The Enemy of My Enemy

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I’m willing to listen to what you have to say.”

  Cronley had seen Cardinal von Hassburger only once before and then only at a distance. He had not been favorably impressed. And now that he saw him up close, he was even less impressed.

  The cardinal was, with the exception of his red skullcap, dressed in a cassock identical to Archbishop Dietl’s. He was not quite as tall as Dietl, and nowhere near as heavy, but his eyes were something else. They were large and clear and piercing.

  The cardinal, Cronley quickly decided, was no dummy.

  “I warned Dietl,” the cardinal began, “that you had no intention of returning our money.”

  “You mean Odessa’s money?” Cohen challenged.

  “The money in question,” the cardinal said.

  “And you were right,” Cohen said. “Snatched from the hands of the evil and now in the hands of the righteous.”

  “Actually, you snatched it from our hand.”

  “If the glove fits, wear it,” Serov said.

  “You must be Serov,” the cardinal said.

  “General Ivan Serov at your service, Cardinal.”

  “I suppose I’m expected to say something like this,” the cardinal said, “but it is true: I have a busy schedule. Can we get to the point?”

  Cohen said, “We have come, Your Eminence, to enlist the Holy Mother Church in a righteous war against some very evil sons of bitches.”

  “And who would they be?”

  “If this wasn’t so important,” Cohen said, “I’d tell you to go fuck yourself and walk out of here—”

  “You cannot speak that way!” Dietl snapped.

  Cohen held his palm out toward Dietl while not breaking eye contact with von Hassburger.

  “I’m going to ask you this only once, Cardinal. Are you willing to both listen and talk or are you going to continue to hide under that red yarmulke?”

  “You’re talking about Odessa?”

  “There’s more to it than Odessa. For lack of a more precise term, I think of them as the people who worship in the Church of Saint Heinrich the Divine.”

  “I gather you’re one of those who pays credence to this Nazi church fantasy?”

  “You are testing my patience, Cardinal,” Cohen said, his tone icy. “You damn well know it is no fantasy. What I’m going to try to do is convince you it is more of a threat to the Holy Mother Church than the communists and the Muslims combined.”

  “To what end?”

  “To help us wipe the bastards off the face of the earth.”

  “Would you be offended, Colonel, if I told you I’m rather surprised at the depth of your vehemence?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I was led to believe that you were what every intelligence officer aspired to be. That is to say, logical, analytical, rational, and, above all, emotionless.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “What is it about these—how did you put it?—these disciples of Saint Heinrich the Divine that so bothers you? That angers you?”

  “Cardinal, what’s your Christian name?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Cohen made a Let’s have it gesture with both hands, which caused the cardinal to sigh.

  “I was christened Helmut.”

  “So that makes you Helmut Cardinal von Hassburger?” Cohen looked at the others, then said, “Okay, from now on you’re Helmut. You can call me Mortimer or Morty. If you can’t stand that blow to your dignity and prestige, meeting’s over. Agreed, Helmut?”

  Von Hassburger held up his hands in a gesture of resignation.

  “Good, Helmut. So let’s start with mass murder. Mass murder of the Jews. My take on that is, Hitler didn’t go down that path just because he didn’t like Jews. He needed someone to blame for Germany getting its ass kicked in World War One, and the Jews were a convenient scapegoat.

  “I think he was even a little surprised at how easy it was to get the German people to go along with him. What I’m saying here is, the death factories came later, after Saint Heinrich came up with the idea—probably from one or more of the classic German philosophers who’d been pushing the idea for centuries—of exterminating the Untermenschen, the people they decided were not as good as Aryans.”

  Cohen paused as he glanced at the others in the room, then turned back to von Hassburger and continued. “You will recall, I’m sure, that when Hitler started the mass murder business—long before the Final Solution—it was with retarded children. These Untermenschen obviously had no future, thus feeding and housing them was an unacceptable drain on the economy. It then advanced, with the same justification, to include retarded adults. Some argued that Hitler was doing them a favor by ending their miserable existences.”

  He stared at the cardinal, then asked, “You ever think of it that way, Helmut?”

  “I’ve heard that theory.”

  “I thought you might have. Anyway, before that happened—and about the time Saint Heinrich fell in love with this obscure Austro-German politician named Hitler and joined what was then the German Workers’ Party—Himmler began to reason that if there were Untermenschen, it followed that there had to be Übermenschen. But who would they be? Obviously, the German race—not to be confused with the German population as a whole. Hell, there were millions of Jews who believed themselves to be part of the German people.

  “The pure Germans were blond and blue-eyed. And, of course, above the Untermenschen.

  “When Himmler formed a personal bodyguard for Hitler—who now referred to himself as Der Führer—he accepted into what he had grandly called the Schutzstaffel only those Germans who could prove their forebearers had been ethnically pure for three or more generations. Thus, no Poles, no Austrians, et cetera.

  “The members of this new organization, which quickly became known simply as the SS, swore allegiance not to Germany but instead to Adolf Hitler personally.

  “Once Saint Heinrich had decked out members in snazzy black uniforms, featuring lightning-bolt SS insignias and with the skull and crossbones—the Totenkopf—on their caps, Hitler immediately grew fond of them. And he authorized Himmler to enlarge the SS ‘perhaps to five thousand, or even ten thousand, men.’

  “Himmler was swamped with volunteers, a great many of whom, he came to realize, were not exactly enamored of Der Führer—few understood even a fraction of what Hitler said in his hours-long tirades. They instead volunteered because there was a certain appeal to wearing a snazzy black uniform and being officially recognized as a member of the Übermenschen and thus superior to common folk.

  “When that recruiting drive was over, forty thousand men filled the SS ranks, and that number quickly rose to one hundred thousand and then to two hundred thousand, where it stabilized for a while.

  “Still with me, Helmut?”

  “More or less, but it would be helpful if I knew where you’re headed with this narrative.”

  “Kindly bear with me. Now, the next thing that happened, our first serious mistake, was when Adolf started to call himself Der Führer. We mocked him: The ‘leader’ of what? A small, unimportant political party in Munich whose few members were social misfits and disgruntled ex-soldiers, with a sprinkling of lunatics thrown in? Ridiculous!

  “And then it got worse. They renamed their party the National Socialist German Workers’ Party—NSDAP—and started referring to themselves as Nazis and came up with the swastika as their emblem. They also stopped referring to Germany as Germany, or even as the Fatherland, and started calling it the Thousand-Year Reich.

  “And we thought that was funny, as absurd as Der Führer’s mustache. What delusions of grandeur! What nonsense!

  “That was our mistake. Our grievous mistake. Hitler and Himmler were dead serious.”

  “Define ‘our,’” the cardinal said.


  “We Jews, of course. But also the Western democracies.”

  “But not the Catholic Church?”

  “I have unkind thoughts about what Holy Mother Church was up to during this period. And later.”

  “Which you are going to share?”

  “Helmut, there are many facets of the Church of Rome for which I have profound—both personal and professional—respect. With the possible exception of Mossad, which I am sure you know is the Zionist intelligence organization, Holy Mother Church has—is—the best intelligence organization the world has ever seen.”

  “How kind of you to say so,” von Hassburger said, clearly sarcastic despite his smile. “And what unkind thoughts did you have about us during this period?”

  “I was disgusted by, but not surprised at, Pacelli’s—Pius XII’s—behavior when Hitler started after the Jews. We Jews.”

  “He did what he could, Mortimer.”

  “That’s absolute bullshit, and you know it!” Cohen snapped. He glanced again at the others, then went on. “Unless you mean, Helmut, that he did what he could to benefit Holy Mother Church, in which case we agree. That’s what disgusted me.”

  The cardinal’s face whitened. Veins on his temples grew and pulsed. Cronley thought von Hassburger was about to blurt out something in anger, but he didn’t.

  Cohen wasn’t through.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Helmut, but doesn’t Pius XII think that communism—at least the Soviet version of it—poses a greater threat to Holy Mother Church than anything else?”

  “The Church faces many threats.”

  “But which does Pius XII think is the greatest?”

  “I really have no idea, but I’m certainly willing to agree that Soviet—communist—atheism is a threat.”

  “And how much of a threat would you say the Church of Saint Heinrich the Divine poses to Rome?”

  “We’re back to that nonsense, are we?”

  “That’s the reason we’re having this little chat. Did you ever wonder, Helmut, why I kept you out of Wewelsburg Castle?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

  “Come on, Helmut. Didn’t your mother try to teach you that honesty is always the best policy?”

  “Sometimes, Mortimer, that’s not true.”

  Cronley thought, Odd. The cardinal really is starting to enjoy this exchange.

  Cohen said, “My mother lied to me. She said that unless I brushed my teeth twice a day, my teeth would fall out. So for years I brushed them twice a day, sometimes three times. But then, about the time I turned forty, my teeth started to fall out anyway.”

  The cardinal laughed out loud.

  Cohen was quiet, then went on, his tone serious. “I’ve kept you—your minions—out of Wewelsburg for several reasons. There was no question in my mind that you had heard of Heinrich’s new religion, but I didn’t know (a) how extensive your knowledge was or (b) what you thought of what you had. In other words, how seriously you were taking it.

  “If, in fact, you were taking it very seriously, then the last thing I wanted was for you to search the castle thoroughly before I had a chance to. If, on the other hand, you had already decided—or, after a quick inspection of Wewelsburg, decided—that the Church of Saint Heinrich was just one more nutty—and, thus, nonthreatening—Nazi idea, I thought it entirely likely that, to put the problem behind you once and for all, you would blow up the castle. Reduce it to rubble. I didn’t want that to happen, either, and not only because I think there’s a half ton of gold hidden there.”

  The cardinal, clearly in deep thought, looked at Cohen.

  “Now, that’s interesting,” von Hassburger said. “It would lend credence to your and—frankly, if you must know—my theory that something serious was going on in that castle. Mortimer, I really would like my people to examine the castle.”

  “Ready to deal, Helmut?”

  The cardinal made a Let’s hear it gesture.

  “Presuming they will share with us what they develop, including what they think, I’ll let your people in the castle. And tell them everything we’ve learned.”

  “And then, Mortimer?”

  “One step at a time, Helmut.”

  Von Hassburger shrugged. “My thoughts exactly. What sort of a time frame are we talking about?”

  “The sooner, the better.”

  “With that in mind, did you happen to notice the very large, very young priest who showed you in here? That’s Father Francis McKenna. He’s a Jesuit, very bright, and I’ve asked him to familiarize himself with Wewelsburg and all that it represents. How would you feel about him going with you as sort of liaison?”

  “Fine.”

  The cardinal stood up and offered his right hand.

  “Unless you have something else, Mortimer?”

  Cohen shook his head, and then they shook hands.

  After the cardinal left the room, Father Francis X. McKenna, S.J., came in a moment later.

  “Colonel,” he said, with his Bostonian inflection, “I just spoke with Cardinal von Hassburger. I’ll need three minutes to get my bag and then I’m yours.”

  XI

  [ONE]

  Aboard The Blue Danube

  East–West Germany Border

  2055 22 April 1946

  Colonel Mortimer Cohen, tunic unbuttoned and puffing on a long, dark cigar, was sitting on one of the two small couches in what was somewhat grandly called the Drawing Room of the Senior Officer’s Compartment when Father McKenna entered.

  Captain James D. Cronley Jr., who was sitting on the opposite couch, greeted him: “Father Francis, time and The Blue Danube wait for no man. I thought I told you that.”

  “I had to wind up several things for the cardinal,” McKenna replied.

  “He doesn’t even wind his own watch?” Cronley asked, innocently.

  The priest, ignoring Cronley, set his suitcase on the floor and sat down next to him.

  The three of them had spent just about all day aboard a C-47, waiting to depart Tempelhof. Permission to do so had never come.

  First it was the weather, then it was the Russians flying dangerously close to American planes on purpose. And then it was the damn weather again, then the damn Russians again, all damn day.

  About half past three, the priest had announced that he had promised to check in with the cardinal and that he would catch up to them later. He was out the door of the Gooney Bird before Cohen or Cronley could raise an objection.

  Half an hour after that, Cohen had finally given up on flying to Munich and had ordered Cronley to get them berths on The Blue Danube, the Army train which ran every night between Berlin and Vienna.

  When he tried to get the berths, though, he was told there were none available. Cronley had solved this problem by mumbling he was Colonel [inaudible] and telling the RTO that he didn’t care who got bumped, Colonel Cohen, Mr. Cronley, and “Archbishop” McKenna would be on The Blue Danube.

  “Where’s General Serov?” the priest asked.

  “It’s just about nine. I would guess he’s at the Four Seasons in Munich, selecting an appropriate wine to go with his dinner.”

  “He’d have had to fly to be able to do that,” the priest said. It was more of a question than a statement.

  “The Soviet aircraft which fly dangerously close to Allied aircraft, Francis, do not fly dangerously close to other Soviet aircraft.”

  “I suppose I should have thought of that.”

  A middle-aged, somewhat paunchy chief warrant officer entered the compartment without knocking. He walked to the window and pulled down the shade.

  “Colonel,” he barked, “you understand that nobody touches that from now on. Got it?”

  “Touches what?” Cronley asked. He was wearing ODs with lapel insignia indicating he was a civilian employee of the A
rmy.

  “The curtain! Don’t touch the goddamn curtain. It stays down. Got it?”

  “How’m I going to open the window if I don’t open the curtain?” Cronley asked, innocently.

  “Jesus, where the hell are you from, Mars? Especially don’t open, don’t even touch, the goddamn window.”

  “Whatever you say. Ain’t that right, Father Francis?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Cronley saw that he had pissed off both the warrant officer and the priest. He was pleased.

  “What I would like to do,” Cronley announced when the warrant officer had finally left the compartment, “is open the curtain and the window, drop my pants, and ride through East Germany with my ass hanging out the window.”

  Colonel Cohen chuckled.

  “It would be a little chilly,” McKenna said.

  “Probably,” Cronley agreed.

  “The cardinal is curious about Reverend McGrath, and, frankly, so am I. What can you tell me about him?”

  “A lot,” Cohen said, “but I wonder why we should.”

  “I thought we were agreed to cooperate on this business?”

  “Helmut and I agreed to give you access to Castle Wewelsburg. Period. Not to brief you on our friends and associates.”

  That silenced the young priest. Cronley wondered how long that would last.

  Maybe ten minutes later, McKenna asked, “Is General Serov on your list of forbidden subjects?”

  “That would depend, Francis, on your questions about him,” Cohen said.

  “Why did he fly instead of traveling with us?”

  “Flying is of course faster. But, more important, don’t you think it would arouse curiosity if a Russian general got on The Blue Danube?”

  “I didn’t think about that,” McKenna said.

  Cronley wondered, Is this an act or is he really that naïve?

  Cohen said, “He’ll meet us at the Four Seasons. Then we’ll go to the Pullach Compound.”

  “What’s the Pullach Compound?”