Curtain of Death

by W. E. B Griffin

  [ THREE ]

  Suite 304

  The Hotel Bristol

  Kaerntner Ring 1

  Vienna, Austria

  2210 29 January 1946

  On the walk back to the Hotel Bristol, which again took them past the ruins of the Stephansdom and the Opera, they were solicited by three ladies of the evening—two of them quite beautiful—but Cronley could see nothing in the other pedestrians that suggested they were agents of either the NKGB or the CIC.

  When they walked into the lobby of the hotel, however, there was a familiar face.

  Sitting at one of the small tables near the door to the bar was a well-dressed, middle-aged woman with a fox fur cape over her shoulders. One hand raised a small coffee cup to her lips as the other stroked the head of a small—almost a puppy—dachshund in her lap.

  Mannberg apparently saw and recognized the woman at the same instant Cronley did. He quickly touched Cronley’s shoulder, and when Cronley turned to look at him, nodded his head—just perceptibly—toward the elevator bank.

  On the elevator, with only the operator on it, they confined their conversation to raising eyebrows at one another.

  When the door opened on the third floor, a man sitting in a chair in the corridor got quickly to his feet.

  Cronley thought, You, sir, might as well have CIC agent tattooed on your forehead.

  As he and Mannberg walked to their suite, he saw two more CIC agents in the corridor.

  Mannberg had just put the enormous brass key to the door when Charley Spurgeon pulled the door open from the inside. His Ike jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a Colt .45 automatic in a shoulder holster. Colonel Carl Wassermann was sitting on a couch before a coffee table on which sat a U.S. Army backpack shortwave radio.

  “Welcome home,” Spurgeon greeted them. “How was dinner?”

  Mannberg and Cronley ignored him.

  “She just happened to be there,” Mannberg said to Cronley.

  “Or Serov or Dragomirov sent her to make sure we got safely home.”

  “Or Serov or Dragomirov sent her, and somebody to watch her, to see how we reacted when we saw her,” Mannberg said.

  “Yeah,” Cronley said. “How surprised do you think we looked?”

  Mannberg shrugged.

  “How did it go?” Wassermann asked. “And who is ‘her’?”

  Mannberg handed him the photographs of the NKGB identity documents and Colonel Mattingly.

  “Jesus, they really worked him over, didn’t they?” Wassermann said.

  “Serov said he showed a ‘frankly admirable reluctance’ to accept their hospitality,” Cronley said.

  “What’s with the identity documents?” Wassermann asked.

  “Three of them are of the people Sergeant Colbert blew away in the back of an ambulance when they tried to kidnap her. Serov wants us to see that they get a proper Christian burial, complete with a Russian Orthodox priest and their names on a proper Russian Orthodox tombstone.”

  “What’s that all about?”

  “I don’t know,” Cronley said. “But, as one Christian to another, I said I’d do it.”

  “There’s four documents.”

  “Colbert missed Major of State Security Venedikt Ulyanov in the ambulance. We’ve got him in the chapel at Kloster Grünau. We call him Lazarus.”

  “And Serov wants him back?”

  “He suspects—knows—we have one of the four, but he doesn’t know which one. He wants, obviously, whomever we have back, but what he really wants in exchange for Mattingly is Likharev. Likharev and his family. I think he thinks Lazarus is expendable.”

  “And?”

  “We have been ordered to have the Likharevs on some bridge in Berlin . . .”

  “The Glienicke Bridge, between Potsdam and Wannsee,” Mannberg furnished.

  “. . . at oh-nine-hundred on thirteen February, when the exchange will take place. In the meantime, Mattingly will be shown to us every day to show us he’s still alive.”

  “You’re going to make the exchange?” Wassermann asked softly.

  “Over, maybe literally, my dead body,” Cronley said. “That exchange would take a direct order personally from President Truman. And if that order comes, he’s going to have to send someone else to the bridge. I’ll have nothing to do with turning Likharev or his wife and kids over to those sonsofbitches.”

  “A direct order is a direct order,” Wassermann argued softly.

  “And I knew that sooner or later I would have no choice but to disobey one,” Cronley said.

  There was a long moment’s silence.

  Wassermann finally broke it.

  “Who is the ‘her’ you were talking about when you walked in here?”

  Cronley waved at Mannberg, telling him to reply.

  “When we came into the lobby, we saw an NKGB agent with whom we have a relationship having a cup of coffee at one of the tables near the bar.”

  “She looks like a Viennese grandmother,” Cronley said.

  Wassermann’s eyebrows rose but he didn’t say anything for a moment.

  “I’ve got a man behind the desk with a Leica,” he said. “Behind a one-way mirror. He can see the whole lobby. You want a picture of this woman?”

  “Good idea,” Mannberg said. “It might come in handy at the Compound.”

  “Call him, Charley,” Wassermann ordered.

  Cronley’s mouth went on automatic: “No. Hold it a minute, Charley.”

  He immediately wondered, Where the hell did that come from?

  Everyone looked at him in surprise.

  And then he knew the reason.

  “There are people in the Compound who would be interested to learn that we know Rahil, aka Seven-K.”

  “You’re right,” Mannberg said. “I should have thought about that.”

  “You’ve got a mole in DCI-Europe?” Charley Spurgeon blurted.

  “Almost certainly more than one,” Cronley said. And then his mouth went on full automatic: “Colonel, what kind of a photo lab do you have? Specifically, can you copy negatives?”

  Wassermann was visibly surprised at the question, but replied, “Yes, we can.”

  Cronley pointed at Spurgeon.

  “You can take shorthand, right?”

  Spurgeon nodded.

  “Find something to write on,” Cronley ordered.

  “What?”

  “Just do it, Charley,” Cronley snapped.

  Spurgeon took a notebook and a pencil from his jacket.

  “‘Secret,’” Cronley dictated. “‘From Commanding Officer’”—he pointed at Colonel Wassermann—“whatever the CIC Detachment number is, ‘to Commanding General, CIC-Europe, eyes only General Greene. By armed officer courier.’”

  “Jim,” Mannberg said, “what’s going on?”

  Cronley silenced him with a wave of his hand.

  “‘Subject,’” he went on, “‘Possible Identification of NKGB Agents.’

  “‘Paragraph one. The undersigned received reliable intelligence that a number of NKGB agents would be in the lobby of the Bristol Hotel and in the Drei Husaren restaurant here last night’—no, put in the date. ‘It was possible to surreptitiously photograph these people.

  “‘Paragraph two. Forwarded herewith are’ . . . How many CIC detachments are there?”

  “Nine,” Wassermann replied. “Plus of course Major Wallace’s Twenty-seventh, and the Twenty-third.”

  “‘Forwarded herewith are twelve sets of thirty-five-millimeter negatives each containing thirty-six images of persons suspected of being NKGB agents.’

  “If possible, one of the shots should show Seven-K and an NKGB agent . . . for that matter, anyone walking close to her not in a U.S. Army uniform . . . in the same frame. But make sure there is one—only one—good shot of
her. Understood?”

  Wassermann and Spurgeon said, “Understood,” on top of one another.

  “‘Paragraph three,’” Cronley went on. “‘It is strongly recommended that these negatives be forwarded, immediately and with great care, to all eleven CIC detachments, in the hope that identification, or identifications, can be made.’”

  “You left DCI out,” Spurgeon said.

  “‘I’m the commanding officer of the Twenty-third CIC detachment,’” Cronley said. “Any other comments or objections?”

  “That’ll solve the problem,” Mannberg said.

  “I have a comment, if I may,” Wassermann said.

  “Shoot,” Cronley said.

  “Those that don’t think you have the experience, or the general makeup, to be running the DCI are dead fucking wrong.”

  “I wish I could agree, but I don’t. Thanks anyway.”

  “There are two colonels in this room, Cronley, who have been in this business since you were in short pants. Before either of us had even considered moles in our organizations, you did, and you came up with a very clever—and very detailed and workable—solution to that problem off the top of your head. I stand by my comment.”

  “And I concur,” Mannberg said.

  “If I’m so smart, why don’t I have a fucking clue how to get Mattingly back without swapping the Likharevs for him?”

  “I would suggest, Jim,” Mannberg said, “that that problem is almost infinitely more complex.”

  “Sir,” Spurgeon asked, “should I get started on this?”

  Cronley answered for Wassermann: “Charley, do whatever you have to do to be back here at oh-six-thirty with everything in your hands. I want to get out of Schwechat as soon as we can in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  When he had gone, Wassermann said, “I now have a question. Why do you want Charley to carry the negatives to General Greene?”

  “Because when General Greene has him standing tall and demanding to know what’s really going on with the negatives—and he will—Charley will tell him everything and Greene will believe him.”

  Wassermann nodded his acceptance of the explanation.

  “And now, although I would really like the whole bottle,” Cronley said, “I am going to have one small nip of Jack Daniel’s and then go to bed. I want to get back to Germany as quickly as I can. Maybe General Gehlen will have an idea what we should do now.”

  [ FOUR ]

  Kloster Grünau

  Schollbrunn, Bavaria

  American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  0905 30 January 1946

  Lieutenant Tom Winters and Kurt Schröder, who was now wearing ODs with triangles, walked up to the Storch as Cronley, Mannberg, and Spurgeon got out.

  “I didn’t expect you to be here, Tom,” Cronley said.

  “You said you wanted Kurt to check me out in the Storch,” Winters replied. “And here we are.”

  “How did you get here?” Cronley asked.

  “In an L-4.”

  “The Storch checkout is going to have to wait,” Cronley said. “What you’re going to do is get back in the L-4 and take Charley here— Excuse me, Charley Spurgeon, Tom Winters and Kurt Schröder.”

  The men shook hands.

  Cronley went on: “What you’re going to do, Tom, is take Charley to Eschborn. I’ll call ahead and have a car waiting. He’s going to the Farben Building to see General Greene. When he’s finished, you’ll fly him back here . . . to the Compound . . . hopefully in time for him to catch the Blue Danube so he can get back to Vienna.”

  “Can I ask what’s going on?” Winters said.

  “Charley will explain on your way to Eschborn. Charley, you can tell Tom everything. He’s one of the good guys, as is Kurt.”

  “Got it,” Spurgeon said.

  “And you, Kurt, make sure both Storches are ready to go. I think we’re going to need both of them.”

  Schröder nodded.

  “How’s Lazarus?” Cronley asked.

  “Tom and I just fed him his breakfast,” Schröder said. “His appetite’s all right.”

  “I found out who he is,” Cronley said. “Major of State Security Venedikt Ulyanov.”

  “How’d you find that out?” Winters said.

  “Senior Major of State Security Ivan Serov told me while he was telling me how we’re going to exchange Likharev and his family for Colonel Mattingly. It came out, specifically, when Serov was asking me, as a fellow Christian, to arrange Russian Orthodox burials for the three guys Claudette took out. Who he also identified for me.”

  “What?” Schröder asked.

  “Jesus!” Winters blurted. “You’re going to make the swap?”

  “So,” Cronley went on, “what I’ve been wondering about as I dodged rock-filled clouds on the way up here—keeping in mind that Serov is much smarter than me—is whether ol’ Ivan just let who Lazarus is slip out, or whether he wanted me to know. And I don’t know, so I guess for the moment I’m going to have to pass on getting to see the look on Lazarus’s face when I call him Major Ulyanov.”

  He paused, and then asked, “Is there a car here, or am I going to have to go to the goddamn Compound in an ambulance?”

  “There’s two Fords here,” Winters said.

  “In that case, Lieutenant Winters, sound ‘Boots and Saddles.’ Let’s get the cavalry moving.”

  “Yes, sir,” Winters said.

  He smiled and so did Charley Spurgeon. Schröder looked confused.

  IX

  [ ONE ]

  Office of the Military Government Liaison Officer

  The South German Industrial Development Organization Compound

  Pullach, Bavaria

  American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  0955 30 January 1946

  When Cronley went into his bedroom to change out of the fur-lined flying boots he had been wearing since he put them on at Schwechat Airfield in Vienna, he found three large cardboard boxes sitting on his bed.

  He took a closer look and saw that an envelope addressed to him sat atop one of the boxes. The printed return address was that of his mother.

  He sat on the bed, pulled the boots off, then removed the letter from the envelope and read it:

  Wilhelmina Stauffer Cronley

  January 20, 1946

  My Dearest Jimmy:

  This is a very difficult letter for me to write because, knowing if your father knew about it he would be hurt or angry or both, I am writing it behind his back. I can only hope that you will understand.

  I received a letter from my nephew, your cousin Luther Stauffer, thanking me from the bottom of his heart for the food packages I sent via you to him and his family. It touched me more deeply than I imagined possible. When I thought about this, I came to decide it was because it meant that for the first time since I left Strasbourg to marry your father so long ago, I was again in touch with my family, and more important was able—with your help, of course, my darling—able to help them in a time of their need.

  I have to tell you that your father went to the trouble of getting our congressman, Dick Lacey, to send him the actual regulations—which he showed to me—which prohibit you from getting packages through the Army Postal System that contain “prohibited items” and then passing them on to what the regulations call “indigenous persons.”

  The last thing I want, my darling boy, is to get you in any trouble with your superiors or the Army, or anybody. But if the three packages I mailed yesterday somehow reach you—your father said I would be wasting my time, effort, and money if I tried to send my family anything else via you as the packages would almost certainly be inspected and the coffee and canned ham and other prohibited things seized—if there is any way you can get them to your cousin Luther and his family, I think God woul
d consider it an act of Christian charity, no matter what your father and the Army think.

  I will also leave up to you whether you tell your father about the packages or this letter.

  With all my love, my darling boy,

  Mom

  “Oh, shit!” Cronley said.

  He felt around under the bed until he found his Western boots. He started to pull them on, then changed his mind. The fur-lined boots had not only kept his feet warm but had made them sweat. He pulled off his socks, sniffed them, and grunted as he tossed them. He found clean socks in the chest of drawers and put them on, followed by the Western boots.

  As he walked into the main room, his feet feeling refreshed, he found a large number of people—but not General Gehlen, whom he expected. Staff Sergeant Albert Finney was there, and his presence disappointed him. Cronley had hoped that the very large, very black twenty-four-year-old, after being corrupted by Cousin Luther, would be somewhere around Salzburg learning who Cousin Luther’s partners in crimes were.

  “Welcome home,” Major Harold Wallace greeted him. “How did things go in Vienna?”

  “Swimmingly,” Cronley said. He put his briefcase on the table, took from it the photographs Serov had given him, and put them on the table.

  “Have a look,” he said. “Everybody have a look.”

  “Well, at least Bob Mattingly is still alive,” Wallace said after a moment.

  “So Lazarus is an NKGB major,” Tiny Dunwiddie said.

  “Let’s start with Mattingly,” Cronley began. “They want to exchange Colonel Likharev and family for him . . .”

  —

  He had just about finished when General Gehlen, Colonel Mannberg, and Major Konrad Bischoff came into the room.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Gehlen said.

  “I was just telling everybody what I presume Oberst Mannberg has told you,” Cronley said.

  “I found the presence of Seven-K in the Hotel Bristol very interesting,” Gehlen said. “Did she have something for us, or did Serov send her there?”

  Cronley said, “What I’ve been wondering is what Serov is up to with getting a Christian burial for the people Claudette took out in the ambulance.”