The Assassination Option

by W. E. B Griffin

  Schultz gave him the finger.

  “Clete thought—and he was right—that it looked better if people thought I was a chief, rather than an officer,” Schultz said. “So we kept my change of status quiet.”

  “You’re a full commander, Oscar?” Cronley asked.

  “I retired a couple of weeks ago as a commander, U.S. Naval Reserve, Jim,” Schultz said. “What I am now is a member of what they call the Senior Executive Service of the Directorate of Central Intelligence. My title is executive assistant to the director.”

  When Cronley didn’t reply, Schultz said, “Why are you so surprised? You’ve been around the spook business long enough to know that nothing is ever what it looks like.”

  “Like the chief, DCI-Europe, isn’t what he looks like?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that I’m very young, wholly inexperienced in the spook business, and pretty slow, so it took me a long time to figure out that there’s something very fishy about a very junior captain being chief, DCI – Europe, and that no one wants to tell him what’s really going on.”

  “Well, Jim, now that you have figured that out, I guess we’ll have to tell you. I will on the way to the airport.”

  “Why don’t you tell him now?” General Smith said. “I think General Greene should be privy to this.”

  “Yes, sir,” Schultz said. “Okay. Where to start? Okay. When President Truman was talked into disbanding the OSS—largely by J. Edgar Hoover, but with a large assist by the Army, no offense, General—”

  “Tell it like it is, Chief,” General Smith said.

  “He first realized that he couldn’t turn off everything the OSS was doing—especially Operation Ost, but some other operations, too—like a lightbulb. So he turned to his old friend Admiral Souers to run them until they could be turned over to somebody else.

  “Admiral Souers convinced him—I think Truman had figured this out by himself, so I probably should have said, the admiral convinced the President that the President was right in maybe thinking he had made a mistake by shutting down the OSS.

  “The admiral didn’t know much about Operation Ost, except that it existed. Truman told him what it was. The admiral knew I was involved with it in Argentina, so he sent for me to see what I thought should be done with it.

  “The President trusted his old friend the admiral, and the admiral trusted his old shipmate. Okay? The President was learning how few people he could trust, and learning how many people he could not trust, starting with J. Edgar Hoover.

  “So Truman decided a new OSS was needed. Who to run it? The admiral.

  “So what to do about Operation Ost, which was important for two reasons—for the intel it had about the Russians, and because if it came out we’d made the deal with Gehlen and were smuggling Nazis out of Germany, Truman would be impeached, Eisenhower would be court-martialed, and we’d lose the German intelligence about our pal Joe Stalin.

  “So how do we hide Operation Ost from J. Edgar Hoover, the Army, the Navy, the State Department, the Washington Post, et cetera, et cetera? We try to make it look unimportant. How do we do that? We pick some obscure bird colonel to run it. Which bird colonel could we trust? For that matter, which light bird, which major, could we trust?

  “And if we found one, that would raise the question, which full colonel, which light bird would General Gehlen trust? I mean really trust, so that he’d really keep up his end of the deal?

  “The President says, ‘What about Captain Cronley?’”

  “You were there, Chief?” General Smith asked. “You heard him say that?”

  “I was there. I heard him say that. The admiral said, ‘Harry, that’s ridiculous!’ and the President said, ‘Who would think anything important would be handed to a captain?’

  “The admiral said, ‘Who would think anything in the intelligence business would be handed over to a captain?’

  “And the President said, ‘There are captains and then there are captains. I know. I was one. This one, Cronley, has just been given the DSM and a promotion to captain by the commander in chief for unspecified services connected with intelligence. J. Edgar knows it was because Cronley found the submarine with the uranium oxide on it. J. Edgar would not think there was anything funny if Captain Cronley were given some unimportant job in intelligence that might get him promoted.’

  “The admiral said something about giving Cronley Operation Ost because no one would think Operation Ost was important if a captain was running it, and the President said, ‘For that reason, I think we should name Captain Cronley chief, DCI-Europe, and let that leak.’

  “‘Harry,’ the admiral said, “‘General Gehlen is an old-school Kraut officer. I don’t think he’ll stand still for taking orders from a captain.’

  “And the President said, ‘Why don’t we ask him?’

  “So we asked General Gehlen. So there you sit, Mr. Chief, DCI-Europe. Okay? Any questions?”

  “How soon can I expect to be relieved when you find some bird colonel you can trust, who’s acceptable to General Gehlen and should have this job?”

  “The job is yours until you screw up—or one of your people does—and Operation Ost is blown.”

  “Then I get thrown to the wolves?”

  “Then you get thrown to the wolves. If that happens, try to take as few people down with you as you can. Any questions?”

  “No, sir,” Cronley said, and a moment later, “Thanks, Oscar.”

  [FIVE]

  Suite 507

  Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten

  Maximilianstrasse 178

  Munich, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  2010 16 January 1946

  There had been a delay in the departure of SAA flight 233, so Cronley had told Max Ostrowski, “Head home. That way, if I have to go to Munich instead of Kloster Grünau, there will be only one Storch parked in the transient area to arouse curiosity, not two.”

  When Schultz and Ashton finally got off the ground, he knew there was no chance of his making it to the monastery strip before dark, so he went to the snack bar in the terminal and had a greasy hamburger, fries, and a Coke before leaving Rhine-Main.

  He had another—much better—hamburger at Schleissheim, the Munich military post airfield, when he landed, and then got a ride to the hotel.

  As he walked down the corridor to his room, he saw light under the door to 507, which was where Fat Freddy held court, and he pushed the huge door handle down and walked in.

  I will tell Freddy everything Schultz said in the generals’ mess and see what he has to say.

  Hessinger was not behind the desk. Technical Sergeant Claudette Colbert was.

  She rose from behind the desk at which she was typing when she saw him.

  She was wearing a “pink” as in pinks-and-greens officer’s skirt and a khaki shirt, and he saw an officer’s green tunic on the coatrack.

  Well, it didn’t take much time for her to get in triangles, did it?

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Now that you’re a civilian, you can drop the ‘sir,’ Claudette.”

  “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “Where’s Freddy?”

  “He said he was going to visit a friend.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He left a number, shall I call him for you?”

  “I try not to call Freddy when he’s visiting friends. He sulks.”

  She smiled.

  “Is Mr. Ostrowski with you?”

  “He’s at Kloster Grünau. I had to wait until Schultz and Ashton took off, which meant it was too dark for me to land there. So I came here.”

  “Major Derwin called. He said he’d like to see you at ten hundred tomorrow.”

  What does that sonofabitch want?

  “Wonderful!”

  “Can I get you anythi
ng?”

  “No, thank you. I’m going to go to my room, have a stiff drink, and go to bed.”

  “How did things go with General Greene?”

  “It was interesting, Claudette, but not worthy of an after-action report.”

  Subject: Screw Up and Get Thrown to the Wolves.

  “That’s what I’ve been doing,” she said, nodding at the typewriter. “After-action reports.”

  “Claudette—”

  “My friends call me ‘Dette,’” she said.

  “Because if they shortened it the other way, it would be ‘Claude’?”

  “And I don’t want to be called ‘Claude.’”

  “Well, Dette, as I was about to say, Freddy will push you around if you let him. Don’t let him. It’s quarter after eight. Knock off. The after actions aren’t that important.”

  “Okay, I’ll finish this one and knock off,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Good night, Dette.”

  “Good night . . . What should I call you?”

  “Good question. When no one’s around, call me Jim. Otherwise, Mr. Cronley.”

  “Got it. Good night, Jim.”

  “Good night,” Cronley said, and walked out.

  Cronley went to his room, which was actually a suite, found a bottle of scotch, poured himself a stiff drink, and then decided he would first have a shower and then have the drink, catch the 2100 news broadcast on the American Forces Network Munich radio station, and then go to bed.

  Ten minutes later, as he pulled on the terrycloth bathrobe that came with the suite, he heard over AFN Munich that he was just in time for the news. It was always preceded by a solemn voice proclaiming, “Remember, soldier! VD walks the streets tonight! And penicillin fails once in seven times!”

  And he wondered again, as he often did, how Daddy or Mommy explained the commercial to nine-year-old Jane or Bobby when they asked, “Daddy, what’s that man talking about?”

  When he came out of the bathroom, Technical Sergeant Colbert was sitting in an armchair.

  “You almost got a look at something you don’t want to see,” he snapped. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

  “Well, I finished the first after-action report, and thought you might want to see it. Wrong guess?”

  “I don’t think being in my room is smart,” he said.

  “Since Freddy gave me the master key, I thought coming in made more sense than waiting in the hall for you to finish your shower,” she said. “Shall I leave?”

  “Let me see the after action,” he said.

  She got out of the chair, walked to him, and handed him some typewritten sheets of paper. He glanced at the title: “Likharev, Sergei, Colonel NKGB, Capture Of.”

  He became aware that she was still standing close to him.

  He looked at her.

  “We cleared up one misunderstanding between us yesterday,” she said. “Why don’t we clear up this one?”

  “Which one is that?”

  “Officers, and you’re a good one, don’t fool around with enlisted women, right?”

  “I’m glad you understand that.”

  “And everyone knows that a recently widowed officer would have absolutely no interest in becoming romantically involved with another woman, especially a subordinate enlisted woman seven years older than he is, right?”

  She must have really gone through my personal files.

  “Right again. Is there going to be a written test on this?”

  “But you would agree that there is a great difference between a continuing romantic involvement and an every-once-in-a-while-as-needed purely physical relationship, if both parties are (a) aware of the difference, and (b) have been forced into the strangest perversion of them all?”

  “What the hell would that be?”

  “Oscar Wilde said it was celibacy,” she said.

  “I don’t think I like this conversation, Sergeant Colbert.”

  She laughed deep in her throat, and then pointed at his midsection.

  His erect penis had escaped his bathrobe.

  Her right hand reached for it, and with her left she pulled his face down to hers.

  She encountered little, virtually no, resistance.

  VIII

  [ONE]

  Suite 507

  Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten

  Maximilianstrasse 178

  Munich, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  0955 16 January 1946

  Knowing that Major Thomas G. “Dick Tracy” Derwin was either already behind the door or would be there shortly triggered many thoughts in Cronley’s mind as he put his hand on the enormous door lever and pushed down.

  He remembered being with Derwin at the officers’ club bar in Camp Holabird when the Squirt came in.

  He remembered why his fellow spooks in training had called Derwin “Dick Tracy,” and that it had not been rooted in admiration.

  What the hell does he want from me?

  He had dressed to meet him. That is, in triangled pinks and greens, not in his captain’s tunic, as that would have established the captain/major relationship between them.

  While he was putting on the triangled pinks and greens, he had thought about Ludwig Mannberg’s elegant wardrobe, now shared with Max Ostrowski. He thought it would be a good idea to get some civvies for himself. There were a lot of bona fide U.S. civilians around wearing civvies, so why not?

  The problem there was, where could he get some? He had two Brooks Brothers suits in Midland—two because his mother said he could be counted upon to spill soup on the first one he put on—and he didn’t think they would fit anyway.

  And, of course, he was concerned, deeply concerned, about what was going to happen when he faced Sergeant Claudette Colbert after their most-of-the-night romp in the sheets, which was probably the dumbest thing he’d done since he started screwing Rachel Schumann. Or more accurately, had allowed Rachel Schumann to play him for the three-star naïve fool he could not deny being.

  There were only two good things he could think of concerning his new relationship with Sergeant Colbert. He was willing to bet she wasn’t an NKGB agent, and she sure knew how to romp.

  And he wondered about not if, but how soon Fat Freddy would pick up on what was going on between him and good ol’ Sergeant Colbert.

  He pushed open the door and entered the room.

  Fat Freddy was behind his desk and Dette behind hers, hammering furiously at her typewriter. The door to Major Harold Wallace’s office was open. He was chatting with Major Thomas G. Derwin, who sat in front of his desk with a briefcase on his lap. Both looked out at him.

  “Good morning, sir,” Freddy said. “Major Derwin is here to see you. He’s in with Major Wallace.”

  “Sir,” Dette said, “General Gehlen said that he’d like to see you as soon as it’s convenient.”

  When Cronley looked at Colbert, she met his eyes. She smiled warmly, but it was just that, nothing more or less.

  “Did he say where he was?”

  “At the compound, sir.”

  “Please call him back and tell him I’ll come out there as soon as Major Derwin and I have finished talking about whatever he wants to talk about.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll make sure a car is available.”

  Cronley walked to Wallace’s office door.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  “Major Derwin has been waiting to see you, Jim,” Wallace said.

  “Captain Cronley,” Derwin said.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Major,” Cronley said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “It would be better, I think, if we discussed that privately.”

  What the hell does he want?

  “Sounds ominous. Did one of Tiny’s Troopers complain I’ve been mean t
o him?”

  Derwin didn’t reply.

  “Why don’t we go in my office?” Cronley asked.

  Derwin got to his feet and walked to the door. As they walked across the outer office, Dette asked, “Can I get you and the major coffee, sir?”

  “That would be very nice, Dette, thank you,” Cronley said. He turned to Major Derwin. “Should I ask Miss Colbert to bring her book?”

  “No. That won’t be necessary,” Derwin said firmly.

  The office, now that of the chief, DCI-Europe, had formerly been the office of Colonel Robert Mattingly and reflected both the colonel’s good taste and his opinion of his own importance in the scheme of things. It therefore was larger and more elegantly furnished than Wallace’s office, and he saw that Derwin had picked up on that.

  “Have a seat, please, Major,” Cronley said. “And when Miss Colbert has gotten us some coffee, you can tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Derwin took a seat, holding his briefcase on his lap, but said nothing.

  Dette came into the office, laid a coffee set on the table, poured, and then left.

  “Okay, Major. Let’s have it,” Cronley said.

  “Something has come to my attention, Cronley, that I thought, in the interest of fairness, I would ask you about before I go any further with my investigation.”

  There he goes again, playing Dick Tracy. “My investigation.”

  What the hell’s going on?

  “Which is?”

  “What would you care to tell me about your relationship with my predecessor, the late Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Schumann?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “And with Colonel Schumann’s wife, Mrs. Rachel Schumann?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Please, Captain Cronley, just answer the question.”

  “Okay. I knew both of them.”

  “How well?”

  “Slightly.”

  “So you’re telling me there’s nothing to the story that you tried to kill Colonel Schumann?”