Now that he had found him, Wallace wasn’t happy. He didn’t want to do what he realized he had to. But he had reached the conclusion as he had flown to Munich from the Eschborn airstrip that Mattingly was right.
Cronley, the poster child for loose cannons, had to go.
This time he had gone too far.
Colonel Robert Mattingly had come to Wallace’s room in the Schlosshotel Kronberg at 0500, as Wallace was shaving and preparing to go to the airstrip for his flight to Munich.
He had begun the conversation by telling Wallace how unhappy Lieutenant Colonel Parsons, the War Department G-2 officer stationed at the Compound, was with the young chief, DCI-Europe.
Some of Parsons’s complaints were bullshit—that Cronley did not treat him with the crisp military courtesy to which Parsons felt entitled headed that list—but some of them, when Parsons, as he threatened to do, took them to General Seidel, the USFET G-2, Seidel was going to think perfectly valid.
Mattingly had told him that suspecting what Cronley was up to, Parsons had stood a young ASA sergeant tall and got him to admit that ASA intercept operators, at Cronley’s orders, were intercepting all of Parsons’s communications with the Pentagon—incoming and outgoing—and giving copies to Cronley.
It had also somehow come to Parsons’s attention that Cronley had been in contact with Commandant Jean-Paul Fortin of the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire in Strasbourg. When asked about this, even after Parsons had told him that the Pentagon was especially interested in Fortin’s role in investigating Odessa, Cronley had told Parsons he knew nothing about Fortin, the DST, or Odessa.
Mattingly had suggested—and Wallace was forced to conclude he was right—that the proper way to deal with a situation in which Cronley didn’t want to share intelligence with Parsons was to tell him he couldn’t share the intelligence without the approval of Admiral Souers in Washington, and then ask the admiral for that permission.
To boldly lie to the War Department G-2’s man in Germany, since he knew Cronley was lying, was tantamount to telling Parsons and the War Department G-2 to go piss up a rope.
Mattingly had then proceeded to report what had happened when he had gone to Cronley for two reasons. First to see if he couldn’t reason with him and possibly make him see the wisdom of pouring oil on the troubled waters between him and Colonel Parsons.
Wallace thought this was bullshit. Mattingly, who devoutly believed he should be chief, DCI-Europe, was almost certain to have been delighted to see Jim Cronley’s ass in a crack, which might see him getting canned, and leaving the chief, DCI-Europe, slot open for someone highly qualified, such as Colonel Robert Mattingly.
The second reason Mattingly said he had gone to Cronley was to ask him about what he had heard from Colonel Parsons about Sergeant Colbert shooting three people in the NCO club parking lot.
Cronley had no reason not to tell Mattingly everything about that. Mattingly might be a prick, but he was also deputy commander of CIC-Europe and not a Russian spy.
Instead, he had told Mattingly he didn’t have the Need to Know, and when Major Davis, who was Seidel’s man in CIC-Europe, asked him where he thought he had the authority not to tell Colonel Mattingly anything he wanted to know, Cronley had whipped out his DCI credentials.
Despite all this, Wallace had not firmly decided to relieve Cronley until he walked into the lobby of the Vier Jahreszeiten.
There were reasons not to fire him, starting of course with the fact that President Truman had personally named Cronley as chief, DCI-Europe. And then there was the question of what to do with him. He couldn’t be sent to some tank company in the Constabulary. Argentina was a possibility, but Cletus Frade was there, and he was not going to take kindly to his little brother getting fired because he had pissed off some Pentagon chair-warmer. And Cletus Frade had the ear of El Jefe Schultz, executive assistant to the director of Central Intelligence.
And then Major Wallace had walked into the lobby of the Vier Jahreszeiten and absentmindedly helped himself to a copy of Stars and Stripes from a stack on a small table.
He had glanced at it casually, and then a story on the first page caught his attention. He read it quickly and then again very carefully.
ATTEMPTED RAPE OF WACS FAILS
Would-be Rapists Pick Wrong Victims
By Janice Johansen
Associated Press Foreign Correspondent
Munich Jan 25—
Three would-be rapists died on the spot and a fourth died later in the 98th General Hospital when their attempted assault of WAC Technical Sergeants Claudette Colbert and Florence Miller went very wrong for them early in the morning of January 24.
The men, so far unidentified but believed to be Polish DPs who escaped from the Oberhaching Displaced Persons Camp, forced the two WAC non-coms into an ambulance the would-be rapists had stolen earlier from the 98th General Hospital and driven to the parking lot of the Munich Military Post Non-Commissioned Officers’ Club.
With knives at their throats, neither Colbert nor Miller offered resistance until they were inside the stolen ambulance. Then, as soon as the ambulance began to move and she saw her opportunity, Sergeant Colbert took her .38 caliber revolver from where she had it concealed in her brassiere and opened fire. Three of the would-be rapists died instantly in the ambulance and a fourth was declared dead on arrival at the 98th General Hospital.
Sergeants Colbert and Miller are cryptographers assigned to the Army Security Agency’s Munich station. They are required to be armed because of the classified material they deal with daily.
“Normally, I leave my pistol in the office,” Sergeant Colbert said. “But last night, thank God, I had it with me.”
Asked why she had concealed the weapon in her brassiere, the sergeant said that since she didn’t want to walk into the NCO club with a holstered weapon, and couldn’t leave the pistol in the vehicle in which she and Sergeant Miller had driven to the NCO club, “I didn’t have any other option.”
Colonel Arthur B. Kellogg, the Munich provost marshal who investigated the shooting incident, offered high praise to the WAC non-com: “Sergeant Colbert’s courage and professional cool-mindedness when dealing with a life-threatening situation like this reflects great credit not only upon her personally, but on all the members of the WAC. I am going to recommend to her commanding officer that she be recommended for at least the award of the Army Commendation Medal.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Wallace said.
The question of whether Cronley gets relieved is out of my hands.
As soon as El Jefe—or the admiral—hears about this, we’ll both get relieved.
DCI is supposed to be a secret organization, not written about on the front page of a goddamn newspaper.
If I can’t shut up one lousy goddamn reporter—and they’ll come after me on this, not Cronley—I don’t belong in the goddamn Girl Scouts, much less the DCI.
What did Truman say? “The buck stops here!”
And when both Cronley and I are sent . . . Where was it they sent Napoleon?
Elba!
And when Cronley and I are counting snowballs on some Aleutian island version of Elba, who’s going to take my place?
That fucking Mattingly, that’s who!
And that’ll see DCI taken over by G-2 in no more than two hours!
Major Wallace then began his search for Captain Cronley, whom he intended to politely ask if he had any conception whatever of the damage he had caused by failing to take into consideration the enormous damage one lousy fucking journalist can do, and therefore doing nothing whatever to silence said one fucking journalist and as a result of which he and I will be counting snowballs in fucking Alaska through all eternity. Amen.
—
Major Wallace marched across the dining room to where a waiter was pouring coffee from a silver urn into Captain Cronley’s c
offee cup.
What I would like to do is shove that goddamn coffeepot up his ass.
But I will not do that because I am an officer and a gentleman.
And if I did, there would be a story in tomorrow’s Stars and Stripes.
By Janice Whatever the fuck her name is.
“Army Colonel Goes Berserk. In Munich Hotel.
“Strangles Young Captain.
“Then Shoves Silver Coffeepot Up His Ass.”
“I’ve been looking all over for you, Jim,” Major Wallace greeted him. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Why, good morning, Major Wallace, sir. Are you free to join me, sir?”
“Free’s not the word,” Wallace said, and sat down.
“Give the Herr Major some coffee, please,” Cronley ordered the waiter in German.
“You seem to be in a very cheerful mood. Any particular reason?” Wallace asked, and then before Cronley could reply, got to the point. “Did you really tell Colonel Mattingly that he didn’t have the Need to Know about what happened to Claudette and . . . the other one?”
“You mean, Technical Sergeant Miller, sir?”
“Yes or no, goddammit, Jim!”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Why, for Christ’s sake?”
“For one thing, he didn’t have the Need to Know. And I confess to being annoyed with him at the time.”
“You were annoyed with him?”
“He told me that he and a major named Davis he had with him had just come from the Compound, where they had business with Colonel Parsons.”
“So?”
“He was supposed to tell us when he wanted to visit the Compound, and he didn’t. And he took Davis inside with him.”
Sonofabitch! He’s right.
I told Mattingly that he could go to the Compound, but only after he told us when, and that he was not authorized to take anybody with him.
“You know Davis works for General Seidel,” Wallace said. “He’s sort of Seidel’s liaison officer with General Greene.”
“I didn’t know that being a liaison officer—read ‘spy’—for the USFET G-2 gets you a pass into the Compound. Or have you changed the rules?”
“No, I haven’t changed the rules. You realize you have really pissed Mattingly off?”
“I suspected he was pissed when he stormed out of the bar, but not as pissed, I suggest, as he would have been if I had told him in front of that Major Davis that he had no right to go into the Compound without telling us first and absolutely no right to take some USFET G-2 officer with him. And don’t do it again.”
Wallace exhaled.
Well, he’s right about that, too.
“The first thing Colonel Mattingly did when he got to the Schlosshotel Kronberg at five this morning—just as I was leaving for the airstrip—was tell me (a) what you had done, (b) that your DCI credentials have obviously gone to your immature head, and (c) ask me how long it was going to be before I came to my senses and put somebody in charge of DCI who knows what he’s doing.”
“Well—and I’m not trying to be flip—at least we now know he doesn’t know who made me chief of DCI and why, does he? Or did you tell him?”
“Of course I didn’t tell him.”
“How long do you think it’s going to take for him to figure that out?”
“We can only hope, Captain Cronley, that the colonel is not nearly as smart as he thinks he is.”
“I did what I thought I should. If that puts you on a spot, I’m really sorry.”
That didn’t put me on a spot, my young loose cannon.
The goddamn story in the goddamn Stars and Stripes is what put both of us on the fucking spot.
Wallace made a deprecating gesture and said, “He’s really going to be pissed when he reads Stars and Stripes and sees that what you wouldn’t tell him is all over the front page.”
“Really? On the first page?”
“Have a look,” Wallace said, and handed him a copy of the tabloid-sized newspaper. “Somebody’s been talking to this goddamn reporter. Even if she did, predictably, get most of the facts wrong, this is a fu . . . disaster.”
“I think I can plead guilty even before I read it. But let me have a look.”
“What do you mean, ‘plead guilty’? Don’t tell me you have been talking to this goddamned reporter!”
Cronley looked at Wallace, then past him.
“Speak of the devil—is there a feminine term for that? ‘Deviless,’ maybe?”
Cronley stood up as Janice Johansen approached the table.
“Good morning, Janice,” Cronley said. “You look bright and chipper. Sleep well?”
“You know I did.”
Wallace got to his feet.
Nice-looking. A little old for my tastes, but well preserved.
What did she do to get him to run at the mouth?
What women always do when they want something from a man?
That’s why the sonofabitch is so cheerful!
So what does that do to my suspicions that Loose Cannon and Sergeant Colbert have a closer relationship than is considered appropriate for a commanding officer and a female non-com?
“Major Wallace, may I introduce Miss Janice Johansen of the Associated Press?”
“Well, you’re not as good-looking as Jim said you were, Major, but I’m pleased to meet you anyhow.”
Janice pulled up a chair, then saw the Stars and Stripes and reached for it.
“Let’s see where those bastards buried my yarn,” she said. To which she immediately added, “I’ll be damned! Front page, above the fold! They do recognize a good story when they see one.”
“I don’t think Major Wallace thinks that’s such a good story,” Cronley said.
That’s the understatement of the fucking century!
“And you do?” Wallace challenged.
“Yes, I do,” Cronley said. “Thank you, Janice.”
“Anything I can do, within reason, of course, to help you Good Guys in your valiant battle with the Red Menace.”
“What don’t you like in Janice’s story, Major Wallace?” Cronley asked.
Christ, do I have to spell it out for you?
That it’s in the fucking newspaper at all, is what’s wrong with it.
And shit, she’s an Associated Press correspondent. That story went out on the AP wire.
The admiral and El Jefe will read it in the Washington Star over their morning coffee in Washington!
“For one thing, it’s got Colbert’s and Miller’s names on the front page of the Stars and Stripes,” Wallace said, a little awkwardly.
“Describing her as an ASA cryptographer,” Janice said. “Not a mention of the DCI, which Jim says is something patriotic Americans such as myself should not say out loud. What’s wrong with that?”
Wallace visibly could not come up with an instant reply.
A waiter appeared.
“Thank God!” Janice said. “I’m ravenous! That always happens when I exercise before going to bed. Correction, before going to sleep.”
Not only has she been fucking Cronley, she wants me to know she has.
“Orange juice, ham and eggs, easy over, rye toast, and fried potatoes, please,” Janice ordered.
“Same for me, please,” Cronley said. “Major Wallace?”
“Make it three orders, please,” Wallace ordered. Then he asked, “I gather you’re also ravenous, Jim?”
“If you’re asking why, I’ve been up since oh-dark-hundred trying to stuff two very large refrigerators into a very small jeep trailer. It was pretty exhausting.”
“How’d that go?” Janice asked.
“As we speak, the refrigerators are on their way to cement Franco-American relations in Strasbourg.”
Jesus Chr
ist, did he tell her about Strasbourg?
“Jesus Christ, what did you tell her about Strasbourg?” Wallace demanded.
“I suspect what you meant to ask is what has Jim told me about your problem with Odessa,” Janice said.
Right on the fucking money, sweetheart!
“I’m afraid of what I’m about to hear,” Wallace said.
“Jim said when you heard about this, you were going to be highly pissed,” Janice said. “So let’s clear the decks.”
Well, at least he got one thing right. Highly pissed is a gross understatement.
“That sounds like a good idea,” Wallace said.
“Whether you like it or not, Major—what’s your first name, by the way?”
“If you consider it germane, it’s Harold.”
“Okay. Well, Harry, whether or not you like it . . .”
She’s doing that to piss me off!
“I said Harold.”
“So you did. As I was saying, Harry, a WAC blowing away three guys with a snub-nosed .38 she carries in her brassiere is a story that’s going to get out whether or not it’s convenient for you.”
“Who told you about that?”
“It’s what we call ‘unidentified military police officials speaking off the record.’”
“By the name of Ziegler, maybe?”
“When I asked Augie, he told me that if I didn’t back off this story, a hard-ass guy named Cronley of the DCI was going to bury me. I’d already heard his name connected with this DCI, about which I was also very curious. So I went looking for DCI Chief Cronley. I expected an old fart with a paunch, and instead I got this blond Adonis. So, batting my eyes at him, I told him I had the story, and was going to write it and the only choice he had in the matter was to tell me what DCI didn’t want in the story and why.”
“He could have had you arrested.”
“Killed, sure. He threatened that. Convincingly . . .”
What the hell does she mean by that?
Did my loose cannon actually threaten seriously to take her out?
Why not? He may look like an aging choir boy, but . . .
“. . . Arrested, no. People don’t seem to give a damn when they hear of some journalist getting blown away. But people go ballistic when they hear that somebody is trying to lock reporters up to shut them up.”
Curtain of Death Page 17
