“You’re admitting that what you’re doing is illegal?” Orlovsky asked.
“I didn’t say that. Is Operation Ost illegal? No. It’s been approved at the highest levels of our government. It’s clandestine, because we don’t want it all over the front page of the Washington Star newspaper. Got it?”
“Let’s say I heard what you said.”
“Good. I would hate to feel you weren’t listening,” Cronley replied. “Now, the Argentine J. Edgar to whom Major Ashton—I did tell you, didn’t I, that Polo is Major Maxwell Ashton? That he’s the officer coming here to take the heavy burden of command from my inadequate shoulders?”
“I heard that, too,” Orlovsky said.
“Where was I? Oh. The Argentine J. Edgar to whom Polo Slash Major Ashton refers is General Bernardo Martín, who heads the Argentine Bureau of Internal Security. He and Colonel Frade work closely together and have become friends.”
“You’re suggesting that Colonel Frade turned the head of the Argentine security agency?”
“No. I didn’t say that. Colonel Frade’s father, also known as Colonel Frade, did that. He turned Martín. Or General Martín turned himself.”
“Turned himself?”
“At one time, the president of Argentina, who was not a very nice man, suspected there was a coup d’état under way which would see him replaced as president by Colonel Frade the elder. He charged Martín, then a lieutenant colonel, with stopping it.
“Martín, realizing that Colonel Frade would be a much better president than the incumbent, decided that his duty as an officer whose primary allegiance should be to his country could not follow these orders. So he turned and allied himself with Colonel Frade. The coup d’état was successful.”
“You don’t really expect me to believe that Colonel Frade’s father is the Argentine president?”
“I didn’t say he was. The Nazis had Colonel Frade assassinated. They didn’t want him to be the president. They are not nice people.”
“And yet you are protecting Nazis from justice,” Orlovsky said.
“That’s true. That was the price General Gehlen negotiated for his turning. He knew what the NKGB would do to his officers, and to their families, if they got their hands on them. And so do you, Konstantin. General Gehlen decided turning, and saving his officers and their families from the NKGB, was the honorable thing for him to do as an officer and a Christian. Even though he knew some of his officers were Nazis and deserved to be hung.”
Orlovsky didn’t reply as his eyes met Gehlen’s, and Gehlen nodded once.
Cronley went on: “Saving innocent wives and children from unpleasantness, even death, is the honorable thing to do if one has the choice, wouldn’t you agree, Major Orlovsky?”
“Treason is never honorable,” Orlovsky said, looking at Cronley.
“Sometimes treason is the only alternative to doing something truly dishonorable,” Gehlen said.
“Nothing is ever black or white,” Cronley said. “Do they say that in Russia, Konstantin?”
“Would you be offended if I told you I’m more than tired of hearing your perverse philosophy? You sound like nineteen-year-olds in the first year of university.”
“We used to say,” Mannberg offered, “when I was in the first year of university, that ‘perversion, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.’”
“When I was in my first year at my university,” Cronley said with a straight face, “I didn’t know what perversion was. We don’t have much of that sort of thing in Texas.”
All three shook their heads in disbelief.
“Moving right along,” Cronley said after a moment, “in the next two paragraphs Major Ashton tells us that he is leaving Mendoza—our operation there is literally on a mountaintop—to meet Colonel Frade when he arrives in Buenos Aires.
“The Jesuit priest is Father Welner. Although he didn’t say so, I suspect that General Martín will also be at the airfield when Colonel Frade arrives. He’ll have to be brought into this eventually, and sooner is usually better than later.”
No one said anything.
“So, I think in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, the Good Jesuit should be here to offer his wise counsel. He and Major Ashton. I hope.”
Again there was no response.
“So unless you have further questions, Konstantin?”
“None, thank you.”
Cronley raised his voice. “Sergeant Lewis! Have lunch served! And don’t forget the vodka for Major Orlovsky.”
Lunch was served. A bottle of beer and a bottle of vodka were placed before the Russian.
He ate his lunch.
He did not touch the vodka.
In the course of conversation, General Gehlen asked Orlovsky if he was familiar with the theory of Field Marshal Helmuth Karl Bernhard Graf von Moltke that no plan survives contact with the enemy.
Orlovsky said he was.
Gehlen said: “A friend of mine recently suggested that the roots of that theory can be found in von Moltke’s The Russo-Turkish Campaign in Europe, 1828–1829. Are you familiar with that, Major Orlovsky?”
Orlovsky said he was.
“What do you think of my friend’s theory that in that book was the first time von Moltke said what he said so often later.”
Orlovsky told him he’d never considered that before, but now that he thought about it, the general’s friend was obviously right.
The Russo-Turkish campaign of 1828–1829 was then discussed at some length by General Gehlen and Major Orlovsky. Captain Cronley and Colonel Mannberg, who knew next to nothing about the campaign, sat and listened and said nothing. Both were deeply impressed with the erudition of the general and the major, and both wondered privately if they should make an effort to get their hands on a copy.
When lunch was over, Orlovsky refused a brandy to top the meal off, but had two cups of coffee.
Then Captain Cronley summoned Staff Sergeant Harold Lewis Jr., and Orlovsky was taken into Cronley’s bedroom, changed back into his prisoner’s clothing, re-shackled and re-handcuffed, covered again with a blanket and a duffel bag, and returned to das Gasthaus.
After he had gone, Cronley asked, “How do you think that went?”
After a moment, Gehlen said, “I don’t know. Either he’s coming around, or he’s smarter than both of us.”
Cronley had a number of immediate thoughts.
The first was, Is it possible that Orlovsky is smarter than Gehlen? God knows he’s smarter than I am. Not to mention more experienced.
The second was, If Gehlen doesn’t know how that went, how can I be expected to know?
The third was, He left Mannberg out of that. “Both of us” is not “we.”
The fourth was, I’m going to have to do something about Rachel before that blows up in my face.
[ THREE ]
Kloster Grünau
Schollbrunn, Bavaria
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1505 5 November 1945
Cronley watched as the three GMC 6×6 trucks that had carried the First Platoon of Company C, 203rd Tank Destroyer Battalion to the Pullach compound approached Kloster Grünau. The jeeps that had been with them had apparently stayed at the compound. That meant the jeeps—more specifically their pedestal-mounted .50 caliber Browning machine guns—were already guarding the compound, and that in turn meant the compound was up and running. And, finally, that in turn meant that the sooner everybody going to the compound got there, the better.
As the first truck rolled slowly past Cronley, Technical Sergeant James L. Martin jumped nimbly to the ground with what Cronley considered amazing agility for someone of his bulk.
Martin saluted.
“How’d it go, Sergeant?” Cronley asked as he returned the salute.
“Dunwiddie said he’d give you
a full report when he gets here, sir, but it went well. Clark and Abraham should be halfway to Frankfurt with the ambulances about now. That ASA lieutenant . . . ?”
“Stratford?”
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Stratford sent one of his non-coms with them to make sure there’s no problems stashing the vehicles. He, the sergeant, is going to get on his radio net and tell the lieutenant when they’re there, and that info will be relayed here to you on the SIGABA.”
“Good thinking.”
“Tiny said he’s going to stay as long as he can before he gets that Kraut to fly him home, so he should be here just before it gets dark.”
“Good,” Cronley said, and decided this was not the time to suggest, politely or otherwise, that Germans normally do not like to be called Krauts.
He had an off-the-wall thought: I guess if you’re as large as Martin, you get used to saying just about anything you please, because only someone larger than you can call you on it, and there aren’t very many people larger than Martin.
General Gehlen walked up to them.
Martin saluted.
He’s not supposed to do that, either. But this isn’t the time or place to get into that, either.
“How are you, Sergeant Martin?” Gehlen asked. He did not return the salute.
Martin picked up on it.
“Sorry, sir. Captain. It’s just that I’m an old soldier and I know the general was a general . . .”
“Try a little harder, and all will be forgiven,” Cronley said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I was wondering when you planned to start moving my people,” Gehlen said.
Martin looked at Cronley. “Tiny . . . First Sergeant Dunwiddie said to tell you, sir, Captain, that you can start sending them anytime.”
“I was going to suggest, Captain Cronley, that we send Herr Mannberg to the Pullach compound early on,” Gehlen said.
“You’re going to go back as soon as you load up, right?” Cronley asked Martin.
“Yes, sir. Taking three more jeeps.”
“General Gehlen, please tell Herr Mannberg to pack his bags and that he has a choice between riding in the cab of a truck or in a jeep.”
“Which will leave how soon, would you say?”
“Forty-five minutes,” Martin furnished.
“And what are your plans to move the families?” Gehlen asked.
“We’re down to two ambulances—personnel transport vehicles—now that we sent two to Frankfurt, right?” Cronley asked.
“Six,” Martin corrected him. “Tiny had them paint over the red crosses and the bumpers on four more ambulances a couple of days ago.”
Proving once again that First Sergeant Dunwiddie, who knows how to plan ahead, should be in command here, not me.
“I didn’t know that,” Cronley confessed. “Now that I do, what about setting up a convoy to leave in, say, an hour and a half, all the trucks, and all the ambulances and three jeeps? Can your people handle that, General?”
“They’ll be ready,” Gehlen said. “And I have one more suggestion to make, if I may?”
Cronley nodded.
“I don’t think any of my people should leave the Pullach compound until further notice. Mannberg could ensure that they don’t.”
Gehlen saw the confusion on Cronley’s face.
“Leaving the compound,” Gehlen clarified, “would afford those of my people who have turned the opportunity to communicate with the NKGB.”
“I should have thought about that,” Cronley said.
“You’ve had a lot on your mind,” Gehlen said.
That was kind of him.
He knows almost as well as I do, though, that Little Jimmy Cronley is way over his head in running this operation.
—
As darkness fell, Cronley thought he saw another proof of his incompetence—or at least his inability to think problems through—within minutes of Dunwiddie’s return to Kloster Grünau in the other Storch.
Dunwiddie reported that they had heard from Lieutenant Stratford’s sergeant that the two ambulances had arrived at the ASA’s relay station outside Frankfurt.
“I told them to leave wherever they are at 0900 for Eschborn. One at 0900 and the other at 0930.”
“Why are they going to do that?” Cronley asked.
“So (a) they know how to get to Eschborn, and (b) we know how long it’s going to take them. We’ll use the longest time as the standard.”
“I should have thought of that, too,” Cronley confessed.
Dunwiddie looked at him curiously. Cronley explained that he had also not thought about confining the Germans to the Pullach compound so that the turned Germans known to be among them could not communicate with the NKGB.
Dunwiddie’s response was much like General Gehlen’s.
“You’ve got a lot on your plate, Jim. Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Okay, I figure if you leave at first light for Eschborn, you should be back here at, say, half past two.”
“Right.”
Tiny has a good reason that I should fly to Eschborn. I will pretend I have thought of that good reason, because I don’t want to look as incompetent as I am.
Oh. General principles. To be as sure as possible that a plan will work, perform a dry run.
Jesus, I didn’t think of even that!
“How’s Konstantin?” Dunwiddie asked.
“We—Gehlen, Mannberg, and I—matched wits again with him at lunch. General Gehlen and I are in agreement that we don’t know who won. But he did eat his lunch and drink a beer.”
“Well, I will examine the subject carefully at supper and then render my expert opinion. But Gehlen said he can’t tell who’s winning?”
“That’s what he said.”
Cronley had a sudden epiphany, and blurted it out.
“I can. I do. Orlovsky’s winning. Or he thinks he’s winning, which is just about the same thing. He thinks that he’s got us figured out and that he’s smarter than we are. Which is probably true.”
“I have the feeling you decided that just now.”
“I did. I don’t know why I didn’t—or Gehlen didn’t—figure that out earlier, but that’s it. I’m sure of it.”
“What didn’t you figure out?”
“He was too relaxed. There was no battle of wits, because he wasn’t playing that game. Instead of us playing with him, he was playing with us. Now we’re back to my examining the subject at dinner.”
“Let’s go talk to Gehlen.”
—
“Jim, I don’t know,” General Gehlen said as Dunwiddie freshened the Haig & Haig scotch whisky in his glass. “But I did have a thought about Konstantin that I didn’t share with anyone.”
“What kind of a thought?”
“What you and Tiny would probably call a wild hair.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I don’t think Major Konstantin Orlovsky is quite who we think he is.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“I think he may be further up in the NKGB hierarchy than we think. I suspect he may be at least a colonel, and may even hold higher rank.”
“Would the NKGB send a senior officer over a barbed-wire fence?” Dunwiddie asked.
“They wouldn’t do so routinely, which is one of the reasons I never mentioned this to anyone.”
“What does Mannberg think of your theory?” Cronley asked.
“I never mentioned this to anyone, Jim,” Gehlen repeated. There was just the hint of reproof in his tone of voice.
Cronley picked up on it and said, “Sorry, sir.”
Gehlen accepted the apology with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Going down this street,” Dunwiddie said, “why would the NKGB send a senior officer over a barbed-wire fence?”
“Including Mannberg?” Tiny asked.
“Including Ludwig Mannberg,” Gehlen said. “There aren’t many justifications for the NKGB to send a major—much less a lieutenant colonel or a colonel—‘over a barbed-wire fence,’ as you put it, Tiny.”
“What would they be?”
“Short answers: to establish contact with someone of equal rank, or to convince someone fairly senior that the agent who was controlling them was telling them the truth. In other words, that they were indeed dealing with a senior NKGB officer, not just an agent.”
“I’m not sure I understand you, General,” Dunwiddie said. “Do you think it is likely Orlovsky is more important—a far more senior officer—than we have been thinking? Or that it is possible but unlikely?”
“I wouldn’t have brought this up if I believed the latter.”
“Supper, now that I know this, should be very interesting,” Dunwiddie said.
“We are not going to have the sonofabitch to supper,” Cronley said.
“We’re not?” Gehlen asked.
“I don’t want the bastard to know we’re onto him,” Cronley said. “You, General, might—you probably could—be able to hide what you think about him. Dunwiddie and I are amateurs at this and he’d probably sense something.”
“Additionally,” Gehlen said, “since the basic idea is to keep him off balance, if he’s not invited he’ll wonder why.”
“You think I’m right, sir?” Dunwiddie said.
“I know you are.” Gehlen looked at Cronley. “And I say that because I believe it, not because it means I can ask Tiny to pour a bit more of the Haig & Haig into my glass.”
[ FOUR ]
Kloster Grünau
Schollbrunn, Bavaria
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1605 6 November 1945
In the Storch, Cronley literally heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the floodlights on the perimeter of Kloster Grünau. “Dicey” had been too inadequate a term to describe his chances of getting home.
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