Top Secret

[ONE]

Cletus Frade followed Jim Cronley into the Weather/Flight Planning room at Base Operations and watched as a sergeant gave Cronley a weather briefing.

Then he followed Cronley to a row of what looked like lecterns, or headwaiter’s tables, where pilots, standing up, prepared their flight plans.

“What do you think of the weather, Jimmy?”

“It’s a little dicey. And since I will be transporting a senior officer, I thought I’d file IFR.”

“Could you make it to Kloster Grünau VFR?”

“In this kind of weather, the only way to get into Kloster Grünau International is by following CC Flight Rules. But, yeah, I could. I will, after I drop you off in Frankfurt, if that’s what you’re asking. Not a problem.”

“CC for Chasing Cows?” Clete asked, smiling.

Jimmy smiled back and nodded.

“What would happen if you took off from here on a Local VFR, closed it out in the air, and then went CC to Kloster Grünau?”

“You want to go to Kloster Grünau? What about Frankfurt?”

“Answer the question.”

“Why are we going to sneak into Kloster Grünau?”

“Because General Gehlen called last night and said he would really like a word with me before I go to Argentina. And I don’t want Mattingly to know I had a final word with General Gehlen before I went to Argentina. Which means that after I have a final word with General Gehlen, before you fly me to Frankfurt so that I can go to Argentina you should avoid telling Colonel Mattingly—”

“That you had a final word with General Gehlen before you went to Argentina?”

“My, you are clever for a young Army officer.”

They were smiling at each other.

“Don’t let this go to your head, Colonel, sir, but after you go to Argentina, I will miss you.”

“Yeah. Me, too, Jimmy.”

Jimmy folded the aerial chart on which he had been about to prepare his flight plan and stuffed it in his jacket.

Then the two of them walked out of the Weather/Flight Planning room and the Base Operations building and started looking for the Storch.

[TWO]

As the Storch made the final approach to Kloster Grünau, Clete saw an ambulance parked just off the end of the runway and of course felt compelled to comment: “Oh, an ambulance is on station. I guess they’ve seen you try to land here before.”

Jimmy didn’t reply.

When he touched down, the ambulance followed the Storch down the runway to the tarpaulins beside what had been the chapel. Frade could now see that First Sergeant Dunwiddie was behind the wheel of the ambulance and General Reinhard Gehlen in the passenger seat beside him.

Frade and Cronley got out of the Storch, and General Gehlen got out of the ambulance.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I thought it was important.”

“Not a problem,” Frade said.

Gehlen indicated that Frade should get in the seat he had just left.

“No, sir,” Cronley said. “The colonel will ride in the back, where he can apologize to me for making yet another hasty judgment.”

Frade looked at him expectantly.

“If the colonel looks closely he will notice that while this vehicle began life as a Truck, a three-quarter-ton four-by-four Ambulance, it is no longer used in that capacity. The colonel will notice there are no red crosses on the sides or the roof. Additionally, if the colonel looks at the door, he will see the legend INDIGENOUS PERSONNEL TRANSPORT VEHICLE #5, and if he looks at the bumpers he will see that the markings indicate it is in the service of the 711TH QM MKRC. That stands for ‘Quartermaster Mess Kit Repair Company.’”

“Okay, okay,” Frade said. “Can I get in it now? It’s as cold as a witch’s teat out here.”

“Not until I’m finished,” Cronley said.

Frade was about to snap, “Finish later,” but he saw the amused smile on Gehlen’s face and held his tongue.

“The other four indigenous personnel transport vehicles of the 711th QM MKRC are, in fact, used to transport indigenous personnel. But those indigenous personnel are not mess kit repairers, but, in fact, associates of General Gehlen. The 711th Quartermaster is a figment of Dunwiddie’s imagination. That keeps curious people from asking the wrong questions.”

“Got it,” Frade said. “How much longer is this lecture going to go on?”

“Not much longer, bear with me. Now, Indigenous Transport Vehicle #5, this one, is a deception within a deception, thanks again to the genius of First Sergeant Dunwiddie. This vehicle, as you will soon see, has two armchairs mounted inside where they used to put stretchers. When the senior staff of Kloster Grünau has something to talk about we don’t wish to share with anyone else, we get in what is now our Truck, a three-quarter-ton four-by-four Mobile Secure Room and drive out on the runway.”

“Clever,” Frade said.

“Which is what I suspect the general had in mind today. Do you have any questions, Colonel, sir, or is everything clear in your mind?”

“How do I open the back door?”

“I will accept that as an apology for your cruel remarks about my reputation as a pilot.”

“Shut up, Jimmy,” Frade said, smiling, “and get in the goddamned truck. Or whatever the hell it is.”

Frade settled himself in one of the armchairs, looked around, saw a table with a coffee thermos and mugs on it, and said, “Nice. And clever.”

Gehlen turned from the front seat. “Yes, it is. And Dunwiddie does get the credit. Shortly after Sergeant Tedworth arrested Major Orlovsky and we had to deal with the unpleasant fact that the NKGB is among us, I mentioned idly that I was a bit concerned that our conversations in Jim’s office might be overheard. He told me he’d been working on a solution, then took me for a ride in this.”

“Is that what you wanted to talk about?” Frade said. “Are the people the NKGB turned — I suppose I mean Orlovsky turned — becoming a greater problem?”

“They are, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, what I thought you should hear.”

“Okay. Shoot. Anything you have to say I’ll listen to.”

“How about anything First Sergeant Dunwiddie has to say?”

The question took Frade by surprise.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“Your hesitation — indeed, your not answering that question at all — proves that Sergeant Dunwiddie was right again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, General.”

“As I told you I was going to, I took Dunwiddie with me when I talked to Major Orlovsky. After our first chat — we’ve had three with him, the last at midnight, just before I called you — Dunwiddie said that he thought he had detected in Orlovsky something I hadn’t.”

“Which was?” Frade asked.

Gehlen didn’t reply directly. Instead, he said, “I thought he was wrong, or perhaps reaching, as you Americans say, for a straw. But in the second meeting, I approached the subject at its fringes, and began to see what Dunwiddie suspected.”

“Which was?”

Again Gehlen ignored the question.

“What Dunwiddie suspected was not only possible but likely. Improbable, I had thought at first. Now I thought it was likely. So after the second chat with our friend Konstantin, I asked Chauncey…”

“Chauncey?” Frade interrupted.

“… how he would suggest I attempt to exploit the window he had opened. He suggested that I permit him to try exploiting what he saw. After some thought, and frankly without a great deal of enthusiasm, I told him to go ahead. So we had our third chat with Friend Konstantin. Two minutes into Chauncey’s interrogation, it was clear that he was right in his assessment of the chink in Orlovsky’s armor — and well on the way to cracking the chink wide open.”

“What chink?” Frade said.

And was again ignored.

“At that point, we stopped. Or I told Chauncey to stop. When we were alone, I told him that what we had to do now was get you to come back. Obviously, we couldn’t discuss this on the telephone. Whoever my traitors are, they are capable of tapping our telephone lines and probably are doing so.

“Chauncey said that the call would have to come from me. That you would not be inclined to either believe him or trust his skill. Or his judgment. So I called. Before he tells you what he has done, and what he believes we should do, I want to say that I called you because I think he’s absolutely right.”

Frade looked at Dunwiddie in the driver’s seat.

“Okay, Dunwiddie, let’s hear it.”

“Major Orlovsky is a Christian, Colonel,” he began.

“We don’t ordinarily think of NKGB officers as being Christians, do we?” Frade asked thoughtfully.

“No, sir. I am presuming his superiors are unaware of it.”

“I presume you’re telling me he takes it seriously?”

“Yes, sir. That’s my take.”

“So what?”

“Two things, sir. He might already be questioning the moral superiority of the Communists.”

“And you believe, I gather, that the Soviet Union is governed by acolytes of Marx and Lenin? Heathen acolytes, so to speak?”

“I know better than that, Colonel,” Dunwiddie said. “What I’m suggesting is that if Orlovsky is a — what? — sincere Christian, then he can’t be comfortable with state atheism and what the Communists have done to the Russian Orthodox Church.”

“I’ve always felt that suppression of the Russian Church was one of the worst mistakes Stalin made,” Gehlen said. “And the proof of that is that he has not been able to stamp out Christianity. After Chauncey brought this up, I remembered that at least half of the people we’ve turned have been Christians.”

“I thought we were listening to what Sergeant Dunwiddie has to say,” Frade said not very pleasantly.

“And if he is a Christian,” Dunwiddie continued, “then he is very much aware of his Christian duty to protect his wife and children. We’ve already seen suggestions of that.”

“We’re back to ‘so what?’” Frade said.

“When the Germans attacked what they believe is Holy Mother Russia — and, tangentially, I’ve always been curious about why an atheist state uses the term ‘Holy Mother Russia’ so often — it was his patriotic duty to defend it.”

“And, at the risk of repeating myself, so what?”

“We’ve done nothing to the Soviet Union, actually the reverse. So why are they attacking the United States? If we can get him to ask himself that, and then prove we’re the good guys by making a bona fide effort to get his family out of Russia…”

Frade looked at him a long moment, then said, “Dunwiddie, if you were in Orlovsky’s shoes, remembering you didn’t get to be an NKGB major by being stupid, would you believe General Gehlen or Captain Cronley or me when one of us said, ‘Trust me…’ What the hell’s his name? Konstantin. ‘Trust me, Konstantin, if you change sides, we’ll get your family out of Russia and set you up with a new life in Argentina’?”

“I might if a priest told me that,” Dunwiddie said.

“You have two options there, Sergeant, if you think it through. You either dress up some guy as a priest — who your pal Konstantin would see through in about ten seconds — or you find some priest willing to go along with you. How easy do you think that will be?”

“You already have a priest,” Dunwiddie said evenly.

“What priest? Wait… you mean Father Welner? You’re suggesting I bring Welner here from Argentina to deal with Orlovsky?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jesus, Clete!” Jimmy blurted. “That would work.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Frade said. “That’s preposterous.” He stopped. “On the other hand, it just might work.”

“That’s what Sergeant Dunwiddie and I concluded, Colonel,” Gehlen said. “The question then becomes: Will Father Welner be willing to participate?”

“General, the question our wily Jesuit friend will ask himself is: ‘What’s in this for me?’ ‘Me’ being defined as the Society of Jesus. And from what I’ve seen of them — and Welner — he will regard this as a heaven-sent opportunity. They get no-cost-to-them access to a senior NKGB officer and they get an ‘I owe you’ from both me and you. And probably from General Martín as well. That’s the only downside I see, Martín being brought into this.”

“What I was asking was: Isn’t Father Welner likely to consider the moral implications of him being used to turn Major Orlovsky? The first thing we want from Orlovsky is the names of my people he — the NKGB — has turned. And Father Welner knows what will happen to them when we know who they are.”

“When Father Welner was explaining to me how things were in Argentina, and God knows I needed an explanation—”

“Otto Niedermeyer told me that you were very close to Father Welner, but never offered an explanation of how that came to happen,” Gehlen interrupted.

Frade correctly interpreted it to be more of a question than a statement.

“He was my father’s confessor and best friend,” Frade said. “Because my father was about as religious as I am, and had good reason to hate the Church—”

“‘Hate the Church’?” Gehlen parroted in surprise.

Frade paused before deciding to answer the question.

“My mother was a convert to Roman Catholicism,” he said finally. “After having been warned that a second pregnancy would be very dangerous, she dutifully obeyed the Catholic rules forbidding contraception and died in childbirth. After her funeral, the next time he entered a church was at his own funeral. You heard he was assassinated?”

“At the orders of the SS,” Gehlen said. “Otto told me. I’m very sorry.”

“On the day of my father’s funeral, Welner came to me. He said that whether or not I liked it, he considered himself my priest, my confessor, and hoped that he and I could become as close as he and my father had been.

“I didn’t know what his motives were, whether he was trying to put me in his pocket for the good of the Church or whether it really was because of the personal relationship he said he had with my father. I suppressed the urge to tell him to get lost. Over time, I have come to believe that it was probably a little of both. He and my father had been very close. And now I was sitting on the throne of my father’s kingdom. Jesuits like to get close to the guy on the throne. Anyway, truth being stranger than fiction, the wily Jesuit and I became, we are, good friends.

“When he was explaining to me how Argentina worked, he said the primary reason Argentina tilted heavily toward the Axis had less to do with their admiration for Adolf Hitler and National Socialism than it did with what they had seen in the Spanish Civil War. That had been a war, they believed, between the Christian forces of Franco and the godless Republicans, read Communists. The Germans made sure the Argentines knew the Republicans had murdered four thousand — odd priests—”

“And thirteen bishops,” Gehlen said.

“So you think that’s true, that the Republicans murdered priests and nuns out of hand?” Frade asked.

“And bishops. I saw evidence of one such sacrilege one beautiful spring day in 1937.”

“You saw it?” Cronley blurted.

Gehlen nodded.

“I think I missed the actual sacrilege by an hour. Maybe two. My team — I was then a brand-new major — and I were driving down a road near Seville. As we approached a picturesque little village, there was a priest hanging from every other telephone pole. And then when we got to the center of the little village, we found, lying in a massive pool of blood in front of the burned-out church, a dozen nuns who had obviously been violated before they were murdered. And a bishop tied to a chair. He had been shot in the back of the head. Our sergeant theorized that he had been forced to watch the raping of the nuns, but there is of course no way we could know that for sure.”

“Jesus Christ!” Cronley exclaimed.

“Captain Cronley gets the prize for today’s most inappropriate blasphemy,” Frade said darkly.

“I think that was an expression of disgust, rather than blasphemy,” Gehlen said.

“Possibly,” Frade said. “I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. Before we got off the subject, I was about to say that I don’t think Father Welner will have any moral problems helping us turn an NKGB officer. I suspect he feels — for that matter, the Catholic Church feels — much the same way about Communists as General Philip Sheridan felt about the Indians on our Western plains.”

“Excuse me?”

“General Sheridan was quoted as saying that the only good Indian was a dead one,” Frade said.

“That’s a bit brutal,” Gehlen said. “But Communism poses the greatest threat to Roman Catholicism there has ever been, and I’m sure the Vatican is fully aware of that.”

“My grandfather,” Frade said, “who is the exact opposite of an admirer of the Catholic Church, says that to understand the Catholic Church you have to understand that its primary mission is its preservation.”

Gehlen didn’t reply to that. He said, instead, “Dunwiddie has recognized another problem: Unless we can get Orlovsky out of here and to Argentina without the wrong people learning about it…”

He left the sentence unfinished, but Frade took his meaning.

“Yeah,” Frade agreed. His face showed that he had both not considered that problem and was, without much success, trying to find a solution.

“Shoot him,” Cronley said. “And then bury him in the dark of night and in great secrecy, in an unmarked grave in the Kloster cemetery.”

Frade understood that immediately, too.

“That’d work. I presume, General, that despite Captain Cronley’s determination to conduct Orlovsky’s burial in the greatest secrecy it would not go unnoticed?”

“I think we could count on that, Colonel,” Gehlen said.

“And then,” Frade said, “you’re going to have to figure a way to get the corpse from its unmarked grave and get it onto a Connie in Frankfurt without anybody—”

“Without anybody,” Gehlen said, laughing, “dropping to their knees in awe at a second resurrection.”

“I’ll leave the solution to that problem in your capable hands,” Frade said. “Not that I think, with Sergeant Dunwiddie’s exception, that you’re all that capable, but because I really have to get to Rhine-Main now.”

“Thank you very much,” Gehlen said. “Your confidence in us inspires me.”

Frade chuckled, then said, “When I spoke with Admiral Souers last night, I told him we’d go wheels-up at noon. The admiral does not like to be kept waiting.”

“Do you want to see Major Orlovsky before you go?” Gehlen asked.

“Your call, General.”

“Chauncey?” Gehlen said.

“Sir, I think a brief visit. Shake his hand, tell him you’re off to Argentina and look forward to seeing him there. That’s it.”

“I agree,” Gehlen said.

“Then that’s what I’ll do. Jimmy, after you drop me at Rhine-Main, I want you to go back to Munich. You are authorized to tell Sergeant Hessinger that we’re going to take Orlovsky to Argentina. Only, repeat only, Sergeant Hessinger. Not Major Wallace. Make sure Hessinger knows he’s not to tell Wallace or Mattingly anything about this. I’m telling you this, giving you this order, before witnesses. My stated reason for this is that if this thing blows up in our faces, Mattingly and Wallace will be off the hook. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if they don’t know about it, they can’t get in the way,” Frade added.

“You consider that a problem?” Gehlen asked.

“Colonel Mattingly,” Frade said, “is very skilled in the fine art of covering his ass. I’m just helping him do that.”

Gehlen shook his head and smiled.

“Let’s go see Major Orlovsky,” Frade said. “And while I’m doing that, Jimmy, you can top off the tanks in the Storch.”

“How about some breakfast first, and then top off the tanks?”

“Have the mess make us some bacon-and-egg sandwiches,” Frade ordered. “We can eat them on the way to Rhine-Main. We can’t make Admiral Souers wait for us.”

[THREE]

“Rhine-Main Ground Control, Army Seven-Oh-Seven,” Cronley said into his microphone. “Request taxi instruction to parking location of South American Airways Lockheed Constellation tail number Double-Zero-Five. If you can’t see me, I am a Storch aircraft on taxiway sixteen left.”

There was no reply, just sixty seconds of hiss. Finally, Cronley called again. “Rhine-Main, Army Seven-Oh-Seven. Do you read me?”

“Army Seven-Zero-Seven, hold one,” Ground Control replied.

“They seem to have lost your airplane,” Cronley said to Frade.

“What the hell?” Frade replied.

“Army Seven-Zero-Seven, Rhine-Main Ground. Be advised South American Airways Double-Zero-Five is parked in a secure area and you are not, repeat not, authorized to enter secure area.”

“Rhine-Main Ground, Army Seven-Oh-Seven. Be advised I have the captain of South American Double-Zero-Five aboard. What do I tell him?”

“What the hell?” Frade asked again.

There was another sixty seconds of nothing but hiss before Rhine-Main replied: “Army Seven-Zero-Seven, Rhine-Main Ground. Hold in present position. A Follow me will meet you.”

“Seven-Oh-Seven understands hold for Follow me.”

The Follow me—a jeep painted in a yellow-and-black checkerboard pattern, with a large sign reading FOLLOW ME mounted on its rear — came racing onto the taxiway ninety seconds later. It was accompanied by two Military Police jeeps, each holding four military policemen. The Follow me turned and backed up to the nose of the Storch. The MP jeeps began to take up positions on either side of the Storch. When they had done so, the Follow me started to move.

“What the hell’s going on, Clete?”

“Whatever it is, Jimmy, I don’t like it.”

The Follow me led them away from the terminal, and finally to a remote airfield compass rose. Three staff cars were parked on the grass beside the rose.

An MP captain carrying an electric bullhorn walked onto the compass rose.

“Pilot, shut down your engine and exit the aircraft!” he ordered.

“Why do I think we’re under arrest?” Jimmy said.

When he had shut down the Storch and was starting to climb down from the aircraft, three men in civilian suits and snap-brim hats and an Air Force major got out of the staff cars.

When both Frade and Cronley were out of the airplane, the three men and the major walked closer. One of them produced credentials and announced, “Federal Bureau of Investigation. Let’s see some identification.”

“Major, I am Lieutenant Colonel Cletus Frade, U.S. Marine Corps—”

“I told you I wanted to see your identification,” the FBI agent snapped, interrupting him.

“… And I am on a mission classified Top Secret — Lindbergh,” Frade finished.

“God damn you,” the FBI agent said, “I said I want to see your identification.”

“Major, if this civilian swears at me again, I’m going to punch him into next week,” Frade said.

“On the ground. Get on your knees and then lay on your stomach!” the FBI agent ordered furiously.

Frade turned to the Air Force major. “I will show you my identification, Major.”

“On the goddamned ground, goddamn it!” the FBI agent barked.

The Air Force major, looking very uncomfortable, quickly walked past the FBI agents and saluted. Frade returned it.

“Sir, I’m Major Johansen, the assistant base provost marshal. May I see your identification?”

Frade produced it. The major examined it, and Frade, very carefully.

“The colonel is who he says he is,” Johansen said. “Lieutenant Colonel Frade, U.S. Marine Corps.”

“And the other one? Who is he?”

“Major Johansen,” Frade said, “what I want you to do right now is call General Walter Bedell Smith — Frankfurt Military 1113—in the Farben Building—”

“I asked who this other man is,” the FBI agent snapped. “It is a federal crime, a felony, to interfere with an agent of the FBI in the execution of his office. I am asking for the last time for the identity of this young man. Specifically, are you James D. Cronley Junior?”

Jimmy snapped back: “What did this Cronley guy do, rob a bank?”

“Get on the phone now, Major,” Frade said. “That is a direct order.”

The major looked at him for a long moment, then said, “Yes, sir.”

He signaled for one of the jeeps to come to them. When it had, he gestured for the driver to hand him the microphone of the shortwave radio behind the rear seat.

“This is Major Johansen,” he said into it. “Get on the telephone and call Frankfurt Military…” He looked at Frade.

“One-one-one-three,” Frade furnished.

“Tell them Colonel Frade, USMC, is calling for General Smith. Then stand by to relay both parts of the conversation if we can’t hear him,” the major ordered. He turned to Frade. “This shouldn’t take long, sir.”

Everyone heard whoever was on the other end of the shortwave net reply to Johansen, “Frankfurt Military 1113. Yes, sir.”

“Thank you,” Frade said.

“Office of the deputy commander, Sergeant Major King speaking, sir.”

“Colonel Frade calling for General Smith,” Major Johansen said.

“Hold one, please, Colonel,” the sergeant major said.

The major handed Frade the microphone.

“Colonel,” a new voice said. “This is General Porter. General Smith is en route with Admiral Souers to meet you at Rhine-Main. He may already be there. But is there something I can do for you?”

“Hold one, please, General,” Frade said. He turned to the FBI agent. “Are you going to fold your tent and get the hell out of here, or would you like me to tell General Porter what he can do for me?”

The FBI agent glared at Frade for a moment.

“You haven’t heard the last of this, Colonel.” He then gestured to the others to follow him.

“No, thank you, sir,” Frade said. “Just checking. I’m at Rhine-Main.”

“Have a nice flight, Colonel,” General Porter said.

“Thank you, sir. Frade out.”

The FBI agents got in one of the staff cars and it drove off.

Frade handed the microphone to the Air Force major.

“Thank you, Major.”

“May I ask, sir, what that was all about?”

“You can ask, but I can’t tell you,” Frade said, smiling. “If I did, I’d have to kill you.”

The major chuckled.

“On the other hand, you can tell me what the FBI told you about us. And that’s not in the order of a suggestion.”

“Sir, he said that they were investigating the exfiltration of Nazis from Germany into Argentina.”

“He told you we were suspected of exfiltrating Nazis out of Germany? Into Argentina?”

“He implied that, Colonel.”

“Cronley, show the major your credentials,” Frade ordered.

Cronley did so.

“When I saw Twenty-three CIC on your vertical stabilizer,” the major said, as he handed them back, “I cleverly deduced the CIC might somehow be involved in this. You’re sure you can’t tell me how?”

“I can tell you this much: What I am going to do is exfiltrate Admiral Sidney Souers, who is senior counselor to President Truman, out of Germany into Washington, D.C. He’s been here conferring with General Eisenhower.”

“Yes, sir, I know. We’ve had your airplane under heavy security since it arrived.”

“I’d love to know how the FBI came up with that me-smuggling-Nazis-out-of-Germany theory.”

“No telling, Colonel. But it does make you wonder if the FBI is as perfect as they would have us all believe, doesn’t it?” He paused. “I’m sorry about all this, Colonel.”

“Forget it. You were just doing your job.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”

“Two things. You can take me to my airplane and arrange for Cronley to top off the tanks in the Storch.”

“Why don’t I send for a fuel truck and then take you to your airplane in my car?”

“How about having the Follow me lead Cronley and his Storch to the Connie?” Frade asked. “That way I will have to take my suitcase out of the airplane just once instead of unloading it into your car, et cetera?”

“Done,” the major said. “I’ll have the fuel truck meet us at your Constellation.”

“I will go in the Storch,” Frade said. “Even with a Follow me to lead him, Cronley — he learned to fly last week — would probably get lost between here and there in your great big airport.”

The major laughed out loud.

“Colonel, thanks for not being sore about this. The FBI came into my office, waving their credentials. And, frankly, I’ve heard the rumors about Nazis escaping to South America. I just…”

“I probably would have reacted the same way.”

“That’s very good of you, sir.”

“I will mention what happened to General Smith,” Frade said. He turned to Cronley. “All right, Special Agent Cronley. Into the airplane, and please remember to engage your brain before starting the engine.”

The major laughed out loud again.

“I’ll follow you over there,” he said.

“What was that comedy routine all about?” Cronley asked, as he taxied the Storch across the airfield. “You sounded like a combination of Jack Benny and Will Rogers.”

“Pay attention, Jimmy,” Frade snapped, his tone making clear that he was deadly serious. “The damned FBI showing up here poses a greater threat to what we’re doing — on several fronts — than the people the NKGB has turned. High on this list is the distinct possibility that when Mattingly hears about it — and we have to assume he will — he will immediately shift into Cover His Ass mode and decide to throw you to the wolves. And I won’t be here to protect you.”

“You think he may already have done that? How come the FBI was here in the first place?”

“I don’t know. They may have just put the SAA Connie under surveillance to see if I was going to sneak Nazis onto it. That doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense, because I’d be a fool to do that with Admiral Souers aboard. But on the other hand, the FBI does a lot of things that don’t make sense.”

“They asked, specifically, if I was James D. Cronley Junior.”

“Well, they’ve been looking for you since you were in Washington. Maybe they spotted you at the Schlosshotel Kronberg or the Vier Jahreszeiten. Anyway, they know you’re here. They regard you as the weakest link in the fence we’ve built around Operation Ost. And they really want to know about that. J. Edgar Hoover would really like to have that on Truman. And it would be almost as good — maybe better — for them to find out this renegade operation of the President is holding an NKGB officer they haven’t told Army G-2 they have. And are taking him, or have taken him, to Argentina.”

“Understood.”

“Yeah, I think you do.”

“Practically, what can happen? Say I can’t manage to dodge them? Say they show up at Kloster Grünau? I kept Colonel Schumann out of there, and he had, arguably, a right to know what’s going on in there. They don’t. What are they going to do? Complain to whom? Mattingly would have to tell them that what’s going on there is none of their business. Otherwise, he would be the guy who blew Operation Ost and that would be the same thing as betraying the President.”

“Okay. But they don’t know that, Jimmy. What they know is that there is a twenty-two-year-old junior Army officer who they think knows all about Operation Ost. With reason, they feel all they have to do is wave their FBI credentials in his face, he’ll piss his pants, then tell them anything they want to know.”

“You don’t think what happened just now might make them wonder about that?”

“You mean your wiseass crack? ‘What did this Cronley guy do, rob a bank?’”

“Yeah.”

“That was clever, but all it really did was make that FBI guy decide, ‘Okay, I can’t deal with this wiseass now. I’ll have to wait until Frade is gone. No problem. All things come to he who waits.’”

“I’m not going to blow Operation Ost, Clete.”

“Don’t underestimate the FBI. They’re not stupid, and right now they’re under a lot of pressure — if not from Hoover himself, then from Clyde Whatsisname, his deputy — to find out whatever they can about Operation Ost. You’re going to have to be very careful.”

“Clyde Whatsisname?”

“Hoover’s deputy director. Admiral Souers told me he’s the guy in charge of the private files — usually detailed reports of sexual escapades — Hoover uses to hold over people, especially politicians.” He paused and chuckled. “Jimmy, please tell me you’re not fucking somebody you shouldn’t be fucking. That would be all we need right now. The Federal Blackmail Institution would love to have something like that on you.”

Jimmy laughed, because he knew that was the reaction Clete expected.

But I am fucking somebody I shouldn’t be fucking.

And I can’t afford to have — what did Clete call it? — the Federal Blackmail Institution catch me doing it.

Okay. Auf Wiedersehen, Rachel! Affair over!

You go back to the colonel and the kiddies.

And I try to start thinking with my head instead of my dick.

It never should have started. What the hell was I thinking?

Then he repeated: “I’m not going to blow Operation Ost.”

“I wish I was as confident about that as you are.”

“What do you want me to do, say it again? Okay. I’m not going to blow Operation Ost.”

“When was the last time you saw a grown man pout?”

“What?”

“Pout. You know, stick your lip out and look sad so everybody feels sorry for you.”

“What the hell are you talking about now?”

“Enrico,” Clete said. He pointed.

They were approaching the Constellation. Sergeant Major Enrico Rodríguez, Cavalry, Argentine Army, Retired, was sitting on the stairway leading up the open rear door of the aircraft. His Remington Model 11 riot shotgun was in his lap.

And he was indeed pouting.

“I didn’t want to take him to the meeting at the Schlosshotel Kronberg. It would have been awkward all around. So I made him stay with Gonzo Delgano. ‘For just overnight.’ And then you and I went to Munich the next morning…”

“And he’s really pissed.”

“Yup. And he’s really pissed.”

“He loves you, Clete.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Cronley and Frade got out of the Storch.

Enrico pretended not to see them.

“Enrico, you want to help me with my bag?” Frade called.

Rodríguez walked to the Storch, said, “Teniente,” to Cronley, and took Frade’s bag.

He ignored Frade.

“Actually, Enrico, that’s Capitán,” Frade said.

“Capitán,” Enrico said, and marched with Frade’s bag to the ladder and carried it up and into the airplane.

“How long are you going to be invisible?” Jimmy asked.

“God only knows. Enrico can stay pissed — pout — longer than my wife.”

“Here comes my gas truck.”

“As soon as you’re topped off, get out of here and down to Munich. Try to confuse the FBI about where you’re going. You probably won’t be able to, but try.”

“At the risk of repeating myself, Colonel, sir, I’m not going to blow Operation Ost.”

“So you said.”

“And here comes the admiral,” Frade said, pointing.

A convoy was approaching the Constellation. First an M-8 Armored Car, then a Packard Clipper with a four-star license plate, then a Buick Roadmaster with a one-star plate, and then another M-8.

“Major Johansen is dazzled by all those stars,” Frade said. “Good.”

“What?”

“We will now make our manners to the deputy commander in chief, U.S. Forces, European Theatre. With a little luck, he will be cordial, and the Air Force major will see that you have friends in high places and decide it’s highly unlikely that people like you and me would be sneaking Nazis — or anyone else — out of Germany. That may very well come in handy when you are trying to sneak your buddy Konstantin through his airport.”

The convoy stopped. Drivers jumped out and opened doors. General Walter Bedell Smith, Rear Admiral Sidney W. Souers, and a full colonel wearing the insignia of an aide-de-camp to a four-star general got out of the Packard Clipper.

Frade saluted crisply.

“Good morning, sir!” he barked.

Smith, Souers, and the aide-de-camp returned the salute.

“Ready to go, are we, Frade?” Souers said.

“We just got here ourselves, sir. But we should be.”

“I don’t think you have met Colonel Frade, have you, Beetle?” Souers said. “And I know you haven’t met Captain Cronley.”

Brigadier General John Magruder and Colonel Jack Mullaney got out of the Buick and walked quickly up to them, obviously determined not to miss anything.

They arrived in time to hear General Smith ask, “The officer who found the U-234?”

“Yes, sir,” Frade said. “That’s him.”

“Well done, son,” General Smith said, pumping Jimmy’s hand.

“Thank you, sir,” Cronley said.

Gonzalo Delgano came down the stairs. He was wearing his SAA uniform.

“Don Cletus, we’re ready to go anytime you are.”

“Gentlemen, this is Captain Delgano,” Frade said. “South American Airways chief pilot.”

Hands were shaken.

The drivers of the staff cars carried luggage aboard.

“Have a nice flight,” General Smith said.

“Thank you for all your courtesies and hospitality,” Admiral Souers said.

He shook Cronley’s hand and then waved for Frade to precede him up the stairs.

Clete put his hand out to Jimmy and said, “We’ll be in touch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Aw, hell,” Frade said. “In Argentina, men can kiss their friends.”

He hugged Jimmy and wetly kissed his cheek.

“Be careful, Little Brother,” Frade said, then quickly climbed the stairs. Admiral Souers followed him.

“Only a Marine would dare to do that,” General Smith said, chuckling.

“Captain Cronley,” Major Johansen said, “if you refuel your aircraft here, the Constellation will have to wait until you’re finished.”

“Then let me get out of here,” Cronley said.

“Why don’t we all get out of the way?” General Smith said, and motioned for his aide-de-camp to get into the Packard.

Major Johansen and Cronley saluted as the convoy drove off the compass star.

Cronley got back in the Storch and fired it up as ground crews moved fire extinguishers into place for the starting of the Constellation’s engines. The Follow me jeep flashed its lights as a signal it was ready for Cronley to follow him.

The fuel truck and Major Johansen’s staff car followed the Storch to the threshold of a runway.

The Constellation, running on two engines, came down the taxiway and lined up with the runway.

As Cronley got out of the Storch, the Constellation started the other engines and ran them up.

And then started to roll.

Jimmy watched it take off.

And suddenly felt very much alone.

He showed the fuel truck crew where the tanks were. Topping them off took no more than a few minutes, but by the time they were finished, the Constellation was out of sight.

That reinforced Jimmy’s feeling of being very much alone.

He turned to Major Johansen.

“Thanks for everything, Major,” he said, and saluted.

“Have a nice flight,” Johansen said. “And come back. The next time, I promise not to meet you like you’ve just robbed a bank.”

“I just may take you up on that, sir.”

Ninety seconds later, he reported, “Rhine-Main Departure Control. Army Seven-Zero-Seven rolling.”

As he broke ground and pointed the nose of the Storch south, he thought that he could easily make Munich in less than two hours. It was about 300 kilometers from Frankfurt am Main to Munich, and the Storch cruised at about 170 kilometers per hour.

Then he remembered that Frade had ordered him to try to confuse the FBI about his destination.

He said, “Shit!” and reached for the microphone.

“Rhine-Main Area Control, Army Seven-Oh-Seven. Change of flight plan. Close out Direct Rhine-Main Schleissheim. Open Direct Rhine-Main Eschborn for passenger pickup.”

It was a flight of only a few minutes, and it took him over Hoechst.

Right down there is where Lieutenant Colonel and Mrs. Schumann and their children have their quarters.

What the hell was I doing, screwing a colonel’s wife? A married woman with children?

Well, it may have had something to do with the fact that in a twenty-four-hour period, I had been married, my wife was killed, and the President of the United States pinned captain’s bars on me.

Not to mention what happened at the mouth of the Magellan Straits.

I was understandably under an emotional strain. That just might have had something to do with my stupidity.

On the other hand, I do have a tendency to do amazingly stupid things, don’t I? As well as an extraordinary ability to justify whatever dumb fucking thing I may have done — such as fucking somebody I shouldn’t be fucking, as Clete so aptly put it.

Well, at least Rachel’s down there and I’ll be in Munich or at Kloster Grünau.

And ne’er the twain shall meet, as they say.

“Eschborn, Army Seven-Oh-Seven, at fifteen hundred feet, three miles south. I am a Storch aircraft, I say again, Storch aircraft. Request straight-in approach to Runway Thirty-five. I have it in sight.

“Eschborn, Army Seven-Oh-Seven at the threshold of Three-five. VFR to Hersfeld. Request takeoff permission.

“Hersfeld, Army Seven-Oh-Seven, request approach and landing. I am a Storch aircraft, I say again, Storch aircraft, at fifteen hundred four miles south of your station.

“Hersfeld, Army Seven-Oh-Seven understands Number Two to land on Three-three after an L-4.

“Hersfeld, Army Seven-Oh-Seven… Oops! I came in a little long. I’d better go around. I should be able to get it on the ground the next try. Please close out my VFR flight plan at ten past the hour. Thank you.”

When I am absolutely sure that I’m out of sight of the Hersfeld tower, in the interest of pilot safety I will climb to say five hundred feet and go to Munich.

[FOUR]

And what am I going to do, Cronley wondered, as he reached for the doorknob of Suite 507, if Sergeant Freddy Hessinger has taken off for the day? Go look for him in that whorehouse? Or if Major Harold Wallace is here?

Sergeant Hessinger was at his ornate desk in his usual pinks-and-greens officer’s uniform. The door to Wallace’s office was closed; there was no way to tell if he was in it or not.

“I was wondering where you were,” Hessinger greeted him.

It came out, “I vus vondering vair you vur.”

Cronley managed not to smile.

“Your girlfriend has been looking for you,” Hessinger added.

Jesus Christ! Does Freddy know?

Cronley sat down in one of the two upholstered chairs facing Hessinger’s desk before asking what he hoped would sound like an innocent question.

“What girlfriend would that be?”

“Mrs. Colonel Schumann, that one.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Cronley hoped that question also sounded innocent.

“She telephoned twice and came in once. I think she wants you to buy her dinner.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because she is a colonel’s wife and he went to Vienna and left her here and you are a captain and she thinks she’s entitled.”

“Screw her.”

“I don’t know how nice that would be, but I do know it would be very dangerous. Colonel Schumann is not a nice man.”

“Speaking of nice men, where is Major Wallace?”

“He is at the bar of the officers’ club.”

“Here in the hotel?”

“No. At the Signal Battalion.”

“Freddy, we have to talk, and Major Wallace can’t know we did, or what we talked about. Either him or Colonel Mattingly.”

“Why do I think I’m not going to like this? Does this have something to do with the NKGB-er Sergeant Tedworth caught at Kloster Grünau?”

“How’d you hear about that?”

“Tedworth told me.”

“He has a big mouth. He should have known better.”

“We trust each other. What about the NKGB-er?”

“We think we turned him.”

“I doubt that. He’s NKGB. They are not known for turning. Being smarter than their captors, yes. Turning, no.”

“I think we have, Freddy.”

“We? Who is we? You and Dunwiddie?”

“And General Gehlen.”

“Gehlen thinks you have turned the NKGB-er?”

“He thinks we have him well on the road to turning, and that when we get him talking to the priest Frade is sending from Argentina, he will turn.”

“What priest? From Argentina?”

“He’s a Jesuit who’s been involved with getting people to Argentina for the Vatican. We’re going to take Orlovsky to Argentina.”

“What I think you should do is start from the beginning,” Hessinger said. “The beginning is when you were in trouble with Mattingly because you stuck your nose into Gehlen’s interrogation of the Russian.”

“A lot’s happened since then.”

“That’s why you should start from the beginning,” Hessinger said reasonably.

“Okay. I guess the most important thing is that Mattingly is no longer in charge of Operation Ost. Frade is…”

“… and so,” Cronley concluded, “as soon as Frade took off for the States, I came here. After, of course, trying to confuse the FBI about my destination. Further deponent sayeth not.”

Hessinger grunted thoughtfully.

“Freddy…” Cronley began.

“The one maybe big problem I see,” Hessinger interrupted him, “is getting the NKGB-er through the airport in Frankfurt. If we get caught loading him on an Argentine airliner…” He stopped, then asked, “Why are you looking at me funny?”

“I was about to ask, ‘Now that you know what’s going on, will you help?’ You sound as if you’re already enlisted.”

“I think of it more as being drafted one more time. I didn’t enlist in the Army, I was drafted. And I have no more choice here than when I got that Your friends and neighbors have selected you postcard from my draft board.”

Cronley chuckled.

“You want to explain that?”

“Is necessary?”

“Yeah, I think so, Freddy.”

“Okay. When I got my draft notice, I started researching the Army.”

“You did what?”

“I wanted to learn what I could expect. So I went to the library—”

“And got a book?” Cronley said, chuckling. “What to Expect When You’re Drafted?”

“Not a book. Books plural. About military ethics.”

“There ain’t no such animal.”

“Yes, there is. A good officer has dual loyalty.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Up and down. A good officer is loyal to his superiors and his subordinates. They taught you about this when you went to that Texas military school, right?”

“It was mentioned once or twice. So what?”

“It didn’t take me long to figure out Mattingly. His is only up.”

“Excuse me?”

“His loyalty is upward only. People under him are expendable.”

“That’s true, but so what?”

“So I knew it was only a matter of time until he expended me.”

“Okay.”

“Then you showed up. And I saw that yours is both ways.”

“How do you know?”

“If yours was only upward, to Mattingly, you would have kept your nose to yourself and let him get away with what he was trying to do to Dunwiddie. Get Dunwiddie to shoot the NKGB-er and him know nothing about it. You didn’t. You were loyal downwards. If you’re at the bottom, like I am here, loyalty downwards is very important.”

“Well, then, welcome to our little conspiracy, Freddy.”

“Like I said, I see only one maybe big problem. Getting the NKGB-er onto the Argentine airplane. We’ll have to think about that.”

“Why don’t we find a quiet corner of the dining room and think about it there? While I’m eating. The only thing I’ve had to eat all day is a bacon-and-egg sandwich.”

“Because you are going to call Mrs. Colonel Schumann and ask her what you can do for her. Probably dinner.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I’d rather not be here. I would rather be back at Harvard chasing Wellesley girls and working on my doctorate. But I am here.”

“Then you take her to dinner.”

“She doesn’t want to have dinner with me. I’m an enlisted man. Besides, what we are trying to do is important. And you know you can’t afford to have Mrs. Colonel Schumann pissed at you.”

He picked up the elaborate old-fashioned telephone on his desk.

“Kindly connect me with Mrs. Lieutenant Colonel Schumann,” he ordered.

“Maybe she’s not there,” Cronley said after a moment. “Maybe she got tired of waiting for me.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Schumann. This is Special Agent Hessinger. I have found Captain Cronley for you. One moment, please.”

He put his hand over the microphone, said, “Be charming,” then extended the receiver to Cronley.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Schumann. This is Captain Cronley. How are you? Special Agent Hessinger tells me you’re all alone in Munich.”

“The colonel had to go to Vienna,” Rachel said.

“So Hessinger told me. I was wondering if you’re free for dinner.”

“As a matter of fact, yes, Captain Cronley, I am.”

“When would you like me to call for you?”

“Actually, I’d be open to an invitation for cocktails, too.”

“You mean right now?”

“Could you fit me into your busy schedule?”

“With pleasure. The thing is, I’ve been flying just about all day…”

“Flying? Where?”

“… and I need a shower and a fresh uniform. Could you meet me in the bar in, say, thirty minutes?”

“I’ll be waiting. Thank you so much, Captain Cronley.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Cronley stood and put the receiver back in its cradle.

“How’d I do?”

“You’re no Cary Grant, more like Humphrey Bogart. Anyway, all you have to do is keep her happy.”

“How do I do that?”

“By doing whatever she wants you to do.”

“You going to be here when I’ve fed her?”

“No. I get off at five. It’s now five-fifteen. How about I meet you in the dining room for breakfast at seven?”

“I’ll be there.”

[FIVE]

As he went into his room, after a moment’s indecision, Cronley dropped a matchbook in the doorjamb so it wouldn’t close.

He didn’t know if Rachel would come to his room instead of waiting for him in the bar. He hoped she wouldn’t. But she might. She seemed oblivious to the risks of their getting caught. And he didn’t want her to be seen knocking at his door. By Freddy Hessinger, for example, who might be leaving his down-the-corridor office as she did so.

After thinking about this, too, he laid an Ike jacket with the insignia of captain of Cavalry on the bed before going in the shower. That would enable him to play the role of the nice captain entertaining the colonel’s lady at dinner in the colonel’s absence. Colonels’ ladies do not fool around with young captains. They just might fool around with CIC special agents.

What stupid games am I playing?

He got as far as the bathroom door before returning to the bed. He put the captain’s jacket back into the closet and tossed the Ike jacket with civilian triangles he had been wearing all day onto the bed.

He was standing naked in front of the sink several minutes later wiping shaving cream from his face when Rachel came in.

“Why do I think you knew I wasn’t going to wait for you in the bar?”

“Because you know I know you take chances you shouldn’t take?”

She walked up to him and put her hand on him and then pulled his face down to hers. She kissed him lewdly for a moment, then pulled away.

“That’s what you’re not going to get,” she said, “because you were flying your damned Russian around all day and not paying attention to me.”

Then she walked out of the bathroom.

He finished wiping the shaving cream off his face and put on his underwear before going back into the bedroom. She was sitting in an armchair, her legs crossed and showing — he was sure intentionally — a good deal of leg.

“Well, are you going to say you’re sorry?” she asked.

“For what?”

“You know for what. I spent all day waiting to just hear from you.”

“What was I supposed to do, Rachel, call your room?”

“Why not?”

“‘Colonel Schumann, this is Cronley. Can I speak with your wife?’ Come on, Rachel.”

“Tony went to Vienna. You knew that.”

“I didn’t.”

“On the phone just now you knew.”

“Hessinger had just told me.”

She considered that.

“I spent all day waiting for you to call.”

“I’m sorry. Frade wanted me to fly him to Frankfurt. I flew him to Frankfurt. I waited for him and the admiral to take off. He took off. I came back here. The defense rests.”

“I believe you,” she said after a moment. “I’m sorry.”

“Not necessary.”

“You want to know how sorry I am?”

“You’re going to slash your wrists?”

“Come here.”

He walked closer to her. She sat forward in the armchair.

“Closer,” she ordered. “I’m sorry I thought you spent all day with that Russian.”

She put her hand to his shorts, pushed them aside, and took him into her mouth.

Some time later, she tucked it back in.

“That’s how sorry I am,” she said. “Forgive me?”

“My God!”

“But that’s all you get now. I spent two hours in the beauty salon making myself pretty for you, and I don’t want to mess my hair. Right away. After dinner is another matter.”

[SIX]

“I can’t believe you ate all that,” Rachel said, as he put his knife and fork across the plate that had held a medium-rare porterhouse steak, baked potato, and buttered peas.

“I said all I had to eat all day was a bacon-and-egg sandwich,” he said, then drained what was left of his double Jack Daniel’s rocks.

“I hope you got your strength back, you poor starving boy.”

“That was a very nice steak.”

“And a large one. I had an idea when I was sitting under the dryer in the beauty shop,” she said.

“Why do I think it was lewd?”

“I don’t suppose you could put me in that German airplane of yours and fly me up to your monastery? Just the thought of doing it there feels delightfully lewd.”

“I couldn’t fly you there without a lot of people asking questions.”

“But you can use that Opel Kapitän, right?”

Cronley nodded.

“So you could drive me to your monastery tomorrow?”

When he didn’t reply immediately, she went on: “Everybody knows I stayed here when Tony went to Vienna so I could look into the enlisted men’s welfare facilities. No one would ask questions if I went there. And while I was there, perhaps the commanding officer would show me his quarters. I’d really like to have the commanding officer show me his quarters.”

“Great idea, except that I’m under orders to stay here until I hear from Colonel Frade.”

“Hear from him about what?”

“He didn’t choose to tell me that.”

“Damn.”

“I would be delighted to show you my commanding officer’s quarters in Pullach tomorrow.”

“I really would like to tell Tony that I got into the monastery after you shot up his car to keep him out. We couldn’t make a quick trip early in the morning?”

“Maybe after I hear from Colonel Frade.”

“I suppose that’s better than a flat-out ‘Hell no, Rachel, you can’t go to my monastery.’”

“I’m being charming as I have designs on your body.”

Cronley then had a fresh disturbing thought: Now that I have decided — and really believe — Mrs. Colonel Schumann is really somebody I shouldn’t be fucking, what’s going to happen when we get upstairs? What if I can’t get it up?