He was mistaken. General Fredericks had decided that Frau Superina must be saved from the Soviets' clutches and had decided to do the job himself. That night, equipped with Hancock's information and accompanied by his aide-de-camp, he set out for the Soviet sector. He used his own staff car, clearly marked with the two stars of his rank. The two officers and their driver were unarmed and wore standard army fatigues, and the general had his stars on his shoulders. There was no attempt at concealment. They drove straight to the hospital and after some trouble discovered Wahringerstrasse. The driver parked the car in the middle of the long wall that marked the boundary of the hospital, and the general and his aide proceeded to scramble up. They intended to climb into the hospital through a window, find Frau Superina, and bring her back with them.
The Soviet sentries had seen them coming. They had observed a conspicuously American car driving around the hospital, finally turning into a side street. They therefore set out to investigate. As General Fredericks pulled himself up on top of the wall, he encountered a Russian gun stuck in his face. His aide succeeded in scrambling across: in his case, the sentry stuck his gun in his stomach. Both Americans noted the disparity of force and raised their hands. The sentries marched them around to the guardhouse, where they called headquarters for instructions. Then one of them walked around the outside of the wall to arrest the general's driver, who was nervously waiting for his superiors where they had left him.
Between ten at night and four the following morning, the Russian and American commands were in turmoil over the arrest of a senior American general in the Soviet zone. Fredericks and his two men were taken to the Quadripartite Police Headquarters, where the senior U.S. Military Police officer, a colonel, demanded that they be released. The Soviet colonel refused. Both of them were on the telephone, rousting out senior officers-and each officer they reached promptly called his own superior. Finally, at four, word came from the commanding general of the Soviet Armies in Austria that General Fredericks might be released. The Americans were not told whether the question had been bucked back to Moscow, but there was no doubt that the general would have to answer for his follies. Throughout all the frenzied negotiations over his fate, he sat impassive in the MP's guardroom, showing no interest in the affair at all.
A week later, the Soviets abruptly informed the American command that Frau Superina was free to leave her hospital. An MP was sent to the hospital to pick her up, and she was put onto the train for Salzburg, where she was handed over to the CIC. John Burkel put her into one of his safe houses, in Fuschl in the countryside, with a registered nurse to look after her, while he and Jim Milano decided what to do with her.
One of Burkel's agents went to see her once she was safely installed. She stoutly denied that she knew the other Yugoslav refugees with the same name in the British zone. She had no children, had never had any children, and had never heard of Peter Connelly. She could offer no explanation as to why so many senior American officials were interested in her case, nor why an American general should try to rescue her from the Soviets. The agent who noted all her statements reported to Burkel that he believed she was lying. The deduction was confirmed by British Intelligence, who interrogated the Superina family in Klagenfurt. The aunt and uncle admitted at once that Frau Superina was Michael's mother. He was an illegitimate child, and, when she had married, her husband had insisted that the baby should be given to his brother and sister-inlaw, who were childless. Connelly, meanwhile, went to see John Burkel about Frau Superina. He said that the South Africans had offered her an immigrant's visa and asked Burkel to expedite the security clearance she would need to take it up.
The pieces were falling into place, but the last detail came not from any of the high-powered sleuthing or the espionage networks that the CIC was so well equipped to provide, but from a much older system, the powder-room network. Patrick Connelly's secretary, Louise, a long-term Foreign Service employee, called on John Burkel's secretary, Susan, with some documents. The two women, who had known each other for several years, then had lunch together. Over sandwiches in the park, Susan told Louise that her boss was having a great deal of trouble with a particular refugee in whom Patrick Connelly was showing a quite extraordinary interest.
Louise laughed at the puzzle. "You should have asked me," she said. "I don't think it's much of a secret: everyone at the consulate knows about Michael Superina. He's Mr. Connelly's son. He was stationed in Belgrade years ago, before the war. He had a torrid love affair with a local girl who worked in the consulate there. She was called Emma something, and they had this boy.
"He was married at the time. In fact he still is, and he and his wife don't have any children. I guess he came looking for Emma and the boy after the war. Ever since he found them in refugee camps, he's been pulling every possible string to get them safely off to South Africa."
After their lunch, Susan reported on her conversation with Louise to her boss, John Burkel. The only remaining mystery was why General Fredericks had gone to such lengths to help Connelly's former mistress, and Burkel and Milano concluded that that was none of their business. They closed the books on Frau Superina. In due course, she, her son, and the uncle and aunt set sail for South Africa to start a new life in a new world. No doubt Patrick Connelly was glad to see them go. As for General Fredericks, he was told to moderate his enthusiasm in the future. The Soviets could not dictate which general officer should command the American forces in Vienna, but, after a suitable interval, he was recalled.
The first security crisis to blow up in Salzburg after the arrival of the numerous and strong-willed military staffs from Vienna in 1948 was more farce than tragedy. The G-2, the staff officer in charge of security, was now Colonel Oscar Koch. Jim Milano, as director of operations, had reported directly to him while he was in Vienna. His arrival in Salzburg made the reporting and supervision altogether closer than Milano wanted, even though they had always worked well together and there were never any serious problems between them. One of the officers on his staff was Lieutenant Colonel Pope Blackshear, who supervised all intelligence matters except Milano's Operations Branch. He was a formidable chess player and used to wander around the office with a pocket set, looking for someone to play him. He also carried a thermos full of gin to the office every morning. He was yet another West Point man who had little sympathy for the unmilitary ways of the Operations Branch. His senior enlisted assistant was Master Sergeant Jerome "Shorty" Welch, who happened to be from Charles Town, West Virginia, and was therefore a neighbor of Jim Milano's. They had never met, but the coincidence instantly brought them together. Welch had been a jockey in his youth but had joined the Army in 1937 and had been co-opted into Intelligence.
A week or so after the move, first thing in the morning, Welch arrived in Milano's office and closed the door behind him. "Major," he said, "I've got something to report that I think you ought to know. But it's a bit embarrassing, and I don't want to get involved. Can you promise me you'll keep my name out of it?"
"I can't promise you anything of the sort," Milano replied. "I'll have to judge the situation when you've told me about it. Come on, Shorty, you must see I can't make any promises. But you can be sure I'll do my best for you."
Welch looked, and felt, distinctly uneasy. All the same, he plunged ahead. "You see, Major, I've worked hard for my stripes, and I don't want to lose them over this. That's why I came to you, not to Colonel Blackshear. He's a stuck-up West Pointer and wouldn't understand at all.
"Anyway, here's the deal. I was down in a bar in town last night for the first time. It's called the Splendid Bar-you must know it."
Milano indeed knew the place. It was a favorite hangout of the enlisted men from the various American establishments of the district.
"Anyway, I had a few drinks and started talking with a cute little Austrian girl at the bar. The hookers are much cheaper here than in Vienna, and a lot less stuck up. This one's called Hertha. She's blond and is very well set up, if you know what
I mean. She doesn't speak much English, but we got along just fine. She quoted me a very reasonable price, much less than the girls in Vienna. So off we went to her place, which was quite near there. I didn't want a one-off quickie, Iwanted to spend the night."
Shorty looked Milano defiantly in the eye. "She was okay," he said. "Then, in the middle of the night, I had to go to the bathroom. I didn't put the light on, I didn't want to wake her. So I felt my way to the door. She's got a big dresser there with one of those fancy German runners on the top. I was feeling my way along it when I felt something under the runner, like a document. So I pulled the material back, and sure enough, it was a whole wad of papers. I took them with me to the bathroom.
"Major, it was a secret document from your section. It's a report from one of your defectors' interrogations. I didn't know what to do, whether to wake her up and shake out of her where she got it from, or what. In the end I just went back to her room, found my pants, and stuck it in the pocket. Then I went back to bed. I'd paid for an all-nighter, so that's what I took.
"When I left in the morning, I didn't say anything about the document. Then, when I reported for duty this morning, I went down to the file room and asked Kathleen, the clerk there, to let me draw it out. I told her you'd asked me to work on it this morning. She told me Major Early in the Security Section had taken it a couple of days ago. She said he must have put it in his office safe overnight."
That was the rule in the intelligence world. All secret documents had to be kept in the central file room or locked away in one of three designated safes in the building. Shorty Welch had discovered a serious breach of security.
"Where's the thing now?" Milano asked.
"Locked in the drawer of my desk."
"Go get it right away, Shorty. I'll take charge of it."
The soldier went off and was back in five minutes with the incriminating document. He had taken the precaution of hiding it in a standard issue envelope. Milano examined it thoughtfully.
"Thank you, Shorty," he said, "You've done the right thing. I'll take it from here. I can't promise that you won't have to be called if there's a court-martial, but perhaps it won't come to that. I'll do my best to keep your name out of it, though it's against regulations to consort with hookers. Just keep your mouth shut-don't tell Colonel Blackshear or anyone else. Just leave it to me."
"Thank you, Major, I'm most grateful. I won't say a word. Is there anything else I can do?" - - - - -- - -- - - -
All Milano needed was the girl's name and address. Shorty Welch departed, considerably relieved, and Milano set to work. His first call was on the local CIC detachment. He drove over to its office in Salzburg to see the chief of investigations, John Berg. He repeated Welch's story, though without giving his name, and announced that he needed a rush security check on Miss Hertha Mauser. Two German-speaking agents were dispatched to see her to discover how she had gotten the papers, why she had hidden them, and what she had planned to do with them. Austria was still under Allied military occupation, and all the force of the U.S. Army was to be brought to bear on this one prostitute. The agents were to report back to Milano immediately.
Three hours later, the agents and Berg were in Milano's office. Special Agent Sherman Kahn made his report.
"I spent two hours with Fraulein Mauser. Her story is that the night before last she picked up Bill Early at the Splendid. She says she works the bar regularly. He was already very drunk and bought a half bottle of cognac to take with him. She says she took him straight back, and while he was undressing he dropped the report on the floor. She says he didn't notice and she kicked it under the bed, out of sight. The next day, she hid it under the mat on her dresser. You know the rest.
"She says that her idea was to sell the papers back to Major Early. She didn't know his name. She guessed he would be back in the Splendid in a day or two, and she'd just ask him what sort of present he would give her for the return of the document. She was going to tell him that she had found it in her room the morning after he left.
"We've no record on her, except as a local hooker. There's no evidence she can read English: she only knows a few words. I don't think she has any connection to the Soviets or is any sort of intelligence problem-now that we've gotten the document back.
As for Major Early, from Hertha's description, he must have been so plastered he probably doesn't have the faintest idea what happened to the document, or even if it's missing."
Milano thanked him. "That's good work. For the moment, we won't need a written report, but keep an eye on Hertha, just in case. As for Bill Early, first thing is to see what he has to say for himself."
The agents and their boss departed. Milano then called Early in and asked him for the document. He needed it, he said, and the file clerk had told him that Early had drawn it out two days before.
"Sure, Jim," Early replied. "It's in my office, I'll get it right away." The unfortunate man marched blithely off, quite unaware of the chasm that had opened before his feet. He reappeared a few minutes later, looking worried and nervous.
"I'm sorry, Jim," he said, "something stupid has happened. I've just remembered. The other night I was working late and I had this file in my office, and when I left the file room was closed. I couldn't find the duty officer to open the office safe, so I stuck the document into my jacket pocket and took it home with me. It's still there-I've been wearing a different suit since then. It was a real jackass breach of security, and I'm really sorry. I'll have to go back to my quarters to find the thing.-"
Milano played him along. "Okay, Bill," he said. "Go get it. I need it this afternoon."
A very chastened Major Early reappeared an hour later.
"Jim," he said, "I've been to my room, and I can't find the document. It's not in my suit, and I can't find it anywhere. Some of the hotel staff must have stolen it. What can we do?"
"Well, we can stop playing games. Sit down, Bill. You know damn well that document wasn't in your room. You got dead drunk two nights ago, carrying it around with you, and shacked up with a hooker you picked up in a bar. I've got the document in the middle drawer of my desk."
Early was white as a sheet. "If you had the damn document, why the hell did you put me through this torture?"
"I wanted to see how far you'd push the charade. I wanted to see if you were acting."
"Jim, I swear to you I thought the document must be in my jacket pocket. It's true I spent the night with a hooker a couple of nights ago. But what's that got to do with the missing document? Are you telling me she stole it?"
"I can only tell you you're in real trouble, Bill. I'm sorry. This whole episode is going to have to be part of the official record."
Milano reported the incident to Colonel Koch and his deputy, Lieutenant Colonel Glen Carey, who was a close friend of Milano. He told them that the incident had been discovered by an enlisted man, who had very properly reported his discovery immediately but had requested that his role be kept dark. He would be ready to testify if there were a court-martial. The counterintelligence branch had investigated thoroughly and had concluded that there had been no breach of security after the original loss of the secret document.
Early's superiors made him an offer he could not refuse: he was given the choice of resigning his commission immediately or facing a court-martial. He left for the United States the next day.
The follies of some members of the staff were not always treated so severely. It all depended on who was involved and whether the infraction involved security or was merely a breach of regulations. Bellezza fell into the latter category. The saga started when the time came for Dominic Del Greco to replenish the office liquor supply. Every two or three months he would go on a "spiritual trip," as he called it, to Benevento, behind Naples, to resume his profitable relationship with Lefty Spinosa, the retired Brooklyn bootlegger. The wine, gin, and brandy he brought back from Benevento and Trieste were an essential part of the Operations Branch's office equipment and a necessity for the
purposes of commerce. Del Greco could trade his stock of booze for many favors from other units. He added a small surcharge to the price of every bottle sold and stored the money in a cigar box in the supply room safe. The money was used for various odds and ends the unit needed that it could not obtain through the usual channels, official or unofficial. The cigar box was now empty, and Del Greco intended to replenish it with the profits from the next spiritual trip.
His staff sergeant, Earl Brown, always went with him on these excursions. They loaded four empty twenty-five-liter glass demijohns, each carefully packed in a straw-and-wood frame, into the back of a three-quarter-ton truck: when they returned, the demijohns of liquor would be emptied into bottles for distribution. It was a two-day drive from Salzburg to Naples. They were well used to the journey and stopped for the first night, as always, in a hotel on the outskirts of Florence. Come evening on the second day, they reached Benevento, and Del Greco went off with Lefty for dinner while Brown checked in at the distillery. He was a happy volunteer, because on earlier trips he had made particular friends with a girl working there, Lucia Zeppio, known as Bellezza. As her nickname implied, she was strikingly beautiful. She was nineteen years old and shared a room with her older sister. The girls had moved to Benevento from their ancestral village in the mountains, and Bellezza, at least, had discovered that there was more to life than the conventional round of church, family, and cooking that her mother had followed. Whenever Sergeant Brown was in town, the two moved to a local hotel.
On this occasion, Brown discovered that his girlfriend had been doing some thinking since his last visit. She started asking him difficult questions about his future intentions: she wanted to know when he was going to marry her and take her back to America. In the meantime, she wanted to leave boring Benevento and go to where the action was-Salzburg, for instance.
Soldiers, Spies, and the Rat Line Page 26
