Top Secret Page 24

  Before Mattingly could answer, Rachel said, “Grace, if you and I went down there with them, we could see what will have to be done for the dependent quarters before people start moving in.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” General Greene said. “I’d like to see the Pullach compound myself.”

  “We could take the Blue Danube,” Grace Greene said, smiling. “It has a marvelous dining car. And then we can stay at the Vier Jahreszeiten. I like the Vier Jahreszeiten. There’s nothing as nice in Frankfurt.”

  Cronley thought both that it was the first time the general’s lady had smiled since she’d walked into the dining room and also that Frade’s face showed that he had no idea what the Blue Danube was.

  Cronley did: Tiny Dunwiddie had told him what had happened to the private trains used by Nazi bigwigs. The Army Transportation Corps had gathered them up and assigned Hitler’s and Goering’s to Eisenhower and U.S. High Commissioner for Germany John J. McCoy.

  The other super-luxury private trains had been given to General George S. Patton and other very senior American officers. Except for one. While other deserving three-star generals had been scrambling for trains for themselves, that one, Tiny had told him delightedly, had been “lost” by an old 2nd Armored “Hell on Wheels” officer in Bad Nauheim. When Major General I. D. White returned to Germany to assume command of the U.S. Constabulary, it would be “found” with Constabulary insignia painted all over it.

  What was left of the first-class cars and the best dining cars had been formed into trains and put into Army service between the six hubs of American forces in Europe—Paris, France; Berlin, Frankfurt, and Munich in Occupied Germany; and Salzburg and Vienna in “liberated” Austria.

  The Paris–Frankfurt luxury train was dubbed the Main-Siener, making reference to the rivers that flowed through those cities, and the Berlin-Frankfurt-Munich-Vienna train the Blue Danube.

  “Then it’s settled,” Frade said. “We’ll all meet in Munich the day after tomorrow.”

  I’ll be damned, he did know what the Blue Danube was!

  No. He just decided that if Mrs. Greene wanted to “take the Blue Danube,” whatever it is, she was unstoppable.

  “And now,” Frade announced, “because Captain Cronley and I are going flying as the rooster crows tomorrow morning, I must beg that we be excused from this charming company.”

  Before Cronley could stand, Rachel’s foot gave his instep a final caress, and when he shook her hand to say good night, she said, “Well, I guess we’ll see each other soon.”

  [ TWO ]

  As they entered the lobby, Clete said, “Don’t even look at the bar. We have more to talk about.”

  “Oh, boy, do we.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Wait until we’re someplace no one can hear us.”

  —

  When they were in Clete’s room, he pointed to an armchair and then the bottle of Dewar’s.

  “Sit,” he ordered. “And go easy on that.”

  “Yes, sir, Colonel, sir.”

  Clete smiled tolerantly.

  “You ever notice, Jimmy, that when you really need a drink you can’t have one? God knows, after that goddamned dinner we’re both entitled to drain the bottle.”

  Clete went to his luggage and pulled out a zippered leather envelope. He took from it an inch-thick sheath of papers, walked to Jimmy, and handed it to him.

  “Sign where indicated.”

  “What the hell is this, Clete?”

  “On top is what they call a Limited Power of Attorney. It gives former Kapitän zur See Karl Boltitz of the Kriegsmarine the necessary authority to do all that he has to do to manage certain property of yours in Midland County, Texas.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? My father has my power of attorney to run all the property I own.”

  “I know. But as soon as the probate judge of Midland County, Texas, is satisfied that you were in fact married to the former Marjorie Ann Howell, you’ll own a lot more.”

  Jimmy looked at him for a long time before replying, his voice on the edge of breaking, “I don’t think I ever knew it was ‘Marjorie Ann.’”

  “It was. And under the laws of the Sovereign State of Texas, upon the demise of the said Marjorie Ann Howell Cronley, all of her property passed to her lawful husband, one James Davenport Cronley Junior.”

  “Oh, shit!”

  “Said property—the details are in those papers—includes two sections of land, including the mineral rights thereto, in Midland County, plus some cash in the First National Bank of Midland, including about two hundred and sixteen thousand dollars, representing her most recent quarterly dividend from the Howell Petroleum Corporation. And of course her Howell Petroleum stock. And some more. It’s all in there.”

  “I don’t want any of it,” Jimmy said.

  “You don’t have any choice.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “When the Old Man handed this to me, he said to tell you two things.”

  “Really?”

  “He said to tell you that everyone who matters knows you’d much rather have the Squirt and two dollars than this inheritance, but that’s the way the ball has bounced. And he said to tell you never to forget that for every dollar a rich man has, there are at least three dishonest sonsofbitches plotting to steal it from him.”

  Jimmy wiped a tear from his cheek with a knuckle.

  “That sounds like the Old Man,” he said, his voice breaking. Then he said, “Where does Boltitz fit in all this?”

  “Very neatly. For one thing, he’s about to be your brother-in-law.”

  “He’s going to marry Beth?”

  Frade nodded.

  “Yeah. You saw them. We can’t keep throwing cold water on them.”

  Jimmy laughed.

  “The Old Man told Beth they should take a page from you and the Squirt and elope. I thought Mom was going to kill him. What they’ll probably do is have a quiet wedding in Midland, and fuck what people say. Or a big one in Argentina—that’s what Dorotea was trying to sell when I left. Anyway, he’s going to be family, and since he’s out of a job, there being no demand for U-boat skippers, he’s going to need one. The Old Man is impressed with him and he told me—privately—that he’s thinking of putting him in charge of his tanker operations.

  “In the meantime, Karl can learn about the family business under the watchful eyes of Mom, Beth, and your dad. Understand?”

  “Makes sense.”

  “The Old Man wants me to take over Howell Petroleum. The problem with that is I’m going to have to learn how to do that. And I can’t learn how to do that as long as I have Operation Ost to worry about. I promised Souers I’d stick around until the new Central Intelligence Directorate, or whatever the hell they’re going to call it, is up and running. And then there’s El Coronel, Incorporated, I have to worry about.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Everything I inherited from my father. And I have already learned that what the Old Man told me to tell you is true. For every peso a rich gringo like myself has, there are at least three dishonest Argentine sonsofbitches trying to steal it.”

  Jimmy chuckled.

  “So are you going to sign that power of attorney or not?”

  Jimmy didn’t reply. He instead poured Dewar’s into two glasses, gave one to Clete, and then signed the paper. Then he wordlessly touched his glass to Clete’s, and they took a healthy sip.

  Jimmy gestured to the power of attorney: “When I signed the one for my dad, it had to be notarized. What are you going to do about that?”

  “The Old Man’s lawyers thought of that, too. They found out that a commissioned officer, such as myself, can witness the signature of someone junior to them, such as yourself. I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Captain Cronley.”

 
“I’ll be damned,” Jimmy said, as Frade scrawled Witnessed by C.H. Frade, LtCol, USMCR and then his signature below Cronley’s signature on the power of attorney.

  Clete put the document in his luggage and then took the leather envelope and handed it to Jimmy.

  “You get to keep that stuff. When you’re all alone in your monastery, feeling sorry for yourself, you can take it out and read it and tell yourself, ‘What the hell, at least I’m rich.’”

  “Very funny. You through?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jimmy drained his glass and pushed it away. “Okay. Speaking of the monastery, Clete: Despite what everyone seems to think, all is not sweetness and light between General Gehlen and me.”

  Clete’s eyebrows rose.

  “I don’t think I’m going to like this,” he said.

  “Tiny’s Number Two, Sergeant Tedworth, caught an NKGB officer sneaking out of the monastery—”

  Clete silenced him with a raised hand.

  “Let’s get all the details in from the beginning,” he said. “Tiny is who?”

  “First Sergeant Chauncey Dunwiddie . . .”

  “Well, Jimmy, I can understand why General Gehlen might be a little miffed that a twenty-two-year-old American captain who never saw a Russian a month ago decided he knows more about interrogating NKGB officers than Abwehr Ost experts. How do you even communicate with this guy? Sign language? You don’t know three words of Russian. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Konstantin speaks English. And German.”

  “Konstantin? Sounds like you’re buddies.”

  “I like him. Okay?”

  “My God!”

  “That—liking him—came after I decided that I wasn’t going to—couldn’t—stand around with my thumb up my ass watching while some Kraut kept him in a dark cell stinking from his own crap, following which he would be blown away. And knowing if anything came out about that, I’d be on the hook for it, not the Germans and not Mattingly.”

  “Oh, so that’s it? You were covering your ass?”

  “Fuck you, Clete!”

  “What?” Clete said angrily. “Let’s not forget, Little Brother, that your big brother is a lieutenant colonel and you’re a captain. A brand-new captain.”

  “Sorry. Make that, ‘Fuck you, Colonel.’”

  Clete, white-faced, glared at him but said nothing.

  “When Mattingly told Tiny to ‘deal with’ the Russian, all I had to do to cover my ass was look the other way and keep my mouth shut. He didn’t tell me to deal with it. He told Tiny. You think I wanted to take on Gehlen and Mattingly? And now you?”

  “Then why the hell did you? Are you?”

  “Write this down, Colonel: Because I saw it as my duty.”

  “You can justify that, right?” Clete said coldly.

  “First, it was my duty to Tiny. An officer takes care of his men, right? A good officer doesn’t let other officers cover their asses by hanging his men out to dry, does he?”

  “That’s it?”

  “Two, I decided that what ex-Major Konrad Bischoff—Gehlen’s hotshot interrogator—was doing to Major Orlovsky—the clever business of having him sit in a dark cell with a canvas bucket full of shit—wasn’t going to get what we wanted from him. Actually, I decided Bischoff’s approach was the wrong one.”

  “Based on your extensive experience interrogating NKGB officers?” Clete said sarcastically.

  “Based on what you said at dinner, you’re now the honcho of Operation Ost, so I’ll tell you what I told Mattingly when I thought he was the honcho. As long as I’m in charge of Kloster Grünau, I’m going to act like it. If you don’t like what I do, relieve me.”

  Clete didn’t reply immediately, and when he did, he didn’t do so directly.

  “Why, in your wise and expert opinion, Captain Cronley, is Major Bix . . . Bisch . . .”

  “Bischoff. Ex-Major Konrad Bischoff.”

  “Why do ex-Major Konrad Bischoff’s interrogation techniques fail to meet with your approval?”

  “Because they haven’t let him see either that Orlovsky is smarter than he is—I don’t know why, maybe he believes that Nazi nonsense that all Russians are the Untermenschen—”

  “Untermensch is a pretty big word. You sure you know what it means?”

  Cronley ignored the question.

  “Or that my good buddy Konstantin Orlovsky has decided that, except for a bullet in the back of his head, it’s all over for him. And in that circumstance he’s not going to come up with the names of Gehlen’s people that he turned. Names, maybe, if that’s what it will take to get out of his cell and shot and get it over with, but not the actual ones.”

  “But you have a solution for all these problems, right?”

  “Would I be wasting my breath telling you, Clete?”

  “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”

  “Look. When Mattingly called and told me to come here as soon as I could, I was talking to Orlovsky. I had just proposed to him that I arrange for him to disappear from the monastery—”

  “Disappear to where?”

  “Argentina. Where else?”

  “My God!”

  “And that, once he was there and gave me the names of Gehlen’s bad apples, and we found out they were in fact the bad apples, I would pressure Gehlen to get Orlovsky’s family out of Russia.”

  “If I thought you were into Mary Jane cigarettes, I’d think you just went through two packs of them. Listen to yourself, Jimmy! You’re talking fantasy!”

  “Maybe. But, on the other hand, if I turn Orlovsky back over to Bischoff, and we go down that road, what we’re going to have is no names of the real turned Gehlenites, and a body in the monastery cemetery that just might come to light if the Bad Gehlenites let the Soviets know about it. Which brings us back to me not willing to let Tiny Dunwiddie or myself hang for that.”

  Clete thought that over for a long moment.

  “What was the Russian’s reaction?”

  “What he’s doing right now is thinking it over.”

  “He didn’t say anything?”

  “What he said was, ‘Why would you expect me to believe something like that?’ And I said because I was telling him the truth, that I wasn’t promising to get his family out of Russia, just that I would make Gehlen try. I also told him if he was a man, he’d do anything he could to help his family. Then he called me a sonofabitch, and that was the end of the conversation.”

  Clete shook his head.

  “But he’s thinking about it, Clete. I know that in my gut. He doesn’t give a damn what happens to him. But his family is different. He doesn’t want them shot or sent to Siberia. What I did was . . . sow the seed, I guess . . . to start him thinking.”

  “And you really thought Mattingly would put Operation Ost at risk by trying to sneak an NKGB officer out of Germany? And that Gehlen would risk his agents-in-place by trying to get an NKGB officer’s family out of Russia? My God!”

  “I thought I could sell both of them on the idea that if we turned Orlovsky—the NKGB didn’t send a guy who graduated from spy school two months ago to penetrate Operation Ost—we’d all be ahead.”

  “That’s pretty sophisticated thinking for a guy who—if memory serves—was about to graduate from spy school about that long ago. But didn’t finish spy school because they needed his expert services here to run a roadblock.”

  “Yeah, and I probably didn’t know much more about running that roadblock—or Kloster Grünau when they gave that to me—than you did about blowing up ships when you went to Argentina.”

  “Well, some things haven’t changed. Your mouth still runs away with you, you’re not troubled with modesty, and you have a hard time even admitting the possibility that you can be mistaken.”

  Jimmy didn’t reply.

 
“I’ll try to get you out of this, but don’t get your hopes up,” Clete went on. “I think you are probably going to spend the rest of your military career—how long are you in for?”

  “Four years.”

  “The next three years and some months counting toilet paper rolls at Camp Holabird. Or some other place where they send stupid young intelligence officers so they can’t do any more damage.”

  “If you’re waiting for me to say I’m sorry, don’t hold your breath.”

  “What time does the sun come up?”

  “What?” Jimmy said, and then understood. “Half past six.”

  “And it takes how long to get to the airfield?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Be waiting for me in the lobby at six. Good night, Jimmy.”

  [ THREE ]

  Cronley went to his room, took a shower, packed his bag, and went to bed.

  There was a chance, he thought, that Rachel would somehow ditch her husband and come to see him. He had just decided that would be really stupid on her part and wasn’t going to happen when there was a knock at his door.

  And there she was.

  “This is not smart,” he greeted her.

  “I know,” she said, and pushed past him into the room.

  “General Magruder came back from dinner with General Eisenhower,” she said, “and asked Colonel Mattingly and my husband to join him for a drink in the bar. I passed. I said I was going to walk off all the food I’d had. We have no more than thirty minutes. That give you any ideas?”

  She tugged off her shoes as she headed for the bed.

  —

  “Where were you?” Rachel asked, perhaps ten minutes later. “If you’d been here the first time I knocked, we’d have had an hour.”

  “Talking to Colonel Frade.”

  “About what?”

  “Rachel, you don’t have the Need to Know.”

  “Oh, sorry. I thought maybe you were talking about the Russian you caught at your monastery.”

  “What Russian? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”