“Turn Colonel Mattingly loose, Ivan,” von Deitelberg ordered. “The operation didn’t go quite as we planned it.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Serov obeyed.
“You realize, Janice, that you can’t use this,” Cronley said. “We have to find out what this kidnapping operation is all about . . .”
“I know,” she replied, “but you are going to have to be very nice to me, sweetie, while I’m weeping for all the money I’m not going to get from Hollywood for this natural-for-a-movie yarn.”
WAYWARD OFFICERS GO HOME TO FACE REPRIMAND
By Janice Johansen
Associated Press Foreign Correspondent
Berlin February 13—
What at first appeared to be an international incident in the making turned out to be nothing more than two officers, one Russian and the other American, drinking too much in the wrong places.
The issue was resolved at nine o’clock this morning in Berlin, when Russian officers marched Colonel Robert Mattingly, of USFET headquarters, to the center of the Glienicke Bridge while simultaneously American officers marched Major of State Security Venedikt Ulyanov, of the Allied Kommandatura, to the same place.
A white line in the center of the bridge over the River Havel marks the dividing line between the Russian and American zones of Berlin. Once the two officers reached that line, Russian officers released Colonel Mattingly into the custody of an American captain, probably a military policeman, who in turn released Major Ulyanov into the custody of a Russian major, also probably a military policeman.
This reporter has learned exclusively that despite early reports that Colonel Mattingly was missing and kidnapping was suspected, and that Major Ulyanov had been kidnapped in retaliation, the truth seems to be that prior to their exchange on the Glienicke Bridge, Colonel Mattingly was sitting in a jail cell in Thuringia, in East Germany, after his arrest for driving under the influence, and Major Ulyanov was sitting in a West Berlin jail after his arrest for public intoxication on the Kurfürstendamm.
Both headquarters, Berlin Command and the Allied Kommandatura, refused to confirm or deny what this reporter had learned, but a U.S. Army spokesman said “the incident is under investigation.”
Janice Johansen walked up to where Cronley and the others were standing just inside the door of the hotel’s main ballroom.
“Hi, Harry,” she said. “Is the sailor who I think he is?”
“Admiral, may I introduce Miss Janice Johansen of the Associated Press?” Colonel Wallace said.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Johansen,” Souers said. “I want you to know how much I appreciate your cooperation.”
“When Jimmy asks me to do something in our noble war against the Soviets, as a patriotic American girl, I’m putty in his arms.”
“How fortunate for all of us,” the admiral said.
“Speaking of Jimmy—what’s with the medals, sweetie?”
“Don’t ask,” Cronley said.
“What is it you don’t want me to know?”
“On his relief as chief, DCI-Europe, President Truman decided the award of the Legion of Merit was appropriate recognition for his superb performance of that duty,” the admiral said.
“That raises several questions in my mind,” she said.
“Shoot,” Souers said.
“Why is he getting relieved? That looks to me like you’re handing him the shitty end of the stick. If it wasn’t for Jimmy, Mattingly would still be chained to a chair in Potsdam, or on his way to Siberia.”
“That’s one of the reasons President Truman gave him the Legion of Merit,” Souers said.
“I don’t know how it is in the Navy, Admiral, but around here, majors and up get the Legion of Merit for dodging the clap, or other social diseases, for six months.”
“So I’ve heard,” the admiral replied. “I guess Jim qualifies that way, too.”
“Actually, I was asking about the other medal dangling from Jimmy’s manly chest. I recognize the Distinguished Service Medal when I see it. You going to tell me where you got that, sweetie?”
“Sweetie can’t tell you that, Janice. It’s classified.”
“You think I work for the NKGB, right?”
“It never entered my mind. Female NKGB agents usually weigh two hundred and fifty pounds and have at least two stainless steel teeth.”
“I’m starting to like you,” Janice said. “That’ll stop if you don’t tell me why Jimmy’s being relieved.”
“Fair enough. Out of school, DCI-Europe is about to be tripled in size. It needs a senior officer to run it. It’s as simple as that.”
“So Harry gets to pin his eagle on, and Jimmy gets to do what? Run the motor pool for the tripled-in-size DCI-Europe? Something like that?”
“He gets to do something he’s uniquely qualified to do.”
“Like what?”
“For example, acting as liaison between General Gehlen and Mr. Schultz and me, and between DCI-Europe and DCI–Southern Cone, and keeping Justice Jackson from being kidnapped by the NKGB.”
Janice considered that a moment.
“I think you’re too smart, Admiral, to try to con me . . .”
“Thank you.”
“So I’ll take that as the truth. I think our Red friends are going to cause trouble at Nuremberg, and Jimmy’s good at screwing up their evil intentions. But what’s with him wearing his medals? For that matter, what’s he doing here at Mattingly’s farewell party?”
“Since your interest in Captain Cronley’s welfare touches the cockles of this old sailor’s heart, Janice, I’ll tell you. You see General Seidel standing in the line with General Greene and Colonel Mattingly?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, he’s being transferred to the Pentagon. He and his staff—who are not going to Washington with him—think it’s a promotion, and that means they think G-2’s war on the DCI is going well. When they see me—and Jim wearing his new Legion of Merit—they will know that’s not so. And when Homer Greene drops into the conversation that DCI, in the person of Jim, is taking over protection of Mr. Justice Jackson, they’ll really get the message.”
“How does General Greene feel about me doing that?” Cronley asked.
“He said he thinks you’re just the guy for the job,” Souers said. “His CIC people there now—the Twenty-first CIC Detachment—are of course Army. The Army—the 1st Infantry Division—who has been charged with providing security for the trials thinks that includes protecting Bob Jackson and his people. There have been conflicts between the 1st Division and Greene’s people.”
“I suppose it’s occurred to you that you guys spend as much time in turf warfare as you do fighting the Red Menace?” Janice asked.
“Oh, yeah,” the admiral said. “That thought has passed once or twice through this old sailor’s mind. If you have a solution to our problem, Janice, I’m all ears.”
When she didn’t immediately reply, the admiral said, “That being the case, why don’t we all go over and make our manners to Generals Seidel and Greene and, of course, Colonel Mattingly?”
“That should be fun,” Janice said. “Homer Greene told me that Mattingly was practically in tears about my yarn about his drunken driving in East Germany. He said it would follow him for the rest of his life and ruin his career. Homer said what he said was ‘I’d like to strangle that bitch.’”
She put her hand on Cronley’s arm.
“Let’s go, sweetie,” she said.
“Into the valley of death,” Colonel Wallace said, “marches the noble DCI.”
II
[ONE]
Farber Palast
Stein, near Nuremberg
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1905 20 February 1946
A three-vehicle convoy rolled up to the palace, whic
h was red-roofed and three stories tall. In the lead was a gleaming Horch touring car. Following it was an olive-drab 1941 Ford staff car whose bumper markings identified it as the eleventh vehicle assigned to the 711th MKRC. Bringing up the rear was a U.S. Army three-quarter-ton ambulance. The red crosses that had once adorned the vehicle’s sides and roof had been painted over, and its bumper markings identified it as the twenty-third vehicle assigned to the 711th MKRC.
Captain James D. Cronley Jr. was at the wheel of the Horch. It was an enormous vehicle. Its fenders and hood were painted black, and the sides canary yellow. Spare tires encased in gleaming black covers were mounted in the front fenders, and there was a gleaming black trunk mounted above the rear chrome bumper.
There were two bullet holes in the left rear door of the car, and another in the left front door. The damage had occurred while the NKGB was kidnapping Colonel Robert Mattingly as he was en route from Schlosshotel Kronberg to the I.G. Farben Building.
The vehicle had come into Captain Cronley’s possession via Mr. Oscar Schultz, executive assistant to the chief of the Directorate of Central Intelligence, who had decided that Cronley had behaved himself at Colonel Mattingly’s farewell party.
Sitting beside Cronley was Miss Janice Johansen of the Associated Press. Seated in the back were DCI special agents August Ziegler and Karl-Christoph Wagner. Ziegler was thirty-one but looked younger. “Casey” Wagner had the innocent face of a seventeen-year-old, but was six-feet-two, weighed 232 pounds, and could pass for, say, eighteen or nineteen.
At the wheel of the Ford staff car was DCI special agent Maksymilian “Max” Ostrowski. Beside him sat another former member of the Free Polish Air Force, and there were two more men with a similar background in the backseat, and four more in the trailing ambulance.
All the males, who were all wearing OD uniforms with civilian triangles identifying them as civilian employees of the U.S. Army, comprised the entire complement of the newly formed Detachment “A” of DCI-Europe, and also of the newly formed XXXIVth CIC Detachment, which had been established in the hope it would obfuscate the existence of Detachment “A.”
They were going to Farber Palast at the recommendation of Miss Johansen, who said the accommodations of Farber Palast, which housed the press corps covering the Nuremberg trials, were far superior to the Bachelor Officer quarters in Nuremberg. She said she was sure Cronley’s DCI credentials would dazzle the officer in charge of assigning rooms to the press.
Cronley agreed. DCI credentials did dazzle people.
Office of the President of the United States
Central Intelligence Directorate
Washington, D.C.
The Bearer of This Identity Document
James D. Cronley Jr.
Is an officer of the Central Intelligence Directorate acting with the authority of the President of the United States. Any questions regarding him or his activities should be addressed to the undersigned only.
Sidney W. Souers
Sidney W. Souers,
Rear Admiral
Director, U.S. Central Intelligence Directorate
The convoy rolled into a parking lot half full of vehicles, most of them Army staff cars and jeeps but with a few American and German passenger cars among them. All the jeeps had PRESS painted on the panel below their windshields.
“Casey,” Cronley ordered, “you come in with Janice and me while I see if we get to rest our heads in this palace.”
The three got out of the Horch and walked into the palace’s lobby.
There was a wide-curving staircase leading up from the lobby. At the foot of the staircase was a life-size statue of Diana, the goddess of the hunt. She was almost naked, bow and arrow in hand, standing on one foot as she presumably looked for game.
She was also wearing a pink brassiere and matching panties, and a six-inch cigar was planted between her lips.
“I think I’m going to like this place,” Cronley said.
“Ernest Hemingway found it satisfactory,” Janice said. “The bar offers Hemingways, which are gin martinis made to his personal recipe.”
“Now I know I’m going to like it,” Cronley said.
To one side of the stairway was what had once been, before the castle had been requisitioned by the Army of Occupation, a cloakroom. Now it bore a sign: REGISTRY.
It was not attended, but there was a bell on its counter. Cronley thumped it, and a moment later a sergeant appeared. He looked to be about as old as Casey, which caused a statistic to pop into Cronley’s mind. The average age of enlisted men in USFET was eighteen-point-something years.
“Hello, Miss Johansen,” the sergeant said. “Welcome back. Would you like your usual room?”
“Please. Thank you,” she said, and then added, “It has a large bed, sweetie, with a marvelous feather-filled mattress.”
“And what can I do for you, sir?”
“I’m going to need rooms for myself and ten of my officers.”
“No problem, sir. The palace is half empty. May I have a copy of your orders, please?”
“I think I better speak to the officer in charge, Sergeant. Would you fetch him, please?”
“He’s not available at the moment, sir.”
“Be a good boy and go in the bar and get him,” Janice ordered.
“Yes, ma’am.”
A plump Quartermaster Corps major appeared three minutes later.
“Hello, Charley,” Janice said. “Sweetie, this is Major Levin, the innkeeper. Charley, this is my pal Jim Cronley.”
“Welcome back, Janice. What can I do for you?”
“My pal here needs rooms for himself and ten of his officers.”
“Is there a problem?”
“He doesn’t have any orders.”
“We’re CIC,” Cronley said.
“That is a problem. The palace is for press only. The CIC has a Kaserne downtown. I’m afraid you’re going to have to go there.”
“Actually, we’re not CIC,” Cronley said, and produced his DCI credentials.
The major was dazzled.
“I’ve never seen one of these before,” he said.
“Few people have,” Cronley said. “And please don’t tell anyone you’ve seen that one.”
“Or else Sweetie will have to kill you, Charley,” Janice said.
“Is that going to get us in here, Major, or am I going to have to work my way up your chain of command?” Cronley asked.
The major considered the situation for a full thirty seconds. Finally, he asked, “How long will you be staying with us, Mr. Cronley?”
“Three or four days, anyway.”
“Sergeant, take care of these gentlemen,” the major ordered. “Put Mr. Cronley in the Duchess Suite.”
“That has a bed big enough for six people,” Janice said. “I know, because it’s right down the corridor from my room.”
“Casey, go get everybody,” Cronley ordered. “Tell them when they get settled to come to the bar.”
“Yes, sir.”
[TWO]
The Palace of Justice
Nuremberg, American Zone of Occupation, Germany
0855 21 February 1946
As they had left Farber Castle, Cronley had seen a table in the lobby with a sign on it reading “Help Yourself.” It was cluttered with all sorts of information about the Nuremberg trials and the city of Nuremberg that might be of use to the press corps.
“Casey,” Cronley ordered, “take one of each. Two of the road map, which will, God willing and if the creek don’t rise, guide us to the Palace of Justice.”
“Yes, sir.”
Casey scooped up an armful of the material and followed Cronley, Ziegler, and Ostrowski out of the building and to the staff car. Everyone was now wearing pinks and greens with civilian triangles on the lapels.
Cron
ley was slightly hungover. There had been at least two too many Hemingways in the bar, as Janice had successfully convinced a half dozen of her very skeptical peers that her story about Mattingly and Ulyanov was all there was to the first story that Mattingly had been kidnapped. She had introduced CIC Special Agent Cronley and then named him as her source.
Afterward, surprising him not at all, he and Janice had carnal knowledge of one another in the bed—which really was large enough for six people—in the Duchess Suite. He didn’t really understand his relationship with her. The simple answer, that she liked to screw without any strings attached, which solved his problem in that regard, seemed too good to be true. He genuinely liked her, but as a buddy, with no more romantic involvement than he had with, say, Max Ostrowski or Augie Ziegler.
All he could do was hope the relationship would continue on its present terms, which seemed unlikely. Cronley was a devout believer in the theory that good situations never last long.
—
Finding the Palace of Justice wasn’t as difficult as he thought it would be. Directional signs had been put up at the major crossroads of the city, which, like most German cities, had been reduced to a sea of rubble by a thousand plane bombing raids, one after the other.
Somehow, the Palace of Justice, like the I.G. Farben Building in Frankfurt—now housing USFET headquarters—had apparently escaped destruction. Cronley had heard that the Farben Building had been spared on purpose. He had also heard that Marburg an der Lahn, where he had been briefly stationed as a CIC second lieutenant, had been spared because an Air Corps general had threatened the colonel leading a raid on Marburg’s railroad yards with castration if one of his bombs came anywhere near Philipp University, from which he had graduated.
When they reached the Palace of Justice, it turned out to be a four-story building with a two-floor red-roofed attic that didn’t look at all like the castles on picture postcards.
Death at Nuremberg Page 3