Curtain of Death

by W. E. B Griffin

  He pointed with his pencil at the map where the jeep teams would be stationed.

  “The first thing they will look for is any vehicle that comes out of Oberotterbach headed for Wissembourg and then turns around and heads back toward Oberotterbach. The occupants of that vehicle will be detained.

  “The next thing they will look for is the Stars and Stripes truck. They will keep it under observation until it stops, and goes through the unloading/reloading process Wagner described. It will be allowed to proceed for a kilometer or so, and then it will be stopped by one or more of the jeep teams.

  “When the newspapers have been unloaded and former SS-Brigadeführer Ulrich Heimstadter and his former deputy Standartenführer Oskar Müller have been removed from their cave, they will be trussed up like Christmas turkeys and loaded aboard Storch aircraft, which will have landed while the foregoing was going on, and flown to Kloster Grünau, where, Cronley tells me, there are sufficient cells, once used by monks, in which they can be conveniently incarcerated.”

  McMullen and the others waited thirty seconds for General White’s reaction.

  It was not what they expected.

  “Dick, maybe Cronley can be excused, but you should know better. This is not Leavenworth and the Command and General Staff School where you can stand around a sand table and play war games for a couple of hours and then head for the O Club for a couple of martinis. Grabbing these bastards is for real, and it’s pretty goddamned important.”

  McMullen’s ruddy face whitened.

  “Would the general be kind enough to show me where I went wrong?” he asked in a very soft voice.

  “I was about to do that, Colonel. You didn’t have to ask. Let’s start with these six four-man teams who are going to be responsible for carrying out this complex plan of yours. Where, knowing as you should that the average Constabulary trooper is eighteen-point-something years old, and has been in the Army less than a year, are you going to get them? And how do you plan to adequately train them to have any chance of accomplishing this complex operation you’re asking them to do in the time we have available?”

  “General . . .” Cronley began.

  “My questions were directed at Colonel McMullen, Captain Cronley,” White said coldly.

  “With all respect, sir,” Cronley said. “This is my—the DCI’s—operation, not the Constabulary’s. Any questions about it should be directed to me.”

  Thirty seconds later, Cronley thought, To judge by the look in his eyes, I am going to die a painful death right here and right now.

  “Would you be kind enough, Mr. Cronley, to answer the questions I posed to Colonel McMullen?” White asked.

  “Yes, sir. No reflection on the Constabulary, sir, but I thought it would be better to use Tiny’s Troopers for this operation. The only things I need from the Constabulary are the jeeps, someone to drive them, and the radios. I don’t have such equipment, and I don’t have the time to try to get it.”

  “And the training? How are you going to arrange that in the limited time we have?”

  “Colonel Wilson and Honest Abe Tedworth are in the process of doing that now at Kloster Grünau, sir.”

  “Who the hell is Honest Abe Whatever you said?” White demanded angrily.

  He’s pissed because I was right, and I’m a captain, and he’s a two-star general, and he knows he was wrong to jump on McMullen.

  “First Sergeant Abraham Lincoln Tedworth of Company C, 203rd Tank Destroyer Battalion, sir. DCI’s security force. Company C is on detached service from the Constabulary and wear Constabulary insignia.”

  “I asked who he was, Mr. Cronley,” White snapped. “What are his qualifications for doing something like this?”

  “I don’t think there’s anybody around who’s qualified to do something like this. But Honest Abe comes highly recommended.”

  “By whom?”

  Gotcha! You’re probably going to go back to Highly Pissed on the Edge of Apoplexy, but I got you!

  “By Captain Dunwiddie, sir. Tedworth and Tiny—and Mr. Finney, now that I think of it—were in Charley Company when it got nearly wiped out in the Battle of the Bulge. Tiny made Abe first sergeant when he took his commission. There’s no doubt in my mind that Colonel Wilson and Honest Abe can train Tiny’s Troopers to carry this off.”

  “I wondered where the hell Hotshot Billy was,” White said, in almost a mutter. Then he raised his voice. “Greg, have you been paying attention to all this?”

  Second Lieutenant Douglas replied, “Yes, sir.”

  “Pay close attention to this. It doesn’t happen very often. General officers too often tend to think of themselves as all wise and incapable of making a mistake.”

  “Sir?”

  “Colonel McMullen and Mr. Cronley, please accept my sincere apology for underestimating you. Wagner and Finney, you can include yourself in my apology.”

  “General, no apology is necessary,” McMullen said.

  “If I didn’t think an apology was necessary, Dick, I goddamn sure wouldn’t have offered one. Accepted or not?”

  “Accepted under duress, sir.”

  “Cronley?”

  “Unnecessary, but accepted, sir. Thank you.”

  White grunted and then said, “Now that we’re back to being pals bubbling all over with mutual admiration and comradely affection, I’ve got a couple more questions, Jim, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “What did the Frenchmen get out of Stauffer vis-à-vis the mole we suspect is in your organization?”

  “Nothing, sir,” Finney said.

  “Anything about how he found out that Jim is head of DCI?”

  “No, sir. When I called off the interrogation, he was still saying he knew nothing about either subject.”

  “Why did you call off the interrogation?”

  Finney hesitated a moment before replying.

  “Sir, I didn’t want to have to tell Mr. Cronley that his cousin had passed away after falling down in the shower.”

  “If the mole we suspect—hell, know—is around here learns about this operation, it’s dead,” White said.

  “Yes, sir,” Finney said. “Well, we’re going to try again when we have Stauffer at Kloster Grünau.”

  “You took him there?”

  “Captain DuPres suggested that we take away what comfort Stauffer was taking from being in familiar surroundings by moving him somewhere where he would be uncomfortable,” Finney said. “And we wanted to give him time to think.”

  “And recuperate a little so that he doesn’t fall in the shower?”

  “Yes, sir. That too. And I thought we’d give Major Bischoff a shot at him, and we could do that in the monastery.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “General Gehlen’s interrogator, sir,” Cronley furnished. “He was the Sicherheitsdienst’s mole in Abwehr Ost until the general turned him.”

  “Do you think one of Gehlen’s people is the mole?”

  “General Gehlen considers that a strong possibility, sir.”

  “Under the circumstances, I suggest, all we can do is hope that the mole doesn’t find out what we’re doing here.”

  “Yes, sir. That seems to be it,” Cronley agreed.

  “Or that we find the mole,” Finney said.

  “Presuming you can carry off getting Heimstadter and Müller off the Stars and Stripes truck alive, you’re going to move them to Kloster Grünau, is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In your Storch airplanes?”

  “Yes, sir. We can get them onto and off that road without a problem. And then it’s a short flight to the monastery,” Cronley said.

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Colonel Wilson and myself, sir.”

  “Pay attention, Greg,” White said.

 
“Yes, sir,” Second Lieutenant Gregory Douglas said.

  “There is a lamentable tendency among officers senior enough and/or bright enough to plan an operation such as this to hear a bugler sound ‘Charge’ and involve themselves personally in its execution. This often has disastrous results.”

  “Sir,” Cronley said. “I suggest it’s a question of the pilots best qualified to accomplish the mission.”

  “I suggest that the pilot . . . what’s his name, Kurt Schröder? . . . who flew General Gehlen all over Russia in a Storch could probably—”

  “Colonel McMullen,” Cronley interrupted. “Change in our manning table: Colonel Wilson out of Storch number one, replaced by DCI agent Kurt Schröder.”

  “Good idea,” McMullen replied. “The Army can ill afford to lose such a distinguished leader by his crashing an illegal airplane onto a country road on the Franco-German border.”

  “I further suggest that Tom Winters,” White went on, “could also probably fly an illegal airplane onto—”

  “General, Tom just had a baby. A boy. He’s going to name it Thomas Halford Winters—”

  “Is that a miracle? Or did Mrs. Winters just give birth to a male child?”

  “The latter, sir,” Cronley said.

  “Then, if you were so inclined, Captain Cronley, you could tell Colonel McMullen to make another change in your manning table, to wit: chief, DCI-Europe, out of Storch number two, replaced by Lieutenant Thomas Halford Winters the Third, correct?”

  “Please do so, Colonel McMullen,” Cronley said.

  “Good idea,” White said. “That will serve two purposes. When I next see Major General Thomas Halford Winters Junior I will be able to congratulate him on the arrival of his grandson, and also tell him that his son was selected by the chief, DCI-Europe, personally to fly an important mission because of his unusual skill in flying illegal airplanes.”

  McMullen laughed.

  “And the changes you and McMullen have just made to the manning table, Cronley, may save two officers who, in the probably failing wisdom of my dotage, I believe will make substantial contributions to the Army in coming years, providing they stop listening to the bugler blowing ‘Charge.’”

  He paused, and then went on, “Greg, if you think you will have trouble remembering all this, write it down.”

  “Yes, sir,” Second Lieutenant Gregory Douglas said.

  “And now that we are apparently through here, Mr. Cronley,” White said, “I presume you will get back in your illegal airplane and fly off to your monastery, and deliver a message to Hotshot Billy to get his tail back here?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cronley said. “But not today. That will have to wait until tomorrow. I have things to do at the Compound, and I don’t want Colonel Wilson to think I’m looking over his shoulder while he sets up the operation.”

  “You know, I know that we’re pressed for time. Having said that, I’d be pleased if you—all of you—would join me at lunch.”

  “Very kind of you, sir. Thank you very much.”

  [ THREE ]

  Kloster Grünau

  Schollbrunn, Bavaria

  American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  1355 9 February 1946

  “Everything seems to be in order,” Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson said to Captain James D. Cronley Jr. “That worries the hell out of me.”

  First Sergeant Abraham Lincoln Tedworth laughed.

  “The best-laid plans of mice and men . . .” Wilson began.

  “Gang aft agley,” Tedworth finished for him. “But I think we have everything covered, Colonel.”

  Me too, Cronley thought.

  He was impressed with what Wilson and Honest Abe had set up in so little time.

  There were six Constabulary jeeps lined up. Each had a BC-654 Radio Receiver Transmitter mounted in it. It would permit communication not only between the jeeps, but with Kloster Grünau, where he and Hotshot Billy would be during the operation.

  The jeeps were also stuffed with sleeping bags, which Honest Abe had told them, based on his experiences in the Battle of the Bulge, were about the best way to keep warm when one was “standing around in the woods in the middle of winter with a thumb in one’s anal orifice waiting to see what was going to happen next.”

  Tedworth and Wilson had also come up with stoves burning jellied gasoline—which gave off no smoke—on which the men could heat rations and reheat previously brewed coffee during the long hours they would be hiding in the forest waiting for what they were looking for to appear.

  “Boots and saddles time, Colonel?” Tedworth asked.

  Wilson had decided the best way to avoid suspicion about half a dozen Constabulary jeeps driving through Oberotterbach was to send the first one as soon as possible, with the others following at staggered, long intervals.

  “Why not?” Wilson said, and then put his fist to his mouth and mimicked the bugle call.

  Tedworth smiled, and then put his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.

  Two of Tiny’s Troopers and the Constabulary trooper who would drive the jeep trotted up to them.

  “Load up,” Tedworth ordered. The men began to load themselves and their weapons into the first jeep in the line.

  The plan was that Tedworth would go to the road between Oberotterbach and the Franco-German border first, and find a place to hide the jeep about halfway down the road. He and his men would then find the best places for the other jeeps to hide, marking them by doing something to the kilometer markers along the road—putting a rock on them, or overturning them, or sweeping the snow away from them. When the arriving jeep teams were off the road, they’d contact Tedworth by radio, and then he or one of his men would meet them and show them the best place to hide.

  When the others had finished cramming themselves into the jeep, Tedworth got into the front seat. He saluted and then gestured for the driver to get going.

  “I guess it’s time for Schröder to fly me to face the wrath of ol’ I.D.,” Wilson said.

  “I don’t think he’s pissed.”

  “He’s always pissed,” Wilson said, offered Cronley his hand, and then walked to where the Storches were parked.

  “And I suppose it’s time for me to have a chat with Cousin Luther,” Cronley said, although there was no one within earshot.

  [ FOUR ]

  Technical Sergeant James L. Martin, who was six feet three, and weighed 235 pounds, led Luther Stauffer into the room that had once been the office of the father superior of the monastery. Sergent-chef Ibn Tufail followed him.

  “Put him in the chair,” Cronley ordered.

  Martin guided Stauffer into the chair with a massive hand on his shoulder, and then stood behind and to the left of him.

  He doesn’t seem to be badly beaten up.

  Well, I suppose if you’re as skilled as Sergent-chef Ibn Tufail and DuPres are, you can cause a lot of pain without leaving too many marks.

  “So we meet again, Luther,” Cronley said in German.

  “Tell your mother about it, the next time you write her, Cousin James,” Stauffer said.

  Martin slapped him with the back of his hand.

  “But if you don’t feel like writing, don’t worry. When my wife learns what you’ve done to me, and she will, Ingebord will let her know.”

  Martin slapped him again, harder.

  What the hell is that? Audacity?

  “Luther, you’re really not in a position to threaten me. And sarcasm is not nice.”

  “What position am I in, Cousin James?”

  Martin slapped him hard again.

  “You heard the captain,” Martin said in German. “Sarcasm is not nice.”

  I didn’t know Martin spoke German until just now.

  “I’d say a pretty difficult one. You’re in trouble, and you’re going to be in
deeper trouble if you don’t tell us who told you that I’m not really a Quartermaster second lieutenant who repairs potato-peeling machines.”

  “A little bird told me and then flew away, Cousin James.”

  You arrogant sonofabitch!

  Martin slapped him again, this time causing blood to run from his nostrils.

  What the fuck is wrong with him? Does he like getting slapped?

  Maybe he figures DuPres or Fortin, when we’re finished with this, is going to shoot him in the knees and elbows with a .22 and then throw him in the Rhine like he did the priest. The sonofabitch has certainly heard about that.

  Or maybe he thinks he’s still Sturmführer Stauffer and is holding up the honor of the Schutzstaffel while being interrogated by the enemy. Name, rank, and serial number only, even if you pull out my fingernails.

  And then when the epiphany came, Cronley said, “Oh, shit!”

  “Sir?” Sergeant Martin asked.

  “Martin, take my cousin Luther out somewhere where . . . No, put the sonofabitch back in his cell. For the time being, I’m through with him. And then make sure that Captain DuPres and I are not disturbed while we have a chat.”

  “Yes, sir,” Martin said.

  —

  “He’s not going to give us the mole, Jim,” DuPres said, when Martin closed the door after him. “Or anything else unless I let Ibn Tufail loose, and Commandant Fortin said I was not to do that without your permission.”

  “Pierre, I have noticed that when Frenchmen give people a gift, the person gifted gives the giver a kiss on the cheeks. True?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Cronley motioned for DuPres to come closer, and when he did, Cronley grabbed his shoulders and kissed him wetly on both cheeks.

  And when he turned him loose, he wiggled a finger at Sergent-chef Ibn Tufail to come close and kissed both of his cheeks.

  “Jim?” DuPres asked. “What—”

  “I have just had one of the famous James D. Cronley Junior epiphanies.”

  “A what?”

  “I have just had a sudden and striking realization vis-à-vis my cousin Luther that I should have figured out—or at least suspected—a long time ago.”