1405 3 March 1946
“Thank you for coming so quickly, sir,” Cronley said to Colonel Carl Wasserman, the chief, CIC-Vienna.
Wasserman, trailed by Charley Spurgeon, quickly entered the room and closed the door behind them.
Tom Winters and Oskar Wieczorek, an enormous blond-headed Pole who was filling in for Cezar Zieliński as Cronley’s bodyguard, rose from the couch on which they had been sitting.
“If I’d known you were coming, I’d have sent a car to Schwechat,” Wasserman said.
“Take a look at this, sir,” Cronley said, as he handed him Zieliński’s letter, “and then I’ll tell you why I didn’t want you, or anyone, to know we were coming. And as far as ‘we’ are concerned, Colonel, this is Tom Winters and Oskar Wieczorek.”
Both men said, “Sir.”
Wasserman waved them back onto the couch.
“Tom, Oskar, I already told you the colonel is one of the good guys. And this is Charley Spurgeon. We were at the Holabird School for Boys together.”
Wasserman shook his head at the irreverent reference to the U.S. Army Counterintelligence Center and School at Camp Holabird, Maryland.
“If you’re who I think you are, son,” Wasserman said to Winters, “I used to work for your dad. And come to think of it, I think I also know your father-in-law. Right, Thomas Winters?”
“Guilty, sir,” Winters said.
“How did a nice boy like you wind up with the Loose Cannon?” Wasserman asked, then quickly added, “Don’t answer that. I don’t think I want to know. But when you write, give my regards to your mother and dad.”
“I’ll do that, sir,” Winters said.
Wasserman turned his attention to the letter. When he finished, he held it out toward Spurgeon. “Okay with you, Loose Cannon?”
“Yes, sir. And if it pleases the colonel, the captain prefers ‘Super Spook’ to ‘Loose Cannon.’”
“Duly noted,” Wasserman said. “From Zieliński? When did you get this?”
“Who else?” Cronley replied. “It was delivered early this morning.”
“Do you think by ‘what you’re looking for’ he means von Dietelburg?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“If Zieliński has found von Dietelburg,” Spurgeon said, “he must have been in the Viktoria Palast—and wearing a name tag—the first time Zieliński walked in—and that’s only been a couple of days.”
“The question should be directed to Zieliński,” Cronley said. “And where the hell is he?”
There was a knock at the door.
“What the hell is that?” Cronley asked impatiently, and then ordered, “Tom, answer that.”
Winters had just opened the door a crack when it was pushed open so quickly and hard that it struck him in the face. He staggered backward.
Cronley reached for his pistol, as Wieczorek retrieved a Schmeisser machine pistol from under the couch.
Then he said, as he signaled Wieczorek to lower the Schmeisser, “Shit! Jesus H. Christ! What the hell?”
“Sorry, young man,” a middle-aged grandmotherly woman wearing an ornate hat and holding a dachshund puppy against her ample breast, said to Winters. “I didn’t think I had time to stand in the hall and explain myself.”
“What the hell is going on, Rahil?” Cronley asked.
“I have reluctantly concluded that Nikolayevich Merkulov is on to me,” she said. “Cronley, you have to get me out of Vienna to somewhere safe.”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Wasserman said.
“Can I tell him?” Cronley asked.
“Since I just told you Merkulov is on to me, why not?” the grandmotherly woman said. She put out her hand to Wasserman, as if she expected him to kiss, rather that shake, it.
“I know who you are, Colonel,” she said. “My name is Rahil—that’s Rachel in English—Rothschild. General Gehlen—and of course Cronley—call me ‘Seven-K.’”
Wasserman rose to the occasion. He bowed over her hand and kissed it.
“Enchanté, madame,” he said.
“I have been—I suppose, for the moment, still am—a polkovnik of the NKGB. I am also an agent of Mossad. I confess the latter because I know you’re also a Jew.”
“One whose allegiance, Polkovnik, is to the United States,” Wasserman said.
“I’m not too fond of Mossad myself right now. The Vienna station chief—an American, by the way—told me yesterday that not only can’t he risk his operation here by helping me avoid the NKGB, but refused to let me appeal to Reuven Zamir.”
“Who’s he?” Cronley asked.
“I’m surprised you don’t know, James, that he’s the chief of Mossad.”
“In other words, this sonofabitch, this American sonofabitch, threw you under the bus when you asked for help?”
“I’m not familiar with that phrase, but I think I take the meaning. Yes, he threw me under the bus.”
“How’d you learn the NKGB is on to you?”
“I am not—was not—the only Mossad agent in the NKGB.”
“Okay. The question now becomes how do we get you out of here?”
“The NKGB has people on the staff of the hotel. They report when anyone is occupying the CIC’s home away from home,” Wasserman said. “If the NKGB is looking for . . . this lady, there’s a good chance—almost a certainty—they know she’s in here.”
“Then we have to get her out of here,” Cronley said. “As soon as possible.”
“Out of here to where?”
“To Schwechat. From which Tom will fly her and Wieczorek to the Compound and turn her over—without telling Wallace, Tom—to General Gehlen for safekeeping.”
“I think we need a word in private, Captain Cronley,” Wasserman said.
Captain Cronley?
Oh, shit! Is he going to cause me trouble?
Is he trying to cover his ass?
“Colonel Wasserman, I think everybody has the Need to Know what you want to say to me.”
Wasserman’s face whitened before he replied.
“Have you considered that the NKGB wants you, as well as this lady, dead? Or, now that I think about it, really would like to have both of you in a basement cell on Lubyanka Square in Moscow?
“And that they are probably perfectly willing to suffer the ire of the Americans—and maybe the English—on the Quadripartite Commission for doing one or the other in the lobby of the Bristol?”
“Or risk that ire by bursting into the suite here and blowing us away right here. Without witnesses,” Cronley argued. “That’s an even worse scenario.”
There was a long silence. Then Cronley sighed and spoke.
“This is what I’m going to do, presuming Tom and Oskar are willing to go along. If the NKGB or Odessa is finally successful in blowing me away, they’re going to cause a stink, hopefully a great big stink, when they do.
“They’re going to have to blow me—and Tom and Rachel and Oskar—away in the lobby of the Bristol Hotel. Or on the sidewalk outside as we get in a taxicab. Or on the way to Schwechat. They’re not just going to fade into the darkness.
“The NKGB guy—or the Odessa guy—who shot Bonehead Moriarty in the head with a silenced .22 thinking it was me disappeared into the darkness. Round One to the NKGB or Odessa. There were three Odessa people who tried to whack Tom and me on the airport road. I took out one of them, and wounded one. The other got away. In my book, that gives Round Two to the Good Guys.
“This is Round Three. If I’m going to go down—and that seems likely—I’m going to go down fighting. Remember the Alamo.”
“I can’t believe you actually said that,” Tom Winters said.
“What’s the Alamo?” Oskar asked.
“Pay attention, Oskar,” Cronley said. “Texas History 101, 1836. The bad guy t
hen was a Mexican general named Antonio de Padua María Severino López de Santa Anna y Pérez de Lebrón. He led an army into what is now the Great State of Texas—”
“That was really his name?” Tom asked, chuckling.
“I’m shocked they didn’t teach you this at Hudson High,” Cronley replied. “Yes, it was. Pray let me continue. This bad guy, commonly known as Santa Anna, led an army—a very large army—across the San Antonio River with the intention of quelling the restless natives—most of them Southerners, but with a sprinkling of Yankees—who had the odd notion they didn’t want to be Mexicans.
“He encountered one hundred sixty of them who had turned an old mission building called the Alamo into sort of a fort. He called upon them to surrender, pointing out that he outnumbered them about twenty-five to one, and that he had cannons and they did not.
“They gave him the finger.
“So from February twenty-third until March sixth, Santa Anna’s cannons bombarded the one hundred sixty guys in the Alamo. Then early in the morning his troops assaulted the Alamo. The first attack was repulsed. And so was the second. The third succeeded. Every one of the one hundred sixty defenders died. Most Texans—including this one—believe Santa Anna shot the few survivors, in other words, the wounded unable to lift a rifle.
“There were between six hundred and sixteen hundred—give or take—Mexicans KIA.”
“KIA?” Oskar asked.
“Killed in action,” Wasserman explained.
“The fighting to the death—or the murder—of one hundred sixty of their friends and neighbors at the Alamo mightily pissed off the other Americans in the area, and using Remember the Alamo as their battle cry, they raised an army under General Sam Houston.
“On April twenty-first, ol’ Sam and the boys defeated Santa Anna’s army at the Battle of San Jacinto. We Texans say, We whupped their ass real good. We also captured Santa Anna himself. After he surrendered, we forced him to march his army back across the river into Mexico.
“Remember the Alamo was also popular during the Mexican–American War of 1848, during which we again whupped their ass real good, and which ended with their surrender at Guadalupe.
“So, yeah, Tom, I said, ‘Remember the Alamo.’ Would you rather get whacked in here, or take the chance the NKGB won’t try to whack us as we walk through the lobby?”
“Frankly, I would rather be back at Hudson High having dreams of winning glory on some distant battlefield. When are we going?”
“This is as good a time as any,” Cronley said. “I don’t like the idea of them coming through that door.”
“Give me fifteen minutes, please, Cronley,” Wasserman said.
“Sir, with respect, I suggest the best thing for you and Charley to do is stay out of the line of fire.”
“I want to go with you, Jim,” Spurgeon said.
“Not wise, Charley,” Cronley said.
“I think I can get enough people here in fifteen minutes to even the odds,” Colonel Wasserman said, as he picked up the telephone.
XVI
[ONE]
Suite 330
The Hotel Bristol
Kaerntner Ring 1, Vienna, Austria
1655 3 March 1946
When there was a knock at the door, Cronley rose from the armchair in which he was sitting, moved to the bedroom door, and leveled a Schmeisser machine pistol at the door.
“Charley,” he ordered softly, “back against the wall. Then open the door quickly and wide.”
Spurgeon nodded.
“Make sure the safety is off,” Cronley added.
Spurgeon flung the door open quickly and wide, revealing two men, Walter Wangermann, the chief of intelligence of the Vienna Police, and Bruno Holzknecht, his chief of surveillance.
When he saw Cronley’s leveled Schmeisser, Wangermann dove for the floor of the corridor. Holzknecht raised his hands in surrender.
“Well, look who’s here,” Cronley said. “Bruno, why don’t you help Walter get up and bring him in?”
“Gottverdammt Amerikaner!” Wangermann muttered, not quietly, as he got, unaided, to his feet and entered the room.
“I was just about to call you,” Cronley said. “To see if you know where our friend Cezar Zieliński is.”
“Where’s Oberst Wasserman?” Wangermann demanded.
“I already asked him,” Cronley said. “He doesn’t know.”
“I asked where he is.”
“You just missed him,” Cronley said. “He didn’t say where he was going, but he said he’d be back in time for dinner.”
“And what are you doing in Vienna?”
“I came to see how much of my money Cezar Zieliński has lost at the vingt-et-un tables at the Viktoria Palast.”
“A lot,” Holzknecht said, chuckling.
This earned him a dirty look from Wangermann.
“My sources tell me that at about half past two this afternoon, eight of Wasserman’s men came here in three staff cars. Further, that they rode the elevator to this floor, suggesting they were headed for this suite. They reappeared in the lobby three minutes later, now brandishing submachine guns and forming a protective shield around an old woman—the same woman, from her description, who sips tea by the gottverdammt hour with a gottverdammt dachshund in her lap in the lobby—and marched her through the lobby. They put her in the middle staff car and all three took off, sirens screaming, down the Ring.
“Wasserman’s cars were later located as they were leaving the Schwechat airfield. The old woman was not in the cars, nor in the airfield terminal, which is interesting because no aircraft of any airline had left the airport in the previous three hours. You want to explain any, preferably all, of this, Captain Strasbourger?”
“Do you want me to bullshit you?”
“You arrogant little sonofabitch!”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” Cronley said. “Hypothetically speaking, Herr Wangermann—”
“‘Hypothetically’?” Wangermann asked sarcastically.
“Let’s say, just for the sake of conversation, that a lady in her middle years—a Jewish lady, that’s important—came to you and said she had just escaped across the border from Gábor Péter’s Allamvedelmi Osztaly in Budapest, and requested asylum—”
“I’m surprised, Captain Strasbourger, that you even know what the AVO is, much less that sonofabitch Gábor.”
“I’m DCI, we know everything.”
“Scheisse,” Wangermann said, but he was unable to control his smile.
“So you are about to grant her wish when the Russian member of the Quadripartite Commission goes before the whole commission and says, ‘It has come to our attention that your Vienna Police, specifically Herr Walter Wangermann, is holding a notorious Hungarian criminal, by the name—let’s say—of Rachel Rothschild, and we demand that she be immediately turned over to us so that she can face Hungarian justice. Pulling the wings off flies and letting your dachshund piss on state-controlled fire hydrants is conduct that simply cannot be tolerated.’”
“Why does the AVO really want her?”
“I have no idea that I can share with you.”
“In other words, she’s been working for you? For the DCI?”
“There’s a rumor going around that she’s friendly with Reinhard Gehlen. But getting back to my hypothetical. What would you do under these hypothetical circumstances? Turn her over in handcuffs to the Communists?”
Wangermann didn’t reply.
“Or, maybe, since we both know that Gábor Péter executes people he doesn’t like by slow strangulation, would you maybe let her escape, thus giving the Reds the finger?”
“What finger?”
Cronley demonstrated.
“Let me give you another hypothetical,” Cronley went on. “Let’s say our hypothetical nice Jewish lady w
ith a dachshund didn’t go to you. Let’s say she met a fellow dog lover, say an American tourist—”
“You’re not an American tourist.”
“Let’s say this American tourist has a passport identifying him as a tourist, which satisfied the Austrian authorities when he landed at Schwechat. In his private airplane—”
“That black Storch with identification marks that can’t be read from twenty feet,” Wangermann said. “I should have guessed that was yours.”
“And let’s say this nice Jewish lady told this American tourist that she had a problem. This got to the American tourist because he had been a Boy Scout, and there is nothing that makes a Boy Scout happier than when he is able to help a nice old lady. To get across the street, for example, or to get her puppy out of Austria and into another country even if the puppy didn’t have the proper papers to satisfy the authorities.
“Now, hypothetically, of course, if the American tourist had arranged for the nice old lady and her pooch to get discreetly out of Austria and into another country, she would not have had to appeal to Walter Wangermann for asylum and Walter would have been able to look the Soviet member of the Quadripartite Commission in the eye and declare, ‘I don’t know nothing about no Jewish lady and her dachshund.’”
“And what would you have done, Captain Strasbourger, if the NKGB had wanted the nice old Jewish lady so bad they tried to take you down in the lobby of the hotel? Or on the sidewalk?”
“Shot back,” Cronley said. “But I thought it was worth the risk. They like the odds in their favor. I didn’t think they’d have more than four bad guys. We had eight of Wasserman’s people, plus Tom, Charley, Oskar, and me.”
Wangermann considered that a moment, and then asked, “So she’s out of Austria?”
Cronley nodded.
“To where?”
“If I told you that, you wouldn’t be able to say, ‘I have no idea where this woman you’re talking about is.’”
Wangermann nodded.
“Bruno,” he ordered, “tell him what you know about Zieliński.”
Holzknecht chuckled as he gathered his thoughts.
“As I said before, Captain Cronley, he’s having a good time losing a lot of your money and being consoled by our ladies of the evening. This, if he shows up at the Viktoria Palast as he usually does between eight and eight-thirty, will be his fifth night there. On the second night, he won a bundle, but on the other nights he lost. Heavily. He has spent every night—actually every morning after three or four a.m.—with a different whore.”
Death at Nuremberg Page 33