Top Secret

by W. E. B Griffin

“Be very careful, Captain Cronley, about what you say, and remember the less you say about anything, the better.”

  Clete arrived as Jimmy was saying, “Yes, sir.”

  Mattingly left, but Clete had either heard what he said or seen the looks on their faces.

  “What was that all about?”

  “I’m fine, Clete. How about you?”

  “Are you? How are you doing?”

  Cronley shrugged.

  “We’ve got a lot to talk about, but it will have to wait until this is over. Let’s go find the tearoom.”

  Fine. That’ll give me a chance to introduce you to my new girlfriend. She’s waiting for her husband in there.

  [ TWO ]

  1105 1 November 1945

  In the tearoom, Cronley headed straight for the doughnut table. He wolfed down two of the enormous white sugar-coated cakes, and reached for a third.

  “They don’t feed you at your monastery?” Frade asked.

  “I didn’t have any breakfast. I had to get up in the middle of the night . . . and then had to take off as soon as I could see the far end of the runway.”

  “You flew here? I mean you flew here?”

  Jimmy nodded.

  “In a Piper Cub? What does the Army call them? L-4s?”

  “In a Storch.”

  “Whose Storch?”

  “I guess you could say mine. I have two of them.”

  “Mattingly didn’t say anything about you having a Storch. Or Storches. Or about you flying.”

  “He was probably hoping that on my way here I would fly into one of the many rock-filled clouds we have in scenic Germany and he wouldn’t have to talk about me at all.”

  “Why do I suspect that everything is not peachy-keen between you and Mattingly? What’s that all about?”

  “I’m sure he’ll tell you in detail just as soon as he has the chance.”

  “I’m shocked. The way you talked about him in Argentina, I thought you were convinced he could walk on water and make the blind see with a gentle touch of his hand.”

  Cronley was about to reply when three officers—a full colonel, a lieutenant colonel, and a major—walked up to them. All three had Army Ground Forces shoulder insignia.

  “Colonel Frade, I’m Jack Mullaney,” the colonel said. “From General Magruder’s shop? We met, very briefly, earlier.”

  Shop? What the hell does “shop” mean?

  “How are you, Colonel?” Frade asked as he shook Mullaney’s hand.

  “And this is Lieutenant Colonel Parsons and Major Ashley.”

  Frade shook their hands.

  “This is Captain Cronley,” Frade said.

  Everybody shook hands.

  “Actually, Colonel Frade, we were hoping Captain Cronley could point us toward the officer who will be running Mattingly’s shop in Munich. Parsons and Ashley will be joining it, and would like to make their manners.”

  What the hell is he talking about?

  Mattingly’s shop in Munich?

  “Make their manners”? What the hell does that mean?

  “Sir, I don’t understand,” Cronley confessed politely.

  “Perhaps the captain hasn’t been brought into the Pullach operation,” Lieutenant Colonel Parsons said.

  “Is Pullach what you’re talking about, sir?” Cronley asked. “You said Munich.”

  “Is that where the permanent compound will be, Jimmy?” Frade asked.

  Cronley nodded.

  “Well, now that we’re all talking about the same thing,” Colonel Mullaney said, “can you point out the officer in charge of the Pullach operation for us, Captain?”

  “I’m in charge of Pullach, sir,” Cronley said.

  The three Pentagon intelligence officers were visibly surprised.

  “Well, I will be when we get it open,” Cronley clarified. “It’s not quite finished.”

  Major Ashley blurted what all three of them were obviously thinking: “But you’re only a captain!”

  Frade chuckled and then took a bite of his doughnut.

  “And a very junior captain at that,” he said, with a smile, when he had finished chewing and swallowing.

  “I see we’re not all talking about the same thing,” Colonel Mullaney said. “Let me rephrase: Captain, who will be in command of the Pullach operation when it’s up and running? That’s to whom we wish to pay our respects. Would you point him out, please?”

  Frade pointed to Cronley.

  “Colonel, can I try to clear this up?” he asked.

  “Please do, Colonel,” Mullaney said coldly.

  “First, as to who will command Pullach. On the way over here, Admiral Souers said that Colonel Mattingly had told him that General Gehlen—who can be very difficult—and Oberst Mannberg—Gehlen’s Number Two—and Captain Cronley got along very well, and for that reason he had decided to give command of Pullach to Cronley. The admiral told me Mattingly thought that was a great idea.”

  “How can the captain command the Pullach operation if he will be outranked by Colonel Parsons and Major Ashley, whom General Magruder has assigned to Pullach?”

  “I was about to get to that, Colonel,” Frade said. “What I was going to say is that this new organization, the Central Intelligence Group, or whatever the hell it will be called, will inherit from the OSS its somewhat unorthodox philosophy of who does what. That is, the best qualified man gets the job, and his rank has nothing to do with it.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t accept that,” Colonel Mullaney said. “I’ll discuss this with General Magruder and Admiral Souers.”

  “Well, I see we’re off to a great start,” Frade said. “I should have known something like this would have to be dealt with.”

  “Exactly what do you mean by that, Colonel?” Mullaney challenged more than a little nastily.

  Frade looked around the tearoom.

  “Admiral!” he called.

  Cronley saw that Souers was talking to General Greene, Greene’s aide-de-camp, and Lieutenant Colonel and Mrs. Schumann.

  “Admiral!” Frade called again, and this time he got Souers’s attention.

  “Have you got a minute, Admiral?” Frade called.

  Souers walked over to them, bringing everybody with him.

  “Getting to know one another, are you?” the admiral smilingly inquired, and then asked, “Do we all know one another?” He looked around, decided that everyone did not know everyone, and began the introductions.

  “This is General Greene, the Chief of EUCOM CIC,” he said. “Captain Hall, his aide, Colonel Schumann, his IG, and the charming Mrs. Schumann. This is Colonel Mullaney, through whom we’ll channel the analyses that Colonel Parsons and Major Ashley will develop at Pullach once Captain Cronley gets that up and running.”

  There was an exchange of handshakes and courtesies.

  Frade waited until it had concluded, then announced: “Small problem, Admiral. Colonel Mullaney just announced that he cannot accept Captain Cronley as commander of Pullach.”

  “Oh?”

  “Inasmuch as Cronley is junior to Colonel Parsons and Major Ashley,” Frade went on.

  “Well, I’m glad the question came up,” Souers said. “Let’s get it out of the way right now.”

  “It’s not that I have anything against Captain Cronley, Admiral,” Colonel Mullaney offered, “as far as I know he may be an extraordinary young—”

  “Colonel,” Souers interrupted him, “it doesn’t matter what you think of Captain Cronley. What matters is your conception of your role in the South German Industrial Development Organization. Let me tell you how I see that. You are to facilitate, in the Pentagon, the transfer of intelligence produced at Pullach, when it’s up and running, to your superiors in G-2 and Naval Intelligence. Even to the State Department. Without getting into where
that intelligence came from. Any questions so far?”

  “No, sir. Admiral—”

  “You will also funnel requests for intelligence vis-à-vis our Soviet friends from ONI and G-2 to Pullach, without, it should go without saying, telling them to whom you are going for answers to their questions. Do you have any questions about that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “As you can well imagine, it is in our interests to keep General Gehlen and his people happy. You understand that, of course?”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “General Gehlen has developed a rapport with Captain Cronley. They seem each to respect the other’s role in the arrangement . . .”

  Jesus, Cronley suddenly thought, what’s going to happen when he finds out this kissy-kissy relationship he thinks there is between me and Gehlen went out the window when I took the Orlovsky interrogation away from his interrogator? And then threw gas on the fire when, in a manner of speaking, I told Mannberg that he and Gehlen could take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut if they didn’t like it?

  “. . . and for that reason, Colonel Mattingly gave command of Kloster Grünau to Cronley and recommended to me that he be placed in command at Pullach when that opens. I accepted that recommendation. That’s it. It is not open for debate.

  “Now, so far as your people at Pullach are concerned, they will serve there at Cronley’s pleasure. They should have no question in their minds that Cronley will be in command. Any questions about that, Colonel?”

  “No, sir. No questions.”

  “Good. I’m glad that’s all cleared up,” Souers said.

  “I’ve got one more question, Admiral, that at best may seem ill-mannered,” Frade said. “What’s this lovely lady doing in here with all of us ugly old men?”

  “Ugly old men talking about material classified Top Secret–Lindbergh, you mean?”

  “Yes, sir,” Frade said.

  “We’d planned to get into this later,” Souers said. “But since you brought it up, now’s as good a time as any. General Greene?”

  “Admiral Souers, Colonel Mattingly, and I were talking about needing a cover for Pullach,” Greene began. “People are going to wonder about it. What Mattingly and I came up with, and suggested to the admiral, was that we let people think it’s an ASA installation hiding under the South German Industrial Development Organization sign. Everybody, including the Soviets, knows we have the ASA, and keep its installations secret and behind barbed wire and armed guards.

  “Major Iron Lung McClung, who runs EUCOM ASA, says it’ll be no problem at all to move an ASA listening post—with its antennae farm—he already has in the Munich area into the Pullach compound. And—this was a gift from Above—McClung says he can set up some wire recorders he liberated from the Germans to transmit gibberish all the time in case those clever Soviets are listening.

  “All the Americans in the compound will start wearing Signal Corps insignia. There’s plenty of housing for dependents . . .”

  Dependents? Wives and children? What the hell?

  “. . . so with almost no effort—most good ideas are simple ones—we have what we think will be an effective cover.”

  “And where does this charming lady fit into this effective cover?” Frade asked dubiously.

  Jimmy noticed that that earned Clete a forced smile from Colonel Mrs. Schumann.

  “It’s important, Mattingly and the admiral agreed,” General Greene said, “that while I keep abreast of what’s going on at Pullach, my going there, except rarely, would draw attention to it. We then considered who, on the other hand, could go there frequently, without it looking suspicious.”

  Greene looked around and then answered his own question. “My IG is also the IG for ASA. And this charming lady is president of the CIC/ASA Officers’ Ladies Club. And sponsor of the CIC/ASA NCOs’ Wives Clubs. No one would find anything suspicious in Colonel Schumann visiting Pullach every other week or so. Or that he be accompanied by his wife when he did. Or Mrs. Schumann going to Pullach alone to meet with the ladies.”

  Cronley looked at Rachel. She met his eyes momentarily.

  “Which, I submit, neatly solves the effective liaison problem,” Greene said.

  “Mrs. Schumann of course has a Top Secret–Lindbergh clearance?” Frade asked drily.

  “Does Mrs. Frade?” Admiral Souers asked.

  “No. And I have never told her anything about anything that was classified in any way. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  Everyone chuckled.

  “Boy Scout’s Honor,” Frade added, making the Scout sign.

  That got laughs.

  Souers looked at his watch.

  “We had better get back in there. We’ve got a lot to cover.”

  [ THREE ]

  Suite 117

  Schlosshotel Kronberg

  Kronberg im Taunus, Hesse

  American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  1710 1 November 1945

  Cletus Frade said, “In that case, forget it,” and hung up the telephone.

  He turned to Jimmy.

  “The management regrets that it will take a half hour for room service.”

  “I’ll go to the bar and get us something. Jack Daniel’s?”

  Clete went to a soft-sided suitcase, opened the zipper, and came up with a bottle of Dewar’s scotch whisky.

  “I learned to drink this in Argentina. Okay with you?”

  “Anything.”

  “We don’t have to have this conversation now, Jimmy. You want to wait until after dinner?”

  “I’d like to pass on both.”

  Clete found glasses, poured whisky into them, then handed one to Cronley.

  “You don’t have any option about Colonel and Mrs. Schumann’s kind invitation to dinner,” Clete said. “You will go and smile. I think Schumann will be very useful to you. He obviously likes you . . .”

  He wouldn’t if he knew I’m screwing his wife.

  “. . . and your only option about our talking is when we do it.”

  “Let’s get it over with.”

  Clete tapped his glass to Jimmy’s.

  “Okay. Bad news first. The Old Man’s had a heart attack.”

  “Jesus!”

  “That’s the reason I went to Midland. It was what Souers suggested in there, that it was another example of my tendency to act impulsively. I went only after I put everything on the scale and decided, fuck the OSS, they’ve just buried the Squirt, the Old Man had a heart attack, my family needs me. Making that decision took me all of two seconds.”

  “How is he?”

  “When your father called me . . . it was the usual lousy connection . . . he said that the Old Man had had a heart attack on his Connie on their way out there, and they diverted to Dallas and rushed him to Parkland Hospital. He said it didn’t look good, and that he would keep me posted.

  “Hansel was with me. I told him to get out to Jorge Frade and get one of our Connies ready while I found our wives and told them why we would be out of town for a few days.

  “That of course didn’t work. Argentine women are big on family. When we took off an hour later, my wife and kids and Hansel’s wife and kid were aboard. And so were two nannies, two hundred pounds of kiddy supplies, and Gonzalo Delgano—”

  “Who?”

  “You met him. He’s SAA’s chief pilot.”

  Cronley shook his head indicating he didn’t remember.

  “And another pilot, a radio operator/navigator, and a steward. Gonzo was not about to have the boss go flying in the fragile mental condition he was already in caused by the death of his sister, and further aggravated by the grave illness of his grandfather.

  “Actually, I was pretty touched even though I wanted to go alone.

  “About twenty-one hours later, we touched down at Mid
land—Gonzo graciously gave me the left seat for the final leg—and I looked out the window and there’s the Old Man leaning on the fender of his Town and Country—you know, that enormous station wagon?”

  “I’ve seen one or two.”

  “He was waiting for us. With Souers.”

  “I thought you said he had a heart attack?”

  “My grandfather, with a straight face, said he had a little too much to drink on the airplane. Dr. Neiberger, at the Squirt’s wake, or viewing, or whatever the hell they call it, told me he had had a ‘medium to severe’ heart attack probably brought on by stress. Aside from a daily aspirin—honest to God, an aspirin, to thin the blood—and avoiding stress, there wasn’t much else that could be done for him. Neiberger also said the only way to keep him in the hospital would have been by force, and that would cause precisely the kind of stress he should avoid.”

  He paused, then said admiringly, “That Old Man is one tough sonofabitch.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “I suppose you want to hear about the viewing and the interment.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Clete did not miss a beat: “The Squirt had a lot of friends and they all showed up, including a delegation of her sorority sisters from Rice. You, surprisingly, have more friends than I would have guessed and they all showed up, including a delegation from A&M who served as Marjie’s pallbearers.”

  Jimmy suddenly felt his chest heave in an enormous sob. His eyes began to water.

  “All in all,” Clete said—and then his voice broke. After a moment, and with great difficulty, he was able to finish, “It was quite an event.”

  He picked up the bottle of Dewar’s and added to both their glasses.

  “She was buried at Big Foot, of course. On your side.”

  “What does that mean, my side?”

  “Really? I thought you knew. The cemetery, although it’s on Big Foot, is jointly owned by the Howells and the Cronleys. The Howells get buried on one side and the Cronleys on the other. They buried the late Mrs. Cronley with her husband’s family.”

  Jimmy looked at him with tears running down his cheeks.

  “Actually, as it turns out, Marjie’s about ten feet from her father,” Clete said. “I don’t know if Mom, or your mother, or your dad, set it up that way, but that’s where the Squirt’ll be from now on. Next to my Uncle Jim.”