The Enemy of My Enemy

by W. E. B Griffin

  “What’s with Bonehead’s widow and the Catholic priest?” Dunwiddie asked.

  “He’s an Episcopal priest,” Cronley said. “And he’s an expert on heretical religions, like the Church of Saint Heinrich the Divine. Schultz—or maybe the admiral—found him at the University of the South.”

  “And what’s with Ginger Moriarty?”

  “She got Clete to bring her with us so that she can get her household goods out of the quartermaster’s warehouse in Munich. She didn’t have time to do that when they sent her to the States with Bonehead’s corpse right after he got whacked.”

  “Oh. And how’s she going to get to Munich?”

  “As soon as I can find the time, I’ll take her. So, leave the Horch at the palast.”

  “You’re going to have a hard time finding time.”

  “So far as Father McGrath is concerned . . .”

  “Oh, yeah. Tell me about him.”

  Cronley thought, He swallowed that household goods bullshit whole.

  While it is true that to be a good intelligence officer you have to be able to lie convincingly through your teeth, it hurts when you have to lie to your friends.

  And Tiny certainly is in that small and ever-diminishing category.

  Cronley began: “After El Jefe found this heretical religions expert at the University of the South, the admiral sent El Jefe and Clete to talk to him. They found out that he knew Clete from his days as the chaplain of Clete’s fighter squadron on Guadalcanal. He still has his commission as a commander in the Navy Chaplain Corps. The admiral called the Pentagon and they called him up for active duty, assigned to DCI. He’s a nice—and very interesting—guy. And I think he’s going be quite useful.”

  “Well, the DCI can certainly use some moral guidance,” Dunwiddie said, chuckling.

  [FOUR]

  Farber Palast

  Stein, near Nuremberg, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  1330 14 April 1946

  “Madame, my entire staff stands ready at your service,” the elegantly dressed palace manager said, greeting Ginger. “Mr. Brewster of Mr. Justice Jackson’s office was kind enough to call and announce your pending arrival.”

  “Excellent,” Cronley said. “Well then, where can you put Mrs. Moriarty and her child?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Ginger said, shifting the sleeping infant to her other shoulder, “but doesn’t Captain Cronley have a room here?”

  “Yes, madame,” the manager said, smiling. “The Duchess Suite. It’s splendid.”

  “I’m sure it is. Can you have someone take me—and my luggage—there, please?”

  The manager looked to Cronley, who, after a moment’s hesitation, nodded.

  “My pleasure, madame,” the manager said, grandly gesturing for the bellman to come to them.

  Ginger turned to Cronley, said, “Don’t be too long,” and walked to the elevator bank.

  The awkward silence between everyone wasn’t broken until the elevator door closed on Ginger, the baby, and the bellman with her luggage.

  “Jimmy, what the hell is that all about?” Dunwiddie demanded.

  Father McGrath cleared his throat, and said, “Since Jim, judging by the look on his face, appears as surprised as the rest of you, I’d better take that question.”

  Now everybody looked at him.

  “Ginger and I had a long chat across the ocean,” McGrath began, “while Super Spook and Tom were flying the airplane and Clete and von Wachtstein were snoring in their seats. Cutting to the chase, she confirmed what most of us suspected when she and Jim came down the staircase in Buenos Aires together. Specifically, that a substantial change had occurred in the nature of their relationship.”

  Dunwiddie turned to Cronley, who arched his eyebrows.

  McGrath went on. “I first thought that she had concluded what had happened was a mistake and that she had come to me for advice on how to get out of a difficult relationship. She quickly disabused me of that notion. She said she had been in love with Jim since their college days and now intends to marry him as soon as possible and doesn’t care at all what anyone—her family, Jim’s family, or anyone else—thinks about it.”

  “Jesus!” Winters said.

  “You want to marry her?” Dunwiddie asked.

  “As soon as possible,” Cronley said, nodding. “And anyone who doesn’t like it can take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut.”

  “She next said that as they began their new life together,” McGrath went on, “and until they married, she had no intention of pretending she was, quote, a born-again virgin saving her virtue for wedlock, sneaking into his bedroom like a fräulein trying to earn a box of Hershey bars, unquote.”

  “Colorful!” Winters said.

  “Good for her,” Max Ostrowski said.

  “There are some problems that I can see,” Dunwiddie announced.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Cronley said.

  “For one thing, I don’t think Justice Jackson is going to like this at all.”

  “Fuck him,” Cronley snapped. “It’s none of his business.”

  “That’s so stupid, I won’t dignify it with a reply,” Dunwiddie said. “The other problem is, getting married. This isn’t the States, where you give them two bucks for a license and then get married.”

  “I don’t think I understand, Captain Dunwiddie,” Father McGrath said. “I don’t see where there’s any impediment to their marriage.”

  “The Army is nobly protecting its members from wicked women,” Dunwiddie said.

  “Please elaborate,” Father McGrath said.

  “I got this story from Fat Freddy,” Dunwiddie said.

  “And Fat Freddy is?”

  “Hessinger, Friedrich, DCI senior special agent,” Cronley offered. “He’s a bit on the chubby side, thus A/K/A Fat Freddy.”

  “He’s also one of many American-German Jews in the CIC who are chasing Nazis,” Dunwiddie went on. “One of them was at Harvard with Fat Freddy. Both of them got out of Germany just in time to not get fed into the ovens.

  “Freddy’s friend was engaged when he fled Germany. She, however, didn’t get out. The friend figured she had been murdered. Her father was a rabbi. The SS especially did not like rabbis or their families.

  “Fast-forward to Freddy’s friend coming to Germany as a CIC special agent, which means he had all the clearances to get into all the records. He starts looking for references to his fiancée. He hoped he could at least find out where she had been gassed and incinerated. Then find in which mass grave her ashes had been dumped, so he could lay a rose on it.

  “But he finds her—alive—in a Displaced Persons camp outside Hannover. She had somehow come up with a Polish passport that said she was a Catholic and she had been able to dodge the ovens.

  “First, he has trouble with the Office of Military Government getting her out of the DP camp. He was working for Colonel Mortimer Cohen of the CIC, who lost most of his family to the ovens. Colonel Cohen—this was long before I met Mort—used all of his considerable clout to get her out of the DP camp, then to get her a new Kennkarte in her real name, and then to run her through the De-Nazification Court, which made her a certified non-Nazi.

  “So, this guy has the love of his life installed in an apartment in Nuremberg and the obvious next step is to get married and live happily ever after. He asks how he can do that, and they tell him. It required an investigation of the lady and a bunch of other crap, including getting a letter from the German government stating she wasn’t a prostitute. Even with Cohen’s clout, he had a hard time speeding things up. In the end, it took six months to get final permission.”

  “I remember that now,” Cronley said. “And I also remember you had a hell of a lot to do with that, Tiny, even more than Cohen.”

  “I was pissed at the stupidity of the U.S.
Army.”

  “Well, I need you to get pissed again and do the same thing for Ginger and me. Quickly and quietly.”

  Dunwiddie shook his head. “Would that I could, Jimmy, but the way that works is, the American male who wants to get married has to go through a lot of bullshit—counseling by his immediate commander and then a chaplain, for example—and only after he gets through that can he apply for permission to get married. Then the bullshit starts for the bride-to-be. I can’t imagine that the widow of a recently deceased officer is going to need a letter from the German government stating she’s not a prostitute, but the man has to go through the bullshit first.”

  Cronley looked at his feet while shaking his head angrily, then looked up, and said, “That poses a number of problems, starting with my immediate commanding officer. I damn sure don’t want to start this process by having to ask Wallace, ‘Please, Colonel, sir, I’m in love and want to get married.’”

  Dunwiddie grunted. “That wouldn’t do you any good anyway. He’s not your commanding officer anymore. There was a DP—”

  “A what?” Ostrowski interrupted.

  Dunwiddie did not answer directly and instead handed Cronley a SIGABA printout.

  “I wasn’t going to give you this, knowing what it will do to your already out-of-control ego, but I seem to have no choice. That’s a DP message”—he looked at Ostrowski—“a message from the President. DP means ‘By Direction of the President.’”

  Cronley read the brief message, which was addressed to General Lucius Clay—the military governor of Germany and the commander in chief of U.S. forces in Germany—with a copy to Justice Jackson, and classified Top Secret–Presidential: “To facilitate Captain James D. Cronley Jr.’s search for Burgdorf and von Dietelburg, he and such other personnel as he may select are placed under the command, responsibility, and authority of Mr. Justice Jackson with immediate effect. —Harry S Truman, Commander in Chief.”

  Cronley looked up from the sheet as Dunwiddie said, “That was to cover your asses for your escapades in Vienna. But don’t get the idea it will have any effect on your plans to get married.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, you certainly can’t go to Justice Jackson with your romantic intentions. He’s now your commanding officer.”

  “Why not?” Cronley repeated. “I can see a lot of my problems going away once he meets the love of my life.”

  “That’s just not going to happen. Or, to rephrase it: Over my dead body.”

  “Have it your way, Tiny. I’ll deliver your eulogy.”

  “Goddamn it, Jimmy, I’m serious!”

  Cronley just stared at him, then glanced at the others, and said, “As much as I hate to leave such charming company, my intended awaits. Breakfast at oh-six-hundred, gentlemen. We have an appointment with Mr. Justice Jackson at oh-eight-hundred, and I certainly don’t want to be late.”

  He turned and walked quickly to the elevator bank.

  [FIVE]

  The Dining Room

  Farber Palast

  Stein, near Nuremberg, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  0635 15 April 1946

  “You sonofabitch,” Ginger said as she and Cronley walked into the enormous, busy room. “You knew he was going to be here!”

  She had made it clear—before and after they made love, and then upon wakening—that she had absolutely no intention of meeting with Mr. Justice Jackson, there would be no fallen woman pleading for forgiveness and compassion.

  Cronley, who was occupied with not dropping Baby Bruce squirming in his arms, at first had no idea what she was talking about. But then, glancing around the room, he saw Father McGrath sitting at a table with Kenneth Brewster, Justice Jackson’s law clerk at the Supreme Court and now his deputy at the Tribunal, and, finally, Jackson himself.

  When McGrath saw Cronley and Ginger, he rose to his feet and waved them over.

  “Give me Bruce!” Ginger snapped. “We’re out of here!”

  “No,” Cronley replied. “Master Bruce and I are going to make our manners known to Mr. Justice Jackson.”

  He walked to the table.

  Ginger, hands on her hips, watched. White-faced with anger, she followed.

  Jackson stood up, and, after a moment, Brewster rose.

  “Long time, no see, Super Spook,” Jackson said. “How’s Argentina?”

  “Mr. Justice,” Cronley said. “Father, Brewster.”

  “Why don’t you sit down, Jim,” Jackson said, “before you drop that precious child and make his mother even more angry than she apparently already is.”

  Jackson moved around the table and pulled out a chair first for Cronley and then for Ginger.

  “I’m Robert Jackson, Mrs. Moriarty, and this is my deputy, Ken Brewster.”

  Ginger, who had no choice but to take the offered chair, politely replied, “How do you do?”

  “You and I have something in common, Mrs. Moriarty,” Jackson said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “From time to time, we really want to throttle Super Spook. He can be infuriating, can’t he?”

  Ginger felt herself automatically nodding.

  “This morning, for example, when Ken woke me to tell me that Super Spook had returned from Argentina with a woman and her baby, I wondered if I could find some statute that would permit me to have him hanged, and then drawn and quartered, before mounting his severed head atop the nearest lamp pole.”

  Despite herself, Ginger could not keep from smiling.

  Jackson went on. “The reason I was so annoyed, Ginger . . . May I call you Ginger? I am old enough to be your father.”

  “Please do.”

  “Thank you. The reason I was so angry with him, Ginger, is that he has been charged by President Truman with recapturing two really evil men who have broken out of the Tribunal Prison.”

  As Jackson returned to his chair, he gestured to the coffee service on the table.

  “May I offer you some coffee, perhaps tea?”

  “No, thank you,” she replied, and glanced at Cronley. “We won’t be staying that long.”

  Jackson nodded, then continued. “I’m old school, Ginger. I believe that when the President of the United States asks you to do something, you have the duty to do it. Thus when Ken gave me the news, my first thought was how in hell—excuse me—how in the world does Jim expect to carry out this duty while dragging some South American señorita and her child—who, as far as I know, is not even his—along with him?

  “I had no one to turn to for advice—that is, until I remembered Father McGrath. I woke him and explained the situation. He, of course, then explained to me that you were not some Argentine tootsie but rather the widow of an officer who had been killed in action—indeed, possibly murdered at the orders of the very men the President has ordered Jim to recapture.”

  Justice Jackson paused to let that sink in, took another sip of his coffee, then continued. “Father McGrath also told me that he had had a long talk with you while you were crossing the South Atlantic and had been completely unsuccessful in trying to convince you that the only logical thing for you to do was to return to the United States with Colonel Frade and put your romantic plans, your intended marriage, on hold until Jim has von Dietelburg and Burgdorf back in the Tribunal Prison. He let me know, in other words, that I was stuck with you and Jim being together.

  “So as much as this discomfits Ken, a calm analysis of the situation makes it clear that you two lovebirds have me in a very difficult position. The President wants, immediately, a detailed report of the escape and of our—which is to say, Jim’s—plans for their recapture. As we speak, the major players are gathering in my conference room, with the obvious exception of Jim. Since the President sent Jim here to supervise the recapture of von Dietelburg and Burgdorf, he will absolutely want to hear what he has to say.<
br />
  “I certainly am not going to call the President of the United States and tell him that Jim Cronley is too busy to even think about making any plans since he is too busy with his romantic problems.

  “And I don’t want any questions about you, Ginger, making their way around the gossip circuit. What I have decided to do is hide you in plain sight. The President has authorized Jim to recruit into the inner circle such persons as he feels necessary. In the report we are going to send to the President this morning, we will make you one of those persons. I don’t think he’ll question the names on the list. And if he doesn’t, it can be presumed that the President knows Mrs. Virginia Moriarty is a member of the Recapture Team.”

  “What do I do?” she asked.

  “You will participate in this morning’s meeting. Which raises the problem of the baby—what to do with him? I have made arrangements for you to place him in the care of a nurse from the Field Hospital during the meeting and at such times, as a member of the team, when you can’t be seen carrying a baby in your arms. Understand? Is that all right with you?”

  “This is a lot to consider, out of the blue,” she said.

  “I need a yes or no, please. Time is of the essence.”

  “Okay,” she said after a moment. “I mean, yes.”

  “Thank you,” Jackson said, and made eye contact with Cronley. “You have any problems with any of this, Jim?”

  “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Okay. Hand the baby to Father Jack. Then eat your breakfast. Quickly.”

  Jackson looked at his wristwatch.

  “A car will be at the door in eighteen minutes. Let’s go, Ken.”

  [SIX]

  Justizpalast

  Nuremberg, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  0735 15 April 1946

  The Palace of Justice, which housed the War Crimes Tribunal, didn’t look at all like the palaces on picture postcards. It was a collection of plain four-story stucco buildings with two-story-high red-roofed attics.

  The Compound was surrounded by fences topped with concertina barbed wire and guarded by soldiers wearing shoulder insignias of the 1st Infantry Division. The guards’ web belts and the leather pistol holsters attached to them were white. They wore white plastic helmet liners and highly polished combat boots, into which their trousers were “bloused.”