteer. But Sergeant Miller first. Where is he, Freddy?”

“Outside, in the ambulance.”

“Outside, in the ambulance”? What the hell is that all about?

“Go get him.”

When the door had closed on Hessinger, Dunwiddie said, “Don’t let this go to your head, Captain, sir, but I thought you handled that pretty well.”

“Me, too,” El Jefe said.

The door opened and one of Gehlen’s men, a tall, gaunt blond man whose name Cronley couldn’t recall but he remembered had been a major, came in.

He marched up to Mannberg, came to attention, clicked his heels, and handed him a sheet of paper. Mannberg read it, handed it to General Gehlen, and then ordered, “There will probably be a reply. Wait outside.”

The former major bobbed his head, clicked his heels again, turned on his heels, and marched out of the room.

“We have heard from Seven-K,” Gehlen said. “Quote, ‘Herr Weitz expects his friend to pay him not later than the fourteenth.’ End quote.”

“Today’s the eighth,” Cronley said. “That gives us six days to get to Vienna.”

“Vienna’s not the other side of the world,” Dunwiddie said. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

The door opened again.

Hessinger and Staff Sergeant Miller came in.

Miller was as coal black as Tiny Dunwiddie, but where Dunwiddie was massive, Miller was thin, almost gaunt. He towered over Hessinger.

Christ, Tiny’s six-four and this guy is six, seven inches taller than that. He has to be close to seven feet tall.

Sergeant Miller marched up to Cronley, came to attention, and crisply saluted.

“Sir, Staff Sergeant Miller, Taddeus L., reporting to the captain as ordered, sir!”

Cronley returned the salute.

“At ease, Sergeant,” Cronley ordered.

“Captain Cronley,” Gehlen said. “Excuse me?”

“Sir?”

“Before we get into this, I think we should reply to Seven-K.”

“Sure.”

“And what should I say?”

“Say ‘Ludwig always pays his debts on time,’” Hessinger said.

Gehlen looked at him in mingled disbelief and annoyance.

“Freddy,” Cronley said, annoyance — even anger — in his tone, “shut up. No one asked you.”

“I know. That’s what I meant before when I said I was underutilized around here.”

“Let’s hear what he has to say,” El Jefe said. “Starting with who’s Ludwig?”

“Colonel Mannberg’s Christian name is Ludwig. We can safely presume they know that. So they will not be surprised when he, and not the general, shows up at the Café Weitz.”

“What makes you think I will not be going to the Café Weitz?” Gehlen asked.

He tried, but failed, to keep an icy tone out of his voice.

“I would be very surprised, General,” Hessinger replied, “if Captain Cronley would expose you to that risk. I am extremely reluctant to expose Colonel Mannberg to that risk, but I can see no alternative.”

“You are ‘extremely reluctant,’ are you, Freddy?” Cronley asked sarcastically. “You’ve given our little problem a great deal of thought, I gather? And come up with the solutions?”

“Our problems, plural. Yes, I have.”

“‘Problems, plural’?” Cronley parroted. “And the others are?”

“The other is you dealing with your family in Strasbourg.”

“That’s a personal problem that I will deal with myself, thank you just the same,” Cronley said.

“No. The chief, DCI-Europe, doesn’t have personal problems.”

“What are you suggesting, Freddy?”

“That it is entirely possible that when you knock on your cousin Luther’s door, bearing the black market Hershey bars and canned ham, he will smile gratefully at you and ask you in. Maybe he will even embrace you and kiss your cheek. And the next we will hear of you is when the new Rachel sends us a message saying we can have you back just as soon as we send Colonel Likharev into the Russian Zone of Berlin. Or maybe Vienna.”

“My God!” Gehlen breathed. “That possibility never entered my mind.”

After a very long moment, Cronley said, “Sergeant Miller, you never should have heard any of this.”

“Mr. Hessinger has made me aware of the situation, sir.”

“Okay. I’m not surprised. But I have to ask this. Are you a volunteer? Or did Tedworth, or for that matter Captain Dunwiddie, volunteer your services for you?”

“Sir, I went to Mr. Hessinger and told him I thought I could be more useful working for him, for DCI, than I could as just one more sergeant of the guard.”

“Okay. With the caveat that I think you may — hell, certainly will — come to regret doing that, you’re in.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Okay, Freddy,” Cronley ordered. “Let’s hear your solutions to our problems, plural.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“Taddeus, please get my briefcase from the ambulance,” Hessinger said. “And while you’re doing that, I will get started by talking about the death and resurrection of the 711th MKRC.”

“Why don’t you get started talking about something important?” Cronley challenged.

“A unit called the 711th Quartermaster Mess Kit Repair Company is a sophomoric joke…”

“So you have been saying,” Cronley said.

“Shut up, Jim,” El Jefe said. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”

Cronley recognized the tone of command in Schultz’s voice and shut up.

“… but within Captain Cronley’s original idea, which was to provide a cover for our vehicles, there is a good deal that can be saved.

“For example,” Hessinger began his lecture, “while there is obviously no such organization as a Quartermaster Mess Kit Repair Company, I don’t think anyone would smile at, or question, a Quartermaster Mobile Kitchen Renovation Company.

“What does the 711th QM Mobile Kitchen Renovation Company do? It renovates the mobile kitchens of the European Command, each company-sized unit of which has a mobile kitchen. That means that no one would question our vehicles — our former ambulances — being anywhere in Occupied Germany or Liberated Austria where there might be an Army mobile kitchen in need of renovation.

“… Personnel assigned to the 711th might be authorized a three-day pass from their labors, so that they might visit such cultural centers as Strasbourg…”

What later became known as “Hessinger’s First Lecture” lasted an hour and fifteen minutes, and covered every detail of both problems facing the DCI. It recommended the reassignment of more of Tiny’s Troopers to DCI duties, and replacing them with Ostrowski’s Poles. And the designation of Kloster Grünau as home station for the 711th, with signs announcing that status being placed on the fence surrounding the monastery.

But finally it was over.

“All of this needs polishing,” Hessinger concluded.

“Everything always needs polishing, as we say in the Navy,” El Jefe said.

“We had a similar saying, oddly enough, in the Wehrmacht,” General Gehlen said.

“So what do you want me to do now?” Hessinger asked.

“Get me an ambulance driver, and a road map to Strasbourg,” Cronley said. “I want to go there either tomorrow or the day after and get that out of the way before I go to Vienna.”

“I will drive, and I don’t need a road map,” Hessinger replied.

“You’re going with me to Strasbourg?”

“Me and four of Tiny’s Troopers. Them in an ambulance, you and me — Second Lieutenant Cronley and Sergeant Hessinger of the 711th Quartermaster Mobile Kitchen Renovation Company — in the Ford with the three hundred — odd miles on the odometer.”

“Do I have any say in this?”

“I wouldn’t think so, Second Lieutenant Cronley,” El Jefe said. “It looks to me that Professor Hessinger has things well in hand.”

“There is one little problem we haven’t discussed,” Cronley said.

“Which is?”

“How do we get Mannberg, Ostrowski, and that fifty thousand dollars to Vienna?”

“Yeah,” Hessinger said thoughtfully.

“I’d like to send them on the Blue Danube, but we can’t get them on the Blue Danube because they’re not American.”

“Yeah,” Hessinger repeated thoughtfully.

“I have a brilliant idea,” Cronley said. “Inasmuch as I am exhausted after dealing with Lieutenant Colonel Parsons, Major Ashley, and Staff Sergeant Hessinger, why don’t we put off solving that until tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah,” Hessinger said thoughtfully, for the third time.