The Assassination Option

[ONE]

It had taken Cronley, Hessinger, and Finney nine hours to drive the 270 miles from Vienna to Pullach in the Ford staff car. Schultz, Ostrowski, and Mannberg, who had left Vienna later on the Blue Danube, were already “home”—and sitting at the bar — when the three walked in. Captain Chauncey L. Dunwiddie, Major Maxwell Ashton III, and First Sergeant Abraham L. Tedworth were sitting at a table.

As Cronley headed for the toilet, Dunwiddie called, “My guys with you?”

He referred to the men who had gone to Strasbourg and then Vienna with Cronley in one of the ambulances and those in the two ambulances who had gone directly to Vienna.

“Very quickly, as my back teeth are floating,” Cronley replied. “They left when we did, but since there is an MP checkpoint every other mile on the road, God only knows when they’ll get here.”

He then disappeared into the toilet, emerged a few minutes later, and went to the bar.

“Wait a minute before you get into that,” Hessinger said, indicating the bottle of Haig & Haig Cronley had taken from behind the bar and was opening.

“With all due respect, Staff Sergeant Hessinger, I have earned this,” Cronley said, and gave him the finger.

Hessinger appeared about to reply, and then went into the toilet. He came out two minutes later, and as Sergeant Finney went in, announced, “I have been thinking of something for the past two hours that will probably make me very unpopular when I bring it up.”

“Then don’t bring it up,” Cronley said.

“We have to make a record, a report, of what we have been doing,” Hessinger said. “And we have to do it before we start drinking.”

When Cronley didn’t immediately reply, Hessinger went on: “Sooner or later, somebody is going to want to know what we’ve been doing. Somebody is going to want to look at our records. And when that happens, saying ‘We haven’t been keeping any records’ is not going to be an acceptable answer.”

“Jesus!” Cronley said.

“He’s right, Jim,” El Jefe said. “We at least need to keep after-action reports.”

“And who do we report to?” Cronley asked.

El Jefe didn’t immediately reply, and Cronley saw on his face that he was giving the subject very serious consideration.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this,” El Jefe said, after a long moment, and then answered his own question. “Because Cletus didn’t do after-action reports. But that was then and in Argentina. This is now and you’re in Germany. Cletus didn’t have two different groups of people looking over his shoulder to find something, anything, proving he was incompetent. You do, Jim.”

“Two groups?”

“Colonel Mattingly. And the two from the Pentagon…”

“Lieutenant Colonel Parsons and Major Ashley,” Hessinger furnished.

“And then there’s the problem of how do we keep the wrong people from getting their hands on the after-action reports Freddy is right in saying we have to make,” Schultz went on.

“Classify them Top Secret — Presidential and Top Secret — Lindbergh,” Cronley suggested.

“How do we keep the wrong people who hold Top Secret — Presidential and Top Secret — Lindbergh clearances from seeing them? Like Mattingly? And Whatsisname? McClung, the ASA guy?”

“And Dick Tracy,” Cronley said.

“Who?” Ashton asked.

“Major Thomas G. Derwin, the new CIC/ASA inspector general. He’s got all the clearances.”

“Why do you call him ‘Dick Tracy’?”

“He was more or less affectionately so known when he was teaching Techniques of Surveillance at Holabird High.”

“You mean the CIC Center at Camp Holabird?” Ashton asked.

“Yes, I do,” Cronley said. “One of the spooks who came to El Jefe’s room in the Bristol was a fellow alumnus.”

“What spooks who came to your room in the hotel?”

Cronley told him.

Ashton thought about that for a moment, and then said, “I know what we can do. About keeping the wrong people from seeing the after-action reports, I mean. Send them to me.”

“I thought we were talking about the spooks who came to my room,” El Jefe said.

Ashton ignored him and went on, “And once I get them, as chief, Operation Ost, I can decide who else should see them. I will decide nobody else should see them. That way, they would be on file in case, for example, the admiral wants to.”

“That’d work,” El Jefe said.

“Problem solved,” Cronley said sarcastically. “Now all we have to do is write the after-action report—”

“Reports,” Hessinger interrupted. “Plural. Starting, I suggest, with Tedworth grabbing Colonel Likharev.”

“We need an after-action report on that?” Cronley asked, and as the words came out of his mouth, realized they would.

“On everything,” Schultz confirmed.

“As I was about to say, I don’t know how to write an after-action report,” Cronley said.

“I do,” Hessinger said.

“Congratulations. You are now our official after-action-report writer,” Cronley said. “Have at it.”

“I don’t have the time,” Hessinger said. “Since I am no longer the company clerk. We need somebody else to do it.”

“You’re talking about Staff Sergeant Miller? Your new deputy?”

“He can help, but I’m talking about Claudette Colbert,” Hessinger said.

“Who?” Ashton asked.

“There are apparently two,” Cronley said. “The movie star and Hessinger’s. Hessinger’s Claudette Colbert is an ASA tech sergeant who wants to be an intelligence officer,” Cronley said.

“What about her?” El Jefe asked.

“She takes shorthand, and she types sixty words a minute,” Hessinger said. “We could really use her.”

“Not to mention, she intercepts for us what Parsons and Ashley are saying to the Pentagon. And vice versa,” Cronley said.

“Then get her, Jim,” Schultz said. “The admiral gave you authority to recruit people. Call Major McClung and tell him you want her.”

“There’s two problems with that,” Cronley said. “I’ve never laid eyes on Sergeant Colbert, and until I—”

“You’re recruiting her to push a typewriter, Jim, right? So what do you care what she looks like?”

“That’s not what I meant. Freddy says she’s a good-looking female. But I want to make sure she understands what she’s letting herself in for.”

“So send for her and ask her.”

“Before he does that, he better find out if Major McClung is going to let her go,” Hessinger said.

“Right,” El Jefe said. “Get on the secure line and call Major McClung.”

“How did you know we have a secure line to the ASA?”

“Because when I asked Sergeant Tedworth to show me your SIGABA installation, I saw how amateurishly the ASA — being Army — had set up your secure line and showed them the smart — Navy — way to do it,” El Jefe said. “Sergeant Tedworth, would you please go in there and get the secure line phone for Mr. Cronley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any questions, Mr. Cronley?”

Cronley shook his head.

“Not even about me calling you ‘Mr. Cronley’?” El Jefe pursued.

“Okay. Why did you refer to me as ‘Mr. Cronley’?”

“Because if when you call Major McClung you identify yourself as ‘Captain Cronley,’ he will be reminded that he outranks you. If you say you’re ‘Mr. Cronley,’ that won’t happen. ‘Misters’ don’t have ranks, they have titles. For example, ‘chief, DCI-Europe.’”

“But ol’ Iron Lung knows I’m a captain. Also, I suspect he doesn’t like me,” Cronley argued. “Given those facts’ bearing on the problem, my suggestion is that you call him.”

“When I’m gone, Mr. Cronley, say tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, you’re going to have to deal with ol’ Iron Lung — and others in the Farben Building—”

“You’ll be gone tomorrow? Or the day—”

“I hadn’t planned to get into this yet,” El Jefe said. “But why not? This is as good a time as any.

“Freddy was not the only one having profound thoughts on the way back from Vienna,” Schultz went on. “Okay, where to start? With my orders from the admiral. The admiral thinks that we don’t — you don’t — fully understand how potentially valuable an intelligence asset Colonel Likharev is—”

“But we’ve already turned him,” Cronley argued.

“He’s turned for the moment, for two reasons: You did a very good job, Jim, of selling him on his duty as a Christian, as a man, to do whatever he can to save his family from the attentions of the NKGB. You told him you would try to get his family out of Russia. And then the NKGB tried to kill him.”

“I don’t understand where you’re trying to go with this,” Cronley said.

“You know Colonel Sergei Likharev as well as anybody, Jim. What do you think he’s doing practically every waking moment?”

Cronley thought a moment.

“Wondering if we can get his family out?” he asked finally.

“How about him wondering if you just said you were going to get his family out? Wondering if you never had any intention to do that? Wondering if you could be expected to try to hand him a line like that? In reversed circumstances, it’s something he would have tried himself.”

“But I wasn’t lying!”

“I don’t think he’s convinced about that. I think every day he grows a little more convinced that he’s been lied to. That one day, he’ll be told, ‘Sorry, we tried to get them out and it just didn’t work.’ And, frankly, one day we might have to do just that.”

“Jesus!”

“And getting his family out is all he has to live for. If he loses that, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to take himself out.”

“Jesus!”

“And even if we kept him from doing that, and we’re damned sure going to try to, he’ll shut off the flow of intel. Either refuse to answer any more questions, or hand us some credible bullshit and send us on one wild-goose chase after another. And he’d be good at that.

“So what I thought on the way from Vienna is that Polo and I have to go to Argentina and look him in the eye and tell him everything that’s happened and is happening. Everything. Including you loaning the DCI the hundred thousand of your own money, and meeting Rahil/Seven-K in the Café Weitz. Even you feeding her dog peanuts and not having a clue who she was.”

“Why would he believe you? Or Polo?”

“Likharev, like many good intel officers, can look into somebody’s eyes and intuit if they’re lying. Or not. Freddy says he can do that. I believe him. I think Colonel Mannberg can do it. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you could. Hell, I know you can. You wouldn’t have been able to turn Likharev in the first place if you hadn’t known in your gut when he was lying and when he was telling the truth.”

“Okay,” Cronley said. “I can do it. Let’s say you’re right and Likharev can do it. So he looked in my eyes and decided I wasn’t lying about trying to get his family out. Doesn’t that count?”

“That was then. Now he’s had time to think his gut reaction was flawed.”

“Okay. So now what?”

“I told you. Polo and I are on the next SAA flight to Buenos Aires. Leaving you here to deal with Major McClung and the others by your lonesome.”

“Christ!”

“Hand Mr. Cronley the telephone, Sergeant Tedworth.”

“My father could do that,” Captain Dunwiddie said thoughtfully. “Look in my eyes and tell if I was lying.”

“Thank you for sharing that with us, Captain Dunwiddie,” Major Ashton said. “And now that I think about it, several young women I have known have had that ability.”

The telephone was an ordinary handset and cradle mounted on an obviously “locally manufactured” wooden box about eight inches tall. There were three toggle switches on the top of the box, and a speaker was mounted on the side. A heavy, lead-shielded cable ran from it to the room in which the SIGABA system was installed.

“The left toggle switch turns the handset on,” El Jefe said. “The one in the middle turns on the loudspeaker, and the one on the right turns on the microphone. I suggest you leave that one off.”

“The line has been checked, and you’re into the ASA control room in Frankfurt, Mr. Cronley,” First Sergeant Tedworth said. “Just flick the left toggle.”

“Is that the truth? Let me look into your eyes, First Sergeant,” Cronley said, as he flipped the left toggle switch, and then the center one.

Almost immediately, there came a male voice.

“Control room, Sergeant Nesbit.”

“J. D. Cronley for Major McClung.”

“Hold one.”

Thirty seconds later, the voice of Major “Iron Lung” boomed from the speaker.

“What can I do for you, Cronley?”

“I want to steal one of your people from you.”

“I was afraid of that. General Greene showed me that EUCOM will provide letter.”

“Actually, I want more than one of your people,” Cronley said, and as the words came out he realized he was in “automatic mouth mode.”

“I was afraid of that, too. Okay, who?”

“I’ve only got one name right now, somebody I know wants to come work for us.”

“Okay, who?”

“One of your intercept operators, Tech Sergeant Colbert.”

There was a just perceptible pause before McClung asked, “What do you want her for, besides intercepting messages between Colonel Parsons and the Pentagon?”

Christ, he knows!

Why am I surprised?

Because you forgot “to know your enemy,” stupid.

So what do I do now?

I don’t know, but lying to Major McClung isn’t one of my options.

“That, too, but right now I want her because she can take shorthand and type sixty words a minute. Colonel Ashton has told me our record-keeping, especially after-action reports, is unacceptably in arrears.”

“Meaning nonexistent?”

“That’s what the colonel alleges.”

“Welcome to the world of command,” McClung said, chuckling. “Okay, you can have her. Who do I transfer her to?”

I don’t have a fucking clue!

“Hold on,” Cronley said.

Hessinger scribbled furiously on his clipboard and then handed it to Cronley.

Cronley read aloud what Hessinger had written:

“Military Detachment, Directorate of Central Intelligence, Europe, APO 907.”

After a moment, McClung said, “Okay, who else?”

“Let me get back to you after I talk to them and ask if they want to come with us.”

“Okay. Makes sense. I don’t know what I would do if I were an ASA non-com and was asked to join the DCI.”

“Why would you not want to?”

“Your DCI is a dangerous place to be. People, powerful people, don’t like you. You ever hear of guilt by association?”

“How do you know that powerful people don’t like me? Us?”

“I’m chief of ASA Europe. I listen to everybody’s telephone calls and read all their messages.”

“Well, I’ll ask them anyway.”

“Do that. When you find out, let me know.”

“Will do.”

“That all, Cronley?”

“I guess so.”

“McClung out,” he said, and Cronley sensed that the line was no longer operating. He hung up the handset and then flipped the toggle switches off.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it, Jim?” El Jefe asked.

“When I called McClung, I had him in the Enemies Column,” Cronley said. “Now I don’t think so.”

“Why not? Something he said?”

“More the tone. Of the entire conversation, but especially in his voice.”

“So, what we should do now is, while staring into the eyes of people we’re talking to to see if they’re lying, listen to the tone of their voices to see if they like us, or not?”

“May I say something?” Ludwig Mannberg asked.

“You don’t have to ask permission to speak around here, Colonel,” Cronley said.

“I had the same feeling about this officer, listening to his tone,” Mannberg said. “I think Jim is right. But I also feel obliged to say that, in my experience, it is very dangerous to rely on intuition. And very easy to do so. Intuition can be often, perhaps most often, relied upon. But when you want to rely on intuition, don’t. That’s when it will fail you.”

“I think I’m going to write that down,” El Jefe said. “And I’m not being a wiseass.” He paused and then went on. “No, I won’t write it down. I don’t have to. I won’t forget ‘when you want to rely on intuition, don’t.’ Thanks, Ludwig.”

“Yeah, me too,” Cronley said. “Thank you for that.” He paused. “Now what do we do?”

“If you really can’t think of anything else to do, why don’t you get Sergeant Colbert in here?” Hessinger asked.

[TWO]

Technical Sergeant Claudette Colbert knocked at the door, heard the command “Come,” opened the door, marched into the office up to the desk of the liaison officer, came to attention, raised her hand in salute, and barked, “Technical Sergeant Colbert reporting to the commanding officer as ordered, sir.”

In doing so, she shattered a belief Captain James D. Cronley Jr. had firmly held since his first days at Texas A&M, which was, Unless you’re some kind of a pervert, into kinky things like fetishes, a female in uniform is less sexually attractive than a spittoon.

He would have thought this would be even more true if the uniform the female was wearing, as Sergeant Colbert was, was what the Army called “fatigues.” Generously tailored to afford the wearer room to move while performing the hard labor causing the fatigue, “fatigues” conceal the delicate curvature of the female form at least as well as, say, a tarpaulin does when draped over a tank.

It was not true of Technical Sergeant Colbert now.

Cronley returned the salute in a Pavlovian reflex, and similarly ordered, “Stand at ease,” and then, a moment later, added, “Have a seat, Sergeant,” and pointed to the chair Hessinger had placed six feet from his desk.

Technical Sergeant Colbert sat down.

She found herself facing Captain Cronley, and on the left side of his desk, Lieutenant Colonel Ashton, Captain Dunwiddie, and Staff Sergeant Hessinger. Lieutenant Oscar Schultz, USN, Maksymilian Ostrowski, and former Colonel Ludwig Mannberg were seated to the right of Cronley’s desk.

Only Colonel Ashton and Captain Dunwiddie were wearing the insignia of their ranks. Everyone else was wearing the blue triangles of civilian employees of the Army, including Ostrowski, whom Claudette knew to be a Pole and a DP guard. Ex-colonel Mannberg was wearing a very well-tailored suit.

Cronley, who was having thoughts he knew he should not be having about how Sergeant Colbert might look in the shower, forced them from his mind and asked himself,

How the hell do I handle this, now that she’s here?

Shift into automatic mode and see what happens when I open my mouth?

In the absence of any better, or any other, idea…

“Sergeant, Sergeant Hessinger tells me that you would like to move to the DCI from the ASA. True?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been on the fringes of the intelligence business, sir, since I came into the ASA. And the more I’ve learned about it, the more I realized I’d like to be in it. As more than an ASA intercept sergeant. As an intelligence officer.”

“What would you like to do in what you call the intelligence business?”

“I don’t know, sir. Once I get into the DCI, something will come up.”

“What if I told you that what you would do if you came to DCI is typing and taking shorthand?”

“Sir, I would have my foot in the door. So long as you understood that I don’t want to be a secretary, starting out taking shorthand and typing would be okay with me.”

“DCI inherited from the OSS the notion that the best qualified person for the job gets the job and the authority that goes with it. You understand that? It means you would be working for Hessinger, although you outrank him. Would you be all right with that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has anyone else got any questions for Sergeant Colbert?” Cronley asked.

There came shaken heads, a chorus of no’s and uh-uhs.

“Okay, Sergeant Colbert, let’s give it a try,” Cronley said. “You can consider yourself a member of DCI from right now. What is that officially, Freddy?”

“Military Detachment, Directorate of Central Intelligence, Europe, APO 907,” Hessinger furnished.

“Sir?” Sergeant Colbert said.

“Yes?”

“Sir, with respect, I have conditions. Before I’ll agree to be transferred to DCI.”

Now, what the hell?

“Conditions, Sergeant?” Cronley asked unpleasantly. “Before you ‘agree to be transferred’? You don’t have to agree to being transferred. I decide whether or not that will happen.”

“Sir, with respect. Would you want me in DCI if I didn’t want to be here?”

Turn off the automatic mouth or you really will say something stupid.

“What sort of conditions, Sergeant?” Lieutenant Colonel Ashton asked.

Cronley saw Schultz flash Ashton a withering look, and then he said, “She has a point, Jim.”

“What sort of conditions, Sergeant?” Cronley asked.

“Just two things, sir. I’d like permission to wear civilian triangles. And if you’re issuing what I guess could be called special IDs, I’d like one of those, too. I suppose what I’m saying—”

“That will not pose a problem,” Cronley said. “We’re all aware that it’s easier to get things done if you’re not wearing rank insignia. And that ties in with what I said before that in the DCI authority is based on your job, not your rank.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“You said ‘two things,’ Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir. I’d like to bring three of my girls with me.”

What?

Her girls?

Jesus Christ, she’s a dyke!

“Excuse me, Sergeant?”

“They want to get out of the ASA house…”

That she was queer never entered my mind!

Until just now.

So much for that intuition bullshit we were just talking about!

“… and not only will they be useful here, but they’ll be able to keep an eye on anything going to or from Washington,” Sergeant Colbert went on, and then stopped, and then went on again, “It’s not what you’re thinking, sir.”

So what do I say now?

Ask her what she thinks I’m thinking?

Cronley was literally struck dumb.

“Sir, I’m no more interested in other women — that way — than you are in other men.”

“Sergeant, I hope I didn’t say anything to suggest—”

“May I continue, sir?” she interrupted.

How could I possibly say no?

“Certainly,” Cronley said.

“I’m glad this came up,” she began. “To clear the air. One of the reasons I want to get out of the WAC is because I’m really tired of being suspected of being a dyke. And I’ve learned that every man, officer or enlisted, who looks at me thinks there is no other explanation for an attractive, unmarried woman being in the WAC except that she’s a lesbian.”

Cronley thought: That’s true. It may not be fair, but it’s true.

But he remained struck dumb.

“I’m heterosexual,” Sergeant Colbert said. “And so are the women I want to bring with me into DCI. Is that clear?”

Cronley found his voice.

“Perfectly clear,” he said. “And I appreciate your candor, Sergeant Colbert. Hessinger, get the names of the women Sergeant Colbert wants to bring with her, and see that they’re transferred.”

“Yes, sir,” Hessinger said.

Sergeant Colbert stood up, came to attention, and looked at Cronley.

What the hell is that all about?

“Permission to withdraw, sir?” she asked.

Oh!

“Granted,” Cronley said.

Sergeant Colbert saluted. Cronley returned it. Sergeant Colbert executed a snappy “left turn” movement and marched toward the door.

Cronley’s automatic mouth switched on.

“Colbert! Just a minute, please.”

She stopped, did a snappy “about face” movement, and stood at attention.

“Sir?”

“First of all, at ease,” Cronley said. “You can knock off just about all the military courtesy, Colbert. For one thing, this isn’t the Farben Building. For another, I’m wearing triangles, not bars. Pass that word to your girls.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Welcome to DCI, Claudette. Freddy will see that you have everything you need.”

“Thank you.”

She smiled and left the room.

Hessinger started to follow her, but stopped halfway to the door and asked, “Where do I put them?”

“To live, you mean? I hadn’t thought about that,” Cronley admitted.

“I think it would be a good idea if you did,” Hessinger said.

“And I’m sure you have already given the subject some thought and are going to share those thoughts with me.”

“I think it would be a good idea to get the three women she’s bringing with her out of the ASA building, where they are now. With half a dozen other women, who are probably very curious about what’s going on over here.”

“So?”

“So I suggest you take the ‘Guesthouse’ sign off the guesthouse and put up one that says ‘Female Quarters, Off Limits to Male Personnel.’”

“Do it.”

“And I suggest that as soon as I can get Sergeant Colbert into blue triangles, you put her in one of our rooms in the Vier Jahreszeiten. She’ll be working there.”

“And what is Major Wallace going to think about that?”

“You’ll have to think of something to tell him, and I think you should count on Major McClung telling him by this time tomorrow that you stole her from him.”

Shit, I didn’t think about that. McClung will certainly tell Wallace…

Or will he?

Now that I think about it, I don’t think he will.

But this is probably one of those times that Mannberg talked about, when you really want to trust your gut feeling, and therefore shouldn’t.

“As soon as you get Sergeant Colbert into blue triangles, put her in the Vier Jahreszeiten,” Cronley said. “What she’s doing there is none of Major Wallace’s business.”

Hessinger nodded and left the room.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Jim,” El Jefe said, “but you handled the sergeant well. Finally. For a while, I thought she was going to eat you alive.”

“‘Formidable’ describes her well, doesn’t it?”

“So does ‘well-stacked.’ Is that going to be a problem, now that she’s made it so plain she’s not a dyke?”

“Not for me. Ostrowski may have to watch himself.”

That got the expected chuckles.

“So what do we do now?” Cronley asked.

“You get on the phone and get Polo and me seats on the next SAA flight to Buenos Aires. If they’re sold out, tell them they’re going to have to bump two people.”

“What makes you think they’d do that?”

“Because, for the moment, at least until Juan Perón takes it away from us, South American Airways is a DCI asset and you’re chief, DCI-Europe.”

“But do they know that?”

“I told Cletus to make sure they know.”

There he goes again.

“I told Cletus…”

El Jefe is a lot more — and probably was for a long time — more than just Clete’s communications expert.

And the admiral sent him here. And not to take care of Polo.

So how do I find out what he’s really up to?

Ask him?

Why not?

The worst that could happen would be for him to pretend he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

So I’ll ask him.

But not now. In private, when the moment is right.

Cronley reached for the telephone, dialed “O,” and told the Pullach compound operator to get him South American Airways at the Rhine-Main Air Force Base.

Five minutes later, he put the phone in its cradle and turned to Schultz.

“You’re on SAA Flight 233, departing Rhine-Main at 1700 tomorrow.”

“Which means we’ll have to be there at 1600,” Schultz replied.

“Which means we can have a late breakfast and leave here at ten, ten-thirty. Or even eleven,” Cronley said. “That’ll give us plenty of time for Ostrowski and me to fly you up there.”

“No,” Schultz said. “What that means is that so I can make my manners to Generals Smith and Greene, and the admiral would be very disappointed if I didn’t, we have to get up in the dark so that we can leave at first light. And that means, of course, that you don’t get anything more to drink tonight. Nor does Ostrowski.”

It makes sense that he has to see Greene, but General Walter Bedell Smith, Eisenhower’s deputy? I’m supposed to believe he’s only a Navy lieutenant, the same as an Army captain, and he’s going in for a social chat with General Smith? Even if the admiral sent him, there’s something going on nobody’s telling me.

Like there’s something nobody’s telling me about the appointment of Captain James D. Cronley Jr. as chief, Directorate of Central Intelligence, Europe. There’s something very fishy about that, too. There’s at least a platoon of ex-OSS colonels and light birds, now unemployed, better qualified than I am who should be sitting here.

My gut tells me — and screw Ludwig’s theory that when you really want to trust your intuition, don’t — that El Jefe has the answers to all of this.

So how do I get him to tell me?

I don’t have a fucking clue.

“Or I could stay here and drink my supper and have Kurt Schröder fly you to Frankfurt.”

“No.”

“He’s a much better Storch pilot than I am, El Jefe,” Cronley said. “He flew General Gehlen and Ludwig Mannberg all over Russia.”

“You’re going to fly me to Frankfurt. Period.”

“Yes, sir.”

[THREE]

“Well, Colonel Ashton,” General Greene said, coming from behind his desk as Cronley pushed Ashton’s wheelchair into his office, “I’m really glad to see you. I was getting a little worried.”

“Sir?”

Greene looked at his wristwatch.

“In twenty-five minutes, we’re having lunch with General Smith. He is big on punctuality. You cut it pretty short.”

“I didn’t know about the lunch,” Ashton said.

“You must be Lieutenant Schultz,” Greene said, offering his hand. “Admiral Souers speaks very highly of you.”

“That’s very kind of the admiral,” Schultz said.

Greene looked at Cronley, said, “Cronley,” but did not offer his hand.

“This is Colonel Mattingly, my deputy,” Greene said.

Schultz, Ashton, and Mattingly shook hands. Mattingly ignored Cronley.

“I understand that you met my CIC chief in Vienna,” Greene said. “Colonel Stevens?”

Cronley thought, Well, it didn’t take Greene long to hear about that, did it?

“We had a visit from the CIC in Vienna, but I didn’t get his name,” Schultz said.

“What was that about?”

“Apparently one of the hotel managers heard two of my people speaking Russian, and turned us in as suspicious characters.”

“He didn’t say what you were doing in Vienna.”

“I didn’t tell him,” Schultz said.

“So he said. He also said that one of his agents knew Cronley.”

“As I understand that,” Schultz said, “they were apparently in CIC school together.”

“Where they were students in Major Derwin’s class on Techniques of Surveillance,” General Greene said. “Which brings us, Cronley, to Major Derwin.”

“Sir?”

“Major Derwin wants to talk to you.”

What the hell for?

“Yes, sir?”

“He didn’t tell me why, but he said he’d like to do so as soon as possible. What about today?”

“Not today, sir. As soon as I load these gentlemen onto the Buenos Aires flight, I have to get back to Munich.”

“Well, when can I tell the major you will have time for him?”

“Sir, just about anytime after I get back to Munich. Anytime tomorrow.”

“What’s so important, Cronley,” Colonel Mattingly demanded, “that you have to get back to Munich today? You don’t actually expect Major Derwin to come to Munich to ask you what he wants to ask you, do you?”

“Colonel, if Major Derwin wants to ask me anything, I’ll be in Munich,” Cronley said.

General Greene, before Mattingly could reply to that, said, “Why don’t we head for the generals’ mess? It’s always wiser to be earlier for an appointment with a general than late.”

“Colonel Ashton,” Cronley asked, “would it be all right if I waited for you and Lieutenant Schultz here after I get a sandwich in the snack bar?”

“Certainly.”

“The guest list I got from General Smith’s aide has you on it, Cronley,” General Greene said. “You, Colonel Ashton, Lieutenant Schultz, and me.”

Oh, so that’s why Mattingly’s pissed. He didn’t get invited to break bread with Beetle Smith and I did.

That should delight me. But it doesn’t.

I suppose I really am afraid of Colonel Robert Mattingly.

[FOUR]

General Walter Bedell Smith, trailed by his aide-de-camp, a full colonel, marched into the general officers’ mess, where General Greene, Ashton, Schultz, and Cronley were standing waiting for him just inside the door.

“Homer, why don’t you check inside and see everything’s set up, and then catch a sandwich or something while we eat? This is one of those top secret lunches behind a curtain one hears about, and you’re not invited.”

“Not a problem, General,” the aide said, smiling, and went into the dining room.

“How are you, Paul?” Smith asked General Greene.

“Holding up under difficult circumstances, General.”

“Welcome to the club, General.”

Smith turned to Cronley.

“How are you, son? And how’s our midget friend holding up?”

He means Tiny.

“Very well, sir. Tiny’s holding the fort up in Munich.”

“I’m Walter Smith, Colonel,” Smith said to Ashton. “I guess you’re the one I should have asked how he’s holding up.”

“I’m all right, sir. Thank you.”

“And you,” Smith said to Schultz, “by the process of elimination, must be ‘the chief’?”

“Some people still call me that, General,” Schultz said.

“Including Admiral Souers,” Smith said. “He tells me you two are old shipmates?”

Cronley had never heard that before.

Why not?

“Yes, sir. That’s true.”

“Actually, when he told me he was sending you to Europe, I thought I heard an implication that there is more to your relationship than just being old shipmates.”

Schultz seemed to be framing his reply when he saw he didn’t have to. General Smith’s aide was walking quickly back across the room to them.

“All set up, sir.”

“Thanks, Homer. See you in forty-five minutes. Wait a minute. You’re going to Buenos Aires today, right? How are you going to get out to Rhine-Main?”

From the look on General Greene’s face, this was news — surprising news — to him, but he reacted quickly to it:

“I’ll send them in one of my cars, General,” he said.

“Homer, lay on a Packard for these gentlemen,” General Smith said. “If there’s no spare, use mine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“General, that’s not necessary,” Schultz said.

“I understand that chiefs feel free to argue with admirals, Chief, but please don’t argue with a general. A wounded warrior and the executive assistant to the director of Central Intelligence deserve no less than one of our Packards. Do it, Homer.”

“Yes, sir.”

What did he call El Jefe? “The executive assistant to the director of Central Intelligence”?

And Greene’s face showed he had never heard that before, either.

Smith took El Jefe’s arm and led him across the dining room.

“We’ll be in Ike’s dining room,” he said. “Ike’s in Berlin.”

Ike’s dining room turned out to be an alcove off the main room, the windows of which provided a panoramic view of the bombed-out ruins of buildings as far as the eye could see.

There was a table, now set at one end for five, but capable, Cronley guessed, of seating ten, maybe a dozen people comfortably.

Smith stood behind the chair at the head of the table, and indicated where the others were to sit. El Jefe and General Greene were seated close to Smith, and Cronley found himself seated across from Ashton.

A waiter in a starched white jacket appeared. Cronley guessed he was a sergeant.

“There will be no menus today,” General Smith announced. “I’m really pressed for time. Anybody who doesn’t like a steak, medium rare, a baked potato, and green beans is out of luck. Charley, serve the food and then draw the curtain and make sure we’re not interrupted.”

“Yes, sir,” the waiter said.

Serving the food and putting two silver coffee services on the table took very little time.

“Okay,” General Smith said. “General Eisenhower really wanted to be here today, but our Russian friends in Berlin are being difficult. And the reason he wanted to be here — and the reason he asked Admiral Souers to send someone senior over here — is because he wanted to hear from someone who knows what’s really going on with Operation Ost. More precisely, he’s concerned about the level of threat of exposure. And since there is, I devoutly hope, no paper trail, that will have to be word of mouth. And I think we should start by hearing the opinion of the junior officer involved. Captain Cronley.”

Shit!

Cronley stood up.

“Sir—”

“Sit down, please,” General Smith said, “and tell me the first thing that comes to your mind vis-à-vis Operation Ost being compromised.”

Oh, what the hell. When in doubt, tell the truth.

“Sir, the first thing that comes to my mind is that we just started to make a paper trail.”

“That’s very interesting,” Smith said softly. “And whose idea was that?”

“My… I guess he could be called my administrative officer. Staff Sergeant Hessinger.”

“And you thought this idea of your staff sergeant was a good idea?”

“Sir, Hessinger said something to the effect that eventually somebody is going to want to look at our records. And if that happens, and we say, ‘We haven’t been keeping any records,’ that’s not going to be an acceptable answer.”

“And I agreed, General,” Schultz said. “And told Cronley to start making after-action reports on everything of significance that’s happened at Kloster Grünau—”

“Where?” Smith interrupted.

“The monastery,” Schultz furnished.

General Smith nodded his understanding.

“And at the Pullach compound. And about everything else he’s done of significance anywhere.”

“And who gets these after-action reports?” Smith asked.

“Colonel Ashton,” Cronley said. “As responsible officer for Operation Ost. And he sits on them, hoping that no one will ever want to see them.”

General Smith considered that for a full thirty seconds.

“Your sergeant was right, Cronley,” he said. “Napoleon said, ‘An army travels on its stomach,’ but the U.S. Army travels on its paper trails. If this thing blows up in our faces, and we didn’t have any kind of a paper trail, (a) they wouldn’t believe it, and (b) in the absence of a paper trail, we could be accused of anything. I think General Eisenhower would agree. I also think it would be a good idea if I had a look at them, in case they needed… what shall I say?… a little editing.”

“Yes, sir,” Cronley said.

“Not your decision to make,” Smith said. “Chief, what about it?”

After a moment, Schultz said, “Hand-carry them to General Smith personally. Either you or Tiny.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Back to the basic question, Cronley: What is your assessment of the risk of exposure of Operation Ost? Increased, diminished, or no change?”

“Greatly diminished, sir.”

“Why?”

“Sir, just about all of General Gehlen’s Nazis are already in Argentina. There’s a dozen, maybe twenty, still unaccounted for in Eastern Europe. If we can get them out, either to West Germany or Italy, we’ll use the Vatican to get them to Argentina. I mean, we’re no longer going to use SAA to transport them.”

“If you’re right, and I have no reason to doubt that you are, that’s good news,” General Smith said. “Colonel Ashton, what’s your assessment of the same thing, this blowing up in our faces in Argentina?”

“Sir, I’ll probably regret saying this, but I don’t think it’s much of a problem, and the chances diminish by the day.”

“Why do you say that?”

Schultz answered for him: “General, the only people looking for Nazis in Argentina are the FBI. And since Juan Domingo Perón and the Catholic Church don’t want any Nazis found, the FBI is going to have a very hard time finding any.”

“You don’t sound as if you’re rooting for the FBI,” Smith said. “Doesn’t that make you uncomfortable?”

“No, sir, it doesn’t. President Truman and General Eisenhower getting burned by J. Edgar Hoover over Operation Ost is what makes me, and Admiral Souers, uncomfortable.”

“I’d forgotten that you have spent so much time in South America,” General Smith said, but it was a question, and everybody at the table knew it.

When Schultz didn’t reply immediately, Smith made a statement that was clearly another question: “Chief, in the lobby just now, I said that I thought, when he told me he was sending you to Europe, that Admiral Souers was implying there’s more to your relationship than being old shipmates. Then Homer appeared before you could reply. Or saved you from having to reply.”

“You sure you want me to get into that, General?”

“Only if you’re comfortable telling me.”

“Comfortable, no, but the admiral trusts you, which means I do, and I think you have the right to know,” Schultz said. “So okay. The admiral and I were shipmates on battleship USS Utah in 1938. He was then a lieutenant commander and I had just made chief signalman. About the time he made commander, and went to work for the chief of Naval Intelligence, the Navy sent me to Fort Monmouth, in New Jersey, to see what the Army Signal Corps was up to. My contact in ONI was Commander Souers. I kept him up to speed about what the Army was developing — radar, for one thing — and, more important, what became the SIGABA system.”

“It’s an amazing system,” General Smith said. “You were involved in its development?”

“Yes, sir, I was. In 1943, I installed a SIGABA system on a destroyer, the USS Alfred Thomas, DD-107, which then sailed to the South Atlantic to see what kind of range we could get out of it. To keep SIGABA secret, only her captain and two white hats I had with me knew what the real purpose of that voyage was.

“We called at Buenos Aires, official story ‘courtesy visit’ to Argentina, which was then neutral. Actual purpose, so that I could get some SIGABA parts from Collins Radio, which were flown down there in the embassy’s diplomatic pouch.

“A Marine captain comes on board, in a crisp khaki uniform, wearing naval aviator’s wings, the Navy Cross, the Distinguished Flying Cross, and the third award of the Purple Heart…”

“Cletus?” Cronley asked.

“Who else? Anyway, he tells the skipper he understands that he has a SIGABA expert on board and he wants to talk to him. Cletus Frade is a formidable guy. The skipper brings Captain Frade to the radio shack.

“He says he’s heard I’m a SIGABA expert. I deny I ever heard of SIGABA. ‘What is it?’

“He says, ‘Chief, if you ever lie to me again, I’ll have you shot. Now, are you a capable SIGABA repairman or not?’

“I tell him I am. He asks me if I know anything about the RCA 103 Radar — which was also classified Top Secret at the time — and I tell him yes. He says, ‘Pack your sea bag, Chief, orders will soon come detaching you from this tin can and assigning you to me.’

“I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but I’m not worried. The skipper’s not going to let anybody take me off the Alfred Thomas. Who the hell does this crazy Marine think he is? The chief of Naval Operations?

“At 0600 the next morning, so help me God, there is an Urgent message over the SIGABA. Very short message. Classified Top Secret — Tango, which security classification I’d never heard of until that morning. ‘Chief Signalman Oscar J. Schultz detached USS Alfred Thomas, DD-107, assigned personal staff Captain Cletus Frade, USMCR, with immediate effect. Ernest J. King, Admiral, USN, Chief of Naval Operations.’

“At 0800, Cletus is waiting for me on the wharf. In civvies, driving his Horch convertible, with a good-looking blond sitting next to him. It’s Dorotea, his Anglo-Argentine wife. He says we’re going out to the ranch, and should be there in time for lunch.

“‘Sir,’ I say, ‘what’s going on here?’

“‘Congratulations, Chief, you are now a member of Team Turtle of the Office of Strategic Services. The team’s out at the ranch. What we do, among other things, is look for German submarines, supposedly neutral ships that supply German submarines, and then we sink them or blow them up or arrange for the Navy to do that for us. We use the RCA 103 Radar to find them, and the SIGABA to pass the word to the Navy. So we need you to keep those technological marvels up and running.’”

“That’s quite a story,” General Smith said.

“Yeah. But let me finish, General, it gets better.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” General Smith said.

“So we go out to the ranch. I found out later that it’s about as big as Manhattan Island. Really. Cletus owns it. He inherited it, and a hell of a lot else, from his father, who was murdered at the orders, so the OSS guys told me, of Heinrich Himmler himself when it looked like El Coronel Frade was going to become president of Argentina.

“And I met the team. All a bunch of civilians in uniform. Well, maybe not in uniform. But not professional military men, if you know what I mean. No offense, Polo.”

“None taken, El Jefe. That’s what we were, civilians in uniform. On those rare occasions when we wore uniforms.”

“Admiral Souers — by then he was Rear Admiral, Lower Half — finally learned that I’d been shanghaied off the USS Alfred Thomas. He got a message to me saying that he couldn’t get me out of Argentina, but I could still be of use to the Office of Naval Intelligence by reporting everything I could learn about what Frade and Team Turtle were up to. The admiral said that it was very important to ONI.

“By then, I’d already heard about the trouble Clete was having with the naval attaché of our embassy — a real asshole — and the FBI and some other people supposed to be on our side, and I’d gotten to know the OSS guys. So first I told Clete what the admiral wanted, told him I wasn’t going to do it, and then I got on the SIGABA and told the admiral I wasn’t going to report to ONI on Team Turtle and why.

“I got a short message in reply. ‘Fully understand. Let me know if I can ever help with anything Frade needs.’”

“And then one thing led to another, General,” Ashton said. “First, El Jefe became de facto chief of staff to Frade, and then de jure. Or more or less de jure. Without telling El Jefe that he was going to, Clete got on the horn — the SIGABA — to Admiral Souers and told him he was going to ask the Navy to commission El Jefe and was the admiral going to help or get in the way?”

“Two weeks later,” El Jefe picked up the story, “the naval attaché was forced to swear me in as a lieutenant, USNR. The attaché couldn’t say anything, of course, but that really ruined his day, which is why I asked Clete to have him ordered to do it.”

General Smith chuckled.

“The reason I look so spiffy in my uniform is that it’s practically brand-new,” El Jefe said. “I don’t think it’s got two weeks’ wear on it.”

“You didn’t wear it because you were too cheap to buy more gold stripes when you were made a lieutenant commander,” Ashton said. “Or when Clete got you promoted to commander so you’d outrank me and could take command of what was still the OSS, Southern Cone, when he took off his uniform.”

Schultz gave him the finger.

“Clete thought — and he was right — that it looked better if people thought I was a chief, rather than an officer,” Schultz said. “So we kept my change of status quiet.”

“You’re a full commander, Oscar?” Cronley asked.

“I retired a couple of weeks ago as a commander, U.S. Naval Reserve, Jim,” Schultz said. “What I am now is a member of what they call the Senior Executive Service of the Directorate of Central Intelligence. My title is executive assistant to the director.”

When Cronley didn’t reply, Schultz said, “Why are you so surprised? You’ve been around the spook business long enough to know that nothing is ever what it looks like.”

“Like the chief, DCI-Europe, isn’t what he looks like?”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that I’m very young, wholly inexperienced in the spook business, and pretty slow, so it took me a long time to figure out that there’s something very fishy about a very junior captain being chief, DCI — Europe, and that no one wants to tell him what’s really going on.”

“Well, Jim, now that you have figured that out, I guess we’ll have to tell you. I will on the way to the airport.”

“Why don’t you tell him now?” General Smith said. “I think General Greene should be privy to this.”

“Yes, sir,” Schultz said. “Okay. Where to start? Okay. When President Truman was talked into disbanding the OSS — largely by J. Edgar Hoover, but with a large assist by the Army, no offense, General—”

“Tell it like it is, Chief,” General Smith said.

“He first realized that he couldn’t turn off everything the OSS was doing — especially Operation Ost, but some other operations, too — like a lightbulb. So he turned to his old friend Admiral Souers to run them until they could be turned over to somebody else.

“Admiral Souers convinced him — I think Truman had figured this out by himself, so I probably should have said, the admiral convinced the President that the President was right in maybe thinking he had made a mistake by shutting down the OSS.

“The admiral didn’t know much about Operation Ost, except that it existed. Truman told him what it was. The admiral knew I was involved with it in Argentina, so he sent for me to see what I thought should be done with it.

“The President trusted his old friend the admiral, and the admiral trusted his old shipmate. Okay? The President was learning how few people he could trust, and learning how many people he could not trust, starting with J. Edgar Hoover.

“So Truman decided a new OSS was needed. Who to run it? The admiral.

“So what to do about Operation Ost, which was important for two reasons — for the intel it had about the Russians, and because if it came out we’d made the deal with Gehlen and were smuggling Nazis out of Germany, Truman would be impeached, Eisenhower would be court-martialed, and we’d lose the German intelligence about our pal Joe Stalin.

“So how do we hide Operation Ost from J. Edgar Hoover, the Army, the Navy, the State Department, the Washington Post, et cetera, et cetera? We try to make it look unimportant. How do we do that? We pick some obscure bird colonel to run it. Which bird colonel could we trust? For that matter, which light bird, which major, could we trust?

“And if we found one, that would raise the question, which full colonel, which light bird would General Gehlen trust? I mean really trust, so that he’d really keep up his end of the deal?

“The President says, ‘What about Captain Cronley?’”

“You were there, Chief?” General Smith asked. “You heard him say that?”

“I was there. I heard him say that. The admiral said, ‘Harry, that’s ridiculous!’ and the President said, ‘Who would think anything important would be handed to a captain?’

“The admiral said, ‘Who would think anything in the intelligence business would be handed over to a captain?’

“And the President said, ‘There are captains and then there are captains. I know. I was one. This one, Cronley, has just been given the DSM and a promotion to captain by the commander in chief for unspecified services connected with intelligence. J. Edgar knows it was because Cronley found the submarine with the uranium oxide on it. J. Edgar would not think there was anything funny if Captain Cronley were given some unimportant job in intelligence that might get him promoted.’

“The admiral said something about giving Cronley Operation Ost because no one would think Operation Ost was important if a captain was running it, and the President said, ‘For that reason, I think we should name Captain Cronley chief, DCI-Europe, and let that leak.’

“‘Harry,’ the admiral said, “‘General Gehlen is an old-school Kraut officer. I don’t think he’ll stand still for taking orders from a captain.’

“And the President said, ‘Why don’t we ask him?’

“So we asked General Gehlen. So there you sit, Mr. Chief, DCI-Europe. Okay? Any questions?”

“How soon can I expect to be relieved when you find some bird colonel you can trust, who’s acceptable to General Gehlen and should have this job?”

“The job is yours until you screw up — or one of your people does — and Operation Ost is blown.”

“Then I get thrown to the wolves?”

“Then you get thrown to the wolves. If that happens, try to take as few people down with you as you can. Any questions?”

“No, sir,” Cronley said, and a moment later, “Thanks, Oscar.”

[FIVE]

There had been a delay in the departure of SAA flight 233, so Cronley had told Max Ostrowski, “Head home. That way, if I have to go to Munich instead of Kloster Grünau, there will be only one Storch parked in the transient area to arouse curiosity, not two.”

When Schultz and Ashton finally got off the ground, he knew there was no chance of his making it to the monastery strip before dark, so he went to the snack bar in the terminal and had a greasy hamburger, fries, and a Coke before leaving Rhine-Main.

He had another — much better — hamburger at Schleissheim, the Munich military post airfield, when he landed, and then got a ride to the hotel.

As he walked down the corridor to his room, he saw light under the door to 507, which was where Fat Freddy held court, and he pushed the huge door handle down and walked in.

I will tell Freddy everything Schultz said in the generals’ mess and see what he has to say.

Hessinger was not behind the desk. Technical Sergeant Claudette Colbert was.

She rose from behind the desk at which she was typing when she saw him.

She was wearing a “pink” as in pinks-and-greens officer’s skirt and a khaki shirt, and he saw an officer’s green tunic on the coatrack.

Well, it didn’t take much time for her to get in triangles, did it?

“Good evening, sir.”

“Now that you’re a civilian, you can drop the ‘sir,’ Claudette.”

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“Where’s Freddy?”

“He said he was going to visit a friend.”

“Yeah.”

“He left a number, shall I call him for you?”

“I try not to call Freddy when he’s visiting friends. He sulks.”

She smiled.

“Is Mr. Ostrowski with you?”

“He’s at Kloster Grünau. I had to wait until Schultz and Ashton took off, which meant it was too dark for me to land there. So I came here.”

“Major Derwin called. He said he’d like to see you at ten hundred tomorrow.”

What does that sonofabitch want?

“Wonderful!”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you. I’m going to go to my room, have a stiff drink, and go to bed.”

“How did things go with General Greene?”

“It was interesting, Claudette, but not worthy of an after-action report.”

Subject: Screw Up and Get Thrown to the Wolves.

“That’s what I’ve been doing,” she said, nodding at the typewriter. “After-action reports.”

“Claudette—”

“My friends call me ‘Dette,’” she said.

“Because if they shortened it the other way, it would be ‘Claude’?”

“And I don’t want to be called ‘Claude.’”

“Well, Dette, as I was about to say, Freddy will push you around if you let him. Don’t let him. It’s quarter after eight. Knock off. The after actions aren’t that important.”

“Okay, I’ll finish this one and knock off,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Good night, Dette.”

“Good night… What should I call you?”

“Good question. When no one’s around, call me Jim. Otherwise, Mr. Cronley.”

“Got it. Good night, Jim.”

“Good night,” Cronley said, and walked out.

Cronley went to his room, which was actually a suite, found a bottle of scotch, poured himself a stiff drink, and then decided he would first have a shower and then have the drink, catch the 2100 news broadcast on the American Forces Network Munich radio station, and then go to bed.

Ten minutes later, as he pulled on the terrycloth bathrobe that came with the suite, he heard over AFN Munich that he was just in time for the news. It was always preceded by a solemn voice proclaiming, “Remember, soldier! VD walks the streets tonight! And penicillin fails once in seven times!”

And he wondered again, as he often did, how Daddy or Mommy explained the commercial to nine-year-old Jane or Bobby when they asked, “Daddy, what’s that man talking about?”

When he came out of the bathroom, Technical Sergeant Colbert was sitting in an armchair.

“You almost got a look at something you don’t want to see,” he snapped. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

“Well, I finished the first after-action report, and thought you might want to see it. Wrong guess?”

“I don’t think being in my room is smart,” he said.

“Since Freddy gave me the master key, I thought coming in made more sense than waiting in the hall for you to finish your shower,” she said. “Shall I leave?”

“Let me see the after action,” he said.

She got out of the chair, walked to him, and handed him some typewritten sheets of paper. He glanced at the title: “Likharev, Sergei, Colonel NKGB, Capture Of.”

He became aware that she was still standing close to him.

He looked at her.

“We cleared up one misunderstanding between us yesterday,” she said. “Why don’t we clear up this one?”

“Which one is that?”

“Officers, and you’re a good one, don’t fool around with enlisted women, right?”

“I’m glad you understand that.”

“And everyone knows that a recently widowed officer would have absolutely no interest in becoming romantically involved with another woman, especially a subordinate enlisted woman seven years older than he is, right?”

She must have really gone through my personal files.

“Right again. Is there going to be a written test on this?”

“But you would agree that there is a great difference between a continuing romantic involvement and an every-once-in-a-while-as-needed purely physical relationship, if both parties are (a) aware of the difference, and (b) have been forced into the strangest perversion of them all?”

“What the hell would that be?”

“Oscar Wilde said it was celibacy,” she said.

“I don’t think I like this conversation, Sergeant Colbert.”

She laughed deep in her throat, and then pointed at his midsection.

His erect penis had escaped his bathrobe.

Her right hand reached for it, and with her left she pulled his face down to hers.

She encountered little, virtually no, resistance.