The Enemy of My Enemy

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I will say again, General Whatever-your-name-is, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “And once again, no matter. What is important is, His Eminence does. I’m going to give you a telephone number at which His Eminence, if he so desires, can reach me to arrange for a meeting. Got the message straight, Your Grace?”

  “I heard what you said.”

  “Now, insofar as returning you is concerned, will you give me your word not to make a fuss while you’re being moved? In order to avoid the gag and the tied hands?”

  “And the bag on my head?”

  “That, unfortunately, I consider necessary. Well?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Put the bags on them,” Serov ordered.

  From under his bag, the archbishop said, “This will not end here, General!”

  “I certainly hope not, Your Grace. I await His Eminence’s call.”

  Rodinski opened the door, and Serov’s men guided the monsignor and the archbishop through it.

  When the door closed. Cronley looked at Serov.

  “Now what?”

  “They will be released near the Kaiser Wilhelm Church. I am confident that as soon as he can, the archbishop will let the cardinal know all is not well. But because he cannot tell him while General Clay is showing him around the church, he will have to do it later. That gives us plenty of time to go to your safe house in Zehlendorf.”

  Serov made a Follow me gesture. He led them down the stairs, back through the tunnel, and then down another flight of stairs. There was no door this time, and Cronley saw that they were in a garage.

  Half a dozen Soviet soldiers armed with submachine guns bolted to attention when they saw Serov. There was a line of midsize Mercedes touring cars parked nose out against the wall. One of the soldiers ran to the largest and shiniest of them and opened the rear door.

  “James, you and Ostrowski ride with Alekseevich,” Serov ordered, then walked to the open door and got in.

  As Cronley and Ostrowski entered Alekseevich’s vehicle, Cronley in front and Ostrowski in back, two soldiers ran with their submachine guns to a third car, which then immediately drove to a ramp and stopped, obviously preparing to head up what was to be a convoy.

  Serov’s car pulled behind the first Mercedes, and then Alekseevich’s car, with Cronley and Ostrowski, did the same. A fourth vehicle pulled in behind them.

  Cronley thought, That first car is painted a sort of flat black, including its chrome.

  Serov’s car is shiny black, and its chrome gleams. This car is the same, but smaller than Serov’s, yet larger than the lead and tail cars.

  And they’re all Mercedeses, “liberated” from the defeated enemy. The war’s been over almost a year, and they’re still riding around in German cars? An NKGB general officer in a small Benz?

  Why? Because that’s all they have.

  The Soviet Union is broke.

  People and governments that are broke are desperate, and desperate means dangerous.

  I’ll have to keep that in mind.

  [FIVE]

  44-46 Beerenstrasse

  Zehlendorf, Berlin, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  1135 21 April 1946

  When the four-vehicle convoy tried to turn onto Beerenstrasse, a German policeman was standing in the middle of the street, blocking their way.

  “Now what?” Cronley wondered aloud.

  “Looks like a fire or something down the street,” Ostrowski called from the rear seat.

  Beyond the policeman, three-quarters of the way down the next block, there was a gaggle of police and fire vehicles in the street. All were German except for a single American MP jeep.

  Cronley made the quick judgment that if the activity wasn’t concentrated in front of 44-46, it damn sure was close enough to be of concern.

  “Let’s go, Max,” Cronley ordered, opening the car door.

  Cronley started running down the middle of the street. He heard a siren, an American one, screaming behind him, and glanced over his shoulder. Beyond Ostrowski, who was running right behind him, Cronley saw that it belonged to a Buick staff car that was turning onto Beerenstrasse, its red lights flashing and tires squealing.

  As they moved to run on the sidewalk, Cronley heard another MP jeep, also with lights flashing and siren roaring, flying up behind the Buick.

  A moment later, Cronley muttered, “Oh, shit!”

  They were now close enough to be able to see that 44-46 was the center of attention. Water filled the street from fire hoses that were snaked inside the house. Then he saw smoke, a wispy strand of white, escaping into the air above the open front door.

  The Buick roared past and stopped at the house, its nose against the fence. Three men bolted from the car and ran toward the building.

  That’s Homer Greene in front!

  Cronley wondered what the chief of Army Security Agency, Europe, CIC-USFET, was doing here, then remembered that Oscar Schultz had talked Brigadier General Greene into providing the safe house cover of being living quarters for South American Airlines personnel.

  Cronley, panting from his run, finally reached the door of 44-46 Beerenstrasse a minute later.

  He was intercepted by the two men who had arrived with Greene. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they acted as a wall, preventing Cronley from entering the house. Greene, his face weary, came to the doorway.

  “What the hell happened here, General?” Cronley said.

  “We are working at figuring that out, Jim.”

  Max Ostrowski came up, breathing heavy from his exertion, took a quick look past them, and muttered something in Polish.

  Cronley then looked beyond Greene and the men barring his way. There were two male bodies on the floor of the foyer. One, partially and inadequately covered by a bloody tablecloth, Cronley recognized as Pavel Dumlovski, one of his DCI agents.

  “Ginger?” Cronley asked, quickly. “Mrs. Moriarty?”

  “You don’t want to go in there,” Greene said.

  Cronley turned and pushed his shoulder past Greene’s men, bolting into the house. Ostrowski followed, in the process knocking one of the men off his feet. Greene stepped back.

  Cronley then saw that the foyer held a third body, another Polish DCI agent. Cronley ran toward the dining room door, where smoke flowed out the door.

  Father Jack McGrath was laying on his back, his chest bloody and his unseeing eyes wide open. The dining room table was on its side.

  Cronley entered the room and walked around the table.

  And then he saw her.

  Ginger was laying on her back, her legs twisted in a grotesque way, her midsection torn open, the left side of her face gone.

  “Jesus Christ, no!” Cronley wailed.

  He knelt beside her, his right knee in the pool of blood from her head. He reached out and caressed the right side of her face.

  And then he jumped to his feet.

  “Bruce!” he yelled, rapidly scanning the room. “Where the fuck is the baby?”

  Ostrowski went to Cronley, wrapped his arms around him, then half dragged, half carried him out of the dining room into the foyer.

  Greene’s men hurried to help Ostrowski control Cronley.

  The sound of an indignant infant crying came from somewhere nearby.

  Cronley turned to the sound and saw a German fireman in black rubber coveralls coming down the stairway holding the infant, wrapped in a blanket, in his arms.

  “Oh, Jesus!” Cronley groaned, shook free of Ostrowski’s grip, and went to the fireman. “Give him to me. He’s mine.”

  The fireman, more than a little reluctantly, gently handed over the infant.

  Cronley automatically held Baby Bruce in his arms, as Ginger had taught him, then rocked him gently. The baby stopped howling.

&nbs
p; Cronley said, his voice breaking, “Looks like it’s just you and me from now on, little man.”

  Greene walked to him. “Is he all right?”

  “Hungry, I’m sure. He’s always hungry. And he smells like he needs his diaper changed.”

  “My people tell me he’s the . . . sole survivor.”

  Cronley nodded but didn’t trust his voice to reply.

  Cohen, Serov, and Alekseevich walked up to them. Cronley saw that they weren’t out of breath and that Serov was carrying the briefcase with the money in it. Cronley reasoned that the credentials of one of them had been good enough to get past the policeman.

  “This place looks like a slaughterhouse,” Serov declared.

  “And among the slaughtered are Father Jack and Ginger,” Cronley said.

  “Dear God!” Cohen exclaimed. “Jim, I’m so sorry!”

  Serov crossed himself and went to Cronley. He gingerly embraced him and then kissed his cheek. Greene’s face betrayed his surprise at the gesture of affection, but he quickly recovered.

  “Colonel Cohen,” Greene ordered, “I’m going to ask you to hold the fort until the cavalry arrives. They’re on the way.”

  “Where are you going, sir?” Cohen said.

  “I do not wish to deliver my report to General Clay over the phone.”

  “If you’re going to see General Clay,” Cronley announced, “I’m going with you.”

  “Out of the question,” Greene snapped. “With an infant in your arms and in a blood-soaked uniform? You will stay here, Captain, until we find time to deal with your problems.”

  “Somehow, General Greene,” Serov said, “I think General Clay, when we walk into his office, would prefer to hear from Captain Cronley himself why he had a baby in his arms and a blood-soaked uniform.”

  “We?” Greene said. He stared at Serov, then softened and nodded.

  Serov turned to Cohen.

  “When the cardinal calls, Colonel, tell him I’ll get back to him as soon as I can. Let’s go, Alekseevich.”

  IX

  [ONE]

  Office of the Commander in Chief

  United States Forces European Theater

  Berlin, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  1255 21 April 1946

  “General Clay, forgive us for bursting in this way,” Serov said as he entered Clay’s office carrying the Vatican briefcase, “but this is a matter of some urgency.”

  Cronley, with Baby Bruce, was just steps ahead of two of Clay’s aides-de-camp and his sergeant major, who were rushing after them with the obvious intention of throwing them out.

  General Lucius D. Clay rose from behind his desk and made a Stop! gesture to his men.

  “It’s always a pleasure to welcome a distinguished Soviet officer to USFET headquarters, General,” Clay replied, then said, “My God, Cronley! What’s going on? You’re covered in blood! And . . . whose baby?”

  “Sir,” Cronley announced. “Odessa just hit our safe house in Zehlendorf—”

  “General Greene is aware of the situation, General,” Serov interrupted him. “He was at the scene when Colonel Cohen, Captain Cronley, and I arrived. He was on his way to report to you when there was a problem.”

  “What kind of a problem?”

  “General Greene was involved in a car crash.”

  “Is he all right? What kind of a car crash?”

  “Apparently quite all right—some fender damage, is all,” Serov said. “The driver of my escort car thought that the driver of General Greene’s car was trying to force me off the road and felt it was his duty to keep him from doing so.”

  Clay’s raised eyebrows showed how little he believed that story. But he didn’t challenge it.

  “Cronley, how much damage did the attack on your safe house cause?” Clay said.

  “This infant is the sole survivor, sir. All of my DCI agents are down—all seven—and Father McGrath and Mrs. Moriarty, the child’s mother. The sonsofbitches used Schmeissers and hand grenades.”

  “By down, you mean dead?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Son of a bitch! Do we have people there?”

  “On our way here, sir, it looked like every MP in Berlin was headed for Beerenstrasse,” Cronley said.

  Clay looked around the room, then at his men.

  “Okay, so this is what we’re going to do. Sergeant Major, call the ops room and tell the SIGABA operator I want Mr. Justice Jackson and Admiral Souers on the line by the time we get there. When you’ve done that, call the hospital and tell them I want a pediatric nurse and a pediatric physician and whatever it takes to sustain an infant for forty-eight hours sent here by ambulance. Likewise, I want a second ambulance with a trauma physician and a trauma nurse.”

  “Sir,” Cronley said, “I’m not wounded—”

  “Button your lip, Cronley! In your frame of mind, you wouldn’t notice if you were missing an arm.”

  He pointed toward one of his aides.

  “Find General Makamson and ask him to join me in the ops room. General Makamson only.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And then call Mrs. Clay and tell her I need her right now. When she and the medics get here, send them to the ops room. Same with General Greene, when and if he shows up here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when you’ve done that, go by the officers’ sales store and get Captain Cronley a pair of trousers. Size, Cronley?”

  “Thirty-four/thirty-eight, sir.”

  [TWO]

  Operations Room

  Office of the Commander in Chief

  United States Forces European Theater

  Berlin, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  1305 21 April 1946

  “What’s going on, General?” Lieutenant General Makamson asked as he came into the ops room.

  Clay responded by putting his index finger to his lips and then using it as a pointer, indicating where he wanted Makamson to sit.

  The voice of Justice Jackson came loudly over the SIGABA speakers. “I got to the SIGABA as soon as I could, Lucius. What’s the urgency?”

  Clay said, “General Serov, this is General Makamson, my G-2.”

  “Did I hear that correctly, Lucius? General Serov?”

  “Yes, Mr. Justice Jackson,” Serov called out.

  Cronley then announced, “Odessa hit the safe house, sir—”

  “Odessa did what, Jimmy?” Cletus Frade’s voice came over the speaker.

  “—Nine KIA,” Cronley went on, his voice breaking. “Including Father McGrath and Ginger.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Frade said.

  “Who’s that?” General Clay demanded.

  “Cletus Frade. Who you?”

  “Lucius Clay.”

  “I’d say, ‘Good morning, General,’ but that somehow doesn’t seem appropriate, does it?”

  “I had hoped to speak with Admiral Souers.”

  “He should be here in a couple of minutes,” Frade said. “Jimmy, what about Ginger’s baby?”

  “I’ve got him on my lap. He’s the only survivor.”

  “Well, thank God for that.”

  “I’m a little confused, Mr. Frade,” Clay said. “What, exactly, is your role within the DCI?”

  “Well, at the moment, with the admiral out strolling with the President, and Oscar Schultz looking for them, I suppose I’m the DCI.”

  Makamson snapped: “Even for a Marine colonel, Colonel, isn’t that a bit presumptuous?”

  “Who you?”

  “I am General Makamson.”

  “Be advised, General, that having just been told that two people very dear to me have been murdered, I’m in no mood for any of your chickenshit observations.”

  General Clay slapped his hand on the table.
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br />   “Enough!” he barked. “Both of you, say ‘Yes, sir.’”

  Both officers said, “Yes, sir.”

  “What we’re going to do now,” Clay went on, “is lay out this incident chronologically and then try to fill in the blanks. Understood?”

  [THREE]

  Fifteen minutes later, Admiral Souers’s voice came over the SIGABA speakers. “This is Souers. Frade just told me we have nine KIA?”

  “Odessa hit the safe house, sir,” Cronley said. “The nine KIA include Mrs. Moriarty and Father McGrath.”

  “How do you know it was Odessa?” Souers asked.

  “What we’ve been doing, Admiral,” General Clay said, “is trying to lay out a time line and then come back and fill in the blanks.”

  “That hasn’t been going well,” Mr. Justice Jackson said. “What I was about to suggest to General Clay, Sid, is that when you came online, we start over, with Cronley telling us what happened. How does that sound?”

  “So far as I’m concerned,” Clay said, “the floor is yours, Captain Cronley.”

  “Begin, Cronley,” Souers said.

  “Yes, sir. I’d say it began when General Serov determined that the Odessa money we’ve been looking for was in the Vatican Bank.”

  “In where?” Souers asked.

  “May I suggest,” Clay said, “that we hold our questions until Cronley finishes?”

  “Get it out, Cronley,” Souers said.

  “Yes, sir. In the Vatican Bank. And we have the proof. We caught Cardinal von Hassburger trying to deliver just over two million dollars to Odessa.”

  “Who the hell is Cardinal von Hassburger?” Souers asked.

  “May I suggest, again,” Clay asked, impatiently, “that we hold our questions until Cronley is finished?”

  “Some questions won’t wait, Lucius,” Justice Jackson said. “Starting with the press. There has been an obvious explosion. Since we can’t afford to have it get out what really happened at the safe house, what are we going to say?”

  “I suggest the following,” Oscar Shultz said. “That two Americans were among the nine people found dead in the transient hotel of South American Airways in the Berlin suburb of Zehlendorf today. German police believe their deaths were the result of a botched burglary of the often empty villa, and the subsequent fire was meant to cover up any evidence. The victims were tentatively identified as Mrs. Virginia Moriarty, from Texas, and the Reverend J. R. McGrath, D.D., a professor of religion at the University of the South. Et cetera, et cetera.”