III
[ONE]
Kloster Grünau
Schollbrunn, Bavaria
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1705 29 December 1945
When he took the Storch off from Eschborn, Cronley had been worried about the flight, although he said nothing to either General Gehlen or Tiny.
For one thing, the weather was iffy, and it gets dark early in Germany in December. If the weather got worse, he’d have to land somewhere short of Munich, which meant at an infantry regiment or artillery battalion airstrip somewhere. As far as the officers there would be concerned, in addition to wondering what he was doing flying a Kraut around in a former Luftwaffe airplane, they would be reluctant to house overnight or, for that matter, feed said seedy-looking Kraut.
Flashing the CIC credentials would overcome those problems, of course, but it would provide those officers with a great barroom story to share with the world.
You won’t believe what flew into the strip yesterday. An ex-Luftwaffe Storch, with Army markings, and carrying two CIC captains and a Kraut. Wouldn’t say what they were doing, of course. Makes you wonder.
And even if he could make it through the weather to Bavaria, by the time they got there, it might be too dark to land on the strip at the Pullach compound. That would mean he would have to go into Schleissheim—the Munich military post airfield—which had runway lights.
But there would be problems at Schleissheim, too. The Storch would attract unwanted attention, and so would General Gehlen. And they would have to ask the Schleissheim duty officer for a car to take them to the Vier Jahreszeiten as the Kapitän was at Kloster Grünau, and Major Wallace was sure to be off somewhere in their only other car, the Opel Admiral.
An hour out of Munich, the answer came: Don’t go to Munich. Go to Kloster Grünau. Have a couple of drinks and a steak. Go to bed. And in the morning, get in the Kapitän and drive to Pullach.
He picked up the intercom microphone.
“General, would you have any problems if we spent the night at the monastery?”
“As far as I know, there’s absolutely nothing waiting for me in Munich.”
“Next stop, Kloster Grünau.”
Technical Sergeant Tedworth, his cavalry-yellow scarf not quite concealing the bandages on his neck, was waiting for them in the ambulance. Cronley was not surprised to see Ostrowski was behind the wheel.
Cronley had something to tell him, and this was as good a time as any.
“Tedworth, Sergeant Hessinger—”
“Sir, he wants you to call him as soon as possible,” Tedworth cut him off. “He says it’s important.”
“Sergeant, it’s not polite to cut your commanding officer off in the middle of a sentence.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Not only impolite, but the wrong thing to do, since what I was going to say had I not been rudely interrupted, was that Sergeant Hessinger has informed me that while I do not have promotion authority in normal circumstances, I do in extraordinary circumstances. I have decided that First Sergeant Dunwiddie, having created a vacant first sergeant position by becoming a commissioned officer, is such an extraordinary circumstance. I was about to tell you I am sure that Captain Dunwiddie will be happy to sell you the first sergeant chevrons he no longer needs at a reasonable price.”
“I’ll be damned,” Tedworth said. “Thank you.”
“You will of course be expected to pay for the intoxicants at your promotion party, which will commence just as soon as we get to the bar.”
“First Sergeant Tedworth,” Tedworth said wonderingly. “I will be damned!”
“You will be aware, I’m sure, First Sergeant Tedworth, that henceforth you will be marching in the footsteps of the superb non-commissioned officer who preceded you and will be expected to conduct yourself accordingly,” Dunwiddie said solemnly.
“Captain Dunwiddie and First Sergeant Tedworth,” Tedworth went on. “Who would have ever thought, Tiny, when we joined Company ‘A’?”
And then he regained control.
“Captain, I think you better call Fat Freddy,” he said. “He said it was really important.”
“Immediately after I take a leak—my back teeth are floating—and I have a stiff drink of Scotland’s finest,” Cronley said.
—
“Twenty-third CIC, Special Agent Hessinger.”
“And how are you, Freddy, on this miserable December evening?”
“When are you coming here?”
“That’s one of the reasons I called, Freddy, to tell you Captain Dunwiddie and myself—plus two others whose names I would prefer not to say on this line while some FBI numbnuts are listening—will be celebrating First Sergeant Tedworth’s promotion in the country and will not be returning to Munich until tomorrow.”
“I don’t think Colonel Parsons is going to like that.”
“What? What business is it of his?”
“He called here and said General Greene had suggested he and Major Ashley take you to dinner to get to know you. He said he made reservations here in the Vier Jahreszeiten for eight o’clock and he expects to see you there.”
That’s disappointing. I thought Greene was going to maintain complete neutrality. But what he’s obviously doing—or trying to do—is help this bastard Parsons take over Operation Ost for the Pentagon.
Why should that surprise me? Greene, ultimately, is under the Pentagon G2. They don’t like the Directorate of Central Intelligence and they really don’t want Operation Ost being run by a very junior captain. Greene knows on which side of the piece of toast the butter goes.
Wait a minute!
Do I detect the subtle hand of Colonel Robert Mattingly?
Oh, do I!
Mattingly thinks—and with good reason—that he should be chief, DCI-Europe. Instead, I am. But there’s nothing he can do about it. Unless, of course, as a result of my youth and inexperience I get into a scrap with Parsons. Then he can step in—Greene would suggest Mattingly step in—to save something from the wreckage. For the good of the service.
I can see that sonofabitch suggesting to General Greene that Parsons take me to dinner “to get to know me.” I can also see Parsons reasoning that Greene is on his side—otherwise why the “get to know him” suggestion—and interpreting “get to know him” to mean making it clear to the junior captain that this is still the Army, and in the Army, lieutenant colonels tell junior captains what to do, and junior captains say, “Yes, sir.”
But I can’t take orders from a lieutenant colonel whose mission it is to take over Operation Ost.
So what do I do?
“Would you be shocked to hear that I am not thrilled with the prospect of Colonel Parsons buying me dinner?”
“You not being thrilled doesn’t matter. Colonel Mattingly called and said Colonel Parsons would probably call and invite you to dinner, and you had better go. Alone.”
Well, there’s the proof. I can hear Mattingly saying, “Parsons went out of his way, Admiral, to get along with Cronley. He even invited him to a private dinner. Cronley refused to go.”
Making nice to Parsons tonight would be just delaying the inevitable confrontation. Mattingly—or maybe Parsons himself, he’s clever—would make sure there was a confrontation.
Back to what do I do?
What I do is get this over with.
But as the soon-to-be chief, DCI-Europe, not as Junior Captain Cronley.
Which means I take off this Ike jacket with its brand-new captain’s bars and put on the one with the civilian U.S. triangles.
“You know how to get Parsons on the phone, Freddy?”
“He’s here in the hotel.”
“Please call him back and tell him you’ve heard from Mister, repeat, Mister Cronley and he, General Gehlen, and Captain Dunwiddie, who had already pla
nned to dine at the Vier Jahreszeiten at eight, would be delighted if he and Major Whatsisname could join us.”
“You heard what I said about Colonel Mattingly saying you should go to dinner alone?”
“Anything else for me, Freddy?”
“Oberst Mannberg asked me when General Gehlen will be back. He says he has something to report.”
“Whatever that might be, I don’t think we want to share it with the FBI, do we?”
“So what do I tell Mannberg?”
“Tell him the general will be in your office just before we go to dinner with Colonel Parsons and Major Whatsisname.”
[TWO]
Suite 507
Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten
Maximilianstrasse 178
Munich, American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1935 29 December 1945
Former Colonel Ludwig Mannberg was sitting with Sergeant Friedrich Hessinger at the latter’s desk, both of them bent over a chessboard. They both stood when Cronley, followed by Gehlen and Dunwiddie, came into the room.
Mannberg was wearing a well-tailored suit and tie. Fat Freddy was in pinks and greens.
Cronley thought, more objectively than unkindly, Looking at the two of them, you’d think Gehlen was a black marketeer caught dealing in cigarettes and Hershey bars and Mannberg was his lawyer. His English lawyer. I’m going to have to do something about getting the general some decent clothes.
How am I going to do that? “Excuse me, General, but in that ratty suit, you look like an unsuccessful black marketeer.”
“I just had one of my famous inspirations,” Cronley announced. “Freddy, call the dining room and tell them there will be two more at dinner.”
“Who?” Hessinger asked.
“You and Oberst Mannberg.”
“Is that wise, Jim?” Dunwiddie asked. “Mattingly said you were to go alone.”
“I know,” Cronley said. “Do it, Freddy.”
“General,” Mannberg said, “we have heard from Seven-K.”
Who the hell is “Seven-K”?
“And?” Gehlen asked.
“She reports Natalia Likharev and her sons, Sergei and Pavel, do in fact occupy a flat at Nevsky Prospekt 114 in Leningrad. It’s a luxury apartment building reserved for senior officers of the NKGB.”
Seven-K, you soaking-wet-behind-the-ears amateur intelligence officer, is obviously Gehlen’s agent in Russia. If they said his name out loud, someone might hear. She?
“Which means,” Gehlen said, “especially since the NKGB knows Colonel Likharev is now in Argentina, that they are watching them very carefully, and that it’s just a matter of time before she is arrested. Pour encourager les autres.”
To encourage other NKGB officers not to change sides because the penalty is having your wife and kids sent to Siberia. Or shot. Or tortured. Or all of the above.
“Yes, sir,” Mannberg agreed. “She also reports the Underground Railroad is in disarray.”
“She”? That’s twice Mannberg said “she.” Seven-K is a woman?
Jesus, stupid! You should know the Russians have women spies. One of them made a horse’s ass out of you. So why should Gehlen having female agents be such a surprise?
“Underground Railway”? As in the States? Getting slaves out of the South? Mannberg is obviously talking about this woman’s setup to get the Likharevs out of Russia. Interesting that the Russians use a term from American history.
Gehlen said, “Send her ‘Act at your discretion.’”
“Signed?” Mannberg asked.
Gehlen pointed his index finger at his chest.
I wonder what your code name is?
“Jawohl, Herr General,” Mannberg said.
“Why don’t we all go down to the bar and have a drink before we feed the nice men from the Pentagon?” Cronley asked.
“Once again,” Dunwiddie said, “are you sure that’s what you want to do, have us all there?”
“I don’t want to face them all by my lonesome,” Cronley replied.
But that’s not the only reason I want everybody there.
In three days I will become chief, Directorate of Central Intelligence-Europe, which means essentially Operation Ost. I have zero, zilch qualifications to be given such an enormous responsibility. But I will have it, and I am about to compound the problem of the Pentagon’s determination to take over control of Operation Ost from what they correctly believe to be a wholly unqualified—and very junior—officer by shifting into what Colonel Robert Mattingly has often referred to as my “loose-cannon” mode.
Specifically, I am going to apply what I was taught at my alma mater, Texas A&M: The best defense is a good offense.
If I told Tiny and Fat Freddy what I plan to do, they would conclude that I was once again going to do something monumentally stupid—and God knows I have quite a history of doing that. They would possibly, even probably, go along with me out of loyalty, but that’s a two-way street.
If, as is likely, even probable, this blows up in my face, I want both Tiny and Freddy to be able to truthfully tell Mattingly, and/or General Greene—for that matter, Admiral Souers—that they had no idea how I planned to deal with Lieutenant Colonel Parsons and Major Ashley. So I can’t tell them.
The same applies to General Gehlen. While my monumental ego suggests he would probably think it might be a good idea, I don’t know that. So I can’t tell him. If I did, and he suggested ever so politely that I was wrong, I would stop. And I can’t stop, because it’s the only way I can think of to deal with Parsons and Ashley.
[THREE]
The Main Dining Room
Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten
Maximilianstrasse 178
Munich, American Zone of Occupation, Germany
2000 29 December 1945
Lieutenant Colonel George H. Parsons and Major Warren W. Ashley were not in the dining room when Cronley, Gehlen, Mannberg, Dunwiddie, and Hessinger arrived, but the table was set with places for everyone.
Important people arrive last, right? Screw you, Parsons!
Cronley took the chair at the head of the table.
“General, why don’t you sit here?” Cronley said, pointing to the first side chair. “So that when Colonel Parsons arrives, he can sit across from you.”
Gehlen, his face expressionless, sat where Cronley suggested.
Cronley then pointed to people and chairs and everyone sat where he pointed.
Twenty minutes later, Colonel Parsons—a tall, trim forty-five-year-old—and Major Ashley—a shorter thirty-six-year-old version of Parsons—walked into the dining room. Both were in pinks and greens, and both of them wore the lapel insignia of the General Staff Corps and the shoulder insignia of the Military District of Washington.
Parsons marched on Cronley, who stood up but didn’t put down his whisky glass.
“Glad to see you again, Cronley,” Parsons said. “Sorry to be late. Tied up. Couldn’t be helped.”
“Good evening, Colonel,” Cronley replied. “I was about to introduce you to General Gehlen, but he just told me he thinks you met when he was in Washington.”
“No,” Parsons said.
“My mistake,” Gehlen said. “There was a Colonel Parsons at Fort Hunt, and I thought it might be you. But—”
“I don’t have the pleasure of Herr Gehlen’s acquaintance,” Parsons said, and put out his hand.
“Herr Gehlen”? Okay, Colonel, if you want to go down that route, fine.
“And this is Oberst—Colonel—Mannberg, General Gehlen’s deputy,” Cronley said. “And Mr. Hessinger, who is my chief of staff, and Captain Dunwiddie, my deputy.” He paused and then said, “And you’re Major Ashburg, right?”
“Ashley, Captain Cronley, Ashley,” Ashley corrected him.
“Right,” Cronley said. “I’m bad with
names. Well, gentlemen, I’m really glad you were free to join us. We’re celebrating Captain Dunwiddie’s commissioning.”
“General Greene mentioned that you had been . . .” Parsons began.
Cronley interrupted him by calling for a waiter.
“. . . in Frankfurt,” Parsons went on, “for the promotion ceremony.”
“Yes, we flew up when General Smith let it be known that (a) he would like to participate, and (b) that he wanted a word with General Gehlen.”
“General Smith wanted to participate?” Major Ashley asked, either dubiously or in surprise.
Thank you for that question, Major Ashley.
“It turned out—Dunwiddie never told us—that when he was born—what did General Smith say, Tiny? ‘In the age of the dinosaurs’?—his father’s company commander was Captain Smith.”
“Oh, so you’re from an Army family, Captain?” Parsons asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you, Captain Cronley?”
The waiter appeared, saving Cronley from having to answer. When the waiter had taken their orders, Parsons had a fresh question.
“Let me go off on a tangent,” he said. “You said you flew up to Frankfurt, and presumably flew back. Is there reliable air service between here and Frankfurt? The reason I ask is that it’s a long ride on the train, and I expect that I’ll have to—myself and Major Ashley will have to—go up there often.”
“You’re asking about MATS? The Air Force Military Air Transport Service?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I really have no idea.”
“But you just said you flew back and forth to Frankfurt today. How did you do that?”
“I loaded the general and Dunwiddie into a Storch, wound up the rubber bands, and took off.”
“What’s a Storch?”
“It’s a German airplane. Sort of a super Piper Cub. We have two of them.”
“You’re a pilot? An aviator?”
Cronley nodded.
“I don’t remember seeing pilot’s wings when I saw you in uniform at the Schlosshotel Kronberg,” Parsons said. “And that raises another question in my mind. If you don’t mind my asking.”
The Assassination Option Page 8