Top Secret

[ONE]

As the olive drab 1942 Ford staff car drove Cronley up to Base Operations, he saw that the Storch had been moved off the tarmac in front of Base Operations. It was now on the grass across from it — and the subject of attention of a group of officers, the senior of them a full bull colonel wearing Air Force insignia.

As Cronley got out of the car, he saw a lieutenant writing something in a notebook.

Probably the tail numbers and XXIIIrd CIC.

Colonel Wilson warned me the Air Force doesn’t want the Army to have Storches. He wouldn’t have given me his if there was any way he could have kept them. And he’s much higher on the totem pole than I am.

So what the hell am I going to do if that colonel tries to grab my Storch?

The only thing I can try — hide behind the secrecy that covers the CIC.

And maybe be a little deceptive.

Cronley went into Base Operations and checked the weather map. The front had passed through the Munich area. Then he checked the local map, saw there was a small airstrip in Fulda, and filed a Visual Flight Rules flight plan giving that as his destination.

Then he walked out to the airplane and the officers examining it.

He did not salute, as he was wearing his civilian triangles, and civilians don’t salute.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully.

“This your aircraft?” the Air Force colonel said.

“Well, actually it belongs to the Army,” Cronley said, as he opened the rear window and tossed his overnight bag through it.

“It’s my understanding,” the colonel announced, “that all of these former German aircraft have been ordered taken out of service.”

“I hadn’t heard that.”

“Well, that’s my understanding. Who are you?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I’m the commanding officer of this airbase and want to know.”

How come this Air Force colonel is commanding an Army airfield?

Because they’re operating C-47s out of here to train parachutists to guard the Farben Building, that’s why.

Cronley produced his CIC credentials.

The colonel examined them, and then Cronley, carefully.

“See Eye See, eh?”

Cronley pointed to where XXIIIrd CIC was lettered on the vertical stabilizer.

“You’re not very talkative, are you?”

“Colonel, we’re trained not to be.”

“And you’re leaving now?”

“Right now.”

“Have a nice flight.”

“Thank you.”

“Get him a fire guard,” the colonel ordered, and then asked, “I presume you’ve filed your flight plan?”

Meaning you suspect if you ask me where I’m going, I’m liable to tell you that’s none of your business, right in front of your men.

But clever fellow that you are, the minute I take off, you’ll go into Weather/Flight Planning and look at my flight plan.

“Uh-huh.”

Two Germans, under the supervision of a U.S. Army corporal, trundled up a large fire extinguisher on wheels.

Cronley climbed into the cockpit and strapped himself in. When the engine was running smoothly, he called the tower for taxi and takeoff permission, then signaled for the wheel chocks to be pulled. He gave the Air Force colonel a friendly wave and put his hand to the throttle.

When he was in takeoff position, he looked at Base Operations and saw the colonel and his men marching purposefully toward it.

What I hope happens now is he’ll call the Fulda Air Strip, tell them a Storch is en route, and for them to find out what the Storch is doing there, and, if possible, keep it from leaving until he can find out why a Storch is flying when the Air Force doesn’t want Storches to fly.

When he finally realizes that the Storch is not going to land at Fulda, he may decide to call the commanding officer of the XXIIIrd CIC and ask him what’s going on. That will be difficult, as the XXIIIrd CIC is not listed in any EUCOM telephone directory.

He advanced the throttle.

“Eschborn, Army Seven-Oh-Seven rolling.”

A minute or so later, he looked down at what he presumed was Hoechst.

There was an intact factory of some sort on the bank of what he presumed was the Main River. The factory for some reason he couldn’t imagine had not been reduced to rubble by Air Force B-17s. Neither had a housing development near it.

Rachel is in one of those neat little houses down there, maybe having a cup of coffee after having fed Anton Jr. and Sarah their breakfast and loaded them on the school bus.

Jimmy boy, what the hell have you got yourself into?

He decided that there were two ways to attract the least attention to the Storch on the way to Kloster Grünau. One was to climb to, say, six thousand feet, and the other was to fly as low as he safely could. He reluctantly chose the former option, for, while “chasing cows” was always fun, he had to admit that he didn’t have enough time in the Storch to play games with it.

As he made the ascent, he remembered that Colonel Mattingly had given him a week to get from Major Konstantin Orlovsky the names of which of Gehlen’s people had been turned.

And Mattingly meant it.

What he sees as a satisfactory solution to the problem is that Gehlen and Company “without his knowledge” interrogate Orlovsky, such interrogation including anything up to and including pulling out his fingernails, or hanging him upside down over a slow Apache fire, for no more than a day or two.

Why did he give me a week? What’s that all about? Why not two days or two weeks?

He didn’t pull that from thin air; he had that time period in his mind.

And if that interrogation produces the names, fine.

And if it doesn’t, that’s fine, too.

And if the names Orlovsky gives up — and he knows everybody’s names; he had the rosters — are of innocent people, that’s one of those unfortunate things that can’t be helped.

They get shot and buried alongside Orlovsky in unmarked graves in the ancient cemetery of Kloster Grünau.

If nothing else, that will teach Gehlen’s people — and whoever controls the disappeared NKGB officer Orlovsky — that the Americans can be as ruthless as anybody.

And we keep looking for the people who really have been turned so we can shoot them and plant them in the Kloster Grünau cemetery.

What Mattingly can’t afford to have happen is for it to come out that we grabbed an NKGB officer. We are allies of the Soviet Union. We’d have to give him back, and the Russians could then, in righteous outrage, complain loudly that we are protecting two-hundred-odd Nazis from them.

So Orlovsky has to disappear. It doesn’t really matter if he gives us the names of Gehlen’s people who have been turned.

And Mattingly is right.

So why are you playing Sir Galahad?

The question now seems to be when did that week clock start ticking?

It’s ticking for me, too. Maybe Mattingly has decided he needs that much time — but no more — to come up with some way to shut me up. He can’t have me running to Clete — much less to Admiral Souers.

And if reason doesn’t work…

“What a pity. Poor Cronley was just standing there when the truck went out of control. At least, thank God, it was quick. He didn’t feel a thing.”

No. Two deaths by an out-of-control truck would be too much of a coincidence.

“Poor Jimmy. He just couldn’t handle the death of his bride. He was so young and he loved her so much. It was just too much for him. What did you expect? He put his.45 in his mouth.”

That’d work.

Well, it won’t.

Over my dead body, as the saying goes.

[TWO]

As Cronley made his approach, he saw Tiny Dunwiddie leaning on the front fender of a three-quarter-ton ambulance where the road turned. The Red Cross panels had been painted over, as the ambulance was no longer used to transport the wounded or injured.

He either heard me coming or he’s been waiting for me, possibly with good news from Mattingly.

“This is a direct order, Sergeant Dunwiddie. When Captain Cronley gets there, sit on him. By ‘sit on him’ I mean don’t let him near the man he’s been talking to or near the radio. Or leave. I’ll explain when I get there. Say, ‘Yes, sir.’”

When he taxied to the chapel to shut down the Storch, he saw that while he was gone, U.S. Army squad tents — six of them — had been converted into what was a sort of combination hangar and camouflage cover large enough for both Storches.

He wondered whose idea that had been, and who had done it.

Then he saw Kurt Schröder and two of his mechanics working on the landing gear of the other Storch, Seven-One-Seven, which explained everything.

He shut down Seven-Oh-Seven, got out, gave Schröder a smile and a thumbs-up for the hangar, and then walked to where Dunwiddie was waiting. He got in the ambulance that was no longer an ambulance.

“The look on your face, Captain, sir,” Dunwiddie greeted him, “suggests that things did not go well with Colonel Mattingly.”

“No. They didn’t. We need to talk, and I don’t want anybody to hear what I have to say.”

“Well, that’s why I brought the ambulance.”

He started the engine, drove out onto the runway, and stopped.

“Thanks to my genius,” he said, “we can sit here in comfort while you share everything, and nobody can hear what you’re saying.”

Five minutes later, Cronley finished telling Tiny everything — with the exception of the intimate acts with Mrs. Colonel Schumann — he’d been thinking, even though halfway through the recitation he realized he sounded paranoid.

When Dunwiddie didn’t say anything, Cronley said, “What are you thinking, Tiny? That my captain’s bars have gone to my head? Or that I am paranoid? Or simply out of my mind? Or all of the above?”

Tiny shrugged his massive shoulders.

“What I was thinking was that I knew the first time I saw you that you were going to be trouble. To answer your questions, not in the order you asked them, Do I think you’re paranoid about Mattingly? I really wish I could, but I can’t.”

“You don’t?” Cronley asked in surprise.

“Did you ever wonder how he got to be commander of OSS Forward? And why Dulles, or whoever, gave him responsibility for Operation Ost?”

“He’s good at what he does?”

Dunwiddie did not reply directly. He instead said, “Being a colonel and Number Two to David Bruce in London is not bad for someone who before the war was a weekend warrior lieutenant in the National Guard, and made his living as a professor of languages at a university run by the Episcopal Church. And he’s a very young full colonel. You ever wonder about that?”

“The guy who gave us the Storches made light colonel at twenty-four.”

“General White told me about Lieutenant Colonel Hotshot Billy Wilson. Different situation from Mattingly.”

“How different?”

“Wilson got his silver leaf very early because even before Pearl Harbor, General White wanted small airplanes in the Army. Wilson almost single-handedly did that little chore for him. And then he did some spectacular things like flying Mark Clark into Rome the day it was declared an open city. And he’s a West Pointer. That didn’t hurt.

“Mattingly, on the other hand, got where he is by doing, ruthlessly, whatever had to be done in the OSS. And he’ll do whatever he thinks has to be done here. I’m not sure that he’d go as far as getting you run over by a truck, or assisting your suicide, to keep it quiet. But only because he knows the OSS guy in Argentina would certainly ask questions. Mattingly didn’t get where he is because he doesn’t know how to cover his ass.”

“You don’t like him very much, do you?” Cronley asked, gently sarcastic.

Dunwiddie looked at Cronley as if making up his mind whether to say something. Finally, he said, “Just before General White left Germany for Fort Riley, I had a few minutes with him.”

He saw the questioning look on Cronley’s face, and explained, “He and my father are classmates at Norwich. ’Twenty. Old friends. General White knew my father would expect him to check up on me, so he had Colonel Wilson fly him into Eschborn. OSS Forward was still alive then, in the Schlosshotel. We had a cup of coffee in the snack bar.

“During that little conversation, the general asked, ‘Chauncey, do I tell your father you still feel you made the right decision?’ I asked, ‘Sir, what decision is that?’ And he said, ‘To pass up your commission so that you could stay with the OSS Guard Company. Colonel Mattingly told me you said you saw that as the most important service you could render for the time being and getting your commission would just have to wait.’”

“I’ll be a sonofabitch!”

“What I should have said was, ‘Uncle Isaac, I hate to tell you this…’”

“Uncle Isaac?”

“‘… but Colonel Mattingly is a lying sonofabitch. I never said anything like that. He told me not to worry about my commission, that he’d keep on you about it.’ But I didn’t. My thinking at the time was I knew Uncle Isaac thinks Mattingly is a fine officer. So he was going to be surprised and disappointed if Little Chauncey suddenly came—”

“What’s with this ‘Little Chauncey’ and ‘Uncle Isaac’?” Cronley interrupted.

“I guess I never got around to mentioning that General White is my godfather. In private, he calls me Chauncey and I call him Uncle Isaac. His I. D. initials stand for ‘Isaac Davis,’ his great-grandfather. Or maybe his great-great-grandfather. Anyway, since I’m sure that Texas Cow College you went to taught you at least a little history, I’m sure you know who Isaac Davis is.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Isaac Davis on Easter Sunday, April sixteenth, 1775, fired, at Concord Green, Massachusetts, that famous shot heard ’round the world. That’s who Isaac Davis is, you historically illiterate cowboy.”

“No shit? He was General White’s great-great-grandfather?”

“No shit. As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, Captain, sir, I thought that even if General White thought there had to be some reason for me to have suddenly come out of left field to call Mattingly a lying sonofabitch, he was leaving for the States the next day and he wouldn’t have time to even ask Mattingly what the hell was going on or do anything about my commission. So I kept my mouth shut.”

“You should have told him, Tiny.”

“I thought about that when you mentioned Mattingly being worried about this OSS pal of yours…”

“Cletus Frade,” Cronley furnished.

“… in Argentina.

“But that’s what they call water under the bridge, Captain, sir. To return to your questions: Do I agree with your assessment of how he wants to handle the problem of Orlovsky? Yeah, I do. I think what Mattingly wants to do is be looking the other way while Gehlen’s people are interrogating Orlovsky and then shooting him in the back of the head.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“No. For two reasons. One, it ain’t right. And two, if that happens and it comes out, the entire Judge Advocate Corps of the U.S. Army is going to come after me.”

He met Cronley’s eyes, and then recited, “‘Article 118. Any person subject to this chapter who, without justification or excuse, unlawfully kills a human being, is guilty of murder, and shall suffer such death or such other punishment as a court-martial may direct.’ That’s not all of it, but you get the general idea.”

“Actually, they’d come after me, Tiny. I’m in command here.”

“That announcement answers your third question: Do I think your captain’s bars have gone to your head? Yeah, I do. But in a good sense. You’re thinking like a captain. You really grew up, Jimmy, doing whatever the hell you did in Argentina.”

Cronley said what he was thinking: “I wish you were wearing these captain’s bars, Tiny.”

“Yeah. But I’m not. Which brings us to what do we do about Orlovsky? Bearing in mind that whatever we do is liable to bring the Judge Advocate General’s Corps down on us, either for simple disobedience to a lawful order, or plotting mutiny — and plotting a mutiny is right up there beside Article 118 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, 1928. ‘Death or such other punishment as a court-martial may decide.’”

“Maybe we should just cave.”

“That’s not an option, Jim. What are you thinking?”

“I don’t think that disorientation idea of Bischoff’s is going to work. Orlovsky is either not going to give us the names, or he’ll give us names of Germans who he hasn’t turned.”

“Agreed. Got a better idea?”

“Let’s try something else.”

“Like what?”

“It’s going to sound pretty far off the wall,” Cronley said, and then told him of his idea.

“You’re right, that is off the wall. I wonder why Herr Bischoff, the Great Interrogator, didn’t think of that really nasty approach. Or, for that matter, Mattingly. I would never have suspected that you’re capable of being a bigger prick than either of them.”

“Life is full of little surprises, isn’t it? I take it you think it might work?”

“I don’t know. However, in the absence of any other idea, let’s give it a shot.”

[THREE]

Technical Sergeant Abraham L. Tedworth and Staff Sergeant Harold Lewis Jr. led Major Konstantin Orlovsky of the NKGB into the sitting room of Captain James D. Cronley Jr.’s quarters. Cronley and CIC Special Agent Chauncey Dunwiddie were seated at a table at which three places had been set.

Orlovsky was shuffling in his bare feet. His ankles were tied together with handcuffs and a short length of rope. A GI blanket had been tied around his shoulders. His hands were handcuffed behind his back. His head was inside a GI duffel bag, closed at his neck with a GI web belt.

“Take the bag off his head,” Cronley ordered.

Tedworth did so.

“Good morning, Konstantin,” Cronley said cordially, as the Russian blinked his eyes against the sudden exposure to light.

Orlovsky looked nervously around the room but did not reply.

“I’m sorry I had to have you trussed up like that,” Cronley went on conversationally, “but I knew General Gehlen’s people were going to see you walking over here, and we wouldn’t want them to think we’ve become friends, would we? And then I had to consider the possibility that you would try to do something foolish, like trying to get away from the sergeants.”

Again Orlovsky didn’t reply.

“Chauncey and I”—Cronley nodded toward Dunwiddie—“you’ve met Chauncey, I think, if only briefly — we were talking and decided that after your stay in — how shall I say this? — das Gasthaus—you’d probably like a shower and a shave and a change of linen. And afterward, that we could have a little chat over breakfast. So let’s get to that.”

He gestured to Tedworth and Lewis. Lewis dropped to his knees and started to free Orlovsky from the handcuffs around his ankles.

Cronley went on: “That long wooden pole, Konstantin, that Sergeant Tedworth is holding is a Louisville Slugger baseball bat. Normally used in our national sport. But in this case, I’ve told the sergeant that if you even look as if you have notions of declining our hospitality and leaving, he is to first smash your feet with it, and, if that doesn’t have the desired effect, to start in on your knees.”

Sergeant Lewis finished unshackling Orlovsky and then unlocked and removed his handcuffs.

“The sergeants will now assist you in your shower,” Cronley said.

Lewis and Tedworth took Orlovsky’s arms and marched him into Cronley’s bedroom.

When the door was closed, Cronley said, “I hope that doesn’t take long. I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch yesterday.”

“Feeding him breakfast was your idea,” Dunwiddie replied, and then said, “You did a pretty good job on him. From the look on his face, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find that he was being led into a Dachau gas chamber shower.”

“Yeah. I saw that, too. And what worries me was that he didn’t seem to give a damn. I think he’s decided that he’s as good as dead, so what the hell, get it over with.”

Sergeants Tedworth and Lewis led Orlovsky back into the sitting room ten minutes later. He was still barefoot, but he was now dressed in an olive drab woolen shirt and OD trousers.

“Well, my stuff seems to fit, Konstantin,” Cronley said. “I thought we were about the same size.”

Orlovsky didn’t reply.

“Sergeant Tedworth, why don’t you give the Louisville Slugger to Dunwiddie? And then you and Sergeant Lewis can leave us alone while we have our breakfast. Tell Sergeant Whatsisname we want it now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I didn’t know what you like for breakfast, Konstantin,” Cronley said, “so I told Sergeant Whatsisname…”

“Sergeant Warner, sir,” Tedworth furnished as he handed Dunwiddie the baseball bat. Dunwiddie rested it against the table.

“… Right. Sergeant Warner. I don’t know why I always forget his name. Unlike most mess sergeants, he’s one hell of a cook. Anyway, Konstantin, I told Sergeant Warner to bring you what Chauncey and I are having. Orange juice, ham and eggs, and waffles. I hope that’s all right with you.”

“Why don’t you sit down, Konstantin?” Dunwiddie asked. “Get your feet off the cold floor?”

Orlovsky took his seat, with his hands folded in his lap.

Dunwiddie offered Orlovsky his pack of Chesterfield cigarettes.

Orlovsky shook his head, and then said, “No, thank you.”

It was the first he had spoken.

Nothing more was said by anyone until Sergeant Warner, who was wearing cook’s whites, including an enormous floppy white hat, came into the room, carrying a large tray holding plates covered with upside-down plates. Sergeant Lewis followed him carrying a steaming coffeepot.

“Just put it on the table,” Dunwiddie ordered. “We’ll take it from there.”

Dunwiddie picked up the coffeepot and poured from it.

“I take mine black,” Dunwiddie said. “How about you, Konstantin?”

“Black is fine, thank you.”

Cronley removed the upside-down plate over his plate and looked appreciatively at what was to be his breakfast.

“Dig in, Konstantin,” he suggested, “before it gets cold.”

Orlovsky removed the plate over his breakfast and picked up a fork.

“Do they have waffles in Russia?” Cronley asked.

“We have something like what this appears to be.”

“Your wife serves them like this, with maple syrup?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you put maple syrup on them?”

“I don’t know what maple syrup is.”

Dunwiddie moved a small white pitcher across the table.

“Maple syrup,” he said. “It’s sweet. Spread butter on your waffle and then pour a little syrup on it.”

Curiosity took over.

“What is it?”

“They drill holes in maple trees,” Cronley explained. “They stick taps in the holes to collect the maple sap in buckets, then boil that down.”

“And this is the real stuff, genuine Vermont maple syrup,” Dunwiddie went on. “The best kind. My mother sends it to me.”

“You’re from Vermont?” Orlovsky asked.

Cronley’s and Dunwiddie’s eyes met for a moment.

We’ve got him talking!

More important, talking family!

“From Kansas,” Dunwiddie said. “Manhattan, Kansas. Or Fort Riley. Same thing. We go to school in Vermont. Norwich.”

“Konstantin has no idea what you’re talking about, Chauncey,” Cronley said.

“My family is Cavalry,” Dunwiddie said. “Fort Riley has been a cavalry post for a long time, almost a hundred years. And we Dunwiddies have been there since they put up the first stockade. We’re Buffalo Soldiers.”

“Now you’re really confusing him,” Cronley said.

“When we were fighting the Indians, before our Civil War, 1861 to 1865, the Indians called us Buffalo Soldiers because of this,” Dunwiddie said as he ran his fingers over his scalp. “They said we had hair like buffaloes.”

“Cowboys and Indians,” Orlovsky said.

“Cavalry and Indians,” Dunwiddie said. “If it wasn’t for the Cavalry, the Indians would have run the cowboys out of the West.”

“How interesting,” Orlovsky said. “But you said you went to school in Vermont?”

“After the Spanish American War, 1898, especially after the Ninth Cavalry beat Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders up San Juan Hill in Cuba,” Dunwiddie continued his lecture, “the Army finally got around to admitting that maybe black people could be officers. But they had to be college graduates. So my grandfather, Joshua H. Dunwiddie, who had been first sergeant of Troop B of the Ninth Cavalry, took his discharge and Teddy Roosevelt got him into Norwich…”

“Which is?”

“… From which he was graduated in the Class of 1900 and commissioned a second lieutenant of Cavalry. My father is Norwich ’twenty, and I’m Norwich ’forty-five.”

“It’s a school, a military academy?”

Cronley offered: “We have a number of private military academies, Konstantin.”

“Of which Norwich is the oldest,” Dunwiddie said.

“I went to one of them, the Texas Agriculture and Military Academy,” Cronley added. “And General George C. Marshall, who is our senior officer, went to another of them, the Virginia Military Institute. General Patton, come to think of it, went to VMI before he went to West Point.”

“Anyway, we Dunwiddies go to Norwich. Where we learned to appreciate Vermont maple syrup, which is why, my mother having sent me a half dozen pints of it, you are now about to pour it on your waffles.”

Orlovsky smiled and chuckled.

“You said you’d gone to Leningrad State University,” Cronley said. “Is that where you got your commission?”

Orlovsky’s face showed he was wondering if the question was innocent. And then Cronley saw disappointment on it when Orlovsky realized Cronley and Dunwiddie had an agenda.

Is he sorry he fell for our charm, and didn’t immediately suspect an agenda?

Or maybe he’s disappointed in me personally.

That disorientation of Bischoff’s wasn’t entirely ineffective. He had a lot of time to think in that cell with no lights and no company but the smell of his own feces.

And then I came along and was nice to him.

And was even nicer today.

He thought he had found a friend, and what he’s disappointed about is that he knows he should have known better.

And then Cronley saw what he thought was resignation.

“No,” Orlovsky said. “The Leningrad State University has no connection with the military or the NKGB. Actually, I was sent there by the NKGB. I took what you Americans would call a master’s degree at Leningrad. Then I took what I suppose you could call my doctorate at the Felix Dzerzhinsky Federal Security Service Academy in Moscow. When I graduated, I was commissioned.”

“As a second lieutenant?”

“As a captain.”

He’s telling the truth, which means (a) he suspects I already knew where NKGB officers come from, and (b) has decided that since he’s a dead man, it doesn’t matter what he tells me, unless it’s the names of the Germans he’s turned. And he’s not going to give them to me.

“Who’s Felix whatever you said?” Dunwiddie asked.

“Felix Dzerzhinsky founded the Cheka, which evolved over the years into the NKGB,” Orlovsky replied. Then he laid his knife and fork neatly on his plate, and then pushed it several inches away from him.

“You can eat your breakfast, Konstantin,” Cronley said. “You’re not going to be shot. At least not by us.”

When Orlovsky looked at him but made no move, Cronley said, “Don’t be a fool. After the starvation diet our pal Bischoff has had you on, you need the strength.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard that we Americans always feed the condemned man a hearty meal,” Dunwiddie said, and smiled.

Orlovsky considered both comments for a moment, then pulled the plate to him. He began to saw a piece off the ham steak, and finally said, “Thank you.”

“Our pleasure,” Dunwiddie said. “Think nothing of it.”

Orlovsky smiled as he forked a ham chunk into his mouth. When he had finished chewing it appreciatively, he said, “Delicious. Thank you for… encouraging… me to eat it.”

“We could do no less, Konstantin,” Dunwiddie said.

“What did you really hope to gain from your hospitality?” Orlovsky asked. “You know I am not going to give what you’re asking.”

“I think you will,” Cronley said, hoping his voice conveyed more confidence than he felt. “We have three or four days for you to consider the advantages of telling us.”

“And after four days, I’ll be shot?”

“Not by us,” Cronley said.

“By Bischoff? Or another of Gehlen’s people?”

Well, here goes.

This probably won’t work, but since I can think of nothing else…

“If you are shot,” Cronley said, “I’d say the odds are the shooter will be a fellow alumnus of the Felix Dzerzhinsky Federal Security Service Academy.”

Orlovsky looked intently at him, but his face showed nothing.

“Your assets — the Germans you have turned, Konstantin, and are so nobly protecting — are going to be your downfall. Over the next few days, I’m going to make sure they see what great friends you and I have become. They’re clever fellows, and I have every confidence that they will know how to pass that information along to whoever was out there waiting for you the night Sergeant Tedworth caught you.”

He let that sink in for a moment, then went on: “There had to be someone waiting for you, Konstantin. You didn’t miraculously appear at Kloster Grünau like the Christmas fairy does on Christmas Eve. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he — or they — are out there as we speak, peering at us through binoculars and wondering what the hell you’re doing in here right now. As a matter of fact, I hope they are.

“Step Two, or Three or Four, presuming you remain uncooperative, will be your being trussed up like a Christmas turkey and loaded into my Storch. I will then fly you to Berlin, put you into the trunk of a staff car, and drive you into the Russian Zone, where I will leave you sitting on the curb.”

Orlovsky looked as if he was going to say something, but Cronley put up his hand to stop him.

“I don’t want to sound rude, but right now I want you to think things over very carefully before you say anything.”

Cronley stood.

“Finish your breakfast, Konstantin,” he said, then turned to Dunwiddie. “When he’s finished, have him taken back to das Gasthaus.”

“Dressed like that?”

“Oh, no. Dressed as he was when we brought him here. For the time being, let’s let everybody think we still don’t like him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll see you soon, Konstantin, after you’ve had a little time to think things over,” Cronley said, and then walked out of the sitting room.

[FOUR]

Cronley was sitting alone at the bar with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s when Dunwiddie walked in ten minutes later.

“It’s a little early for that, isn’t it, Captain, sir?” Dunwiddie greeted him.

“I’ve already had my breakfast, so why not?”

“Are you celebrating, drowning your sorrows, or just boozing it up?”

“I’ve been trying to make up my mind about that.”

“Drinking just because it makes you feel good is decadent and depraved.”

“I’ll bet they taught you that at Maple Syrup U.”

“Actually, my mother repeated that line to me no more than five million times.”

Dunwiddie went behind the bar, took a bottle of Haig & Haig Pinch Scots whisky from the display, then sat on a stool next to Cronley.

“However,” he went on, as he poured a glass nearly full, “under the circumstances, I feel a little taste is in order.”

He took a very healthy swallow of the whisky, and smacked his lips appreciatively.

If it’s true, Cronley thought, that the larger the corpus into which alcohol is introduced the less effect it has on said corpus, Tiny can do that all day without getting noticeably plastered.

As far as normal-sized people like me are concerned, I better not have any more of this. Right now, getting even slightly plastered is something I can’t afford to do.

“Speaking of your sainted mother, Tiny, I thought that story about her sending you maple syrup worked well with Konstantin. We’ve got to get him thinking about his mother, his wife, his family.”

“Yeah.”

“I wish I knew if his father is alive, if he has any kids.”

“You’re thinking that if we can get him thinking about his mommy and daddy, his loving wife, and their little ones, if any…?”

“He might start to think that while a bullet in the back of his head might solve his problems, the NKGB might turn its kind attention to them. I’m pretty sure he’s been trying very hard not to think of them, so we have to make sure he does.”

“He looked very unhappy when Tedworth was leading him back to his cell.”

“He looked very unhappy when Tedworth led him in from his cell. What we have to do is give him some hope for the future.”

“And reminding him that he’s got a family about to get sent to Siberia, or shot, because he got caught is going to give him hope for the future?”

Tiny, looking past Jim, then quickly covered his mouth with his hand and said, “Change the subject.”

Cronley looked over his shoulder. Former Oberst Ludwig Mannberg had entered the room and was walking toward them.

“Ah, I’d hoped to find you here, Captain Cronley,” Mannberg said, smiling and offering his hand.

Cronley smiled, remembering what Tiny had said about habitual handshaking Germans: “They can’t go to the can to take a leak unless they first shake hands with everybody in the room.”

I don’t want to call him Herr Oberst, because he’s not a colonel anymore and I don’t want him to think I don’t know that.

On the other hand, I don’t want to piss him off, either. Unintentionally.

“Will you join us for a little taste, Herr Oberst?” Cronley said as they shook hands.

“It’s a little early for me, thank you just the same,” Mannberg said. “I’m hoping you can spare a few minutes for me.”

“Anytime, Herr Oberst. You know that.”

Mannberg gave his hand to Tiny, said, “Herr Dunwiddie,” and then added, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I was hoping to have a few minutes alone with Captain Cronley.”

“Dunwiddie’s my deputy, Herr Oberst. Anything you have to say to me—”

“Of course, of course,” Mannberg said quickly. “No offense, Herr Dunwiddie.”

“None taken,” Tiny said. “What can we do for you?”

“It concerns the NKGB agent, Orlovsky.”

“What about him?” Cronley asked.

“Well, what’s happened is that Oberstleutnant Bischoff has gone to the general and said that somehow you and he got off on the wrong foot.”

Cronley didn’t reply.

“And the general asked me to see what I could do about straightening out the situation, the misunderstanding, between you.”

“What misunderstanding is that?”

“Well,” Mannberg said, “my understanding was that Herr Oberst Mattingly has told Herr Dunwiddie to keep an eye on the situation for him while we deal with it.”

“He did.”

“Well, Bischoff said that you had issued orders that he was not to be allowed to further interrogate the Russian.”

“I did.”

“I don’t understand, Herr Kapitän.”

“I didn’t like what Bischoff was doing to Orlovsky, and I saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere with him, so I’ve taken over the interrogation.”

“Oberstleutnant Bischoff is a highly trained, greatly experienced interrogator, our best.”

“I can only repeat what I said, that I didn’t like what he was doing to Orlovsky and I saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere with him, so I took over the investigation. There’s no misunderstanding.”

“With all respect, Herr Kapitän Cronley, I must protest.”

“Duly noted.”

“And I must ask you to reconsider. The Russian must be broken.”

“I intend to get the information we both want from him.”

“And is Oberst Mattingly aware of what you have decided to do?”

“He didn’t want to hear it, but I told him anyway.”

“And he approved?”

“You miss the point, Mannberg. Colonel Mattingly doesn’t want to know anything about this situation. Since he didn’t tell me to ‘deal with the situation,’ he can hardly tell me not to deal with it, can he?”

“But you have just said you have taken over the interrogation!”

“And I have. From Mr. Dunwiddie, who shouldn’t have allowed Bischoff to interrogate my prisoner in the first place.”

“Your prisoner?”

“I’m the commanding officer of the Twenty-third CIC. And of Kloster Grünau. Since my men arrested this fellow, whoever he is…”

“We know who he is!”

“… then he’s my prisoner. So far as I know, recently discharged from POW status former soldiers have no authority to arrest anyone, much less any authority to detain anyone, or interrogate anyone, do they?”

“This is not the reaction I expected from you,” Mannberg said. “Would you be willing to discuss this with General Gehlen?”

“No.”

“When he hears of our conversation, I feel sure he’ll report it to Colonel Mattingly.”

“When I told Colonel Mattingly about what I had decided to do here, he didn’t want to hear it. I don’t think he’ll be any more interested in hearing Herr Gehlen try to tell him what I’ve decided to do here.”

“You understand, you must understand, how important it is we get the names of our traitors.”

“I do. And when I have them, I’ll tell you and then you and Herr Gehlen may offer your recommendations about what I should do with the people you have allowed to infiltrate the South German Industrial Development Organization and consequently put it under such an absolutely unacceptable risk of exposure.”

“Frankly, Kapitän Cronley, I’m having trouble believing we’re having this conversation. I don’t like to think what General Gehlen’s reaction to it will be.”

“Well, I guess you’ll know as soon as you tell him,” Cronley replied. “Is there anything else on your mind?”

“No, thank you.”

“And you’re sure you won’t change your mind about a drink?”

“That’s very kind, but no thank you.”

He offered his hand to Cronley, and then to Dunwiddie, and then walked out of the room.

When Mannberg was out of earshot, Tiny said, “Absolutely fascinating. I’ve never seen anyone commit suicide before.”

“You think that’s what I did?”

“Gehlen will be on the phone to Mattingly thirty seconds after Mannberg tells him about this.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, come on!”

“We don’t have a secure line. Gehlen’s not going to get on an unsecure telephone and say, ‘Colonel Mattingly, let me tell you what your crazy young captain’s doing with the NKGB major we caught.’”

“Then he’ll go to Frankfurt and tell him in person.”

“Gehlen doesn’t want to go to Mattingly with this unless he has to. So before he does, he’ll try to reason with me. Or send Mannberg back to reason with me. I think it’ll take him two days — three, if we’re lucky — to realize I can’t be reasoned with. So we have that much time to get those names from Orlovsky.”

“And if he doesn’t give them to us?”

“I don’t know.”

“If he does, Jim, then what are you going to do with him, send him to Argentina?”

After a moment, Cronley said, “Now there’s a thought!”

“You didn’t think of that?” Dunwiddie asked incredulously.

Cronley’s face showed that he hadn’t.

“I’m so glad to hear that you’ve really thought this problem through,” Dunwiddie said. “Answered all the little ‘What if’s’ that came to mind.”

“I don’t think he’d believe me if I offered him Argentina,” Cronley said thoughtfully. “Why should he?”

“You have an honest face?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Cronley said, still thoughtfully. And then he ordered, “Get Tedworth on the phone. Tell him to bring Orlovsky back upstairs — at oh-five-hundred tomorrow. He should have had enough time to do some thinking by then. And at midnight, wake him up and feed him his lunch. Something nice, just so he thinks it’s lunch. I want to keep him confused about what time it is.”

[FIVE]

“Good afternoon, Major Orlovsky,” Cronley said as Staff Sergeant Lewis pulled the duffel bag from the Russian’s head.

Orlovsky, who was again barefoot and covered with the blanket tied around his body, didn’t reply.

“Captain, do you want me to take the cuffs off his ankles?” Lewis asked.

“Maybe that won’t be necessary,” Cronley said. “That will depend on the major’s reply to what I’m going to ask him.”

He waited until Orlovsky’s eyes had time to adjust from the darkness of the duffel bag to the light in the sitting room.

“Have you had a little time to think about what’s going to happen when they take you to NKGB headquarters in Berlin after they find you sitting tied up on the street by the Brandenburg Gate?”

“Of course I have,” Orlovsky said.

“You think they’re going to be just a little disappointed in you, allowing yourself to get caught here?”

Orlovsky didn’t reply.

“And wonder what information you shared with us?”

Orlovsky’s face remained expressionless.

“And I’m sure you’ve thought they are going to wonder if you really didn’t tell us a thing. And the unlikelihood that they will believe you when you assure them that you lived up to your obligations as an NKGB officer. And what that will mean for you. And I don’t just mean your being subjected to a lengthy interrogation.”

“Maybe we could save a little time, Captain Cronley, if I told you I’ve given my situation a good deal of thought.”

“Including what’s very likely to happen to your family?”

Orlovsky exhaled audibly.

“There’s not much I can do about that, is there?” Orlovsky asked.

“So, right now, you see the most likely scenario for your future is that after you fail to convince whoever runs the NKGB in Berlin that you lived up to your obligations as an NKGB officer, you will be shot in the back of your head, and your family will be sent to Siberia to remind other people like you of the price their families will pay for their failures.”

“Or that you will… dispose… of me here.”

“Which would have the same effect on your family. Consider this, Konstantin. If you don’t show up, simply disappear, the NKGB won’t really know that we’ve turned you, will they? They’ll think we simply disposed of you. In that case, I submit there’s a chance — a slight one, I admit — that they’ll decide you died in the line of duty, and are a hero of the NKGB. That would work to encourage others, and if they treated your family well… you can see where I’m going with this…”

The telephone on the sideboard rang.

Sonofabitch! Why did that have to go off right now?

Cronley gestured for Dunwiddie to answer it and snapped, “I’m not available.”

“No,” Orlovsky said, “I don’t see where you’re ‘going with this.’”

“Your other option is to let me arrange for you to disappear. And I don’t mean into an unmarked grave here in the monastery cemetery.”

“Twenty-third CIC, Dunwiddie.”

“Disappear? How would I disappear? And you can’t keep me in that cell forever.”

“I can arrange for you to go somewhere safe.”

“I doubt that. I’m a little surprised that you really thought you could offer me a refuge someplace in exchange for those names and I would turn them over to you.”

“What about if I got you refuge somewhere, after which you would give me the names?”

“I’m sorry, Captain Cronley is not available.”

“And once you had given me the names, and I establish they are the names of the people you’ve turned, I put Gehlen to work getting your family out of Russia. You know he’s got well-placed people in Moscow.”

“You cannot expect me to take you seriously?”

“Sir, could I have Captain Cronley call you in ten minutes?”

“I’m perfectly serious, Konstantin. I’m offering you a new life in Argentina.”

“Why would you expect me to believe something like that?”

“Aside from the fact that I’m telling you the truth, you mean? I’m not promising we can get your family out of Russia, but I’m promising I’ll make Gehlen try. If you were a man, you’d take the chance to do whatever you could for your family.”

“You sonofabitch!”

Dunwiddie carried the telephone to Cronley and extended it to him.

“I don’t give a damn who it is. Tell him I’ll call him back.”

“Mattingly,” Dunwiddie said.

Oh, shit!

Cronley took the telephone.

“Colonel, I can’t talk to you right now. I’ll call you—”

“Who the hell do you think you are, Cronley? You’ll talk to me whenever I want to talk to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What the hell is going on down there?”

“Sir, I’m interrogating… our guest.”

“At five o’clock in the morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The interrogation is over.”

Cronley didn’t reply.

“The answer I expect is, ‘Yes, sir.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll discuss that situation when I see you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How soon can you be at Eschborn?”

“Eschborn?”

“Goddamn you, Cronley, when I ask you a question, I expect an answer. How soon can you be at Eschborn?”

“Well, it’s about a three-hour flight, give or take. And I don’t know when daybreak is…”

“You can be there sometime around ten hundred hours,” Dunwiddie furnished softly. “Daybreak here is about oh-six-thirty. Plus three hours. Around ten hundred, maybe a little before.”

That means Tiny heard what Mattingly was saying. Which means Orlovsky heard what Mattingly was saying. Shit!

“Not until ten hundred hours?” Mattingly asked.

Which means he heard Tiny.

“Somewhere around ten hundred, yes, sir.”

“Why can’t you leave right now?”

“Colonel, I have to be able to see the runway to take off.”

“Why can’t you shine jeep or truck headlights on the runway?”

“Because I don’t want to kill myself, sir. Substituting headlights for landing lights is an emergency procedure. Is this some kind of an emergency?”

“Spare me your smart-ass lip, Cronley.”

“Yes, sir.”

“On that subject, when you get here, you will speak only when spoken to. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t want the subject of your interrogation to come up. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. Colonel, what’s going on at Eschborn?”

“I just told you, goddamn it, that you are to speak only when spoken to. That means you don’t ask questions. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get to Eschborn ASAP.”

“Yes, sir.”

A change in the buzz on the line told Cronley that Mattingly had broken the connection.

Cronley handed the phone to Dunwiddie, then looked at Orlovsky.

“That was my colonel, Konstantin. He calls every so often to tell me how good a job I’m doing.”

“I’ve had colonels like that,” Orlovsky said. “I suppose this Argentina fantasy was his idea?”

“No. It’s my idea. He doesn’t know about it, and I’m not going to tell him.”

“In other words, it wasn’t a valid offer?”

“The offer is valid.”

“Without your colonel’s knowledge or permission?”

“Yeah. Without his knowledge or permission.”

“Why should I believe that?”

“Because it’s the only hope you have to do something for your family.”

Cronley turned to Sergeant Lewis and ordered, “Lewis, uncuff the major. Get him something to eat, and when he’s finished take him back to his cell.”

[SIX]

Cronley parked the Storch on the grass across the tarmac from Base Operations and got out. He chocked the wheels and walked across the tarmac to see about getting the Storch fueled.

Aside from getting fuel, he didn’t know what to do. Mattingly’s Horch was nowhere in sight, and he didn’t know if he was expected to go to the Schlosshotel on his own, or just wait for whatever was to happen in Base Ops.

The question was answered the moment he walked through the Base Ops door. There were half a dozen officers and non-coms in the foyer.

And a woman. She advanced on him.

“Captain Cronley, I’m Rachel Schumann, Colonel Schumann’s wife. Do you remember me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She gave him her hand and he shook it.

“General Greene asked me to pick you up and take you out to the Schlosshotel for the meeting.”

“That’s very kind.”

“My car is right outside,” Rachel said, quickly reclaiming her hand.

“Mrs. Schumann, I have to see about getting my tanks topped off.” He pointed to the Flight Planning/Weather room. “It’ll take me just a minute.”

“I’ll wait in the car. It’s a Chrysler Town and Country.”

“It’ll take me just a minute,” Cronley repeated, and then watched her as she walked out of the building.

What the hell is going on?

Cronley slid onto the front seat of the wooden-sided station wagon, closed the door, and turned to Rachel. She had the engine running, and started off.

Well, I guess I don’t get a welcoming kiss. Or a fond little grope.

What did you expect?

“We’re going to have to stop meeting this way,” Cronley said. “People will start to talk.”

She chuckled.

“Rachel, what the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know. Or I don’t know much.”

“Tell me what you do know.”

She nodded. “Tony got in very late last night from Kassel. This morning — he was going into work late, after lunch — we were having breakfast when General Greene called. He told Tony to come out to the Schlosshotel right then. Tony’s driver had been told to pick him up for work at thirteen hundred, so with no staff car Tony asked me to run him to the hotel. When I was dropping him off, General Greene said he needed a favor. You were flying into Eschborn and needed a ride. So here I am.”

“What’s going on at the hotel?”

“All I know is that General Greene called the meeting. Putting you and Tony at the meeting…”

“And Mattingly?”

“I saw that enormous car of his in the parking lot…”

“His Horch?”

“Is that what it is? It suggests he’s part of the meeting. Putting you and my husband and Colonel Mattingly at the meeting makes me think it has to do with what you’re doing at wherever you are in Bavaria.”

“Kloster Grünau.”

“But that’s just a guess.”

“Good guess. Did anyone ever tell you you have very sexy knees?”

“Eyes off my knees and hands in your lap,” Rachel said, pulling down the hem of her skirt.

They were now on the rather narrow, curving two-lane road leading to the Schlosshotel from the airstrip.

“You haven’t told me what you know about this meeting,” Rachel said.

“Mattingly called me at five this morning. He was more than a little pissed when he learned how long it was going to take me to get up here. That’s all I know. Except that when I get here, I’m not to speak unless spoken to, and I am forbidden to ask questions.”

There suddenly came from behind the sound of a siren.

Sirens, plural, Cronley thought as he turned to look behind the Chrysler.

He saw two M-8 armored cars — sort of light tanks, with wheels rather than tracks — coming up the road.

“What the hell is that?”

Rachel steered the car to the side of the road and stopped.

“I think it’s golf time,” she said.

“What?”

The M-8s were almost to them. Cronley saw they had chrome sirens and flashing red lights mounted on them. The men wore white Military Police accoutrements and chrome-plated steel helmets. He also saw they weren’t going as fast as he had thought.

And there’s nobody on the road ahead of them, so what’s with the sirens?

The first M-8 rumbled past them. The MPs in it looked down at them.

Arrogantly, Cronley thought. More than suspiciously, but that, too.

Then the second M-8 rumbled past.

Cronley saw that its bulk had concealed what was behind it: an olive drab Packard Clipper. A small American flag was mounted on the right fender, and on the left was mounted a red flag with five stars in a circle.

It was impossible to look into the Packard as it passed. The windows were darkened.

“That has to be Eisenhower,” Cronley said.

“God, you’re clever,” Rachel said, gently mocking him. Then she added, as a third M-8 passed them, bringing up the tail of the little convoy, “My love, even generals have to play golf.”

“He’s headed to the Schlosshotel to play golf?”

“Either that, or he’s going to your meeting. I’d bet on the golf.”

“And he needs that armored column to get to the golf course?”

“Ike didn’t think he needed it either. He hates it. Actually, he said it was preposterous. But he finally deferred to the professional judgment of General Greene.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Sometimes.”

“Those MPs are really CIC agents.”

“Really?” His surprise was evident.

“You didn’t know that CIC is in charge of protecting Ike and Patton and people like that?”

“Not until just now.”

“And running those security details is an additional duty for Tony. My husband.”

“Fascinating. And you know what else is fascinating? There’s nobody coming either way on the road.”

“So?”

“So if I kissed you nobody would see.”

She caught his hands and held them against the seat between them.

“Tony heard rumors that die-hard Nazis or Communists were going to try to assassinate Ike and General Patton. He didn’t think they were all that credible, but you don’t take chances. He went to General Greene, and General Greene went to Ike and Patton and told them he thought the threat was credible. Ike finally gave in and accepted. General Patton said he could protect himself, thank you just the same. So, now you know.”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“I’m surprised you’re not riding around in one of those M-8s. You’re CIC and an Armor second lieutenant.”

“Actually, I’m Cavalry and a captain…”

“Only since last week,” she interrupted.

“… and they pulled me out of the Basic Officer Course at Fort Knox when I wasn’t quite halfway through it.”

“Why’d they do that?”

“They needed someone to run the CIC. What do I have to do to get you to kiss me?”

“Put your hands behind your back and promise to keep them there.”

“Deal.”

She looked in his eyes. “Oh, Jimmy, what are we going to do?”

“Stop talking.”

Approximately forty-five seconds later, Rachel pushed him away, said, “You better get that lipstick off,” and then set about repairing her own.

When they were moving up the road again, Rachel said, “I’m really sorry we did that.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“I won’t be able to think of anything else for the next twenty-four hours.”

And then she groped him.