Top Secret Page 12

  “Thank you.”

  “Permission to speak, sir?”

  “Granted.”

  “Mattingly is not going to like this.”

  “Probably not. On the other hand, I don’t like the way he’s trying to cover his ass about the Russian. If he wants to let the Germans shoot him—or, for that matter, torture him—I don’t know right now what I can do about that. But I do know I’m not going to let him get away with saying, ‘I didn’t know anything about what happens at Kloster Grünau,’ and then blame whatever happens on you and me.”

  “You really think that’s what Mattingly is doing?”

  “It may not have started out that way, but yeah, I think—I damned well know—that’s what he’s doing. He considers you and me expendable, Tiny.”

  “Operation Ost is really important, Jim.”

  “So important that Mattingly is perfectly willing to throw you and me to the hungry lions to keep it going. That’s the point. But I’m not willing to be fed to the lions.”

  “You realize the spot you’re putting me in?”

  “Are you going to obey the direct order I gave you?”

  “You heard me say ‘Yes, sir.’”

  “Then you’re off the spot. I just moved onto it.”

  Dunwiddie threw up his hands in resignation.

  “Let’s go get some breakfast,” Cronley said.

  [ TWO ]

  U.S. Army Airfield H-7

  Eschborn, Hesse

  American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  1120 30 October 1945

  “Eschborn, Seven-Oh-Seven understands Number Two to land on Niner-zero behind the C-47,” Cronley said into the microphone.

  He looked at his wristwatch and saw that he was ten minutes early.

  A minute later, he saw that Colonel Robert Mattingly was also ten minutes early; he was leaning against the front fender of his Horch, which was parked next to what had to be Base Operations.

  Did he come early to be a nice guy?

  Or has Gehlen called him and complained about my behavior—and he can’t wait to put me in my place?

  A minute after that, the Storch was on the ground. A Follow me jeep led it to the visitors’ tarmac in front of Base Operations.

  As he was shutting down the Storch, Mattingly walked up to the airplane and waited for him to climb down from it.

  He smiled and offered his hand.

  “Right on time, Jim. Ready to go?”

  I guess Gehlen did not complain.

  “Sir, I have to see about getting it fueled, and I want to check the weather.” He pointed to the Base Operations building. “It won’t take a minute.”

  “Fine,” Mattingly said with a smile, but Cronley sensed he was annoyed.

  There were two signs over the Flight Briefing Room. One read FLIGHT PLANNING/WEATHER. The other read PILOTS ONLY.

  Mattingly nevertheless followed Cronley into the room.

  Why not? Full bull colonels get to go just about anyplace they want to.

  Cronley studied the weather map, and then caught the eye of an Air Force sergeant.

  “It doesn’t look good for the south this afternoon, does it?”

  “Not good unless you’re a penguin. Penguins don’t fly.”

  “When do you think that front will move through southern Bavaria?”

  “Very late this afternoon.”

  “You think it will be clear in the morning?”

  “Probably.”

  “Who do I have to see to get fuel?”

  “Me,” the sergeant said, and produced a clipboard with a form on it. “Name, organization, type of aircraft, tail number, and fuel designation. And signature.”

  Cronley filled in the blanks and the sergeant examined the form.

  “Twenty-third CIC, huh?” the sergeant said, pronouncing it “Ex Ex Eye Eye Eye See Eye See.”

  “Guilty,” Cronley said.

  “And what the hell is a Fieseler Storch?”

  Cronley pointed out the window.

  “Funny-looking,” the sergeant opined.

  “It flies that way, too.”

  “Kraut?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “I’ll have your tanks topped off in half an hour.”

  “No rush. I’m not going to fly into that weather. I’ll try to get out in the morning. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Cronley looked at Colonel Mattingly and gestured toward the door.

  When they were out of the building, Mattingly said, “I gather you have to spend the night?”

  “Yes, sir. There’s a front moving across Bavaria that I don’t think I should fly into.”

  “I defer, of course, to your airman’s judgment. But what I had in mind was that I don’t like leaving that airplane here overnight. Questions might be asked.”

  “What would you like me to do, sir?”

  “Well, if you can’t control something, don’t worry about it. You might wish to write that down.”

  He saw Cronley smile. “Did I say something funny, Captain?”

  “No, sir. But that’s a paraphrase of what Major Orlovsky said to me. He quoted a Roman poet named Ovid. ‘Happy is the man who has given up worrying.’ Something like that.”

  “You’ve been discussing Roman poets with an NKGB officer?” Mattingly asked incredulously.

  “It came out during my interrogation of him, sir.”

  “Your interrogation of him?” Mattingly asked even more incredulously.

  “Yes, sir.”

  They were now at the Horch.

  “Get in,” Mattingly ordered.

  “Sir, where am I going to stay tonight?”

  When Mattingly didn’t immediately reply, Cronley said, “I’ve got an overnight bag in the plane. Should I get it now?”

  “Get your bag,” Mattingly ordered.

  —

  Immediately after they had left the airfield, Mattingly explained what was going to happen.

  “We’re going to the Schlosshotel, which is now a field grade officers’ facility. We’re going to get you a room. After lunch, we will have our little chat in the privacy of that room. Following that, I will go back to my office, and you will stay in the room, leaving it only for supper and breakfast. You will not, in other words, take advantage of the golf club, nor whoop it up tonight in the bar. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I will arrange for a car to take you from the hotel to the airport after you’ve had your breakfast.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The fewer people who see you in the hotel, the better. Questions would be asked. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  [ THREE ]

  Schlosshotel Kronberg

  Kronberg im Taunus, Hesse

  American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  1150 30 October 1945

  Mattingly and Cronley had taken perhaps ten steps into the lobby when they were intercepted by an attractive American woman. Cronley noted that she had a shapely figure, a full head of black hair, and appeared to be in her early thirties.

  “Well, I didn’t expect to see you here, Colonel,” she said. “But you’re very welcome!”

  “Mrs. Schumann,” Mattingly said, turning on the charm. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

  “And have you brought us a newly arrived?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, he’s wearing the triangles,” she said. “And he doesn’t look old enough to be a major. And he’s with you. So I have leapt to the conclusion that he’s one of us.”

  “Mrs. Schumann, this is Special Agent Cronley.”

  She offered Cronley her hand. He took it. She didn’t let go.

  “I’ve so wanted to meet you,” she
said.

  “Excuse me?” Cronley said.

  “You are the young man who shot the engine out of my husband’s car, right?”

  “He told you about that?” Mattingly blurted.

  “Well, Tony is pretty sure I’m neither a Nazi nor a member of the NKGB, and we are married. So why not?”

  Mattingly gathered his thoughts.

  “Well, are you or aren’t you?” she pursued, still hanging on to his hand and looking into Cronley’s eyes.

  He thought she had very sad eyes, not consistent with her bubbly personality.

  “There was a misunderstanding,” Cronley said.

  “About which the less said, the better,” Mattingly said.

  “My lips are sealed,” she said, letting loose of Cronley’s hand so that she could cover her mouth with it.

  “Is Colonel Schumann here?” Mattingly asked. “And what’s going on here?”

  “He arranged to be in Vienna so he wouldn’t have to be here,” she said, and then pointed toward the entrance to the main dining room.

  Cronley followed her gesture. He saw a brigadier general walking toward them. And then read a sign mounted on a tripod:

  CIC/ASA WELCOME TO EUCOM LUNCHEON

  MAIN DINING ROOM

  1200 30 OCTOBER 1945

  —

  “Shit,” Colonel Mattingly said under his breath, and then he said, “Good afternoon, General.”

  “Rachel,” the general said, “may I say how lovely you look?”

  And how very sad, Cronley thought. I wonder what that’s about?

  And who’s the general?

  “Colonel,” the general said, “I’m more than a little surprised to see you here.”

  “Truth to tell, sir, I forgot about the luncheon. I’m here on other business.”

  “Really?”

  The general put out his hand to Cronley.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m General Greene.”

  “General, this is Captain Cronley,” Mattingly said.

  “I thought it might be. I’ve heard a good deal about you, Captain.”

  “How do you do, sir?”

  A captain wearing the aiguillette and lapel insignia of an aide-de-camp walked up to them.

  “I think, Jack,” General Greene said, “that you know everybody but Captain Cronley.”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain said. “Ma’am, Colonel.” He put out his hand to Cronley and said “Captain” as he examined him very carefully.

  “Colonel Mattingly has brought Captain Cronley as his newly arrived,” General Greene said. “So, what you’re going to have to do, Jack, is rearrange the head table so there’s a place for them.”

  “General,” Mattingly said, “as I said, Captain Cronley and I are here on business—”

  “So you said,” Greene interrupted. “But you have to eat, and if you eat with us, all the newly arrived will get to see the deputy commander of EUCOM CIC sitting right up there beside the president of the CIC Officers’ Ladies Club at the head table, won’t they?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mattingly said.

  This general is sticking it to Mattingly.

  Ordinarily, I’d be delighted, but Mattingly is already pissed at me, and this is likely to make that worse.

  “And we wouldn’t want to deny the newly arrived that, would we?” Greene went on. “So, Jack, you rearrange the head table while Mrs. Schumann, Colonel Mattingly, Captain Cronley, and I slip into the bar for a little liquid courage. When everything’s set up, you come fetch us, and we’ll make our triumphant entry.”

  “Yes, sir,” the aide-de-camp said.

  —

  “How may I serve the general?” the German bartender asked, in British-accented English.

  “Well, since Colonel Mattingly has so graciously asked us to join him for a little nip, I’ll have a taste of your best scotch, straight, water on the side. Better make it a double.”

  This Greene is really sticking it to Mattingly. And enjoying it.

  “Yes, sir. And you, madam?”

  “I’ll have a martini, please,” Mrs. Schumann said.

  “As before, madam? Vodka, no vegetables?”

  A vodka martini, no vegetables? “As before”?

  Lady, you don’t look like somebody who drinks vodka martinis, no vegetables, before lunch.

  “Precisely.” She smiled.

  “Colonel?”

  “Scotch, please,” Mattingly said.

  “Sir?” he asked Cronley.

  “Jack Daniel’s, please. On the rocks.”

  Their drinks were quickly served.

  “I’d like to offer a toast,” General Greene said. “To our happy little CIC community.”

  “Not to forget the ASA,” Mrs. Schumann added, as she raised her glass.

  “To our happy little CIC and ASA community,” Mattingly toasted with no visible enthusiasm.

  Yeah, the ASA, Cronley thought as they all sipped drinks.

  Kloster Grünau and that station in Berlin are connected to the Vint Hill Farms ASA station in Virginia. Certainly the ASA here must also be connected. Does that mean then that the ASA here can read our encrypted traffic?

  More important, why hasn’t Mattingly told me whether or not they can?

  Which leads me to wonder what else I should know he hasn’t told me.

  Mrs. Schumann’s leg brushed against his, and he quickly moved his out of her way.

  “Can I ask what this luncheon is about?” Cronley asked.

  “The CIC/ASA Officers’ Ladies Club . . .” Mrs. Schumann began, turning to him on her swiveling bar stool. Cronley was standing, so when she swiveled toward him, her knee grazed his crotch.

  “Of which Rachel, Mrs. Schumann, is the very capable president,” General Greene furnished.

  “. . . has a ‘Welcome Newly Arrived’ luncheon every month . . .” she went on.

  Cronley pulled back his crotch, which caused her knee to move off his crotch as far as the inside of his left knee, against which it now lightly pressed.

  That has to be innocent.

  The bartender saying “as before” may mean this is her second martini—or her fourth.

  She’s a little plastered—that would go along with those sad eyes—and doesn’t realize what she’s doing.

  “. . . to which all newly arrived CIC and ASA personnel,” Mrs. Schumann continued, “and their dependents are invited. The idea is to welcome them, let them meet General Greene and Major McClung—he runs ASA EUCOM—and tell them what they can expect during their tour of duty in the Army of Occupation.”

  She took a sip of her martini, then turned and set the glass on the bar. Her knee moved off his.

  “You didn’t come to yours, Cronley?” General Greene asked.

  “No, sir. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  What actually happened, General, was that when I joined the happy little EUCOM CIC community, the XXIInd CIC Detachment in Marburg, the executive officer thereof, Major John Connell, welcomed me by inquiring of my qualifications to be a CIC agent, and then said, “Well, we’ll find something for you to do where you can cause only minimal damage.”

  “Well, pay attention when we get in there. It’s never too late to learn, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  —

  General Greene’s aide-de-camp appeared moments later to announce, “They’re ready for you, Mrs. Schumann, and the colonel, sir. The captain?”

  “Show Cronley where he’s to sit at the head table.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cronley examined his drink, took another sip, then put the still-half-full glass on the bar. Mrs. Schumann put her martini glass on the bar, but only after drinking it dry. She then steadied herself to get off her bar st
ool by holding on to Cronley’s arm.

  [ FOUR ]

  1210 30 October 1945

  General Greene’s aide installed Cronley in a chair near the center of the head table. He sat alone. Everybody else in the dining room was lining up across the room passing through the reception line. There were a dozen people in it, lined up apparently by rank. The first three people were Mrs. Schumann, General Greene, and Colonel Mattingly. Next was a large mustachioed major wearing the crossed semaphore flags insignia of the Signal Corps. Cronley decided he was probably Major McClung of the Army Security Agency.

  A waiter in a crisp white jacket appeared and asked if the captain would like a drink.

  “Jack Daniel’s, danke,” Cronley answered, and then wondered if that had been smart.

  I’m going to have to deal with Mattingly when this happy CIC/ASA community bullshit is over. And the way to do that is stone sober.

  The drink was delivered as two officers made their way to their seats at the head table. They were both majors, and he saw from their lapel insignia—a silver cross and a golden six-pointed star—that they were both chaplains.

  I knew the Army had them, but that’s the first Jewish chaplain I’ve ever actually seen.

  And why not a Jewish chaplain? There’s a hell of a lot of Jews in our happy little CIC/ASA community.

  The Christian chaplain looked askance at Cronley’s whisky glass.

  Why do I suspect you’re Baptist, Chaplain?

  Even though he had very carefully nursed his Jack Daniel’s, the glass was empty before all the handshaking was over and everybody came to take their seats at the head table.

  Mrs. Schumann took her seat beside him, steadying herself as she did so by resting her hand high on his shoulder.

  He smiled politely at her.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you have very sad eyes?” she asked.

  “I wondered the same thing about you,” he blurted.

  And that’s the last of the Jack Daniel’s.

  “Maybe we have something in common,” she said.

  He smiled politely at her.

  “Major McClung,” a voice boomed in his ear. He saw the mustachioed Signal Corps officer sitting next to him with his hand extended. “They call me ‘Iron Lung.’”

  “Jim Cronley, Major.”