Top Secret

[ONE]

Staff Sergeant Harold Lewis Jr.’s jeep followed Cronley’s Storch down the runway when it landed. Lewis was waiting for him when he climbed out of it.

The first question Cronley put to him was had Lewis seen or heard from Major Harold Wallace.

Lewis said he had not.

“How’s our friend in das Gasthaus?”

“He’s still not talking to us, sir. He did, though, really wolf down his breakfast.”

“Well, he didn’t eat much for dinner last night.”

Jesus, was that only last night?

“And this just in, sir,” Lewis said, handing him a SIGABA printout.

Cronley read as far as the first paragraph before deciding that Major Ashton was not good at following — or more likely didn’t want to follow — the prescribed literary rules for messages, which called for the messages to say what had to be said formally and in as few words as possible.

Cronley handed the printout to General Gehlen.

“The Argentine J. Edgar?” Gehlen asked.

“J. Edgar Hoover heads the FBI. The Argentine version of that is the BIS. He’s talking about General Martín, who heads the BIS.”

“I should have thought of that,” Gehlen said. “Mountaintop, I assume, is the establishment in the Andes?”

“The foothills of the Andes. Mendoza.”

“And the Jesuit will be in Buenos Aires when Colonel Frade arrives. I hope he’ll do what Frade asks.”

“I think the problem was in finding him. I’m sure he’ll do what we want him to do, it’s in his interest as well as ours.”

“And a final question. Why is the FBI so interested in finding you?”

“I’ve thought about that,” Cronley said. “The best scenario I can come up with is that J. Edgar himself, probably because someone told him there was a young second lieutenant on Clete’s grandfather’s airplane, said, ‘Get to him.’

“That makes sense. If you’re going to break someone, it makes more sense to go after a twenty-two-year-old second lieutenant than it does someone like Colonel Mattingly or Colonel Frade or Major Wallace. If he knew about Dunwiddie, Hoover would have sent his people after him, for the same reasons.

“So Hoover is waiting to hear what the young second lieutenant said after they broke him, and all that these guys can report is they haven’t been able to break him because they can’t even find him. They’re embarrassed and under a hell of a lot of pressure.”

“And, if somehow they do find you, can they break you?”

“No,” Cronley said. “I’ve thought about that, too.”

“You sound very confident.”

“I’m not going to let them break me. What we’re doing is important. I’m not going to let them hold Operation Ost over the President. I know I’m expendable, so what happens to me, if they catch me—es wird sein Wille.”

Gehlen laughed.

“I think that’s que será será in Spanish, am I correct?”

“Yes, sir. At least that’s what it is in Texican, which I speak.”

“Do you plan to show this message to Major Orlovsky?”

“I will, if you agree it’s the smart thing to do.”

“He’s liable to ask questions about the FBI.”

“Which we will answer truthfully.”

“He’s liable to wonder that, if they find you, you might break, and he would be left hanging in the wind.”

“But he will also know — I hope — that we’re telling him the truth.”

After a just perceptible pause, Gehlen nodded.

Cronley turned to Sergeant Lewis.

“Are you going to remember to keep your mouth shut, or should I continue to call you Sergeant Loudmouth?”

“My mouth is shut, sir.”

“Okay. Sergeant Lewis, go to Major Orlovsky… No, first things first.”

He reached in his pocket and handed him a slip of paper.

“Those are the names of the three men Dunwiddie has picked to drive two ambulances to the Pullach compound. They will first pack them with as much stuff from here as will fit. They will take with them enough clothing to last a week. I am telling you, but you are not to tell them, that they’ll be in Frankfurt for about a week. Sergeant Dunwiddie will tell them the rest when he sees them. Get them on the road as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When you have done that, go to das Gasthaus and show Major Orlovsky this last message. Tell him if he has any questions, General Gehlen and I will be happy to answer them if he can find time in his busy schedule to take lunch with us.”

“In other words, sir, go get the Russian?”

“No. Do exactly what I just told you to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Sergeant Lewis, round up Colonel Mannberg and tell him that General Gehlen and I request the pleasure of his presence at lunch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sergeant Lewis sounds better than Sergeant Loudmouth, wouldn’t you agree, Sergeant Lewis?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Christians, such as myself and General Gehlen, Sergeant Lewis, believe to err is human, to forgive divine. You may wish to write that down.”

“Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?”

“Carry on, Sergeant Lewis.”

[TWO]

Preceded by Staff Sergeant Harold Lewis Jr., two of Tiny’s Troopers led Major Konstantin Orlovsky into the room. The Russian was shackled, his arms strapped to his sides, his hands cuffed behind him, and he had a duffel bag over his head.

Cronley gestured for Lewis to take off the bag.

“Konstantin,” Cronley said as Orlovsky squinted in the sudden light, “I asked Sergeant Lewis to tell you that General Gehlen, Colonel Mannberg, and myself would be pleased to have you join us for lunch, over which we will answer any questions you might have about the latest SIGABA message. And if you just came to ask questions about the latest SIGABA message, I will understand that is a matter of principle. But I hate to ask my men to go through the inconvenience of getting you out of what you’re wearing and into something more appropriate for lunch if it is your intention to sit there with your arms folded self-righteously across your chest while you watch the three of us eat. Which is it to be?”

“I accept your kind invitation to lunch,” Orlovsky said.

“Please assist the major in changing, Sergeant Lewis,” Cronley ordered.

When they had gone into Cronley’s bedroom and the door had been closed, General Gehlen very quietly said, “An unorthodox interrogation technique, but I’m starting to think an effective one. Wouldn’t you agree, Ludwig?”

“Captain Cronley has the advantage of a Strasburgerin mother. Everyone knows Strasbourgers can charm wild beasts.”

Does he mean that? Or does he realize I’ve won the interrogation technique argument with the general?

Orlovsky came back into the room, now dressed in olive drab trousers and a shirt from Cronley’s closet.

“Can I have Sergeant Lewis get you a beer, Konstantin?” Cronley asked.

“That would be kind of you.”

“Get the major a beer, please, Sergeant Lewis. And then ask them to serve our lunch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Before we get into any questions you might have about the SIGABA message, Konstantin, Ludwig — Colonel Mannberg — is curious why you changed your mind about breaking bread with us.”

“I gave the matter some thought after I passed on dinner last night,” Orlovsky said. “I realized there was nothing I could do to get you to stop this… this childish theater of yours. And then it occurred to me that there was no reason I shouldn’t eat while I was being forced to listen.”

“That not eating was sort of cutting off your nose to spite your face?”

Orlovsky shook his head.

“If you like,” he said.

“Good for you. And you’re drinking beer, presumably, because of what Christ said according to Saint Timothy?”

“Excuse me?”

“‘Take a little beer for thy stomach’s sake and thine other infirmities’?”

“Wine, Jim,” Gehlen said, chuckling. “Take a little wine…”

“Is that what He really said?” Cronley asked innocently.

“Actually, I think what He said was vodka,” Orlovsky said.

“And, Ludwig, you didn’t think that Konstantin had a sense of humor,” Cronley said. “Sergeant Lewis, go to the bar and get a bottle of vodka. Major Orlovsky needs a little belt.”

“That’s going too far, Captain Cronley,” Orlovsky said. “I will have one beer. One. But I’m not going to let you ply me with alcohol.”

“Well, you can’t blame me for trying. What was it Lenin said, ‘All’s fair in love and war’?”

“Lenin said nothing of the kind,” Orlovsky said.

“If you say so,” Cronley said. “So, what didn’t you understand in the SIGABA message? Let’s get that out of the way before the meat loaf arrives.”

“You remember what I said about the last message? That you can’t possibly believe I would believe you would show me a classified message?”

“Yes, I do. And I remember what I replied. ‘Why not? You’re never going to be in a position to tell anyone about it.’ So tell me what aroused your curiosity.”

“The FBI is looking for you?”

“I can see where you might find that interesting. The FBI is the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It’s run by a man named J. Edgar Hoover. It’s something like your organization, the NKGB, except they don’t have cells in the basement of their headquarters building where they torture people, and they can’t send people they don’t like to an American version of Siberia. We don’t even have an American Siberia.

“All the FBI can do is ask questions. What they want to ask me is what I know about the rumor that we’re sending some of General Gehlen’s people and their families to Argentina to keep them out of the hands of your former associates in the NKGB. As I don’t want to be asked that question, I have been making myself scarce.”

“You have succeeded in making me curious. Your FBI doesn’t know what you’ve been doing?”

“We don’t think they have the Need to Know, so we don’t tell them.”

“Well, what if they find you?”

“Then I will do one, or both, of the following: I will tell them I have no idea what they’re talking about and claim the Fifth.”

“What is ‘the fifth’?”

Cronley held his right arm up as if swearing to an oath, and said, “I claim the protection provided by the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution of the United States and decline to answer the question on the grounds that any answer I might give might tend to incriminate me.’ That’s called ‘claiming the Fifth.’”

“You’re admitting that what you’re doing is illegal?” Orlovsky asked.

“I didn’t say that. Is Operation Ost illegal? No. It’s been approved at the highest levels of our government. It’s clandestine, because we don’t want it all over the front page of the Washington Star newspaper. Got it?”

“Let’s say I heard what you said.”

“Good. I would hate to feel you weren’t listening,” Cronley replied. “Now, the Argentine J. Edgar to whom Major Ashton — I did tell you, didn’t I, that Polo is Major Maxwell Ashton? That he’s the officer coming here to take the heavy burden of command from my inadequate shoulders?”

“I heard that, too,” Orlovsky said.

“Where was I? Oh. The Argentine J. Edgar to whom Polo Slash Major Ashton refers is General Bernardo Martín, who heads the Argentine Bureau of Internal Security. He and Colonel Frade work closely together and have become friends.”

“You’re suggesting that Colonel Frade turned the head of the Argentine security agency?”

“No. I didn’t say that. Colonel Frade’s father, also known as Colonel Frade, did that. He turned Martín. Or General Martín turned himself.”

“Turned himself?”

“At one time, the president of Argentina, who was not a very nice man, suspected there was a coup d’état under way which would see him replaced as president by Colonel Frade the elder. He charged Martín, then a lieutenant colonel, with stopping it.

“Martín, realizing that Colonel Frade would be a much better president than the incumbent, decided that his duty as an officer whose primary allegiance should be to his country could not follow these orders. So he turned and allied himself with Colonel Frade. The coup d’état was successful.”

“You don’t really expect me to believe that Colonel Frade’s father is the Argentine president?”

“I didn’t say he was. The Nazis had Colonel Frade assassinated. They didn’t want him to be the president. They are not nice people.”

“And yet you are protecting Nazis from justice,” Orlovsky said.

“That’s true. That was the price General Gehlen negotiated for his turning. He knew what the NKGB would do to his officers, and to their families, if they got their hands on them. And so do you, Konstantin. General Gehlen decided turning, and saving his officers and their families from the NKGB, was the honorable thing for him to do as an officer and a Christian. Even though he knew some of his officers were Nazis and deserved to be hung.”

Orlovsky didn’t reply as his eyes met Gehlen’s, and Gehlen nodded once.

Cronley went on: “Saving innocent wives and children from unpleasantness, even death, is the honorable thing to do if one has the choice, wouldn’t you agree, Major Orlovsky?”

“Treason is never honorable,” Orlovsky said, looking at Cronley.

“Sometimes treason is the only alternative to doing something truly dishonorable,” Gehlen said.

“Nothing is ever black or white,” Cronley said. “Do they say that in Russia, Konstantin?”

“Would you be offended if I told you I’m more than tired of hearing your perverse philosophy? You sound like nineteen-year-olds in the first year of university.”

“We used to say,” Mannberg offered, “when I was in the first year of university, that ‘perversion, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.’”

“When I was in my first year at my university,” Cronley said with a straight face, “I didn’t know what perversion was. We don’t have much of that sort of thing in Texas.”

All three shook their heads in disbelief.

“Moving right along,” Cronley said after a moment, “in the next two paragraphs Major Ashton tells us that he is leaving Mendoza — our operation there is literally on a mountaintop — to meet Colonel Frade when he arrives in Buenos Aires.

“The Jesuit priest is Father Welner. Although he didn’t say so, I suspect that General Martín will also be at the airfield when Colonel Frade arrives. He’ll have to be brought into this eventually, and sooner is usually better than later.”

No one said anything.

“So, I think in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, the Good Jesuit should be here to offer his wise counsel. He and Major Ashton. I hope.”

Again there was no response.

“So unless you have further questions, Konstantin?”

“None, thank you.”

Cronley raised his voice. “Sergeant Lewis! Have lunch served! And don’t forget the vodka for Major Orlovsky.”

Lunch was served. A bottle of beer and a bottle of vodka were placed before the Russian.

He ate his lunch.

He did not touch the vodka.

In the course of conversation, General Gehlen asked Orlovsky if he was familiar with the theory of Field Marshal Helmuth Karl Bernhard Graf von Moltke that no plan survives contact with the enemy.

Orlovsky said he was.

Gehlen said: “A friend of mine recently suggested that the roots of that theory can be found in von Moltke’s The Russo-Turkish Campaign in Europe, 1828–1829. Are you familiar with that, Major Orlovsky?”

Orlovsky said he was.

“What do you think of my friend’s theory that in that book was the first time von Moltke said what he said so often later.”

Orlovsky told him he’d never considered that before, but now that he thought about it, the general’s friend was obviously right.

The Russo-Turkish campaign of 1828–1829 was then discussed at some length by General Gehlen and Major Orlovsky. Captain Cronley and Colonel Mannberg, who knew next to nothing about the campaign, sat and listened and said nothing. Both were deeply impressed with the erudition of the general and the major, and both wondered privately if they should make an effort to get their hands on a copy.

When lunch was over, Orlovsky refused a brandy to top the meal off, but had two cups of coffee.

Then Captain Cronley summoned Staff Sergeant Harold Lewis Jr., and Orlovsky was taken into Cronley’s bedroom, changed back into his prisoner’s clothing, re-shackled and re-handcuffed, covered again with a blanket and a duffel bag, and returned to das Gasthaus.

After he had gone, Cronley asked, “How do you think that went?”

After a moment, Gehlen said, “I don’t know. Either he’s coming around, or he’s smarter than both of us.”

Cronley had a number of immediate thoughts.

The first was, Is it possible that Orlovsky is smarter than Gehlen? God knows he’s smarter than I am. Not to mention more experienced.

The second was, If Gehlen doesn’t know how that went, how can I be expected to know?

The third was, He left Mannberg out of that. “Both of us” is not “we.”

The fourth was, I’m going to have to do something about Rachel before that blows up in my face.

[THREE]

Cronley watched as the three GMC 6×6 trucks that had carried the First Platoon of Company C, 203rd Tank Destroyer Battalion to the Pullach compound approached Kloster Grünau. The jeeps that had been with them had apparently stayed at the compound. That meant the jeeps — more specifically their pedestal-mounted.50 caliber Browning machine guns — were already guarding the compound, and that in turn meant the compound was up and running. And, finally, that in turn meant that the sooner everybody going to the compound got there, the better.

As the first truck rolled slowly past Cronley, Technical Sergeant James L. Martin jumped nimbly to the ground with what Cronley considered amazing agility for someone of his bulk.

Martin saluted.

“How’d it go, Sergeant?” Cronley asked as he returned the salute.

“Dunwiddie said he’d give you a full report when he gets here, sir, but it went well. Clark and Abraham should be halfway to Frankfurt with the ambulances about now. That ASA lieutenant…?”

“Stratford?”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Stratford sent one of his non-coms with them to make sure there’s no problems stashing the vehicles. He, the sergeant, is going to get on his radio net and tell the lieutenant when they’re there, and that info will be relayed here to you on the SIGABA.”

“Good thinking.”

“Tiny said he’s going to stay as long as he can before he gets that Kraut to fly him home, so he should be here just before it gets dark.”

“Good,” Cronley said, and decided this was not the time to suggest, politely or otherwise, that Germans normally do not like to be called Krauts.

He had an off-the-wall thought: I guess if you’re as large as Martin, you get used to saying just about anything you please, because only someone larger than you can call you on it, and there aren’t very many people larger than Martin.

General Gehlen walked up to them.

Martin saluted.

He’s not supposed to do that, either. But this isn’t the time or place to get into that, either.

“How are you, Sergeant Martin?” Gehlen asked. He did not return the salute.

Martin picked up on it.

“Sorry, sir. Captain. It’s just that I’m an old soldier and I know the general was a general…”

“Try a little harder, and all will be forgiven,” Cronley said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I was wondering when you planned to start moving my people,” Gehlen said.

Martin looked at Cronley. “Tiny… First Sergeant Dunwiddie said to tell you, sir, Captain, that you can start sending them anytime.”

“I was going to suggest, Captain Cronley, that we send Herr Mannberg to the Pullach compound early on,” Gehlen said.

“You’re going to go back as soon as you load up, right?” Cronley asked Martin.

“Yes, sir. Taking three more jeeps.”

“General Gehlen, please tell Herr Mannberg to pack his bags and that he has a choice between riding in the cab of a truck or in a jeep.”

“Which will leave how soon, would you say?”

“Forty-five minutes,” Martin furnished.

“And what are your plans to move the families?” Gehlen asked.

“We’re down to two ambulances — personnel transport vehicles — now that we sent two to Frankfurt, right?” Cronley asked.

“Six,” Martin corrected him. “Tiny had them paint over the red crosses and the bumpers on four more ambulances a couple of days ago.”

Proving once again that First Sergeant Dunwiddie, who knows how to plan ahead, should be in command here, not me.

“I didn’t know that,” Cronley confessed. “Now that I do, what about setting up a convoy to leave in, say, an hour and a half, all the trucks, and all the ambulances and three jeeps? Can your people handle that, General?”

“They’ll be ready,” Gehlen said. “And I have one more suggestion to make, if I may?”

Cronley nodded.

“I don’t think any of my people should leave the Pullach compound until further notice. Mannberg could ensure that they don’t.”

Gehlen saw the confusion on Cronley’s face.

“Leaving the compound,” Gehlen clarified, “would afford those of my people who have turned the opportunity to communicate with the NKGB.”

“I should have thought about that,” Cronley said.

“You’ve had a lot on your mind,” Gehlen said.

That was kind of him.

He knows almost as well as I do, though, that Little Jimmy Cronley is way over his head in running this operation.

As darkness fell, Cronley thought he saw another proof of his incompetence — or at least his inability to think problems through — within minutes of Dunwiddie’s return to Kloster Grünau in the other Storch.

Dunwiddie reported that they had heard from Lieutenant Stratford’s sergeant that the two ambulances had arrived at the ASA’s relay station outside Frankfurt.

“I told them to leave wherever they are at 0900 for Eschborn. One at 0900 and the other at 0930.”

“Why are they going to do that?” Cronley asked.

“So (a) they know how to get to Eschborn, and (b) we know how long it’s going to take them. We’ll use the longest time as the standard.”

“I should have thought of that, too,” Cronley confessed.

Dunwiddie looked at him curiously. Cronley explained that he had also not thought about confining the Germans to the Pullach compound so that the turned Germans known to be among them could not communicate with the NKGB.

Dunwiddie’s response was much like General Gehlen’s.

“You’ve got a lot on your plate, Jim. Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Okay, I figure if you leave at first light for Eschborn, you should be back here at, say, half past two.”

“Right.”

Tiny has a good reason that I should fly to Eschborn. I will pretend I have thought of that good reason, because I don’t want to look as incompetent as I am.

Oh. General principles. To be as sure as possible that a plan will work, perform a dry run.

Jesus, I didn’t think of even that!

“How’s Konstantin?” Dunwiddie asked.

“We — Gehlen, Mannberg, and I — matched wits again with him at lunch. General Gehlen and I are in agreement that we don’t know who won. But he did eat his lunch and drink a beer.”

“Well, I will examine the subject carefully at supper and then render my expert opinion. But Gehlen said he can’t tell who’s winning?”

“That’s what he said.”

Cronley had a sudden epiphany, and blurted it out.

“I can. I do. Orlovsky’s winning. Or he thinks he’s winning, which is just about the same thing. He thinks that he’s got us figured out and that he’s smarter than we are. Which is probably true.”

“I have the feeling you decided that just now.”

“I did. I don’t know why I didn’t — or Gehlen didn’t — figure that out earlier, but that’s it. I’m sure of it.”

“What didn’t you figure out?”

“He was too relaxed. There was no battle of wits, because he wasn’t playing that game. Instead of us playing with him, he was playing with us. Now we’re back to my examining the subject at dinner.”

“Let’s go talk to Gehlen.”

“Jim, I don’t know,” General Gehlen said as Dunwiddie freshened the Haig & Haig scotch whisky in his glass. “But I did have a thought about Konstantin that I didn’t share with anyone.”

“What kind of a thought?”

“What you and Tiny would probably call a wild hair.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I don’t think Major Konstantin Orlovsky is quite who we think he is.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“I think he may be further up in the NKGB hierarchy than we think. I suspect he may be at least a colonel, and may even hold higher rank.”

“Would the NKGB send a senior officer over a barbed-wire fence?” Dunwiddie asked.

“They wouldn’t do so routinely, which is one of the reasons I never mentioned this to anyone.”

“What does Mannberg think of your theory?” Cronley asked.

“I never mentioned this to anyone, Jim,” Gehlen repeated. There was just the hint of reproof in his tone of voice.

Cronley picked up on it and said, “Sorry, sir.”

Gehlen accepted the apology with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Going down this street,” Dunwiddie said, “why would the NKGB send a senior officer over a barbed-wire fence?”

“We don’t know who gave him those rosters,” Gehlen said. “I have been working on the assumption that it was one of my captains or majors. Now I have to consider the likelihood that it was one of my lieutenant colonels, there are fifteen, or colonels, of whom there are six.”

“Including Mannberg?” Tiny asked.

“Including Ludwig Mannberg,” Gehlen said. “There aren’t many justifications for the NKGB to send a major — much less a lieutenant colonel or a colonel—‘over a barbed-wire fence,’ as you put it, Tiny.”

“What would they be?”

“Short answers: to establish contact with someone of equal rank, or to convince someone fairly senior that the agent who was controlling them was telling them the truth. In other words, that they were indeed dealing with a senior NKGB officer, not just an agent.”

“I’m not sure I understand you, General,” Dunwiddie said. “Do you think it is likely Orlovsky is more important — a far more senior officer — than we have been thinking? Or that it is possible but unlikely?”

“I wouldn’t have brought this up if I believed the latter.”

“Supper, now that I know this, should be very interesting,” Dunwiddie said.

“We are not going to have the sonofabitch to supper,” Cronley said.

“We’re not?” Gehlen asked.

“I don’t want the bastard to know we’re onto him,” Cronley said. “You, General, might — you probably could — be able to hide what you think about him. Dunwiddie and I are amateurs at this and he’d probably sense something.”

“Additionally,” Gehlen said, “since the basic idea is to keep him off balance, if he’s not invited he’ll wonder why.”

“You think I’m right, sir?” Dunwiddie said.

“I know you are.” Gehlen looked at Cronley. “And I say that because I believe it, not because it means I can ask Tiny to pour a bit more of the Haig & Haig into my glass.”

[FOUR]

In the Storch, Cronley literally heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the floodlights on the perimeter of Kloster Grünau. “Dicey” had been too inadequate a term to describe his chances of getting home.

The weather had been deteriorating when he had taken off for Eschborn, and all the way to Eschborn he had been very much aware that the smart thing for him to have done would have been aborting the flight and trying later.

But he knew he was running out of time. He had to try.

Both ambulances had been waiting for him when he landed. He learned that it had taken them just about an hour to drive from the ASA Relay Station to the airfield. That meant he would have to allow three hours on “D-Day” for that part of the plan. Half an hour, after he had the ETA of the SAA Constellation at Rhine-Main, to contact the Pullach compound and tell them to radio the Relay Station and send the ambulances to Eschborn. Another hour for the ambulances to drive to Eschborn, and another hour for the ambulances to drive to Rhine-Main. And thirty minutes “just in case.”

That sounds very neat and doable.

But what if the weather on D-Day is even worse, absolutely unflyable, than it is today?

Cronley put the Storch down safely on the runway, then taxied to the chapel, where he found the converted ambulance waiting for him.

He was not surprised that no one came out to push the Storch under the tent hangar, or that no one got out of the ambulance. Pounding all around was what the weather people termed “heavy precipitation.”

He got out of the Storch, ran through the fat, cold raindrops to the ambulance, and got in the back.

General Gehlen turned from the front seat and handed him a towel.

“Your arrival cost Sergeant Dunwiddie a bottle of whisky,” Gehlen said. “It was his belief that if you ever got here, you would be walking. I had more faith.”

“I should have walked,” Cronley said as he dried his head and face.

“Colonel Frade has been heard from,” Gehlen said, and handed him a SIGABA printout. “Bad news.”

“Jesus…” Cronley said as he looked at the sheet:

“I wish I did,” Cronley said.

“What?” Tiny asked.

“Have full confidence in my ability to handle the changed situation.”

Tiny said, “I doubled the guard on das Gasthaus and barred all Germans but the general from getting anywhere near it or Orlovsky. It was all I could think of to do.”

“That’s good, but the downside is that we just told a bunch of Good Germans we don’t trust them.”

“The Good Germans, as you call them,” Gehlen said, “they will understand. Those who have sold their comrades out will be frustrated.”

“Let me throw some more ice water on our unhappy situation,” Tiny said. “If the general is right, and of course he usually is, and Orlovsky is more important than we thought, and the NKGB is as good as we know they are, aren’t they likely to try to get to Orlovsky through my guys? Money talks.”

“You think that is likely?” Gehlen asked.

“Unlikely, but possible. So what I’m going to do is make snap judgments about who might be tempted, which will probably be wrong, and make sure the guys who can’t be tempted — Martin, Abraham, Clark, Tedworth, and Loudmouth Lewis — keep an eye on them.”

“You going to tell the guys why?” Cronley asked.

“I don’t see how I can’t tell them.”

“Then do it,” Cronley said.

“If Father Welner leaves Buenos Aires at…” Gehlen began.

“Twenty-hundred,” Tiny furnished. “That’s midnight here.”

“… midnight tonight, when will he get to Frankfurt?”

“At midnight tomorrow,” Cronley said. “They’ll fly Buenos Aires — Dakar — Lisbon — Frankfurt. With fuel stops, that adds up to almost exactly twenty-four hours. And fucks up my idea of flying Welner here in a Storch. I can’t get in here in the dark. Which means I couldn’t leave Eschborn until three hours before daybreak, or four in the morning. What would I do with a Jesuit priest for the time between when I pick him up at Rhine-Main and can take off from Eschborn?”

“Let him sleep in one of the ambulances,” Tiny said.

“Or,” General Gehlen said, “can we contact the plane en route?”

“Why?”

“To tell them not to arrive in Frankfurt before daylight the day after tomorrow.”

“That would do it,” Cronley said.

“Better yet, since the plane hasn’t left Buenos Aires yet,” Tiny said, “we can get on the SIGABA now and tell them not to arrive in Frankfurt until ten hundred the day after tomorrow.”

“Driver,” Cronley commanded regally, “take me to the SIGABA device.”

“Your wish is my command, sir,” Tiny replied.

[FIVE]

Captain James D. Cronley Jr. — who was not wearing the insignia of his rank, having decided the persona of a dashing agent of the Counterintelligence Corps was more appropriate for the situation — examined himself in the mirror on the wall.

What the hell. I’ll try it again.

“It” was establishing contact with Mrs. Rachel Schumann by telephone. The ostensible purpose of the call would be to tell her he knew nothing of the Leica camera she had told Freddy Hessinger she had left in the Opel Kapitän.

The actual purpose of the call was twofold. First, to keep their affair from blowing up in his face right now. And second, to gracefully ease his way completely out of the affair as soon as possible.

That he didn’t have a clue how to accomplish either of these objectives was beside the point. He knew he had to try.

He had flown into Eschborn late the previous afternoon, with a more than reluctant — actually terrified, as it was his first flight ever — Staff Sergeant Harold Lewis Jr. Cronley brought Lewis in the belief that it would be useful for Father Welner, when he got off South American Airways Flight 707 from Buenos Aires, to have a little time with Lewis to discuss Major — or Colonel or whatever the hell he really was — Konstantin Orlovsky before he met him.

Lewis had not only spent more time with the Russian than anybody else, but had interesting insights about what made him tick. And Cronley suspected Lewis had been kind to Orlovsky behind Bischoff’s back when the German had been tormenting him. That might be useful.

When the ambulances had met them at Eschborn, it had been Cronley’s intention to spend the night at the ASA Relay Station. The ASA sergeant who had come with the ambulances said that his presence there as either a captain or a CIC agent would draw unwanted attention to the ambulances. He suggested Cronley get a room at the Park Hotel.

Cronley knew the Army-run hotel, which was very near to the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof. It provided Army of Occupation officers and their families a waypoint to spend a night when they arrived from — or were going to depart from — the Rhine-Main Airfield.

Second Lieutenant Cronley had spent his first night in Germany there, en route from Camp Holabird to the XXIInd CIC Detachment in Marburg an der Lahn. It was in the lobby of the hotel the next morning that the commanding officer of the XXIInd — on hearing of Cronley’s sole qualification to be a CIC officer, his fluent German — had told him he would find an assignment for him where he could cause the least amount of damage.

So Cronley went in one of the ambulances to the Park Hotel, and Sergeant Lewis went in the other to the ASA Relay Station with orders to pick him up at the hotel at ten o’clock in the morning.

Once Cronley had checked in, he went to the bar and had two drinks of Haig & Haig to give him the courage to call Rachel. That worked as far as his going to his room and dialing the number. But when, on the third ring, the phone was answered—“Colonel Schumann”—the liquid courage evaporated and he hastily hung up.

Cronley went to the telephone and dialed the number of the quarters of Lieutenant Colonel and Mrs. Schumann. This time, there was no answer at all, even after he let it ring ten times.

He hung up, picked up his overnight bag, and went down to stand in front of the hotel to wait for Sergeant Lewis.

[SIX]

Cronley saluted the Reverend Kurt Welner as the Jesuit priest came out of the building.

“Welcome to Germany, Father Welner,” he said. “Sergeant Lewis will take your bag, sir, and the ambulance is right over there in the parking lot.”

“Thank you, Jim. How are you?”

“Fine, sir. You want to give your bag to Sergeant Lewis?”

“There are certain valuables in the bag.”

“Yes, sir. We know, Father. That’s why Sergeant Lewis has that Thompson hanging from his shoulder.”

Welner somewhat reluctantly handed over the bag and allowed himself to be led to the parking lot and installed in the front seat of the ambulance. Lewis got behind the wheel and Cronley got in the back.

“We’re going to drive from here to Kloster Grünau in a vehicle like this?” Welner asked. “It’s in Bavaria, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. It’s in Bavaria. But, no, sir. We’re going to fly to Kloster Grünau. Where we’re headed now is to a little airport not far from here, where my Storch is parked.”

“I’ll take what comfort I can from knowing I am in the hands of God,” Welner said. “I do not share — and you know I don’t — the affection that you and Cletus and Hansel have for that ugly and dangerous little airplane.”

“You and me both, Reverend,” Sergeant Lewis said.

“If you don’t mind, Sergeant, you may refer to me as ‘Father,’” Welner said.

“I’m a Born Again by Total Immersion Abyssinian Baptist,” Lewis said. “Can I do that?”

“I think it will be all right with God, Sergeant,” Welner said.

“Father, to clear the air a little, you can say anything you want to, personal or business, to Sergeant Lewis. Actually, that’s the reason I brought him along with me. He’s as close to Konstantin as anybody. Closer.”

“Konstantin is the NKGB officer?”

“Konstantin Orlovsky. Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be delighted to hear what the sergeant has to say about him. But let me get this out of the way, first.”

“Sir?”

“First, I was very sorry to hear about your loss of your wife.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It was impossible for me to go to the United States with Cletus and the others. If I could have gone, I would have. I hope you understand.”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“What I did do, Jim, was celebrate a mass for Marjorie in the Church of Our Lady of Pilar.”

“That’s the church by that cemetery downtown, in Recoleta?”

“Right. In which Cletus’s father and others of his family have their last resting place.”

“That was very kind of you.”

“Not at all. How are you doing?”

“I don’t know how to answer that.”

“I had a thought on the airplane,” the priest said. “Cletus told me how busy you have been here. I wondered if perhaps that’s been a gift from God, a blessing in disguise, so to speak, taking your mind off your loss.”

What took my mind off my loss, Father, was fucking a married woman.

And speaking of God, how the hell am I going to explain that despicable, inexcusable behavior to Saint Peter when I get to those pearly gates?

“That’s an interesting thought, Father.”

“We’ll have more time to talk, I’m sure,” the Jesuit said. “But right now, Sergeant Lewis, why don’t we talk about the Russian?”

[SEVEN]

Father Welner and Staff Sergeant Lewis came into the room. Cronley, Gehlen, and Dunwiddie were sitting at the table.

“Orlovsky has accepted your kind invitation to lunch,” the priest said. “But that’s all I got out of him.”

“Shall I get him, Captain?” Lewis asked.

“Fuck him,” Cronley said.

“That’s not very charitable, Jim,” the priest said.

“I’m fresh out of charity so far as he’s concerned,” Cronley replied.

“What was your impression of him, Father?” Gehlen asked.

“I think that you’re right, General. He is more than he appears to be, more than he wants us to think he is. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is a more senior officer than a major.”

“Can you tell us why?”

“He didn’t say anything specific, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s more his attitude.”

“You mean his casual dismissal of the possibility that we’re going to shoot him in the back of the head?” Cronley asked.

“I don’t think he thinks that’s going to happen,” the priest said, then added, “Is it?”

“If we didn’t really need the names of the people the NKGB has turned, I think I’d do it myself,” Cronley said.

“I don’t think you mean that, Jim. I hope you don’t.”

“I don’t know if I do or not. But no. It’s not on my agenda. Why do you think he doesn’t care about that as a threat?”

“I had the feeling that he thinks his situation is about to change.”

“Change how?”

“That he’ll somehow be freed. Is there any possibility of that?”

“Absolutely none. If the general is right, and I think he is, he’s a colonel or whatever. And you agree with that. And Sergeant Lewis agrees with that. Let’s take it as a given.”

Cronley looked between them, then went on: “What would you do if you were Major/Colonel/General Orlovsky’s superior in the ranks of the NKGB and your hotshot screwed up and found himself in the hands of the Americans who didn’t know he was a hotshot, but inevitably were going to find out?

“You’d try to bust him out, and failing that, to whack him. That’s what you would do. That’s what they are going to try to do. Now that I think of it, I’m surprised they haven’t already tried. And that settles it.”

“Settles what?” Dunwiddie asked.

Gehlen said: “Although they are not supposed to, I’m sure that some of my people have weapons. Especially those who, having turned, have to consider the possibility they may need them. And some of my people are highly skilled in that sort of thing. I’m afraid Jim is right. And I further suggest that if such an attempt will be made, it will take place before the move to the Pullach compound is complete.”

“And that really settles it,” Cronley said. “Konstantin is about to go to the Paris of South America.”

“Involuntarily, you mean?” Gehlen asked thoughtfully.

“I don’t think he’s about to volunteer, do you?” Cronley replied. “Father, who flew the Connie from Buenos Aires?”

“Hansel,” the priest said.

“Who the hell is Hansel?” Tiny asked.

“Former Major Hans-Peter Graf von Wachtstein, recipient of the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross from the hands of Hitler himself,” Cronley said. “Who by now is probably at 44–46 Beerenstrasse in Berlin.”

“I’m lost,” Tiny admitted.

“Father, I presume you brought identity documents and a passport for Señor Orlovsky?”

“Yes.”

“Does anything have to be done to them?”

“Just the addition of a photograph and a name.”

“There was a photograph of him on his forged German Kennkarte,” Gehlen said. “And then Bischoff took some photos of him.”

“We’ll have to get Felix Dzerzhinsky’s documents in order as soon as possible,” Cronley said.

Gehlen laughed.

“Can you handle that, General?”

“Of course.”

“That’s what you’re going to call him?” Tiny asked. “Why? It has some meaning?”

“Felix Dzerzhinsky was the founder of the Cheka,” Cronley said.

“He was not a very nice man, Tiny,” Gehlen said. “He said a lot of terrible things, but what most people remember was his hope that the bourgeoisie would drown in rivers of their own blood.”

“An evil and godless man!” Father Welner blurted with, for him, unusual bitterness.

“Orlovsky will probably be flattered,” Cronley said.

“How are you going to get him on the airplane if he doesn’t want to go?” Welner asked.

“Poor Felix, ill and delirious, will be strapped to a stretcher,” Cronley said.

“And if he calls out for help in his delirium?” Tiny asked.

“He will also be wrapped in bandages like a mummy,” Cronley said. “But I’d like to dope him, if I could figure out a way to do that.”

“That can be arranged,” Gehlen said. “I’ll have a word with one of my physicians.”

“You do that, please, General, while I get on the SIGABA,” Cronley said, and then turned to Staff Sergeant Lewis. “I think you’ll enjoy Buenos Aires, Lewis.”

[EIGHT]

[NINE]

Staff Sergeant Harold Lewis Jr. pulled open the door to the cell under the chapel and Staff Sergeant Petronius J. Clark, who was carrying a napkin-covered tray, entered ahead of him.

Both had brassards emblazoned with a red cross, identifying them as medics, around their right arms.

“Lunch, Konstantin,” Lewis said. “A hot roast beef sandwich and French fries.”

“Thank you very much, but I’m not really hungry.”

Cronley entered the cell.

“I’d eat, if I were you,” Cronley said. “It’s going to be some time before you’ll have the opportunity again.”

Orlovsky didn’t reply.

Father Welner entered the cell and leaned against the near wall.

“Bad news for you, I’m afraid, Orlovsky,” Cronley said. “The game’s over. By that I mean you can abandon hope that you’re going to be sprung from durance vile.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“You were winning. Now you’re losing. You’re good, very good. You even had General Gehlen going for a while. But it’s over.”

“What’s this?” Orlovsky asked, pointing to the tray Sergeant Clark had put on a small table. “The hearty meal the condemned man gets before he’s executed?”

“You’re so good, Orlovsky,” Cronley went on, “that I don’t really know if you really would welcome a bullet in the back of the head, or whether that’s just more of your bullshit.”

“You are not going to be shot, Konstantin,” Welner said. “I promise you that. What’s going to happen to you is that you’re being sent to Argentina.”

Orlovsky looked at him with cold eyes. “You’re pretty good yourself, Father. You almost had me convinced your sole interest in this was the salvation of my soul.”

“Not my sole interest. I was, I am, also interested in the lives and souls of your wife and children. Presuming, of course, that you really have a family back in Russia.”

“We should know that soon enough,” Cronley said. “General Gehlen has already issued orders to see if there really is an Orlovsky family in Russia and, if there is — frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised either way — to get them out of Holy Mother Russia and to Argentina.”

“You would do that as a gesture of Christian charity, right?” Orlovsky asked sarcastically.

“No,” Cronley said sharply. “If there is a Mrs. Orlovsky, and if we get her to Argentina, maybe she can talk some sense into you. But enough of this. Time flies. Last chance to eat your lunch, Major Orlovsky. Or is it Colonel Orlovsky?”

Orlovsky didn’t reply.

“Okay, Sergeant Clark,” Cronley said.

The enormous non-com wrapped his arms around Orlovsky.

“Doctor!” Cronley called.

A slight German in a white coat, who looked undernourished, came into the room.

“I need his buttocks,” he said in heavily accented English.

Sergeant Clark bent Orlovsky over the small table, knocking the food tray off in the process.

Gehlen’s doctor inserted — stabbed — a hypodermic needle into Orlovsky’s buttocks, and then slowly emptied it into him.

Orlovsky almost instantly went limp.

“Do you wish that I bandage him now?” the doctor asked.

“Might as well do it now.”

As he wrapped Orlovsky’s head in white gauze, eventually covering everything but his eyes and his nostrils, the doctor explained what Lewis could expect and what he was to do.

“He will start to regain consciousness in approximately three to four hours, depending on his natural resistance to the narcotic. The sign of this will be the fluttering of his eyes. His eyelids. You will then inject him again. I have prepared ten hypodermic needles for that purpose. You understand?”

“Got it,” Lewis said.

The doctor then wrapped Orlovsky’s hands with gauze and put them in two slings across his chest.

“The greatest risk to his well-being will be during the flight to Frankfurt in the Storch. As soon as possible, get him into a horizontal position. If there are signs of distress, get him on his feet and walk him around.”

“Got it,” Lewis said.

“Okay, let’s get this show on the road,” Cronley ordered.

Staff Sergeant Clark, without apparent effort, scooped the Russian up in his arms.

Cronley had an off-the-wall thought: He looks like a bridegroom carrying his bride to the nuptial bed.

Ten minutes later the Storch carrying Cronley, Father Welner, and Orlovsky broke ground. The second Storch, carrying Kurt Schröder and Sergeants Lewis and Clark stuffed in the back, lifted off thirty seconds later.

[TEN]

Captain Hans-Peter von Wachtstein of South American Airways was standing at the foot of the stairway to the passenger compartment of the Ciudad de Mendoza when two former ambulances rolled up to it. Standing with him was Major Johansen, the assistant base provost marshal, and a handful of military policemen, two of them lieutenants.

Cronley was glad to see Major Johansen, whom he had telephoned when they had landed at Eschborn and asked to meet him at the plane. Getting Orlovsky and Father Welner onto the plane wasn’t going to be a problem. Getting Sergeants Clark and Lewis onto the Constellation wasn’t either, but since they had no orders or travel documents, getting them to stay on the plane was likely to be difficult. He thought Major Johansen might prove helpful if he couldn’t bluff his way with his CIC credentials.

“Captain von Wachtstein,” Cronley greeted him. “Nice to see you again, sir.”

Hansel played along.

“Mr. Cronley. How are you?”

“Major, I see you’ve already met Captain von Wachtstein.”

“We’ve been chatting,” Johansen said. “How’ve you been, Cronley?”

“Overworked and underpaid.”

“Sounds familiar,” Johansen said.

Father Welner joined them.

“What we’re going to need for the patient, Captain von Wachtstein,” the Jesuit said, “is someplace where he can be placed horizontally. Where he can rest. I think there’s a spot immediately behind the cockpit?”

“Can he climb that?” von Wachtstein said, pointing to a narrow ladder leading to the door in the fuselage immediately behind the cockpit.

“He’s unconscious,” Cronley said.

“Who is this patient?” Major Johansen asked.

I’m glad he’s asking that question, not one of his lieutenants.

It was smart of me to think of calling him.

And now the other shoe will drop.

“Show Major Johansen your passport, Father Welner,” Cronley said as he handed Dzerzhinsky’s Vatican passport to him.

“Russian, huh?” Johansen said. “That name is vaguely familiar.”

That’s the other damned shoe dropping!

You had to be a smart-ass with Dzerzhinsky’s name, didn’t you?

“Of Russian ancestry, obviously,” Welner said. “But now he’s a citizen of Vatican City.”

“So I see,” Johansen said, handing both passports to the priest.

Sergeants Clark and Lewis appeared, with an unconscious Orlovsky strapped securely to a stretcher.

“There is a bed for our patient in a small area behind the cockpit,” Cronley said, pointing. “Captain von Wachtstein will suggest the best way to get him there.”

After a moment’s thought, Hansel said, “If you two could carry him up the passenger stairway, and then down the aisle…”

“Not a problem, sir,” Sergeant Clark said.

He bent over the stretcher, unfastened the buckles, picked Dzerzhinsky up, and then, cradling him in his arms, walked without apparent effort up the passenger stairway. Lewis followed.

“Sturdy fellow, isn’t he?” Major Johansen observed.

“Well, that’s it,” Cronley said. “Thank you for waiting, Captain von Wachtstein.”

“Happy to oblige.”

“When you get close to Buenos Aires, it might be a good idea to call ahead to have an ambulance and a stretcher waiting.”

“I can do that.”

“Have a nice flight,” Cronley finally said. “You, too, Father Welner.”

“I’m sure it will be less stressful than my last flight. God bless you, Jim.”

He then started up the stairway.

Von Wachtstein shook Cronley’s hand, and then Major Johansen’s, and started toward the crew ladder.

“Captain,” one of the MP lieutenants said. “Don’t forget those two medics you have onboard.”

“They’re going,” Cronley said.

“Sir, I didn’t see any passports or travel orders,” the lieutenant said to Major Johansen.

Johansen looked at Cronley. Cronley turned so that only Johansen could see his face, and put his finger in front of his lips.

Johansen looked at him for a long moment.

“Not a problem, Stewart,” Johansen said. “It’s an intelligence matter. You didn’t see those medics get on that airplane. I’ll explain later.”

“Yes, sir.”

Both sets of stairs were pulled away, and the doors closed.

There came the sound of engines starting, as Cronley shook Major Johansen’s hand and then walked toward the ambulances.

[ELEVEN]

Cronley took a healthy sip of his double Dewar’s scotch whisky — to which, he decided, he was most certainly entitled — and went through his mental To Do list.

The major item — Orlovsky — was off the list obviously. So was the potential problem of someone questioning Kurt Schröder’s right to fly a U.S. Army Storch. He had flown back to Kloster Grünau immediately after dropping off Clark and Lewis at Eschborn. The ambulances would return to Kloster Grünau in the morning, after picking up Cronley at the hotel and then driving him to Eschborn to pick up his Storch.

Only two things remained to be done, he concluded, and the sooner he did them the better.

“Hand me that telephone, please, Sergeant,” he said to the American non-com supervising the bar. The bartenders and waiters were German.

“It’s for official use only, sir,” the bartender said somewhat righteously.

“Is that so? Hand it to me, please.”

The phone was reluctantly slid across the bar to him.

“Munich Military 4474,” Cronley ordered into the receiver.

When that order had been passed along and the phone in Munich was ringing, Cronley extended it to the sergeant, who put it to his ear.

The sergeant heard, clearly, and Cronley less so, “Twenty-third CIC, Special Agent Hessinger speaking, sir.”

“Okay, Sergeant?” Cronley asked, gesturing for the handset to be returned to him.

The sergeant did not reply as he did so.

“This is Special Agent Hoover, Special Agent Hessinger,” Cronley said. “The package is on the way as of 1515 hours. Please advise Colonel Norwich and Sergeant Gaucho immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” Hessinger said.

“I should be in Rome about noon tomorrow, weather permitting.”

“Yes, sir. Be advised your friends from Washington are still looking for you.”

“How kind of them. Please give them my best regards and tell them I’m making every effort to fit them into my busy schedule.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nice to talk to you, Special Agent Hessinger.”

“And to you, sir.”

Cronley put the handset in its cradle, then slid the telephone back across the bar.

“Thank you so much, Sergeant.”

If the FBI had tapped Hessinger’s phone — and if Hessinger thought they had, it was ninety-nine percent certain they had — it wouldn’t take them long to figure out that Special Agent Hoover was Captain James D. Cronley Jr. giving them the finger. It might take them a little longer to conclude that Colonel Norwich was First Sergeant Chauncey Dunwiddie and even longer to decide that Sergeant Gaucho was Lieutenant Colonel Cletus Frade, USMCR, but eventually they would.

It didn’t matter. Fat Freddy understood that he was now to go out to the Pullach compound to get on the SIGABA and send an URGENT to Tex that von Wachtstein was on his way to Buenos Aires with Orlovsky and the Jesuit — who would explain everything — as of three-fifteen Frankfurt time. Dunwiddie would get a copy of that message, plus one of his own, telling him that Cronley would be back at Kloster Grünau at noon tomorrow. The FBI could not tap the SIGABA.

That the FBI would eventually catch up with him was a given. But they didn’t know where he was right now, which would give him time to deal with the last item on the To Do list. That item was spelled Schumann, Mrs. Rachel.

Cronley drained his Dewar’s and ordered another.

And then I will go to my room and call Mrs. Rachel Schumann.

As he crossed the lobby of the hotel toward the elevator bank, Cronley saw something he hadn’t noticed before. There was a Class VI store. For reasons he couldn’t even guess, the Army classified hard liquor as Class VI supplies, and the places that sold such spirits to officers as Class VI stores.

He bought a quart bottle of Haig & Haig scotch whisky and took it to his room, sampling its contents before picking up the telephone to call Rachel.

Rachel answered on the third ring.

“If you can’t talk, say ‘wrong number’ and hang up.”

“I’ve been waiting and waiting to hear from you.”

“Well, I’ve been busy. Rachel, I don’t have your Leica.”

“I know that, sweetheart. Where are you?”

“In the Park Hotel. You know, by the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof?”

“What are you doing there?”

“Well, it was too late for me to fly home, so I’m spending the night here. Rachel, we have to talk.”

“What are you doing in Frankfurt?”

“Actually, what I was doing was putting that Russian you’re always asking about on an airplane.”

Now, that wasn’t smart. Why the hell did you tell her that?

What the hell. It doesn’t matter. Orlovsky’s gone.

“You put him on an airplane? What was that all about?”

“If I told you, I would have to kill you.”

“Have you been drinking, Jimmy?”

“What gave you that idea? Rachel, we have to talk.”

“What room are you in?”

He had to look at the telephone to get the room number.

“Four-oh-seven.”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Can’t we just talk on the phone? What’s the colonel going to think when he comes home for supper and you’re gone?”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” She chuckled. “And don’t start without me, baby.”

Then she hung up.

Cronley thought he might as well have another little taste while he was waiting for her.

[TWELVE]

The telephone rang, and when Cronley answered it, he was told that his ride was waiting for him.

“Be right down,” he said, and hung up.

Rachel was nowhere in sight.

What the hell did I expect?

She had to go home to her husband and the kiddies.

As he dressed, he tried to recall how well he had done in his attempt to get out of the affair as gracefully as possible.

If ending an affair means the cessation of sexual activity between the participants, I am still up to my ears — well over my ears — in this one.

Rachel had her tongue down my throat and her hand on my wang no more than sixty seconds after she appeared at the door.

But, despite that, she had not been as anxious to get nailed as she was to hear “finally” about the Russian. I had to tell her about Orlovsky before I could get her to take her underpants off.

Did I tell her too much?

Probably. Both before Nailing One, and before Nailing Two, as she was still interested in the Russian after Nailing One and brought the subject up again. Satisfying her female curiosity was the price of Nailing Two.

But what’s the difference? She can’t tell anybody, not even her husband. If she did that, he would want to know why I told her, and she certainly didn’t want to open that subject up for discussion.

I don’t remember much of what happened — anything that happened — after Nailing Two. I must have passed out.

Did I wake up later and see that she was gone? Did that happen, or am I just supposing it did?

What I am going to have to do is admit I failed to end the affair because I was a little drunk and thinking with my dick.

Ending the affair now goes on the Que Será Será list beside the FBI finally catching up with me.

Five minutes after his phone rang, he was on the sidewalk outside the hotel, getting into an ambulance.

[THIRTEEN]

First Sergeant Dunwiddie pushed open the door to Cronley’s room without knocking. Cronley was asleep in bed and did not wake, although he was usually a very light sleeper.

Dunwiddie, none too gently, shook his shoulder.

“If that printout is to tell me Konstantin is safe in Buenos Aires, you are forgiven,” Cronley said when he opened his eyes.

“Not exactly, Jim,” Dunwiddie said as he handed the SIGABA printout to him.

“What the hell?” Jimmy said as he began to read:

“Who is Moses?” Dunwiddie asked.

“Sergeant Stein. Ashton’s Number Two. I guess he went to Buenos Aires after Ashton got himself run over. Rockets? What the hell?”

“And machine-gun fire.”

“Where’s the general?”

“Taking a walk. I sent a jeep after him.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

General Gehlen and a second SIGABA printout arrived together about five minutes later. Cronley handed him the first message as he read the second:

“Who is Moses?” General Gehlen asked.

Cronley told him.

“Does that ‘share with Gehlen’ line mean Tiny is to be excluded from our conversations?”

“Well, if that’s what Colonel Frade meant, fuck him. Tiny is not going to be excluded from anything.”

“Good,” Gehlen said. “Then I suggest, while we’re waiting to hear more from Colonel Frade, how our security has been so completely breached.”

[FOURTEEN]

Cronley suddenly felt clammy and sick to his stomach, and it took a great effort not to throw up. He knew who the source of the leak was. He did not mention this to either Gehlen or Dunwiddie. He was far too deeply shamed.

He waited until after the next message came in. That was two hours later.

He was later to recall that those two hours were the worst in his life.

After reading the SIGABA printout, Cronley decided that the time to confess had arrived.

He struggled to find his voice, then in a quiet monotone said, “Tiny, would you mind leaving me alone with the general for a couple of minutes?”

“Why? I thought you said I wasn’t going to be excluded from anything.” He paused. “Wait. You sonofabitch! You think I’m the one with the loose mouth?”

“No. I know you’re not. I am.”

“What?”

“After the plane left yesterday, I went to the Park Hotel. Mrs. Rachel Schumann joined me there.”

“You’re referring to Colonel Schumann’s wife? The IG’s wife?” Gehlen asked.

Cronley nodded.

“What was that all about? Her camera?” Tiny asked.

“At the time, I thought she came there to get laid…”

“By you?” Tiny asked incredulously.

“By me. I have been fucking her ever since I came back from the States. Until about an hour ago, I thought it was my manly charm. Now I think she’s a fucking Russian spy.”

“You’re really out of your mind, you know that? That woman a Russian spy? Maybe the colonel’s one, too, huh? Maybe they work as a team. Jesus, Jimmy! What the hell have you been drinking? Or smoking?”

“Did it ever strike you as a little odd, Tiny,” Gehlen asked, “that Colonel Schumann, the day Jim shot up his car, was here at all? What was the inspector general of Counterintelligence doing here, on this back road in the country? Why was he so insistent on coming in, when it would have been so much easier for him to return to Frankfurt and have General Greene order that he be admitted? That happened, you might recall, not before, but a day or two after Sergeant Tedworth arrested Colonel Likharev.”

“Who?” Tiny asked. “Oh.”

“We will soon know if that is actually his name. He fooled us for a while. I have the feeling he has not fooled Father Welner or Colonel Frade.”

“Sir, you’re saying that you believe Cronley?”

“Let’s hear the rest of the story of his romance with Mrs. Schumann, and then we can ask ourselves the question again.”

“You are one dumb sonofabitch, Captain, sir,” Dunwiddie said, shaking his head, when Cronley had finished relating the romance.

“Everything fits, Tiny,” Gehlen said. And then chuckled. “It destroys poor Jim’s picture of himself as being as irresistible as Errol Flynn. But it all makes sense.”

“So, what happens now?” Tiny asked.

“In the morning, I fly to Frankfurt and tell Colonel Mattingly,” Cronley said.

“No. That’s out of the question,” Gehlen said.

“Excuse me, General?”

“Think that through, Jim. If you are correct, and I think you are, the Schumanns have thought their exposure through and come up with a plan to deal with it. Those plans range from outright denial to flight. The latter we cannot afford.”

“And the alternative?” Cronley asked.

“You’re under orders from Colonel Frade not to get in my way,” Gehlen said. “Why don’t you just follow them?”

“What are your plans for your officers, the ones Likharev says are the ones he turned?” Tiny asked. “Actually, how do you know those are the real traitors, that from his deathbed Likharev isn’t going to get two Good Germans whacked, and get us to do it?”

“‘Us to do it’?” Gehlen said. “They’re my responsibility, Tiny. Not yours.”

“Ours, General,” Dunwiddie insisted. “I wouldn’t mind whacking them myself, but I’d have to be sure they are indeed trying to sink everybody else.”

“And I would like to shoot Colonel Schumann and his wife,” Cronley said. “So why don’t I do that first, and then go tell Mattingly why I did it?”

“Now you’re acting immaturely,” Gehlen said. “Think that through, Jim. For one thing, Colonel Mattingly doesn’t like you. He would be prone to think you shot her after a lovers’ quarrel. We have no proof—”

“Except what happened just now in Buenos Aires,” Cronley interrupted.

“Not only have we no proof of what happened there, but we couldn’t tell anybody about it if we did,” Gehlen said patiently, and then asked, “What good would it do anybody for you to go to the stockade or the hangman?”

Cronley didn’t reply.

“Insofar as whether von Plat and Boss are traitors — and I think they are — Konrad Bischoff can determine that. Actually, he’s proposed their names to me already. And I think we should be able to learn what we need to know about Mrs. Likharev and the children in Leningrad in no more than a week or so. I want to be very careful. Getting them out is going to be risky.”

“You’re still going to try that?” Tiny asked.

“I think it would be very useful to everybody if Sergei Likharev felt indebted to us because we reunited him with his family.”

“Yeah,” Tiny said.

“I’m a big boy…” Cronley began.

“I wouldn’t take a vote on that right now, Captain, sir,” Tiny said.

“… I know I fucked up big time. And I’m willing to take my lumps for that. But…”

“But what, Jim?” Gehlen asked.

“The way I’m hearing this, I’m not going to get any lumps. I’m not to tell Clete or Mattingly, not even, for Christ’s sake, Fat Freddy. It doesn’t seem fair.”

“I’m going to say this just once, so pay close attention,” Gehlen said. “I regard the greatest threat to what we’re trying to do here as coming not from the Soviets but from those intelligence types from the Pentagon who will shortly be moving into the Pullach compound.

“I know how to deal with the Reds. I do not know how to deal with your Pentagon. You, Tiny, are close to General White. Jim had those captain’s bars he rarely wears pinned on his shoulders by President Truman. You two, with friends in high places, and who believe in what we’re doing here, are going to be my defense against the Pentagon. I need the both of you.”

“Jesus,” Tiny breathed.

“And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find Konrad Bischoff and suggest he have a chat with Boss and von Plat.”

As a Pavlovian reflex, both Cronley and Dunwiddie popped to their feet and came to attention when Gehlen stood.

When he had left the room, Dunwiddie said: “You know he’s going to whack those two.”

“And Colonel and Mrs. Schumann.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Her, no. She’s responsible for Lewis and the others getting killed. Him, I don’t know.”

“They call what he is ‘an accessory before the fact.’”

“I wonder how he’s going to do it,” Cronley said.

“Wonder, but don’t ask.”

“I brought a bottle of Haig & Haig from Frankfurt. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a little taste?”

“I thought you would never ask,” Dunwiddie said.

[FIFTEEN]

On December 21, 1945, the front page of the Stars and Stripes, the Army of Occupation’s newspaper, reported with black borders the tragic death of General George S. Patton. He had been injured in an automobile accident on December 9.

A short article on page eleven of the same edition reported the tragic death in Hoechst, outside Frankfurt, of Lieutenant Colonel and Mrs. Anthony Schumann. A fiery explosion, apparently caused by a cooking gas leak, had totally destroyed their home. Fortunately, the story concluded, the Schumanns’ two children were not at home when the explosion occurred.

[SIXTEEN]

On December 28, 1945, First Sergeant Chauncey L. Dunwiddie, Company C, 203rd Tank Destroyer Battalion, duty station with XXIIIrd CIC Detachment, was discharged for the convenience of the government for the purpose of accepting a commission.

On December 29, 1945, Captain Chauncey L. Dunwiddie, Cavalry, Detail Military Intelligence, having reported upon active duty, was assigned to the XXIIIrd CIC Detachment. No travel involved.

[SEVENTEEN]

On January 1, 1946, President Harry S Truman signed an Executive Order that established the United States Central Intelligence Directorate, and named Rear Admiral Sidney W. Souers, USN, as director.

[EIGHTEEN]

On January 2, 1946, Paragraph 3, General Order #1 Headquarters War Department (Classified Secret) ordered that Captains J. D. Cronley Jr. and C. L. Dunwiddie be transferred from XXIIIrd CIC Detachment to the United States Central Intelligence Directorate with duty station Pullach, Germany. No travel involved.