The Assassination Option
Page 22
“Welcome to the world of command,” McClung said, chuckling. “Okay, you can have her. Who do I transfer her to?”
I don’t have a fucking clue!
“Hold on,” Cronley said.
Hessinger scribbled furiously on his clipboard and then handed it to Cronley.
Cronley read aloud what Hessinger had written:
“Military Detachment, Directorate of Central Intelligence, Europe, APO 907.”
After a moment, McClung said, “Okay, who else?”
“Let me get back to you after I talk to them and ask if they want to come with us.”
“Okay. Makes sense. I don’t know what I would do if I were an ASA non-com and was asked to join the DCI.”
“Why would you not want to?”
“Your DCI is a dangerous place to be. People, powerful people, don’t like you. You ever hear of guilt by association?”
“How do you know that powerful people don’t like me? Us?”
“I’m chief of ASA Europe. I listen to everybody’s telephone calls and read all their messages.”
“Well, I’ll ask them anyway.”
“Do that. When you find out, let me know.”
“Will do.”
“That all, Cronley?”
“I guess so.”
“McClung out,” he said, and Cronley sensed that the line was no longer operating. He hung up the handset and then flipped the toggle switches off.
“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it, Jim?” El Jefe asked.
“When I called McClung, I had him in the Enemies Column,” Cronley said. “Now I don’t think so.”
“Why not? Something he said?”
“More the tone. Of the entire conversation, but especially in his voice.”
“So, what we should do now is, while staring into the eyes of people we’re talking to to see if they’re lying, listen to the tone of their voices to see if they like us, or not?”
“May I say something?” Ludwig Mannberg asked.
“You don’t have to ask permission to speak around here, Colonel,” Cronley said.
“I had the same feeling about this officer, listening to his tone,” Mannberg said. “I think Jim is right. But I also feel obliged to say that, in my experience, it is very dangerous to rely on intuition. And very easy to do so. Intuition can be often, perhaps most often, relied upon. But when you want to rely on intuition, don’t. That’s when it will fail you.”
“I think I’m going to write that down,” El Jefe said. “And I’m not being a wiseass.” He paused and then went on. “No, I won’t write it down. I don’t have to. I won’t forget ‘when you want to rely on intuition, don’t.’ Thanks, Ludwig.”
“Yeah, me too,” Cronley said. “Thank you for that.” He paused. “Now what do we do?”
“If you really can’t think of anything else to do, why don’t you get Sergeant Colbert in here?” Hessinger asked.
[TWO]
Office of the U.S. Military Government Liaison Officer
The South German Industrial Development Organization Compound
Pullach, Bavaria
The American Zone of Occupied Germany
1735 15 January 1946
Technical Sergeant Claudette Colbert knocked at the door, heard the command “Come,” opened the door, marched into the office up to the desk of the liaison officer, came to attention, raised her hand in salute, and barked, “Technical Sergeant Colbert reporting to the commanding officer as ordered, sir.”
In doing so, she shattered a belief Captain James D. Cronley Jr. had firmly held since his first days at Texas A&M, which was, Unless you’re some kind of a pervert, into kinky things like fetishes, a female in uniform is less sexually attractive than a spittoon.
He would have thought this would be even more true if the uniform the female was wearing, as Sergeant Colbert was, was what the Army called “fatigues.” Generously tailored to afford the wearer room to move while performing the hard labor causing the fatigue, “fatigues” conceal the delicate curvature of the female form at least as well as, say, a tarpaulin does when draped over a tank.
It was not true of Technical Sergeant Colbert now.
Cronley returned the salute in a Pavlovian reflex, and similarly ordered, “Stand at ease,” and then, a moment later, added, “Have a seat, Sergeant,” and pointed to the chair Hessinger had placed six feet from his desk.
Technical Sergeant Colbert sat down.
She found herself facing Captain Cronley, and on the left side of his desk, Lieutenant Colonel Ashton, Captain Dunwiddie, and Staff Sergeant Hessinger. Lieutenant Oscar Schultz, USN, Maksymilian Ostrowski, and former Colonel Ludwig Mannberg were seated to the right of Cronley’s desk.
Only Colonel Ashton and Captain Dunwiddie were wearing the insignia of their ranks. Everyone else was wearing the blue triangles of civilian employees of the Army, including Ostrowski, whom Claudette knew to be a Pole and a DP guard. Ex-colonel Mannberg was wearing a very well-tailored suit.
Cronley, who was having thoughts he knew he should not be having about how Sergeant Colbert might look in the shower, forced them from his mind and asked himself,
How the hell do I handle this, now that she’s here?
Shift into automatic mode and see what happens when I open my mouth?
In the absence of any better, or any other, idea . . .
“Sergeant, Sergeant Hessinger tells me that you would like to move to the DCI from the ASA. True?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been on the fringes of the intelligence business, sir, since I came into the ASA. And the more I’ve learned about it, the more I realized I’d like to be in it. As more than an ASA intercept sergeant. As an intelligence officer.”
“What would you like to do in what you call the intelligence business?”
“I don’t know, sir. Once I get into the DCI, something will come up.”
“What if I told you that what you would do if you came to DCI is typing and taking shorthand?”
“Sir, I would have my foot in the door. So long as you understood that I don’t want to be a secretary, starting out taking shorthand and typing would be okay with me.”
“DCI inherited from the OSS the notion that the best qualified person for the job gets the job and the authority that goes with it. You understand that? It means you would be working for Hessinger, although you outrank him. Would you be all right with that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has anyone else got any questions for Sergeant Colbert?” Cronley asked.
There came shaken heads, a chorus of no’s and uh-uhs.
“Okay, Sergeant Colbert, let’s give it a try,” Cronley said. “You can consider yourself a member of DCI from right now. What is that officially, Freddy?”
“Military Detachment, Directorate of Central Intelligence, Europe, APO 907,” Hessinger furnished.
“Sir?” Sergeant Colbert said.
“Yes?”
“Sir, with respect, I have conditions. Before I’ll agree to be transferred to DCI.”
Now, what the hell?
“Conditions, Sergeant?” Cronley asked unpleasantly. “Before you ‘agree to be transferred’? You don’t have to agree to being transferred. I decide whether or not that will happen.”
“Sir, with respect. Would you want me in DCI if I didn’t want to be here?”
Turn off the automatic mouth or you really will say something stupid.
“What sort of conditions, Sergeant?” Lieutenant Colonel Ashton asked.
Cronley saw Schultz flash Ashton a withering look, and then he said, “She has a point, Jim.”
“What sort of conditions, Sergeant?” Cronley asked.
“Just two things, sir. I’d like permission to wear civilian trian
gles. And if you’re issuing what I guess could be called special IDs, I’d like one of those, too. I suppose what I’m saying—”
“That will not pose a problem,” Cronley said. “We’re all aware that it’s easier to get things done if you’re not wearing rank insignia. And that ties in with what I said before that in the DCI authority is based on your job, not your rank.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“You said ‘two things,’ Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to bring three of my girls with me.”
What?
Her girls?
Jesus Christ, she’s a dyke!
“Excuse me, Sergeant?”
“They want to get out of the ASA house . . .”
That she was queer never entered my mind!
Until just now.
So much for that intuition bullshit we were just talking about!
“. . . and not only will they be useful here, but they’ll be able to keep an eye on anything going to or from Washington,” Sergeant Colbert went on, and then stopped, and then went on again, “It’s not what you’re thinking, sir.”
So what do I say now?
Ask her what she thinks I’m thinking?
Cronley was literally struck dumb.
“Sir, I’m no more interested in other women—that way—than you are in other men.”
“Sergeant, I hope I didn’t say anything to suggest—”
“May I continue, sir?” she interrupted.
How could I possibly say no?
“Certainly,” Cronley said.
“I’m glad this came up,” she began. “To clear the air. One of the reasons I want to get out of the WAC is because I’m really tired of being suspected of being a dyke. And I’ve learned that every man, officer or enlisted, who looks at me thinks there is no other explanation for an attractive, unmarried woman being in the WAC except that she’s a lesbian.”
Cronley thought: That’s true. It may not be fair, but it’s true.
But he remained struck dumb.
“I’m heterosexual,” Sergeant Colbert said. “And so are the women I want to bring with me into DCI. Is that clear?”
Cronley found his voice.
“Perfectly clear,” he said. “And I appreciate your candor, Sergeant Colbert. Hessinger, get the names of the women Sergeant Colbert wants to bring with her, and see that they’re transferred.”
“Yes, sir,” Hessinger said.
Sergeant Colbert stood up, came to attention, and looked at Cronley.
What the hell is that all about?
“Permission to withdraw, sir?” she asked.
Oh!
“Granted,” Cronley said.
Sergeant Colbert saluted. Cronley returned it. Sergeant Colbert executed a snappy “left turn” movement and marched toward the door.
Cronley’s automatic mouth switched on.
“Colbert! Just a minute, please.”
She stopped, did a snappy “about face” movement, and stood at attention.
“Sir?”
“First of all, at ease,” Cronley said. “You can knock off just about all the military courtesy, Colbert. For one thing, this isn’t the Farben Building. For another, I’m wearing triangles, not bars. Pass that word to your girls.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Welcome to DCI, Claudette. Freddy will see that you have everything you need.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled and left the room.
Hessinger started to follow her, but stopped halfway to the door and asked, “Where do I put them?”
“To live, you mean? I hadn’t thought about that,” Cronley admitted.
“I think it would be a good idea if you did,” Hessinger said.
“And I’m sure you have already given the subject some thought and are going to share those thoughts with me.”
“I think it would be a good idea to get the three women she’s bringing with her out of the ASA building, where they are now. With half a dozen other women, who are probably very curious about what’s going on over here.”
“So?”
“So I suggest you take the ‘Guesthouse’ sign off the guesthouse and put up one that says ‘Female Quarters, Off Limits to Male Personnel.’”
“Do it.”
“And I suggest that as soon as I can get Sergeant Colbert into blue triangles, you put her in one of our rooms in the Vier Jahreszeiten. She’ll be working there.”
“And what is Major Wallace going to think about that?”
“You’ll have to think of something to tell him, and I think you should count on Major McClung telling him by this time tomorrow that you stole her from him.”
Shit, I didn’t think about that. McClung will certainly tell Wallace . . .
Or will he?
Now that I think about it, I don’t think he will.
But this is probably one of those times that Mannberg talked about, when you really want to trust your gut feeling, and therefore shouldn’t.
“As soon as you get Sergeant Colbert into blue triangles, put her in the Vier Jahreszeiten,” Cronley said. “What she’s doing there is none of Major Wallace’s business.”
Hessinger nodded and left the room.
“Don’t let it go to your head, Jim,” El Jefe said, “but you handled the sergeant well. Finally. For a while, I thought she was going to eat you alive.”
“‘Formidable’ describes her well, doesn’t it?”
“So does ‘well-stacked.’ Is that going to be a problem, now that she’s made it so plain she’s not a dyke?”
“Not for me. Ostrowski may have to watch himself.”
That got the expected chuckles.
“So what do we do now?” Cronley asked.
“You get on the phone and get Polo and me seats on the next SAA flight to Buenos Aires. If they’re sold out, tell them they’re going to have to bump two people.”
“What makes you think they’d do that?”
“Because, for the moment, at least until Juan Perón takes it away from us, South American Airways is a DCI asset and you’re chief, DCI-Europe.”
“But do they know that?”
“I told Cletus to make sure they know.”
There he goes again.
“I told Cletus . . .”
El Jefe is a lot more—and probably was for a long time—more than just Clete’s communications expert.
And the admiral sent him here. And not to take care of Polo.
So how do I find out what he’s really up to?
Ask him?
Why not?
The worst that could happen would be for him to pretend he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
So I’ll ask him.
But not now. In private, when the moment is right.
Cronley reached for the telephone, dialed “O,” and told the Pullach compound operator to get him South American Airways at the Rhine-Main Air Force Base.
Five minutes later, he put the phone in its cradle and turned to Schultz.
“You’re on SAA Flight 233, departing Rhine-Main at 1700 tomorrow.”
“Which means we’ll have to be there at 1600,” Schultz replied.
“Which means we can have a late breakfast and leave here at ten, ten-thirty. Or even eleven,” Cronley said. “That’ll give us plenty of time for Ostrowski and me to fly you up there.”
“No,” Schultz said. “What that means is that so I can make my manners to Generals Smith and Greene, and the admiral would be very disappointed if I didn’t, we have to get up in the dark so that we can leave at first light. And that means, of course, that you don’t get anything more to drink tonight. Nor does Ostrowski.”
It makes sense that he has to see Greene, but General W
alter Bedell Smith, Eisenhower’s deputy? I’m supposed to believe he’s only a Navy lieutenant, the same as an Army captain, and he’s going in for a social chat with General Smith? Even if the admiral sent him, there’s something going on nobody’s telling me.
Like there’s something nobody’s telling me about the appointment of Captain James D. Cronley Jr. as chief, Directorate of Central Intelligence, Europe. There’s something very fishy about that, too. There’s at least a platoon of ex-OSS colonels and light birds, now unemployed, better qualified than I am who should be sitting here.
My gut tells me—and screw Ludwig’s theory that when you really want to trust your intuition, don’t—that El Jefe has the answers to all of this.
So how do I get him to tell me?
I don’t have a fucking clue.
“Or I could stay here and drink my supper and have Kurt Schröder fly you to Frankfurt.”
“No.”
“He’s a much better Storch pilot than I am, El Jefe,” Cronley said. “He flew General Gehlen and Ludwig Mannberg all over Russia.”
“You’re going to fly me to Frankfurt. Period.”
“Yes, sir.”
[THREE]
Office of the Chief, Counterintelligence Corps
Headquarters, European Command
The I.G. Farben Building
Frankfurt am Main
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1135 16 January 1946
“Well, Colonel Ashton,” General Greene said, coming from behind his desk as Cronley pushed Ashton’s wheelchair into his office, “I’m really glad to see you. I was getting a little worried.”
“Sir?”
Greene looked at his wristwatch.
“In twenty-five minutes, we’re having lunch with General Smith. He is big on punctuality. You cut it pretty short.”
“I didn’t know about the lunch,” Ashton said.
“You must be Lieutenant Schultz,” Greene said, offering his hand. “Admiral Souers speaks very highly of you.”
“That’s very kind of the admiral,” Schultz said.
Greene looked at Cronley, said, “Cronley,” but did not offer his hand.
“This is Colonel Mattingly, my deputy,” Greene said.
Schultz, Ashton, and Mattingly shook hands. Mattingly ignored Cronley.