The Assassination Option

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I was. Now I am an American.”

  “Can I have a look at that holster?” Ashton asked.

  Hessinger hoisted the skirt of his tunic again and said, “They also work under an Ike jacket, Colonel.”

  Schultz took a good look, and then asked, “Who would I have to kill to get one of them?”

  Hessinger didn’t say anything, but he looked at Dunwiddie.

  Cronley laughed.

  “I have enough for everybody,” Hessinger said. “I thought we would need more than one, so I had the extras made for us.”

  Cronley laughed again and then asked, “Freddy, how long have you been carrying a .45 in that Secret Service holster?”

  “Ever since Tedworth caught the Russian,” Hessinger said. “The first Russian. I thought the NKGB might try to kidnap one of us, and then try to make a swap. You didn’t think about that?”

  No, goddammit, I didn’t.

  One more entry in the stupid column.

  Cronley saw El Jefe scribble something on a piece of paper and hand it to Ashton.

  What the hell is that?

  “Freddy,” Cronley asked, “you just said ‘we’ and ‘for us.’ How strongly do you feel about that?”

  “When I was growing up, my father told me you couldn’t choose your parents, but you should choose your associates. Then I was drafted and found out you can’t choose either,” Hessinger said. “Why do I think there is a question behind that question?”

  “Because you’re not nearly as dumb as you look?” Dunwiddie asked.

  “Now that you’re an officer, you’re not supposed to insult junior enlisted men,” Hessinger said. “Isn’t that right, Captain Cronley?”

  “Absolutely. That’s two apologies you owe Fat Freddy, Captain Dunwiddie.”

  “And one, I would say, Captain Cronley, that you owe the sergeant,” Ashton said.

  “Excuse me, Colonel,” Hessinger said. “We do this all the time. What it is is that they’re jealous of my education.”

  “Did I mention that Hessinger is a Harvard graduate, Colonel?” Cronley asked.

  “I’ll try not to hold that against you, Sergeant Hessinger,” Ashton said. “We all have a cross to bear, and your Harvard diploma must be a very heavy one.”

  There were chuckles all around. Even Hessinger smiled.

  “Why did you ask me what you asked before?” he asked.

  “Freddy, what if I told you Colonel Ashton believes, and so do Tiny and me, that if Operation Ost blows up in our face, everybody from Admiral Souers on down is going to throw us to the wolves?”

  “That surprises you? In Russian literature there are many vignettes of the nobility throwing peasants out of troikas to save themselves from the wolves. Which is of course the etymological source of that expression.”

  “What’s a troika?” El Jefe asked.

  “A horse-drawn sleigh,” Dunwiddie furnished.

  “Three horses, side by side,” Hessinger further amplified, using his hands to demonstrate.

  “If we can turn from this fascinating lecture on Russian customs to the subject at hand, stemming the tide of the Red Menace?” Cronley asked. “Freddy, we’ve decided that if getting tossed from this three-horse buggy is the price that we have to pay for trying to protect Operation Ost and the President, okay, we’ll take our lumps.”

  Hessinger was now paying close attention.

  “And, further, we have decided that if we get tossed from the buggy, it will be because we fucked up somehow, not because we blindly followed the friendly suggestions of anybody—Mattingly, Greene, or even the admiral—on how to do the job.

  “And, we have concluded that despite our best efforts, the odds are we’re going to wind up over our asses in the snow with the wolves gnawing on our balls. Both the colonel and I have decided, with Captain Dunwiddie concurring, that we have to ask you whether or not you wish to join the lunatics or whether you should return to the bona fide CIC and chase Nazis.”

  “In other words, Tubby,” El Jefe said, “there’s no reason you should get your ass burned because these two nuts think they’re Alan Ladd and Errol Flynn saving the world for Veronica Lake and Mom’s apple pie. You want to take my advice, get as far away from this as soon as you can.”

  “Thank you just the same,” Hessinger said, “but I don’t want your advice. What I do want is for you, Jim, to tell me what I have done to make you think you had to ask me that question.”

  “What does that mean, Tubby?” El Jefe asked. “Are you in, or are you out?”

  “Don’t call me Tubby.”

  “Why not? It fits.”

  “They can call me ‘Fat Freddy’ or whatever they want. They’re my friends. You’re not. You can either call me ‘Sergeant Hessinger’ or ‘Mr. Hessinger.’ Got it, Popeye the Sailor Man?”

  “Enlisted men aren’t supposed to talk to officers like that, Freddy,” Dunwiddie said.

  “When I’m in my CIC suit,” Hessinger said, pointing to the blue triangles on his lapels, “nobody’s supposed to know I’m an enlisted man.”

  “Mr. Hessinger’s got you, Captain Dunwiddie,” Cronley said, and added, “Yet again.”

  “May I infer, Mr. Hessinger, that you wish to remain allied with us, despite the risks doing so entails?” Ashton asked.

  “Yes, sir. He didn’t have to ask me that.”

  “No offense intended, Freddy,” Cronley said.

  “Offense taken, thank you very much,” Hessinger said.

  “At this point, I would like to introduce an intelligence analysis I received a short time ago,” Ashton said. “Would you read this aloud, Captain Dunwiddie?”

  Ashton handed Dunwiddie a small sheet of paper.

  That’s what El Jefe handed him.

  “‘If Jim wants to let him go, overrule him. Trust me. We need this guy,’” Dunwiddie read.

  Hessinger looked at El Jefe for a long moment, and then said, “Thank you, Lieutenant Schultz.”

  “Just the honest judgment of an old chief petty officer, Mr. Hessinger.”

  “You can call me Fat Freddy, if you like.”

  “Thank you. Fat Freddy, if you ever call me ‘Popeye the Sailor Man’ again, I will tear off one of your legs and shove it up your ass.”

  “Moving right along,” Ashton said, “what I think we should do now is go to Munich and meet with General Gehlen.”

  “Stopping along the way wherever Fred has stashed the other five .45 holsters he said he has,” El Jefe said. “I want one.”

  “They’re in the Kapitän,” Hessinger said. “I thought you would need them, so I brought them out here with me.”

  [FOUR]

  Quarters of the U.S. Military Government Liaison Officer

  The South German Industrial Development Organization Compound

  Pullach, Bavaria

  The American Zone of Occupied Germany

  1735 2 January 1946

  Ashton had trouble getting off the couch, which had been bolted to the floor of the ambulance, and then had more trouble getting out of the ambulance and onto his crutches. The ground behind the ambulance’s doors was covered with frozen snow ruts. Ashton looked to be in great danger of falling, but bluntly refused Schultz’s and Dunwiddie’s offer of “a ride”: “When I need help, I’ll ask for it.”

  So the others followed him very slowly as he hobbled on his crutches through the snow from the curb to the small, tile-roofed building.

  “Who is this guy?” Schultz demanded of Cronley, “and what’s he got to do with us?”

  “What guy?”

  “The military government liaison officer.”

  Cronley motioned for El Jefe to come close, and then whispered in his ear, “We really can’t afford this getting out, Popeye, it’s something we really don’t want Joe Stalin to find out. It’s me
. One more brilliant move to deceive and confuse our enemy.”

  “Wiseass.”

  Hessinger plodded through the snow and opened the door for Ashton. Then he held it for Cronley, Schultz, and Dunwiddie.

  Former Major General Gehlen and former Colonel Mannberg were in the living room of the building, sitting in armchairs reading the Stars and Stripes. Both rose when they saw Ashton come in.

  Ashton made his way to Mannberg and awkwardly held out his hand to him.

  “General Gehlen, I am Lieutenant Colonel Ashton.”

  “I’m Reinhard Gehlen,” Gehlen said. “This is Ludwig Mannberg, my deputy.”

  Cronley thought: I would have made the same mistake. Good ol’ Ludwig looks like what Hollywood movies have taught us senior German officers look like. And the general looks like a not-very-successful black marketeer.

  But that does it. Gehlen gets some decent clothes.

  “Well, I hope that’s not a harbinger of future confusion,” Ashton said.

  “Sometimes, Colonel, confusion in our profession is useful, wouldn’t you agree?” Gehlen asked.

  “Max,” Cronley ordered, “sit down before you fall down.”

  “I’m sure you’ve noticed, General, that every once in a great while Captain Cronley does have a good idea.”

  He hobbled to an empty armchair and collapsed into it.

  “This is Lieutenant Schultz,” Cronley said.

  “El Jefe?” Mannberg asked.

  Schultz nodded.

  “How did you know they call me that?” he asked, on the edge of unpleasantly.

  “Otto Niedermeyer is one of your admirers,” Mannberg said in Spanish. “He warned me not to arm-wrestle with you.”

  “Did he tell you I also cheat at chess?” El Jefe asked in Spanish.

  “Not in so many words,” Mannberg said in German.

  “In English, Colonel,” El Jefe said, in English, “we have a saying—‘It takes one to know one.’”

  Mannberg laughed.

  Very clever, Cronley thought. They haven’t been together sixty seconds, and already they know how well the other speaks German, Spanish, and English. All of these guys are far more clever than I am.

  “Ludwig,” Cronley said, “see if you can guess where Colonel Ashton got his Spanish. Say something in Spanish, Max.”

  “I have need of the bathroom. Where is it?” Ashton said in Spanish.

  “Interesting accent,” Mannberg said. “Not pure castellano, but close. Is that the Argentine version?”

  El Jefe went to Ashton and pulled him out of the armchair.

  “Through that door,” Cronley said. “First door to the right.”

  “Actually, it’s Cuban,” Ashton said, and then switched to English. “If you will hand me my goddamn crutches, I can handle it from here. But while I’m communing with nature, see if Captain Cronley has any medicine.”

  “What kind of medicine?” Cronley asked, with concern in his voice.

  “Almost anything that comes out of a bottle reading ‘Distilled in Scotland’ will do,” Ashton said, as he began to lurch across the room.

  When he was out of earshot, Gehlen said, “Interesting man. I like his sense of humor.”

  “Don’t be too quick to judge him by that,” Cronley said. “He’s very good at what he does.”

  As the words came out of his mouth, Cronley thought, What am I doing? Warning Gehlen about the man he’s now working for? That’s absolutely ass-backwards!

  “He would not have been selected as Cletus Frade’s replacement if he was not very good at what he does,” Gehlen said.

  So what’s the truth there?

  Ashton is very good. That’s true.

  But it’s also true that he was selected as an expendable who can be thrown to the wolves.

  “That’s true, of course,” Cronley began. “But there is another, frankly unpleasant, possib—”

  “Freddy,” El Jefe interrupted him, “I’m not feeling too well myself, so while you’re getting the colonel’s medicine, how about making a dose for me?”

  He looked at Cronley. “How about you? A little medicine for you?”

  El Jefe didn’t want me to get into that subject—for that matter, any subject—with Gehlen while Ashton is out of the room.

  And he’s right.

  And Gehlen and ol’ Ludwig certainly picked up on that.

  And Tiny did.

  And, of course, Fat Freddy.

  I just had my wrist slapped in public.

  And deserved it.

  “A splendid idea,” Cronley said. “I wonder why I didn’t think of that myself?”

  Because I’m stupid, that’s why.

  Ashton hobbled, far from nimbly, across the room and again collapsed into the armchair.

  Hessinger handed him a glass of whisky, straight, and then offered a bowl of ice cubes. Ashton waved them away and took a healthy swallow of the scotch.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I had an idea just now. That sometimes happens to me when I am in that circumstance and have nothing to read while waiting for Mother Nature to turn her attention to me. And since I am drunk with the power with which Admiral Souers has invested me, we’re going to try it. I ask your indulgence.

  “There will be no briefing of Lieutenant Schultz and myself in the usual sense. Instead of each of you, junior first, taking turns telling El Jefe and me what has happened in the past—which of course the others already know—we are going to reverse the procedure . . .”

  Where the hell is he going with this?

  “. . . specifically, General Gehlen is going to start by telling us of the most recent development in our noble crusade against the Red Menace—which not all of you, perhaps none of you, will know. Then, I will ask and all of you may ask, questions to fill in the blanks in our knowledge. This is known as ‘reverse engineering.’ General Gehlen, please tell us all what you would have told Captain Cronley had he walked in here just now, and Lieutenant Schultz and myself were nowhere around.”

  Gehlen, a slight smile on his lips, looked at Cronley, who shrugged.

  “Very well,” Gehlen said. “I would have said, ‘Jim, we’ve heard again from Seven-K.’”

  “Aha!” Ashton said. “We’ve already turned up something I know nothing about. What is Seven-K?”

  “It’s a her,” Cronley said. “A/K/A Rahil.”

  “And who is Seven-K A/K/A Rahil?”

  “An old acquaintance of the general’s and Ludwig’s,” Cronley said, smiling at Gehlen.

  Ashton picked up on the smile and, literally visibly, began to suspect that his leg was being pulled.

  “Tell me about the lady,” Ashton said.

  “Tell you what about her?”

  “Why was she sending you a message?”

  “She wants fifty thousand dollars,” Gehlen said. “Another fifty thousand dollars.” He paused, and then, anticipating Ashton’s next question, added: “She’d probably say for expenses.”

  “You’ve already given this woman fifty thousand dollars? For what?”

  “Expenses,” Cronley said, smiling.

  “What’s so goddamn funny?”

  “Funny?”

  “You’re smiling.”

  “With pleasure, because your idea seems to be working so well,” Cronley said.

  “I told you to tell me about this woman.”

  “Well, for one thing, she’s Jewish,” Cronley said.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “You ever heard of the Mossad?”

  “This woman is Mossad? A Mossad agent?”

  “And also a Podpolkóvnik of the NKGB,” Gehlen said.

  “A what?” Ashton asked.

  “More probably, General, by now a Polkóvnik,” Mannberg said. “Tha
t massive wave of promotions right after the war?”

  “You’re probably right, Ludwig,” Gehlen said, and then, to Ashton, added: “The NKGB jokes that one either gets promoted or eliminated.”

  “What’s that you said, General, ‘Pod-pol’ something?” Ashton asked.

  “A Podpolkóvnik is a lieutenant colonel,” Gehlen explained. “And a Polkóvnik a colonel.”

  Ashton, visibly, thought something over and then made a decision.

  “Okay,” he said. “I find it hard to believe that you’re pulling my leg. On the other hand, with Cronley anything is possible. If you have been pulling my chain, the joke’s over. Enough.”

  “We have not been pulling either your chain or your leg, Colonel,” Cronley said.

  “You have just heard from a woman who is both a Mossad agent and an NKGB colonel. She wants fifty thousand dollars—in addition to the fifty thousand dollars you have already given her. Is that correct?”

  Gehlen and Mannberg nodded. Cronley said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Where is this woman located?”

  “The last we heard,” Gehlen said, “in Leningrad. But there’s a very good chance she’s en route to Vienna.”

  “Why?” Ashton asked, and then interrupted himself. “First, tell me why you have given her fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Because she told us she would need at least that much money to get Polkóvnik Likharev’s wife and sons out of Russia,” Gehlen said.

  “Jesus Christ!” Ashton exclaimed, and then asked, “You think she can?”

  “We’re hoping she can,” Gehlen said.

  “Where the hell did you get fifty thousand dollars to give to this woman?”

  Gehlen didn’t reply, but instead looked at Cronley.

  “In Schultz’s briefcase,” Ashton said, “there is fifty thousand dollars. The admiral gave it to me just before we got on the plane. He called it ‘start-up’ money, and told me to tell you to use it sparingly because he didn’t know how soon he could get you any more. That suggests to me that the admiral didn’t think you had any money. Hence, my curiosity. Have you been concealing assets from the admiral? If not, where did this fifty thousand come from?”

  “From me, Polo,” Cronley said. “I came into some money when . . . my wife . . . passed on. A substantial amount of cash. Cletus pulled some strings with the judge of probate in Midland to settle the estate right away. I gave a power of attorney to Karl Boltitz—he’s going to marry Beth, the Squirt’s sister—and he got the cash, gave it to Clete, Clete took it to Buenos Aires, and then when he sent Father Welner over here, got him to carry it to me.”