This one, however, was painted flaming red and bore Argentine markings.
He was then loaded into it, General Martín climbed in, the engine was started, and perhaps ninety seconds later it had taxied to a runway and begun its takeoff roll.
Von Dattenberg remembered what General Martín had said about his only recently having learned how to fly.
A minute or two after that, looking down from no more than five hundred meters, von Dattenberg could see no signs of civilization at all, not even a road. They were flying over grasslands stretching to the horizon in all directions and punctuated here and there by clumps of trees. Cattle—more cattle than von Dattenberg could remember ever having seen—were scattered over the grassland.
Von Dattenberg put this together and decided they were flying over Argentina’s famed Pampas, which he now recalled stretched for hundreds of miles. That made sense. His pilot was an army general. He was being taken to an army base. Army bases were often built in the country.
For the next hour and a half, von Dattenberg looked for signs—even a road—that would indicate they were approaching such an army base. He saw none as far as he could see in any direction—nothing but the Pampas.
He had just about decided that he was having one of those incredibly realistic dreams one had from time to time, and would soon wake up to find he had dozed off in the wardroom of the Rivadavia, when General Martín dropped the nose of the Fieseler and quickly descended to perhaps two hundred meters above ground level.
Von Dattenberg was now looking more or less sideward at the clumps of trees and the cattle—not down at them.
They flew at this altitude for perhaps two minutes. Then General Martín took the airplane even closer to the ground, which caused von Dattenberg to remember again that the general had only recently learned how to fly.
And then they were flashing over something constructed by man. Specifically, over the roofs of perhaps two dozen single-story buildings, one of them enormous and sprawling.
Von Dattenberg was trying very hard to get a better look out the rear of the Storch when General Martín put it into a very steep turn, leveled off, and then dropped the nose even closer toward the ground. He saw what looked like a dirt airstrip.
I am going to die in the middle of nowhere!
And then I will wake up in the wardroom of the Rivadavia.
And then the Storch touched down, bounced back into the air, touched down again, bounced back into the air again, and touched down again, this time staying on the ground.
At the end of the runway, Martín turned the Storch around and taxied down the runway. Von Dattenberg now saw two large hangars, one of which held an American twin-engine Lodestar passenger transport, also painted flaming red.
There were also four American Piper Cub airplanes.
And a welcoming committee—six armed men on horseback.
What the hell do they call those people who work the herds of cattle?
Gauchos! They call them gauchos!
Where the hell am I?
General Martín stopped the Storch, shut down the engine, and immediately answered von Dattenberg’s unspoken question.
“Welcome to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, Kapitän von Dattenberg.”
Martín pushed open the door of the Storch.
A gaucho walked up to the airplane. Von Dattenberg studied his clothing with interest. He wore knee-high black boots, into which were tucked billowing black trousers. His waist was encircled by a wide leather belt, liberally studded with silver ornaments. Tucked into his waistband was an enormous silver-handled knife. He had on a billowing white shirt, and wore around his neck a yellow-and-red scarf. Topping everything off was a wide-brimmed black leather hat with a silver-studded hatband.
The gaucho waited until General Martín had gotten out of the Storch and then saluted him crisply.
“How did it go, General?” he asked in English.
“Very well, I think, Jefe,” Martín replied, and then pointed back toward von Dattenberg. “That is Fregattenkapitän Wilhelm von Dattenberg, late master of U-405.”
“No shit?” the gaucho blurted.
“Which appeared off the Puerto Belgrano Naval Base flying a black flag at first light this morning.”
“I’ll be damned! What are we going to do with him?”
“I think I’d better see what Doña Dorotea has to say.”
“She’s not here. There was a telegram from Lisbon. They’ll be back probably early tomorrow morning, so she and Doña Alicia took everybody into Buenos Aires to meet the plane.”
“That’s good news,” Martín said. “What we’re going to have to do, Jefe, is keep the fregattenkapitän out of sight until Cletus and Peter can get out here.”
“Not a problem,” the gaucho said.
“I don’t think I have to tell you he’s not permitted to ask any questions, about anything, but especially about Cletus and Peter, do I?”
“No, sir.”
“I want someone with him around the clock. I don’t want him to try to emulate Kapitän zur See Langsdorff.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Or anyone to learn he’s here.”
“Understood, sir.”
The gaucho walked to the airplane. Von Dattenberg was just stepping to the ground.
“Do you speak English, Fregattenkapitän von Dattenberg?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I am Lieutenant Oscar Schultz, United States Navy. You will now consider yourself to be a prisoner of the United States Navy and conduct yourself accordingly. Understand?”
Von Dattenberg nodded, then blurted, “You’re a U.S. Navy officer?”
“Yes, I am. When we get you out on the Pampas, you and I can sit around and swap sea stories.”
I have to be dreaming, von Dattenberg thought. Why can’t I wake up?
Martín walked up to them.
“What are your plans now, General?” Schultz asked.
“What I’m thinking, Jefe, is that it’s a long drive to Buenos Aires. . . .”
“But a much shorter flight?”
General Martín nodded.
“What the hell, why not?” Schultz said. “Cletus and Peter are going to be pissed anyway when they hear you’ve been flying their toy.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do,” Martín said. He turned to von Dattenberg. “Go with Lieutenant Schultz. You’ll be in good hands. We’ll see one another soon.”
III
[ONE]
Headquarters, XXIInd CIC Detachment
Alte Post Hotel
Marburg an der Lahn, Germany
0700 9 October 1945
Major John Connell turned impatiently from his bathroom mirror when his telephone rang.
He thought about not answering it, but finally did.
“Major Connell,” he said, annoyance showing in his voice.
“Mattingly, Connell,” his caller announced. “You took your time in answering your phone.”
“Sir, I was shaving.”
“And Cronley didn’t answer his phone, period.”
“Sir, I believe Lieutenant Cronley was probably on his way to the roadblock. They start to process refugees at oh seven hundred.”
“What I want you to do, Connell, is retrieve that young officer from whatever you have him doing, put him in a vehicle, and have him brought here. Have him bring enough clothing for at least three days.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, where is here?”
“The Schlosshotel Kronberg. It’s in Taunus. You know where that is?”
“No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Looking at a map might be helpful,” Mattingly suggested sarcastically.
“Yes, sir. Sir, is there anything I should know?”
“About what?”
“Lieutenant Cronley’s performance of duty.”
“It seems to me, Connell—he’s your lieutenant—that you should be answering that question, not asking it.”
“Yes, sir. Sir,
would you like me to bring Lieutenant Cronley to you?”
“Just put him and a sergeant—and maybe a map—in a jeep and have the sergeant drive him here. Got it? Or is that too complicated?”
“No, sir. I’ll get right on it, sir.”
—
“You took your sweet goddamn time getting here, Cronley,” Major Connell greeted Lieutenant James D. Cronley Jr. when the latter entered the former’s office thirty minutes later.
“Sir, I came as soon as I got word you wanted to see me.”
“Yesterday, I asked if anything . . . untoward . . . had happened when you were taking care of Frau von Wachtstein.”
“Yes, sir?”
“If you did anything that in any way displeased her, or made her uncomfortable, Cronley, goddamn it, now is the time to tell me.”
“Sir, I can think of nothing like that.”
“Well, I can only hope you’re telling me the truth.”
“I am, sir.”
“You better be. At zero seven hundred, I had a telephone call from Colonel Mattingly. He wants you at his headquarters immediately, with three days’ change of uniforms.”
“Yes, sir. Where is his headquarters?”
“Near Frankfurt. Sergeant O’Duff will drive you. He will have a map.”
Staff Sergeant Francis O’Duff was the motor sergeant.
“So one last time, Cronley—did anything happen between you and Frau von Wachtstein that I should know about?”
Well, we fucked our brains out for two days. Is that what you mean?
“No, sir.”
“If the subject comes up with Colonel Mattingly, Cronley, I want you to be sure to tell him that I ordered you to immediately bring to my attention any problems, any problems at all, that arose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that you did not bring any such problems to my attention.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Quickly pack a bag and get going, Cronley. O’Duff is waiting for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
[TWO]
Schlosshotel Kronberg
Kronberg im Taunus, Hesse, Germany
1215 9 October 1945
The massive structure looked like a castle. It was constructed of gray fieldstone and rose, in parts, five stories high. There was no sign of war damage whatever.
There was an assortment of vehicles in the parking lot, some jeeps and three-quarter-ton ambulances—with the Red Cross common to them painted over—but most of the vehicles were German. Most of these were Mercedeses, but there was a scattering of Opel Admirals and Kapitäns, and Cronley saw the Horch in which Elsa had driven away from the Kurhotel.
The place was well protected, casually. There were four jeeps at strategic points, each with a pedestal-mounted .50 caliber Browning machine gun, with a belt of glistening ammunition dangling from each. There were two soldiers at each jeep. They were all enormous black men. They were eating their lunch, but not from mess kits, or even stainless steel trays, but from what looked like fine china, crystal, and silver laid out on the hoods of the jeeps.
O’Duff stopped the jeep before a wide, shallow flight of stairs leading to the building.
Almost immediately, a black soldier came down the stairs. He was even more enormous than the others. He had first sergeant chevrons and the patch of the Second Armored “Hell on Wheels” Division on the sleeves of his “tanker” zipper jacket. He held a Thompson submachine gun effortlessly in his massive left hand.
He saluted. Cronley returned it.
“I’m First Sergeant Dunwiddie,” he announced. “You’re late.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re Second Lieutenant James D. Cronley Junior, right?”
“Right,” Jimmy said.
“Then you’re late,” First Sergeant Dunwiddie said. “The colonel expected you in time for lunch.” Then he effortlessly jerked Cronley’s canvas bag from the back of the jeep and turned his attention to Sergeant O’Duff. “Okay, Sergeant, you can go. I’ll take care of this officer from here on.”
—
It was only as First Sergeant Dunwiddie led him through the lobby of the building that Cronley realized it was a hotel, and not a castle.
Not too swift, Jimmy. It’s the Schlosshotel Kronberg.
Schloss means castle, but hotel means hotel in both English and German.
Dunwiddie led him through the lobby to a large dining room filled with people in uniform—most without insignia of rank—having their lunch, and then through a smaller dining room, and through that to a door.
Dunwiddie knocked using the butt of the Thompson.
“Who?” a voice called.
“Tiny,” Dunwiddie called.
“Come.”
Dunwiddie pushed the door open and nodded for Cronley to enter.
There were three people sitting at a round table, which had places set for five.
One was Colonel Mattingly, as strikingly uniformed as he had been the day before. A second was the man who had also been at the Kurhotel when they had taken Elsa away. Cronley intuited that he was an officer, almost certainly a major or higher, although he was wearing an insignia-less uniform. Cronley could not recall hearing his name, beyond Colonel Mattingly calling him “Harry.”
The third man was a slight, pale fiftyish man in an ill-fitting civilian suit that was almost certainly German. Confirmation of that suspicion came immediately when Colonel Mattingly announced in German: “We’re all speaking German, Cronley.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Say it in German!” Mattingly snapped, in German.
“Jawohl, Herr Oberst.”
“Better,” Mattingly said. “Sit down, Tiny. You’re involved.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberst,” Dunwiddie said, and sat down.
“And you, too, Cronley,” Mattingly said. “Sit there, eat your lunch, confine your conversation to brief responses to my questions, and volunteer nothing. Understood?”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberst.”
“What I have to say to you, Cronley, or anything any of these gentlemen says to you, is classified Top Secret–Presidential. Do you know what that means?”
“No, sir.”
“Simply phrased, it means that information thus classified is so important to the security of the United States that extreme measures—killing people—is authorized to protect it. Understand?”
Does he really mean that?
What the hell is this?
Does it have anything to do with Elsa?
Cronley nodded. “Ich verstehen, Herr Oberst.”
Plates of pork chops, applesauce, mashed potatoes, and bread were laid before Cronley and Dunwiddie. And then two liter-sized mugs of beer.
“Where to begin?” Mattingly asked, rhetorically.
The others waited.
“How much do you know about the OSS, Cronley?”
“Not very much, sir.”
“During the late unpleasantness, the Office of Strategic Services was charged with providing a number of clandestine services to the Armed Forces of the United States. Its director, Major General William Joseph Donovan, reported directly to President Roosevelt. You didn’t know that?”
“There was a lecture when I was at Camp Holabird about other intelligence agencies. I guess I didn’t pay much attention.”
Harry shook his head.
“You didn’t make the connection between General Donovan of the OSS and your father’s old Army buddy Donovan from World War One?”
“Not until this moment, Colonel.”
“And now that you have?”
“The Colonel Donovan I know—not a General Donovan—is my father’s New York lawyer. He used to come to the ranch when I was a kid.”
“So he told me last night,” Mattingly said drily. “He has fond memories of you. . . . He said you were expelled from Saint Mark’s School in Dallas at age fourteen for bootlegging and operating a poker game. True?”
Jimmy grinned. “Yes, sir. Guilty.”
“Colonel Frade was correct. As I said, General Donovan remembers you fondly. He said to give you his best regards. The circumstances being what they are, that is tantamount to your being approved for service with the OSS.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me about the circumstances to which I refer?”
“Sir, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” Cronley confessed.
“On October first—eight days ago—President Truman issued an Executive Order disbanding the Office of Strategic Services,” Mattingly said. “You are witnessing the death throes of that organization.”
“Sir, I’m confused.”
“The order calls for the dispersion of our assets, human and otherwise, to the Army, the Department of State, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and, so help me God, the Treasury Department,” Mattingly went on. “For example, I have been sent back to the Army, which in its wisdom has assigned me to the CIC, specifically as deputy commander, CIC, USFET.”
And Major Connell has heard that.
That is why he’s so afraid of Mattingly.
“There was a flicker of interest in your eyes just now, Cronley. Why?”
What do I do now?
“Don’t give that question serious consideration, Lieutenant. Answer with what popped into your mind.”
When in doubt, tell the truth.
“Sir, I was thinking that Major Connell has probably heard about that.”
Mattingly nodded, then made a go on gesture.
“That’s why he’s so afraid of you,” Cronley said.
Harry chuckled, and Cronley saw that First Sergeant Dunwiddie was smiling.
At my stupidity?
“You picked up on that, did you?” Mattingly said, with a faint smile. “For your general fund of knowledge, Cronley, it is often useful to have people be a little—or a lot—afraid of you.”
Empire and Honor Page 11
