A fresh idea came to his mind.
I’ll take Colonel Bristol, General Gehlen, and Lieutenant Stratford to lunch at the Vier Jahreszeiten hotel.
I owe Bristol and Stratford a hell of a lot more than a meal, but it will if nothing else show them how grateful I am.
I also can introduce all of them to Major Wallace and Fat Freddy. Excuse me, Special Agent Hessinger. There are self-evident advantages to that for the future.
I will call Hessinger and tell him to come out here with the Opel Kapitän.
Hell, I’ll call Hessinger and tell him to come out here in Major Wallace’s Opel Admiral. After all, Bristol is a light bird and Gehlen a former general. Rank hath its privileges, like getting a ride in the biggest car.
The more he thought about it the more it seemed like a good idea, and that it was one more proof he was on a roll.
“I thought we were through in there,” Stratford said when he saw Cronley start back into the Military Government Liaison Office building.
“I’ve got to make a telephone call. Wait here, or come with me.”
—
“How do these phones work?” Cronley asked Sergeant Mitchell. “Phrased another way, is Munich a long-distance call or can I dial a Munich number?”
“You can dial a Munich number,” Mitchell said, and handed him a mimeographed telephone book.
Cronley found what he was looking for and dialed it.
—
“Twenty-Third CIC, Agent Hessinger speaking, sir.”
“First let me say how happy I am to find you at your post, and not cavorting shamelessly with some naked blond Fräulein . . .”
“Don’t tell me where you are,” Hessinger said.
“What? Why not?”
“Because the FBI is here, and if they’re listening to the telephone, and I think they are, they’ll learn where you are and go there.”
“The FBI is in your office?”
“No. Not anymore. They were here. They were here at eight o’clock this morning.”
“Were there?”
“They left. But there’s two of them in the lobby, another in the garage, and I would be surprised if they’re not at Schleissheim Army Airfield. So I wouldn’t go there, either, if I was you.”
“What did they want?”
“You.”
“Did they say why?”
“They told Major Wallace it concerned a matter of national security they were not authorized to share with him.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“He’s not here. After he told them to get the fuck out of his office, and they did, he got in the Admiral and left.”
“Where did he go?”
“If I told you that, the FBI would know, too. You can probably guess where he went.”
One of two places, Cronley thought.
Either Kloster Grünau to warn me. Or the Farben Building to see Mattingly.
Cronley was silent a moment.
“Freddy, if they’ve tapped your phone,” he said, finally, “the FBI will know you’ve told me all this.”
“So what? They can’t do anything about that. If they say anything, they’re admitting they tapped this telephone line. They’re not authorized to tap it, and I know that, and they know that I know that.”
“Under those circumstances, I suppose I could safely say something myself, couldn’t I? Like, ‘FBI agent eavesdropping on this private conversation, go fuck yourself!’”
“That wasn’t very smart,” Hessinger said.
“No. It was, however, satisfying. And on that cheerful note, I will say goodbye, Special Agent Hessinger.”
“No. Not yet. There’s more.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Colonel Schumann wants her Leica camera back.”
“What Leica?”
“The one she says she left in the Kapitän when you took her to the bahnhof to meet her husband the colonel.”
“I know nothing about a Leica.”
“She says you have to have it. She’s so sure you have it that she didn’t go to Frankfurt this morning with the colonel. She says she wants it back before she gets on the train to Frankfurt at four-forty.”
“She’s still at the hotel?”
“Waiting for you to give back her Leica.”
That’s not what she’s waiting for.
“You call Mrs. Schumann, tell her I’m in Berlin, that I don’t have her goddamned Leica, and that I will get in touch with her as soon as possible.”
“I would rather not do that.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
“Would it bother you if I told you that sometimes I like you less than I do at other times?”
“Not at all. Goodbye, Special Agent Hessinger.”
—
What I have to do now, obviously, is get General Gehlen back to Kloster Grünau. The one thing I can’t afford is the FBI asking him questions.
Tiny will want to get his people settled, and then Kurt Schröder can fly him home.
No. What I have to do first is let Clete know about the goddamned FBI. Then I can get the hell out of Dodge.
—
“Sergeant Mitchell, let me at the keyboard, please,” Cronley said, and when Mitchell had, he sent:
PRIORITY
TOP SECRET LINDBERGH
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
FROM BEERMUG
VIA VINT HILL TANGO NET
1000 GREENWICH 5 NOVEMBER 1945
TO POLO
URGENT PASS FOLLOWING TO TEX IMMEDIATELY ON HIS ARRIVAL
1-AT LEAST SIX FBI APPEARED VIER JAHRESZEITEN 0800 THIS DATE LOOKING FOR ME. FAILED TO DO SO.
2-BELIEVE WALLACE HEADED TO TELL MATTINGLY.
3-DEPARTING NOW FOR VATICAN WITH GEHLEN.
4-ELEMENTS 10TH CAV HAVE TAKEN OVER SECURITY OF COMPOUND.
5-URGENTLY REQUEST QUICKEST DISPATCH OF HELP.
ALTARBOY
END
TOP SECRET LINDBERGH
XIII
[ ONE ]
Kloster Grünau
Schollbrunn, Bavaria
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1205 5 November 1945
Staff Sergeant Harold Lewis Jr.’s jeep followed Cronley’s Storch down the runway when it landed. Lewis was waiting for him when he climbed out of it.
The first question Cronley put to him was had Lewis seen or heard from Major Harold Wallace.
Lewis said he had not.
“How’s our friend in das Gasthaus?”
“He’s still not talking to us, sir. He did, though, really wolf down his breakfast.”
“Well, he didn’t eat much for dinner last night.”
Jesus, was that only last night?
“And this just in, sir,” Lewis said, handing him a SIGABA printout.
Cronley read as far as the first paragraph before deciding that Major Ashton was not good at following—or more likely didn’t want to follow—the prescribed literary rules for messages, which called for the messages to say what had to be said formally and in as few words as possible.
PRIORITY
TOP SECRET LINDBERGH
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
FROM POLO
VIA VINT HILL TANGO NET
1000 GREENWICH 5 NOVEMBER 1945
TO VATICAN ATTENTION ALTARBOY
BEERMUG ATTENTION ALTARBOY
1-FBI LOOKING FOR YOU HERE TOO. OUR FRIEND THE ARGENTINE J. EDGAR TOLD THEM NOTHING BUT ASKED ME IF YOU HAVE BEEN ROBBING BANKS.
2-LEAVING MOUNTAINTOP VERY SHORTLY TO WELCOME TEX ON HIS ARRIVAL.
3-OUR JESUIT FRIEND WILL ALSO BE IN THE WELCOMING CROWD.
POLO
END
TOP SECRET LINDBERGH
—
Cronley handed the printout to General Gehlen.
“The Argentine J. Edgar?” Gehlen asked.
“J. Edgar Hoover heads the FBI. The Argentine version of that is the BIS. He’s talking about General Martín, who heads the BIS.”
“I should have thought of that,” Gehlen said. “Mountaintop, I assume, is the establishment in the Andes?”
“The foothills of the Andes. Mendoza.”
“And the Jesuit will be in Buenos Aires when Colonel Frade arrives. I hope he’ll do what Frade asks.”
“I think the problem was in finding him. I’m sure he’ll do what we want him to do, it’s in his interest as well as ours.”
“And a final question. Why is the FBI so interested in finding you?”
“I’ve thought about that,” Cronley said. “The best scenario I can come up with is that J. Edgar himself, probably because someone told him there was a young second lieutenant on Clete’s grandfather’s airplane, said, ‘Get to him.’
“That makes sense. If you’re going to break someone, it makes more sense to go after a twenty-two-year-old second lieutenant than it does someone like Colonel Mattingly or Colonel Frade or Major Wallace. If he knew about Dunwiddie, Hoover would have sent his people after him, for the same reasons.
“So Hoover is waiting to hear what the young second lieutenant said after they broke him, and all that these guys can report is they haven’t been able to break him because they can’t even find him. They’re embarrassed and under a hell of a lot of pressure.”
“And, if somehow they do find you, can they break you?”
“No,” Cronley said. “I’ve thought about that, too.”
“You sound very confident.”
“I’m not going to let them break me. What we’re doing is important. I’m not going to let them hold Operation Ost over the President. I know I’m expendable, so what happens to me, if they catch me—es wird sein Wille.”
Gehlen laughed.
“I think that’s que será será in Spanish, am I correct?”
“Yes, sir. At least that’s what it is in Texican, which I speak.”
“Do you plan to show this message to Major Orlovsky?”
“I will, if you agree it’s the smart thing to do.”
“He’s liable to ask questions about the FBI.”
“Which we will answer truthfully.”
“He’s liable to wonder that, if they find you, you might break, and he would be left hanging in the wind.”
“But he will also know—I hope—that we’re telling him the truth.”
After a just perceptible pause, Gehlen nodded.
Cronley turned to Sergeant Lewis.
“Are you going to remember to keep your mouth shut, or should I continue to call you Sergeant Loudmouth?”
“My mouth is shut, sir.”
“Okay. Sergeant Lewis, go to Major Orlovsky . . . No, first things first.”
He reached in his pocket and handed him a slip of paper.
“Those are the names of the three men Dunwiddie has picked to drive two ambulances to the Pullach compound. They will first pack them with as much stuff from here as will fit. They will take with them enough clothing to last a week. I am telling you, but you are not to tell them, that they’ll be in Frankfurt for about a week. Sergeant Dunwiddie will tell them the rest when he sees them. Get them on the road as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When you have done that, go to das Gasthaus and show Major Orlovsky this last message. Tell him if he has any questions, General Gehlen and I will be happy to answer them if he can find time in his busy schedule to take lunch with us.”
“In other words, sir, go get the Russian?”
“No. Do exactly what I just told you to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Sergeant Lewis, round up Colonel Mannberg and tell him that General Gehlen and I request the pleasure of his presence at lunch.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sergeant Lewis sounds better than Sergeant Loudmouth, wouldn’t you agree, Sergeant Lewis?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Christians, such as myself and General Gehlen, Sergeant Lewis, believe to err is human, to forgive divine. You may wish to write that down.”
“Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?”
“Carry on, Sergeant Lewis.”
[ TWO ]
Commanding Officer’s Quarters
Kloster Grünau, Schollbrunn, Bavaria
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1235 5 November 1945
Preceded by Staff Sergeant Harold Lewis Jr., two of Tiny’s Troopers led Major Konstantin Orlovsky into the room. The Russian was shackled, his arms strapped to his sides, his hands cuffed behind him, and he had a duffel bag over his head.
Cronley gestured for Lewis to take off the bag.
“Konstantin,” Cronley said as Orlovsky squinted in the sudden light, “I asked Sergeant Lewis to tell you that General Gehlen, Colonel Mannberg, and myself would be pleased to have you join us for lunch, over which we will answer any questions you might have about the latest SIGABA message. And if you just came to ask questions about the latest SIGABA message, I will understand that is a matter of principle. But I hate to ask my men to go through the inconvenience of getting you out of what you’re wearing and into something more appropriate for lunch if it is your intention to sit there with your arms folded self-righteously across your chest while you watch the three of us eat. Which is it to be?”
“I accept your kind invitation to lunch,” Orlovsky said.
“Please assist the major in changing, Sergeant Lewis,” Cronley ordered.
—
When they had gone into Cronley’s bedroom and the door had been closed, General Gehlen very quietly said, “An unorthodox interrogation technique, but I’m starting to think an effective one. Wouldn’t you agree, Ludwig?”
“Captain Cronley has the advantage of a Strasburgerin mother. Everyone knows Strasbourgers can charm wild beasts.”
Does he mean that? Or does he realize I’ve won the interrogation technique argument with the general?
—
Orlovsky came back into the room, now dressed in olive drab trousers and a shirt from Cronley’s closet.
“Can I have Sergeant Lewis get you a beer, Konstantin?” Cronley asked.
“That would be kind of you.”
“Get the major a beer, please, Sergeant Lewis. And then ask them to serve our lunch.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Before we get into any questions you might have about the SIGABA message, Konstantin, Ludwig—Colonel Mannberg—is curious why you changed your mind about breaking bread with us.”
“I gave the matter some thought after I passed on dinner last night,” Orlovsky said. “I realized there was nothing I could do to get you to stop this . . . this childish theater of yours. And then it occurred to me that there was no reason I shouldn’t eat while I was being forced to listen.”
“That not eating was sort of cutting off your nose to spite your face?”
Orlovsky shook his head.
“If you like,” he said.
“Good for you. And you’re drinking beer, presumably, because of what Christ said according to Saint Timothy?”
“Excuse me?”
“‘Take a little beer for thy stomach’s sake and thine other infirmities’?”
“Wine, Jim,” Gehlen said, chuckling. “Take a little wine . . .”
“Is that what He really said?” Cronley asked innocently.
“Actually, I think what He said was vodka,” Orlovsky said.
“And, Ludwig, you didn’t think that Konstantin had a sense of humor,” Cronley said. “Sergeant Lewis, go to the bar and get a bottle of vodka.
Major Orlovsky needs a little belt.”
“That’s going too far, Captain Cronley,” Orlovsky said. “I will have one beer. One. But I’m not going to let you ply me with alcohol.”
“Well, you can’t blame me for trying. What was it Lenin said, ‘All’s fair in love and war’?”
“Lenin said nothing of the kind,” Orlovsky said.
“If you say so,” Cronley said. “So, what didn’t you understand in the SIGABA message? Let’s get that out of the way before the meat loaf arrives.”
“You remember what I said about the last message? That you can’t possibly believe I would believe you would show me a classified message?”
“Yes, I do. And I remember what I replied. ‘Why not? You’re never going to be in a position to tell anyone about it.’ So tell me what aroused your curiosity.”
“The FBI is looking for you?”
“I can see where you might find that interesting. The FBI is the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It’s run by a man named J. Edgar Hoover. It’s something like your organization, the NKGB, except they don’t have cells in the basement of their headquarters building where they torture people, and they can’t send people they don’t like to an American version of Siberia. We don’t even have an American Siberia.
“All the FBI can do is ask questions. What they want to ask me is what I know about the rumor that we’re sending some of General Gehlen’s people and their families to Argentina to keep them out of the hands of your former associates in the NKGB. As I don’t want to be asked that question, I have been making myself scarce.”
“You have succeeded in making me curious. Your FBI doesn’t know what you’ve been doing?”
“We don’t think they have the Need to Know, so we don’t tell them.”
“Well, what if they find you?”
“Then I will do one, or both, of the following: I will tell them I have no idea what they’re talking about and claim the Fifth.”
“What is ‘the fifth’?”
Cronley held his right arm up as if swearing to an oath, and said, “I claim the protection provided by the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution of the United States and decline to answer the question on the grounds that any answer I might give might tend to incriminate me.’ That’s called ‘claiming the Fifth.’”
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