Curtain of Death

by W. E. B Griffin

  “He say anything?”

  “Just, ‘Of course.’”

  “Oh.”

  “I was actually sticking around because I thought the commanding officer would need a ride. But while I was doing that, I wondered how long it was going to be before others—Tiny, Major Wallace, Max Ostrowski, that CIC agent Wallace brought down here, Sergeant Tedworth, Augie Ziegler—started wondering what the real nature of our relationship is.”

  “Why do I think this is leading up to some sort of announcement?”

  “We have to quit, Jim. Neither of us can afford to get caught.”

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Augie Ziegler, would it?”

  “It does. He’s coming on to me pretty strong. He wants to take me to dinner tonight, for example.”

  “And you want to go?”

  “Well, there it is—what I was afraid of, the Green-Eyed Monster.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “If I keep pushing Augie away, he’s going to wonder who his competition is. Eventually, he’ll get to you. Bingo!”

  “Yeah,” Cronley said.

  “Well?”

  “Why don’t you get Augie to take you to the Engineer Officers’ Club for dinner? According to Major Wallace, they have a nice kitchen. And Colonel Bristol and his wife are likely to be there and will see you.”

  “You are pissed, aren’t you?”

  He thought for a moment, then said, “What I am, really, is grateful that one of us was smart enough to see a major disaster looming.”

  Claudette reached for his hand and brought it to her mouth and kissed it.

  “You’re a good guy, Captain, sir. You go in the Great Memories file.”

  V

  [ ONE ]

  Suite 507

  Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten

  Maximilianstrasse 178

  Munich, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  1920 25 January 1946

  When Captain James D. Cronley Jr. and Miss Claudette Colbert walked into the office—the former holding the foil-wrapped necks of two bottles of Crémant d’Alsace, the latter carrying the heavy leather briefcase stuffed with the Odessa material—they found several people waiting for them.

  “The man at the Compound airstrip told me you landed at seventeen hundred,” Lieutenant Colonel George H. Parsons—the assistant chief of staff, G-2, the War Department’s senior liaison officer to the Directorate of Central Intelligence–Europe—greeted Cronley.

  It came out as an accusation, and Cronley’s temper flared and his mouth went on automatic.

  “Mr. Hessinger,” he said, “find out who told Colonel Parsons that, and tell him the next time he tells anyone but you or Miss Colbert when and where I land anywhere, I will be very distressed and will deal with him accordingly.”

  Hessinger said, “Yes, sir.”

  He thought, Scheiss! He’s about to get into it with Parsons!

  Major Warren W. Ashley, who was Colonel Parsons’s deputy, said, not very pleasantly, “The colonel needs to talk to you concerning an important matter, Captain!”

  Cronley turned to Claudette and extended the bottles to her.

  “Miss Colbert, will you put these in the refrigerator, please, while I see what’s on Colonel Parsons’s mind?”

  Claudette said, “Yes, sir.”

  She thought, Oh, Jimmy, watch your mouth!

  “We have been waiting for you since seventeen-thirty,” Colonel Parsons said. “No one seemed to know where you were.”

  “Colonel, with all due respect,” Cronley said, his tone short, “I don’t see how you can fault me for not being where and when you expect me to be if I don’t know where and when you expect me to be.”

  CIC Supervisory Special Agent John D. Hammersmith thought: You arrogant little sonofabitch! That’s a lieutenant colonel you’re talking to!

  CID Supervisory Special Agent August Ziegler thought: Five to one this light bird is going to stand him tall and eat his ass out!

  Then what’s Cronley going to do?

  And what the hell has he been up to for two hours with Claudette and that champagne?

  “I think it might be a good idea to set up a protocol, Captain Cronley,” Colonel Parsons said, “so that I can contact you in an emergency.”

  “Hessinger,” Cronley snapped, “did Colonel Parsons tell you he wanted to see me about an emergency?”

  Before Hessinger could reply, Parsons said, “Actually, this isn’t an emergency.”

  “Oh,” Cronley said. “Colonel, about an emergency protocol to contact me: There is one. If you had told Mr. Hessinger you wanted to see me on an emergency basis, he would have put it into play.”

  “And what would have happened had he done so?” Major Ashley demanded sarcastically.

  Cronley looked as if he was about to say something and then changed his mind.

  “Four people know where I am at all times, and where I am expected to go from there,” Cronley said finally. “They are Mr. Hessinger, Miss Colbert, Mr. Ostrowski, and Lieutenant Moriarty. If you had declared this to be an emergency—or even a very important situation—and Mr. Hessinger didn’t know himself where I was, and Miss Colbert was not available, he’d have gone next to Mr. Ostrowski, and finally to Lieutenant Moriarty. Had it gone that far, the lieutenant would have told Mr. Hessinger, and he would have told you, that I was—and Miss Colbert was—in Lieutenant Moriarty’s quarters at the Compound, having a little champagne to celebrate the Moriartys having just moved into their quarters.”

  Augie Ziegler thought: Well, Major, that should answer your question.

  But what was Claudette doing drinking champagne with everybody?

  Hammersmith thought: And with that answer he’s succeeded in pissing both Colonel Parsons and Major Ashley off.

  Doesn’t he know that, or doesn’t he care?

  Or, Christ, is he pissing them off on purpose?

  Hessinger thought: Well, that’s what would have happened, but it’s not a standard in-place protocol.

  He just made that up.

  “What’s on your mind, Colonel?” Cronley asked.

  “Odessa,” Colonel Parsons said.

  “Odessa?”

  “You have heard of Odessa?” Major Ashley asked sarcastically.

  “You mean that place on the Black Sea?” Cronley asked. “Where Roosevelt, Stalin, and Churchill held that conference?”

  “Major Ashley is asking about the organization,” Parsons said, “called Odessa, which is allegedly getting Nazi war criminals out of Germany to Argentina.”

  Hammersmith thought: And you know that, you smart-ass!

  “I thought that Odessa was—excuse the expression—bullshit, like the werewolves,” Cronley said.

  “I can assure you, Captain Cronley, that it is not,” Colonel Parsons said.

  “What’s Odessa got to do with me?” Cronley asked. “Or the DCI?”

  “This afternoon we received a Priority message from the War Department,” Parsons said, “asking that we furnish, ASAP, whatever information we have, or can collect from any source, about Odessa.”

  “They think it’s real?”

  Ziegler thought: You know it is. You’ve got a briefcase stuffed with Odessa material.

  Claudette thought: Jimmy, please be careful!

  Hessinger thought: What are you up to now? You know very well Odessa is real!

  “I would say that’s rather obvious, wouldn’t you, Captain Cronley?” Major Ashley said.

  “Did they say why they’re interested?” Cronley asked.

  “Is that any of your business?” Major Ashley asked.

  “Yes, I think it is.”

  “You don’t use the term ‘sir’ very much, do you, Captain?” Ashley snapped.

  “No disrespect intended,
Major, sir,” Cronley said.

  His tone suggested that might not be true.

  Claudette thought: Oh, Jimmy!

  “Back-channel, Cronley, for what it’s worth,” Colonel Parsons said, “I’ve heard that our military attaché in Buenos Aires . . .”

  Cronley thought: That would be the guy Cletus—or was it Ashley?—described as a horse’s ass who can’t find his ass with both hands.

  “. . . has been working with the FBI on the Odessa question.”

  “Colonel, may I make a suggestion?” Cronley asked.

  “Certainly.”

  “Why don’t you get in touch with General Greene? I know the CIC has been investigating this Odessa thing. Maybe he’d be able to help.”

  “You can’t?” Major Ashley said.

  “So far as I know, Odessa is bullshit,” Cronley said. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Actually, I have been in touch with General Greene,” Colonel Parsons said. “He apparently got essentially the same message I did from the Pentagon. He said he sent them what very little he had, and suggested that you might be able to help.”

  “I don’t know a damned thing about Odessa, but . . .”

  Cronley did not finish his sentence.

  Hammersmith thought: The Uniform Code of Military Justice 1928 Article 107. False official statements. Any person subject to this chapter who, with intent to deceive, makes any false official statement knowing it to be false, shall be punished as a court-martial may direct.

  And you know what you just told him is blatantly false, Cronley!

  What the hell are you up to?

  “But what?” Major Ashley challenged. “You either know something, or you don’t. Or do you have knowledge of Odessa and don’t want to share it with us?”

  Hammersmith thought: Ashley just nailed you, Cronley.

  If you tell him you don’t have any information on Odessa, then you’re making another false statement, and Article 107 comes into play.

  If you now come up with something, that means you lied to Colonel Parsons a moment ago, making it a violation of Article 107.

  This just may get you court-martialed, you smart-ass sonofabitch!

  Colonel Parsons, who is no fool, is probably looking for a chance to hang you out to dry!

  You’re not half as smart as you think you are! Not a quarter!

  “I was about to suggest that Mr. Hammersmith may be able to help, Colonel,” Cronley said. “General Greene told me that not only was Hammersmith one of his best agents, but that he often worked on investigations that no one else knew about. Maybe some of that involved Odessa.”

  “Really?” Colonel Parsons said. “Well, Mr. Hammersmith, can you help G-2 out? Did you ever do any work with regard to Odessa for General Greene?”

  Hammersmith felt a cramp in his stomach.

  He thought: Cronley, you sonofabitch!

  You just blindsided me, and I really didn’t see it coming!

  Just about everything Homer Greene knows about Odessa he got from me.

  But Parsons just said Homer told him he had “very little”!

  Why the hell did he do that?

  If Homer didn’t give Parsons everything he had . . .

  If he told him he had very little . . .

  Homer had to have a reason.

  Well, the one thing I’m not going to do is tell this Pentagon sonofabitch that Homer Greene lied to him.

  “Sorry, Colonel,” Hammersmith said. “I’m afraid I can’t be of any help.”

  “That’s a pity,” Colonel Parsons said, and then went on: “You realize, of course, Cronley, that I’m going to have to tell G-2 that DCI has absolutely nothing of importance on Odessa. Is that going to embarrass you?”

  “I don’t see why it should, sir. I can’t give them anything I don’t have. May I suggest you tell them that if we turn up anything, I’ll immediately give it to you?”

  “Of course,” Parsons said. “Let’s hope that happens. G-2 obviously thinks this is important.”

  He gestured to Major Ashley that they should leave.

  “We’ll be in touch, Cronley,” Parsons said. “Good evening, gentlemen. Miss Colbert.”

  —

  When the door had closed behind them, Cronley said, “Thanks, Hammersmith.”

  “What for?” Hammersmith replied.

  Cronley chuckled.

  “I wondered why the admiral suddenly decided we should start looking into Odessa,” Cronley said. “And now we know.”

  “I don’t understand,” Hammersmith said.

  “G-2 was told to stay away from Operation Ost. That cut the military attaché in Buenos Aires, who is under G-2, out of the picture. But that doesn’t mean the attaché doesn’t have a pretty good idea what’s been going on. But the ‘leave it alone’ order has meant he can’t officially report what he’s found out since he’s been told to leave it alone. But because the FBI is asking about it, what choice does he have but to cooperate with the FBI?

  “And the joint FBI–G-2 investigation will come up with what we’ve been doing. In other words, there are Nazis in Argentina, sent there by mysterious, certainly illegal, organizations called Odessa and Operation Ost, which are probably the same thing. When Hoover lays this on President Truman’s desk, as he will, the President will have no choice but to be terribly surprised, shocked, and outraged.

  “Which means we get—DCI gets—flushed down Sir Thomas Crapper’s marvelous invention, taking with us a bunch of good people.”

  Hammersmith thought: Damn. He’s right.

  And among the good people getting flushed down the crapper will be Homer Greene.

  And his old friend Jack Hammersmith.

  “Unless, of course, we can catch some senior people in Odessa,” Cronley went on, “and damned soon, before the FBI and G-2 finds out too much. Then, when Hoover lays their report on Truman’s desk, Truman can say, ‘Edgar, old buddy, the reason I told you to lay off this was because I knew those brilliant people in my DCI-Europe were about to lower the boom on Odessa. Which they did last week.’”

  Hammersmith thought: There’s damned little chance of that happening.

  “And how are we going to do that?” Hessinger asked.

  “I don’t have a fucking clue,” Cronley said. “Sorry, Dette.”

  She made a disparaging wave of her hand.

  “But in the last few minutes, I’ve had a couple of wild ideas,” Cronley said. “Based on my vast experience as an intelligence officer.”

  “Let’s hear them,” Hammersmith said, and was surprised when he heard himself.

  “Okay. I had lunch today with Commandant Jean-Paul Fortin, of the DST—”

  “The Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire?” Hammersmith interrupted.

  “Uh-huh. You know about it?”

  “I even know about Commandant Fortin,” Hammersmith said.

  “I think he’s more than a major,” Cronley said. “I think he’s a colonel.”

  Hammersmith thought: So do I.

  “Whatever his rank, he’s one smart sonofabitch,” Cronley went on. “And he has a personal interest in taking down Odessa. In his professional judgment, the only way to get inside Odessa is from the bottom.”

  “I tend to agree,” Hammersmith said thoughtfully.

  “To which end, we are about to send Sergeant Finney to Strasbourg with a load of cigarettes, canned hams, and coffee from my mother for my cousin Luther. Cousin Luther, we hope, will then skillfully put Al Finney on the slippery slope to corruption so that eventually he can—or the ambulances of the 711th Mobile Kitchen Renovation Company can—be pressured into moving people across borders as he and his men move around Germany, Austria, and Italy repairing mess hall stoves and electric potato peeling machines.”

  “And get into Od
essa from the bottom,” Hammersmith said. “That just might work.”

  “It probably will,” Cronley said. “But we (a) don’t know if it will work, and (b) I don’t think we have the time to wait and see if it does.”

  “What other choice do you have?” Hessinger asked.

  “Can I go off on a tangent here?” Hammersmith asked.

  “Why not?” Cronley replied.

  “I have a theory how Odessa is moving their people,” Hammersmith said. “I’ve been asking General Greene for the assets to check it out. They haven’t been available. Maybe this new situation will change that.”

  ‘What’s your theory?” Cronley said.

  “That they’re moving them on Stars and Stripes distribution trucks,” Hammersmith said.

  “On what?” Ziegler asked incredulously.

  Hammersmith didn’t reply directly, instead saying, “Stars and Stripes prints more than a half-million newspapers a day . . .”

  “Jesus! That many?” Ziegler said.

  “Shut up, Ziegler,” Cronley snapped. “Let him finish.”

  “. . . which are distributed all over the U.S. Forces European Theater, from Berlin to Italy. The printing plant is in a little dorf—Pfungstadt—twenty-five miles south of Frankfurt. Trucks set out seven days a week down the autobahns and major highways into Czechoslovakia, and down through the Brenner Pass through the Alps on the Italian-Austrian border. And into France.

  “The longest hauls—the ones to Trieste, Rome, Naples, and Vienna—run as high as three hundred and eighty miles. Which means that since they can’t make a round-trip that long in a day’s time, that at any time there are maybe eight or ten trucks heading south loaded with newspapers, and that many headed back to Pfungstadt empty.

  “The Constabulary’s got roadblocks all over their routes, but, human nature being human nature, I don’t think they look as closely as they should at what the Stars and Stripes trucks have in the back. They’re there every day.”

  “Yeah,” Cronley said thoughtfully.

  “Clever,” Hessinger said.

  “And you say Greene told you . . .”

  Hammersmith thought: That’s General Greene, Captain.