The Assassination Option Page 6

“So then we need a Bible and a copy of the oath,” General Smith said.

  “I know the oath, sir,” Dunwiddie said.

  “And here’s the Bible,” the WAC officer said, “and the bars.”

  “And your role in this, Corporal,” General Smith said, “is to take pictures. You ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Which we will send to your parents, Tiny.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And—I’m glad I thought of this—to General Isaac Davis White, your father’s classmate at Norwich.”

  “That’s a marvelous idea, General,” Cronley said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I understand, sir, that General White thought Tiny should have been commissioned a long time ago.”

  As he spoke, Cronley looked at Colonel Mattingly. Mattingly glared icily at him. Major Derwin picked up on it.

  What the hell is that all about?

  Flashbulbs exploded as Smith and Greene pinned the twin silver bars of a captain—known as “railroad tracks”—to Dunwiddie’s epaulets.

  “Who holds the Bible?” General Smith inquired. “What about that, Homer?”

  “That’s not prescribed, sir. Sometimes a wife, or a mother, or even somebody else.”

  “Sir,” Dunwiddie asked, “what about Captain Cronley?”

  “That’d work.”

  CWO Alice McGrory handed the Bible to Captain Cronley. He stood between Generals Smith and Greene and held the Bible up to him.

  “Anytime you’re ready, Tiny,” General Smith said.

  Dunwiddie laid his left hand on the Bible and raised his right.

  “I, Chauncey Luther Dunwiddie,” he boomed in a basso profundo voice, “having been appointed captain . . .”

  He paused just perceptibly, and then continued slowly, pronouncing each syllable, “. . . in the United States Army, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the office upon which I am about to enter.” He paused a final time, and then proclaimed, “So help me God!”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “I must have heard people take that oath a thousand times,” General Smith said. “But never quite like that. Very impressive, Tiny. Moving.” He paused. “Permit me to be first, Captain Dunwiddie, to welcome you into the officer corps of the United States Army.”

  He extended his hand, and Dunwiddie took it, said, “Thank you, sir.” Then he asked, “Permission to speak, sir?”

  Smith nodded and said, “Granted.”

  “Sir, as the general will understand, this moment is of great personal importance to the captain. The captain would very much like to have a memento of General Gehlen being here.”

  Smith’s face tensed, and it was a long moment before he replied.

  “Frankly, Captain, my initial reaction was to deny that request. But on reflection I realized that a photograph of us with General Gehlen among us ranks pretty low on the list of highly classified material with which you are already entrusted.

  “General Gehlen, if you would, please stand here with us,” General Smith went on. Then he turned to the photographer. “Corporal, the photograph you are about to take, the negatives and prints thereof, will be classified Top Secret–Presidential. You will personally develop the negative. You will then make four eight-by-ten-inch prints from the negative. You will then burn the negative. You will see that I get two of those prints, one of which I will send to Admiral Souers, and the other to General White. You will also give two prints to General Greene, who will get them to Captain Dunwiddie. You understand all that, son, or should I go over it again?”

  Who the hell, Major Derwin again wondered, is Admiral Souers?

  “I understand, sir.”

  “And I don’t want you telling the boys in the photo lab anything about this. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, gentlemen,” General Smith said, “stand tall and say, ‘Cheese.’”

  Ninety seconds later, General Smith and his entourage were gone.

  “Let me add my ‘welcome to the officer corps of the United States Army’ to General Smith’s, Captain Dunwiddie,” General Greene said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And mine,” Colonel Mattingly said, without much enthusiasm.

  “Thank you, sir,” Dunwiddie repeated.

  “What I’m going to do now is bring Major Derwin up to speed on what’s going on around here. You’re welcome to stay for that, of course.”

  “I think we can pass on that, sir,” Captain Cronley said.

  “It’s always a pleasure to see you, General,” Greene said.

  “Thank you,” Gehlen said.

  Cronley stood to attention.

  “Permission to withdraw, sir?”

  “Post,” Greene said.

  Cronley saluted, did an about-face movement, and started for the door. He waved General Gehlen and Captain Dunwiddie ahead of him and then followed them out of the office.

  Colonel Mattingly stood up.

  “If you don’t need me, sir?”

  “I think it would be best if you stuck around for this, Bob,” Greene said.

  “Yes, sir. Of course,” Colonel Mattingly said, and sat down.

  “I suppose the best place to start, Major, is to tell you that what just transpired in here is classified. Twice. Maybe three times. First as Top Secret–Presidential. And as Top Secret–Lindbergh. And of course as simple Top Secret. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All of that also applies to what I’m going to tell you now. And the best place to start that is at the beginning.

  “On December twenty-first, Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Schumann, who was the inspector general of European Command CIC, and also of the Army Security Agency, Europe—which reports to the ASA in Washington through me, I think I should tell you—went home for lunch. Moments after he arrived, as well as we can put things together, there was an explosion. Apparently, the gas water heater had leaked, filled the house with gas, and something set it off. Maybe Mrs. Schumann lit the stove. We just don’t know. There was a considerable explosion, which totally destroyed his quarters and severely damaged the houses on either side and across the street.”

  “My God!” Derwin said.

  “And killed Colonel and Mrs. Schumann. Phrased as delicately as possible, there will have to be a closed-casket funeral. Tony Schumann was a fine officer and a close friend. A true tragedy.

  “Obviously a replacement was necessary. There were several reasons why I had to go outside EUCOM CIC for a replacement. One is that, as I’m sure you know, we are very short of officers. We are even shorter of officers with the proper security clearances. A Top Secret clearance, dealing with what we’re dealing with here, is as common as a Confidential clearance elsewhere.

  “So I appointed Major James B. McClung, the ASA Europe Chief . . . you know who I mean?”

  “Is that ‘Iron Lung’ McClung, sir?”

  Greene nodded and went on.

  “. . . to temporarily add the duties of IG to all the other things on his plate. He was—is—the only officer available to me with the Top Secret–Lindbergh and Top Secret–Presidential clearances. Then I called Admiral Souers—”

  “Excuse me, sir. Who?”

  “Rear Admiral Sidney W. Souers,” Greene answered, paused, and then said, “Well, let’s deal with that. Have you heard the rumors that there will be a successor organization to the Office of Strategic Services?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, let me give you the facts. Shortly after the President put the OS
S out of business, he reconsidered the wisdom of that decision. There were certain operations of the OSS that had to be kept running, for one thing, and for another, Admiral Souers told me, he came to recognize the nation needed an intelligence organization, with covert and clandestine capabilities, that could not be tied down by putting it under either the Pentagon or the FBI. It had to report directly to him. More precisely, to the President.

  “On January first, the President will sign an executive order establishing the Directorate of Central Intelligence, and name Admiral Souers as its director. Admiral Souers has been assigned to the Office of Naval Intelligence. But, he’s been more than that. When the President realized that certain clandestine operations started by the OSS and which could not be turned off like a lightbulb needed someone to run them until he decided what to do about them, he turned to Admiral Souers. It is germane to note that the President and the admiral are close personal friends.

  “Further, when the President realized there had to be a successor organization to the OSS, and that there were, for him, insurmountable problems in naming General Donovan to be its director, and that he did not want the Pentagon to have its man in that position, or someone who owed his allegiance to FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, he again turned to Admiral Souers.

  “Colonel Mattingly, would you like to add to, or comment upon, what I just told Major Derwin?”

  “No, sir. I think you covered everything.”

  “Feel free to interrupt me at any time, Bob.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “As I was saying, when Colonel Schumann . . . was taken from us, I needed someone who could be given Presidential and Lindbergh clearances, and I needed him right away, so I called Admiral Souers and explained the problem. He said he would take the matter up personally with the G2 of the Army. He called back the next day, told me the G2 had proposed three officers, and given him access to their dossiers, and he felt you best met our requirements. He proposed sending you over here immediately to see if Colonel Mattingly and I agreed.

  “Which brings us to Colonel Mattingly. Mattingly was OSS. In the last months of the war, he was chief, OSS Forward. When the OSS was put out of business, he was assigned to me, to EUCOM CIC, as my deputy.”

  “And now the colonel will be in this reconstituted OSS, the Directorate of Central Intelligence?”

  “No. And please permit me to do the talking, Major,” Greene said. “But since we have started down that road: At Admiral Souers’s request—when he speaks, he speaks with the authority of the President—Headquarters, War Department, has tasked EUCOM CIC with providing the Directorate of Central Intelligence-Europe with whatever support, logistical and other, the chief, DCI-Europe, feels it needs. With me so far, Major?”

  “I think so, sir. May I ask a question, sir?”

  “Please do.”

  “Who will be the chief, DCI-Europe?”

  “Captain James D. Cronley Junior. You just met him.”

  Major Derwin’s face showed his surprise, or shock.

  “There are reasons for this—”

  “A couple of months ago he was a second lieutenant at Holabird!” Derwin blurted. “I had him in Techniques of Surveillance.”

  “I strongly suspect that as soon as Admiral Souers can find a more senior officer, say a colonel, or perhaps even a senior civilian, to appoint as chief, DCI-Europe, he will do so. But for the moment, it will be Captain Cronley.”

  “General, may I suggest we get into Operation Ost?” Mattingly said.

  “This is the time, isn’t it?” Greene said, and began to tell Major Derwin about Operation Ost.

  Five minutes or so later, General Greene concluded the telling by saying, “I’m sure that you can understand, Major, since compromise of Operation Ost would not only be detrimental to the interests of the United States but would embarrass the highest officials of our government, why it behooves all of us to exert our maximum efforts to make sure it is not compromised.”

  “Yes, sir, I certainly can,” Major Derwin said.

  “And why any officer who does anything, even inadvertently, that causes any such compromise might as well put his head between his knees and kiss his ass goodbye? Because, even if his court-martial doesn’t sentence him to spend twenty years polishing the linoleum in the solitary confinement wing of the Leavenworth Disciplinary Barracks, his military career is over.”

  “I understand, sir,” Major Derwin said.

  “I really hope you do,” General Greene said. “We will now get into your duties with regard to the Pullach compound and Operation Ost. They can be summed up succinctly. They are invisible to you, unless it comes to your attention that someone is showing an unusual interest in them. If that happens, you will bring this immediately to the attention of Colonel Mattingly or myself. Or, of course, and preferably, to Captain Cronley or Captain Dunwiddie. You understand that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any questions, Major?”

  “Just one, sir.”

  “It is?”

  “May I ask about Captain Cronley, sir?”

  “What about Captain Cronley?”

  “Sir, as I mentioned, two months ago, less, I saw him at Holabird as a second lieutenant—”

  “If you are asking how did he become a captain so quickly, Major, I can tell you it was a reward for something he did.”

  “May I ask what, sir?”

  “No,” General Greene said. “But I can tell you—although his promotion order is classified Secret—that the promotion authority was ‘Verbal Order of the President.’”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Unless you have something for Major Derwin, Colonel Mattingly?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what I am going to do now, Major Derwin, is have the sergeant major put you in a car and send you over to see Major McClung. He will get you settled in quarters and then show you where you should begin your duties as inspector general.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That will be all, Major. You are dismissed.”

  [THREE]

  The I.G. Farben Building

  Frankfurt am Main

  American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  1225 29 December 1945

  It took Captains Cronley and Dunwiddie and General Gehlen five minutes to get from General Greene’s office to the “back door” of the huge building, which until the completion of the Pentagon in January 1943 had been the largest office building in the world.

  The office of the chief, Counterintelligence Corps, European Command, was in the front of the extreme left wing (of six wings) in the curved five-story structure. The “back door” was in Sub-Level One between Wing Three and Wing Four.

  First they had to walk down a long corridor to the connecting passageway between the wings.

  There, Cronley and Dunwiddie had to “sign out” at a desk manned by two natty sergeants of the 508th Parachute Infantry Regiment, which was charged with both the internal and the external security of the building. The paratroopers wore white pistol belts, holsters, and spare magazine holders, and the white lacings in their glistening boots once had been parachute shroud lines.

  The senior of the paratroop sergeants remembered that when the shabby Kraut civilian had passed in through their portal with General Walter Bedell Smith’s entourage, he had wisely not demanded that any of them sign in, or that he be permitted to examine the contents of the briefcases the Kraut and General Smith’s aide-de-camp were carrying.

  As a consequence, the sergeant not only passed General Gehlen out without examining the contents of his ancient and battered briefcase, but also gave him a pink slip, as he had given one to Cronley and Dunwiddie, which would permit them to exit the building.

  Then the trio walked down the long corridor that connects the wings to the center, where they got on what most inhabitants of
the Farben Building called the “dumbwaiter.” Technically it was known as a “paternoster lift.” It was a chain of open compartments, each large enough for two people, that moved slowly and continuously in a circle from Sub-Level Two to Floor Five. Passengers stepped into one of the compartments and rode it until they reached the desired floor, and then stepped off.

  Cronley, Dunwiddie, and Gehlen got on the dumbwaiter and were carried down to Sub-Level One, where they got off.

  Here there was another paratroop-manned checkpoint. The sergeant in charge here accepted the pink slips they had been given, but signaled to General Gehlen that he wanted to inspect his briefcase.

  “Herr Schultz is with me, Sergeant,” Cronley said, showing the sergeant the leather folder holding the ID card and badge that identified him as a special agent of the Counterintelligence Corps. “That won’t be necessary.”

  The sergeant considered that a moment, and then said, “Yes, sir,” and motioned that Gehlen could leave the building. He did so, and Cronley followed him.

  They were now in a narrow, below-ground-level, open-to-the-sky passageway.

  There were three Packard Clippers parked against the wall. The “back door” to the Farben Building was also, so to speak, the VIP entrance. The Packards were the staff cars of Generals Eisenhower, Smith, and Lucius D. Clay, the military governor of the U.S. Occupied Zones. The Packards were, not surprisingly, highly polished.

  There was also what had begun its military service as an ambulance, a three-quarter-ton 4×4. It was not polished, and the red crosses that had once been painted on the sides and roof had been painted over. Stenciled in white paint on the left of its bumpers was the legend 711 MKRC—which indicated that the vehicle was assigned to the—nonexistent—711th Quartermaster Mess Kit Repair Company—and on the right, the numeral 7, which signified that it was the seventh vehicle of its kind assigned to the 711th.

  There were three paratroopers, one of them a sergeant, standing by the right front fender of the former ambulance, arguing with an enormous Negro soldier, a sergeant, who was leaning against the fender, his arms crossed over his chest. Even leaning against the fender, the sergeant towered over the paratroopers.