“And I’m more than a little uncomfortable, frankly, hearing you talk as if the Pope himself is involved with Nazis,” Ginger said.
“That must be because you’re a Catholic,” McGrath said. “His Holiness can do no wrong.”
“I’m not Catholic, Father Jack. I’m, like you, an Episcopalian.”
McGrath said, “The Jesuits have a saying: ‘Give me a child until he is seven and I will give you a man.’”
Dear God, Cronley prayed. I don’t know where this is going, but please don’t let it go back to Serov whacking Bonehead, thinking it was me.
God either answered Cronley’s prayer or Bruce Moriarty Jr. independently decided that the world should know that it was time for him to eat or time for his diaper to be changed, or both.
Ginger rushed to deal with the howling infant.
“As I was saying before Super Spook’s interruption,” Serov said, “His Eminence Cardinal von Hassburger, and his entourage, will depart Rome for Berlin on 25 April. That gives us a week to set things up.”
Cronley thought, You are one cool sonofabitch, Ivan, I’ll give you that.
“What I suggest,” Serov said, “is that after we have our breakfast, we drive to the castle. Now, that poses a question for you, James. What about your Polish agents?”
“What about them?”
“We’re going to need all the manpower we can put our hands on if we’re going to snatch the cardinal’s briefcases.”
Cronley thought, What is he talking about now?
He said, “What do you mean, ‘snatch the cardinal’s briefcases’?”
“When I was plotting this scenario of trailing whoever has a briefcase, I considered the possibility that we would fail. That would mean Odessa would get the money. Then I saw a solution to that dilemma. And that was to snatch the briefcases of whomever we suspected of delivering them to Odessa.
“Doing so, I concluded, would have several advantages. It obviously would keep Odessa from getting the money, for one thing. And it would cause consternation both to Odessa and His Eminence Cardinal von Hassburger. He would wonder if the real purpose of his coming to Berlin was about to be exposed.”
“And they couldn’t call the cops, German or American, could they?” Cronley said. “‘Bishop Frankenstein was walking down the K’damm when some arch criminal snatched his briefcase, which held a million dollars in it.’ And the cardinal would have to tell Odessa, ‘Oops! Sorry, you ain’t getting no money.’ And even if we got caught by the cops—German or MPs—while snatching the briefcase, they’d have to explain the million bucks.”
“Only if that briefcase contained the million,” Cohen said. “But that is a bridge we can wait to cross when we get to it.”
“Returning to your Polish DCI agents, James,” Serov said, “what about them? God knows we need the manpower. But Poland is a devout Roman Catholic country, and we all heard what Father McGrath said about what the Jesuits say—”
“I get the point,” Cronley interrupted. “Well, there’s one way to find out.”
Cronley walked to the door and called out, “Max, come in here. We need to talk.”
A moment later, Ostrowski entered the room, and said, “What about?”
He was followed by Ginger Moriarty. As she passed Cronley, she thrust Baby Bruce into his arms. The infant began to howl.
Serov began clapping, and others joined in, some of them laughing.
“I don’t think he likes you, Super Spook,” Father McGrath observed.
Having no other option, Cronley sat down in an armchair and began to bounce the infant up and down, as he had seen Ginger do.
“He’s not a martini, Super Spook,” Cohen offered. “Try rocking him gently.”
Cronley did. Almost immediately, the baby stopped howling, and he seemed to be smiling at Cronley. Without realizing what he was doing, Cronley kissed the infant, which earned him more applause.
“Did I miss anything important?” Ginger asked, innocently.
“Almost,” Serov said, then gestured at Cronley. “The floor is yours, James.”
Still rocking the baby in his arms, Cronley said, “Max, I may be about to royally piss you off, but I have to get into this. What would your reaction be if I told you Odessa was hiding its money in the Vatican Bank?”
“My reaction? Surprise. I never thought about that possibility . . .”
Because you’re a devout Catholic, right? Shit.
“. . . I thought the Swedes probably had it. I mean, we’re talking about a hell of a lot of money. I didn’t think they would be hiding it in the basement of a burned-out building in Leipzig or Frankfurt am Main.”
“You never mentioned this to me.”
“You never asked,” Ostrowski said, simply.
“What would you say if I told you Odessa is making a withdrawal from the Vatican Bank—probably a million dollars—and is sending it by messenger to Berlin?”
“Oh, I see where this is going,” Ostrowski said. “And the messenger is a Vatican priest?”
“Actually, a cardinal.”
“And you have plans for the cardinal, right? And you’re wondering if as a Catholic I’m willing to go along?”
“You and the other guys,” Cronley said.
“I’m sorry you had to ask. But the subject never came up before between us, did it?”
“No, it didn’t.”
“Okay, Jim, let me lay it out for you. I was born and raised a Roman Catholic, and I’m sure you know what the Jesuits say about that. During the war, before I got in my Spitfire and set off to kill as many Germans as I could, I always—whenever I could—found some priest to hear my confession and give me communion.
“And now I confess my sins and go to mass every Sunday. But it’s different now. I do it because it helps me remember going to mass in Poland. In our parish church, Saint Luke’s. With my mother and father and my sisters and brothers. They’re gone, as you know. All I can do is remember them. And try to run down the Nazi bastards responsible.” He turned to Serov and added, “And the communist bastards, Colonel, who were just about as responsible.”
Serov remained silent.
Ostrowski looked back at Cronley and finished. “The best way I can do this is as a DCI agent. So, Jim, what are our, repeat, our plans vis-à-vis the cardinal?”
“The other guys feel this way, Max?”
“They do, take my word for it. Or hand me a Bible and I’ll swear on it.”
“Your word is good enough for me.”
“Let me add this. The more devout of us, which includes me, have a hard-on . . . My apology, my lady . . .”
Ginger made a Don’t fret gesture.
“. . . for this heathen religion Himmler was trying to start. We figure if we can shut down Odessa, no more money will flow to these disciples of the devil. So, let me ask again, what are our plans for the cardinal?”
“His name is von Hassburger,” Cohen said. “He’ll depart Rome for Berlin by rail, aboard a special Vatican train, on April 25th, a week from today. The ostensible purpose—or his second purpose—is to offer to pay for the reconstruction of the Kaiser Wilhelm Church on the K’damm, providing that the rebuilt church is Catholic.”
“I thought Arthur Werner wanted to leave it as is, as a memorial to Berliners who died in the war?”
“He does,” Cronley said. “And while His Eminence is trying to talk Werner into changing his mind and accepting his generous offer, the cardinal’s flunkies will be trying to hand the briefcase with the ‘withdrawal’ slip in it to Odessa.”
“And you intend to follow the guy with the briefcase to wherever Odessa is?”
“No,” Cohen said. “We’re going to snatch the briefcase—make that briefcases, plural—until we have the one with the money. That will keep the money from Odessa and cause general consternation f
or both Odessa and the cardinal. And then we try to identify ‘suspicious persons’ and get them to lead us to Odessa.”
“So, when do we go to Berlin?” Ostrowski asked.
Cronley said, “You just said that your guys have a . . . That your guys don’t like the religion of Saint Heinrich the Divine. Which makes me suggest a change to Colonel Cohen and Colonel Serov’s scenario.”
“Why am I sure I’m not going to like this?” Cohen said.
“The original plan,” Cronley went on, “was for Cohen’s guys and mine to head for Berlin on the next train out of Nuremberg. And rendezvous at our safe house in Zehlendorf. In the meantime, we were going to tour Wewelsburg Castle, then drive into Frankfurt and catch the aptly named Army train the Berliner to Berlin. But now I think we should give a tour of Wewelsburg. I think it would be inspiring.”
“So do I,” Serov said right away and turned to Cohen. “Colonel, I think we should give everybody a tour.”
“Okay, then, that’s what we’ll do.”
“Max,” Cronley said, “after setting up protection for Justice Jackson—”
“Does he know what you’re—we’re—up to?”
“No,” Cronley said. “We’re taking on the Vatican by stealing their money, and I don’t think he’d approve. After setting up his protection—and that’s the priority—could you send some of our people to Wewelsburg tonight?”
“Done,” Ostrowski said. “And we’ll see you there tomorrow morning.”
“We’ll leave here no later than six,” Cohen said.
“I suggest we make that five,” Serov said.
Ginger stood up, walked to Cronley, and extended her arms to take the baby.
“That being the case, it’s bedtime for us, Super Spook.”
Everyone else stood.
Cronley handed her the child and then escorted the others out of the Duchess Suite.
VI
[ONE]
U.S. Army Railroad Spur
Zehlendorf, Berlin, American Zone of Occupation, Germany
0900 20 April 1946
Two officers, wearing the aiguillettes and lapel insignia of aides-de-camp to a lieutenant general, were standing on the platform of the siding when Colonel Cohen, followed by Cronley, who had Baby Bruce in his arms, and Ginger, disembarked the Berliner.
The senior of them, a major, crisply saluted Cohen, and inquired, “Colonel Cohen?”
Cohen nodded.
“General Makamson’s compliments, sir. He asks that you attend him at your earliest convenience.”
“What’s going on?” Cohen asked.
The major looked at Cronley. “Presumably, you’re Captain Cronley?”
Cronley nodded.
“I asked, what’s going on?” Cohen said.
“If you will please follow me, sir,” the major replied. “And Captain Cronley, please follow the colonel.”
Cohen looked at Cronley, shrugged, and followed the major toward a line of staff cars. Cronley saw that the first in line was a Buick, and Cohen got in its backseat.
The other aide-de-camp, a captain, then said, “And this is Mrs. Moriarty?”
“What the hell is going on?” Cronley said.
“If you’ll give the child to its mother, Captain, and come with me, please.”
“What happens to Mrs. Moriarty?” Cronley demanded.
“For now, she’ll be taken to the Company Grade Visiting Officer Quarters.”
Max Ostrowski walked up and stopped beside Cronley.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“I dunno. But take Ginger and the baby to the safe house.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” the aide-de-camp said.
“Fuck you,” Cronley said, then looked at Ostrowski. “Max, if this clown gives you any trouble, shoot him.” He met the aide-de-camp’s eyes, then said, “Lead on, candy-ass.”
The aide-de-camp stared back in disbelief. Then he walked—marched—toward the Chevrolet. Cronley followed. At the car, the captain opened the front passenger door and motioned for Cronley to get in.
The aide-de-camp got in the driver’s seat, and followed the Buick as it sped off.
[TWO]
U.S. Military Government Compound
Saargemünder Strasse
Zehlendorf, Berlin, American Zone of Occupation, Germany
0925 20 April 1946
The OMGUS Compound had been the last headquarters of the Luftwaffe. There was a story going around that it had been spared—as had the I.G. Farben Building in Frankfurt am Main—from the thousand-plane raids that had leveled both cities because the Americans wanted undamaged office space for their use after they won the war.
It was a pleasant collection of one- and two-story buildings that were painted white. The Russians had liberated the Compound and had just about removed the camouflage netting that covered it when tanks of General I. D. White’s 2nd Armored Division—Hell on Wheels—ushered the Reds out of the American Zone and into the Russian Zone.
The Buick, after being crisply saluted by a half dozen MPs at the entrance, drove down the central road to the headquarters building, followed by the Chevrolet carrying Cronley.
There was a row of flags—American, and then several silver-star-studded red flags, designating the Army general officer headquarters—flying in front of the building.
Cronley decided the four-star flag had to be that of General Lucius D. Clay. He had been the U.S. military governor of the American Sector of Berlin, and of the American Zone in the rest of Germany, since January.
He also decided the three-star flag had to belong to Makamson, who had replaced General Seidel as G-2 of USFET—U.S. Forces European Theater, now renamed EUCOM, the acronym for the European Command. There were half a dozen red flags with one or two stars. Senior headquarters like OMGUS and EUCOM had many general officers.
The Buick and Chevrolet stopped. The aide-de-camp major got out of the front passenger seat of the Buick as the aide-de-camp captain jumped out of the Chevrolet. They opened both rear doors of their respective vehicles.
“Please follow me, Colonel,” the major said to Cohen.
Cohen did, and waited for Cronley to approach.
“Into the Valley of Death . . .” Cohen said, quietly, when he was within earshot. “I have the feeling, Super Spook, that we’re in the deep shit.”
The major led them to a side entrance of the main building, with the captain following them all.
They entered and went down a long corridor until they reached a steel door guarded by two military policemen. While one of the MPs snapped to rigid attention, the other opened the steel door. The aide-de-camp major without a word motioned for Cohen and Cronley to enter.
They did, and found themselves in a large room, the walls of which were lined with map boards and electronic equipment. There was a large conference table in the center of the room at which men were seated.
Cronley immediately recognized Brigadier General Homer P. Greene, chief of ASA Europe CIC-USFET, and Colonel Harold Wallace, chief of DCI-Europe. There was a lieutenant general—That has to be Makamson, he thought—and another brigadier general, several colonels, and a master sergeant sitting at a court reporter’s stenotype keyboard.
“Take a seat,” the three-star ordered, indicating two folding chairs behind a small table facing the conference table. “I am General Makamson.”
Cohen and Cronley did so.
“Why don’t you start by telling us, Colonel Cohen,” Makamson said, “what, exactly, you and Captain Cronley are doing in Berlin when you are supposed to be in Nuremberg protecting Mr. Justice Jackson?”
“Sir, we are chasing Odessa,” Cohen said.
“Under what authority?”
“Captain Cronley’s. He has been directed by Admiral Souers, the director of the Central In
telligence Directorate, to run Odessa down and eliminate it wherever found. He asked for my help. I’m giving it to him.”
“General Makamson,” Colonel Wallace announced, “speaking as chief of Central Intelligence–Europe, I have no knowledge of any of this.”
“Harry,” Colonel Cohen said, conversationally, “the admiral didn’t tell you because he thought you’d stick your nose in to show who’s boss and then proceed to fuck things up. And they’d be not just fucked up but FUBAR.”
“Colonel,” General Makamson snapped, “you will address officers by their rank! And respectfully! Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Cohen said, evenly. “We just could not afford to have what we were doing Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.”
“I think we all know what FUBAR means, Colonel. And when I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Makamson glared at him for ten seconds, then said, “To avoid losing my temper, I think we have to get on with this. So, you think Odessa is in Berlin?”
“We think that it’s very likely that its senior officers are, sir,” Cohen replied. “Sir, may I start at the beginning?”
“Why not.”
“Sir, we know that Odessa has vast sums of money, which they are using both to get Nazis who are on the run out of Germany and to fund the so-called religion that Heinrich Himmler started.”
“You believe that Hitler/Himmler religion nonsense, do you?”
“Before we took the Berliner last night, we were at Wewelsburg Castle, which is sort of the Vatican of this new religion. We had with us an expert in heretical religions, Father Jack McGrath, whom Admiral Souers found for us. Would you take his word? He’s in Berlin, at the DCI safe house in Zehlendorf.”
“You’re telling me that Admiral Souers also believes in this Nazi religion nonsense?”
“More important, sir, the admiral tells me so does the President. The President regards it as a threat to his intentions to try to hang the people we have in Nuremberg as common criminals rather than martyrs. He ordered the admiral to look into it. The admiral assigned that task to Captain Cronley.”
The Enemy of My Enemy Page 12
