Top Secret Part 8

"Jack Daniel's, please."

Dunwiddie made the drinks, taking a Haig & Haig for himself, and delivered them.

Gehlen raised his to Cronley.

"In addition to offering our congratulations on your well-deserved promotion," the general began in a solemn tone, "Mannberg and I would like to offer our condolences on your loss." He paused, then as if he had read Cronley's mind, added, "Colonel Mattingly telephoned earlier."

As everyone took a sip of drink, Cronley thought, That's not surprising.

But what all did Mattingly tell you, General?

That we had found U-234 and the uranium oxide?

And that I'd been promoted? But not why or by whom?

And that my girl-my wife-had been killed in an auto accident?

Why the h.e.l.l didn't Mattingly tell me what he was going to tell you?

Or tell me what I could tell you?

Admiral Souers made it pretty G.o.dd.a.m.ned clear that the Eleventh Commandment is "Thou shalt not share cla.s.sified material with people who don't have the Need to Know."

Technically, you're both prisoners of war. POWs by definition do not have the Need to Know.

But you're only technically POWs, as we all know.

And I wouldn't have found U-234 had it not been for you giving me what intel you had about her.

This is one of those situations where I have to choose between two options, both of which are the wrong one.

So, what do you do, Captain Cronley, you experienced intelligence officer with two whole days in grade?

You follow the rules and tell them nothing. Or as little as possible.

I can't follow the rules.

In this Through the Looking Gla.s.s World we're in, the jailer has to earn and hold the respect of the prisoners. Or at least these two prisoners.

"Thank you," Cronley then said. "I'm still trying to get used to both situations. So let me begin by giving you, Oberst Mannberg, the best wishes of Fregattenkapitn Wilhelm von Dattenberg."

Cronley had spoken in German. He spoke it so well that most Germans thought that he was a Strasbourger, as his mother was.

"It's good to hear he survived," Mannberg said.

"He was with me when we found the U-234. He persuaded her captain-"

"That would be Schneider, Alois Schneider?" Mannberg put in.

"Yes, sir."

I'm being interrogated. That's not the way it's supposed to be.

And I don't think I'm supposed to call him "sir."

Oh, what the h.e.l.l! He was a colonel and I'm a captain who two days ago was a second lieutenant.

Cronley went on: "Schneider was at Philipps University in Marburg an der Lahn with von Dattenberg. And with von Wachtstein, too, come to think of it."

"That's correct," Mannberg said.

"When we got to the U-234, von Dattenberg told Schneider the war was over, and surrender therefore honorable. He just about had him convinced when SS-Oberfhrer Horst Lang appeared. He pulled a pistol from his pocket and was shot."

"Von Dattenberg shot him?" General Gehlen asked. "Or Schneider?"

"I shot him," Cronley said.

He saw Tiny's eyebrows go up at that, and realized he had left that out when he'd told Tiny and Hessinger what had happened.

"Wounded or killed?" Gehlen asked.

"Killed. I had a Thompson."

"I'm sorry that was necessary," Gehlen said.

"I thought it was necessary," Jimmy said a bit defensively. "There were other SS types, armed with Schmeissers, standing with him. I couldn't take the risk that things would get out of control."

"I'm sure it was, Captain Cronley," Gehlen said. "I regret the death of that swine only because there's a good deal he could have told us. Is Colonel Mattingly aware of this?"

"I didn't have the chance to tell Colonel Mattingly. But Colonel Frade knows about it."

"Well, if there is anything to be learned from the rest of them-either the SS swine or the crew of U-234-Oberst Frade will learn it," Gehlen said with certainty.

Clete was just complimented by Gehlen, one of the best intelligence officers in the world. I'm sorry he didn't get to hear that.

"Well, that leaves U-977," Mannberg said. "Did you get anything on her at all?"

"Von Dattenberg and Schneider seemed to agree there are only two credible scenarios," Cronley said. "Worst: that, despite what we thought-that she was headed for Argentina or j.a.pan-U-977 either went to Russia directly from Norway, or met a Russian s.h.i.+p on the high seas. Best scenario: that she was sunk while trying to get through the English Channel, or shortly after entering the Atlantic Ocean."

Gehlen nodded thoughtfully. "I've heard nothing-nothing at all-about either scenario, or about U-977 itself from our people in Moscow. That's not surprising, and I will of course order them to keep trying. But I think we are going to have to presume the Soviets now have the uranium oxide loaded onto U-977."

He exhaled in disappointment or resignation or both.

"Well, we tried," Gehlen went on. "And, largely due to your efforts, Captain Cronley, we did better than I expected we would."

Is Gehlen soft-soaping me, or does he mean that?

Gehlen looked at Tiny. "Would you agree, Dunwiddie, that we should now turn to what has happened here?"

"Yes, sir."

Gehlen met Cronley's eyes. "Two nights ago, Dunwiddie's diligent troops apprehended a man as he attempted to pa.s.s outward through the outer barbed wire. He was found to be in possession of a nearly complete roster of my people here in Kloster Grnau, a nearly complete roster of those who have been moved to Argentina, and, finally, an equally nearly complete roster of my people we hope have made it out of the Russian Zone but have not been located yet."

"Jesus!" Cronley exclaimed. "Who was he?"

"There seems little question that he is an NKGB agent," Mannberg said.

Dumb question!

Who else would it be? The German census bureau?

My ignorance is showing. And why not? A year ago, I'd never heard of the NKGB.

But now that I am, as of the day before yesterday, a captain, of military intelligence, I of course know that's the acronym for the People's Commissariat for State Security, the Soviet secret police, intelligence, and counterintelligence organization.

Am I really sitting here, discussing an NKGB agent with a German general who used to run the German intelligence organization dealing with the NKGB?

And have I just told him that it was "necessary" for me to shoot an SS-Oberfhrer so that he wouldn't get in the way of my grabbing a half ton of the dirt from which atom bombs are made?

This would be surreal if I didn't know it was real.

A year ago, I hadn't even heard of the atom bomb, and the only thing I knew about the SS was what I learned from the movies.

I wonder if the writers of those Alan Ladd Against the n.a.z.is movies knew that the way it works in real life is that when you shoot a real n.a.z.i sonofab.i.t.c.h you want to throw up when you see the life going out of his eyes and his blood turning the snow red?

What did Major Derwin ask me in the O Club bar at Camp Holabird? "Did you find yourself in over your head?"

Oh, boy, am I in over my head!

"Does Colonel Mattingly know about this?" Cronley asked.

Tiny said, "He asked if I thought we could handle it, and I told him yes. He said, 'Take care of it, and let me know what happens.'"

"There is a small chance," Mannberg said, "that we will be able to determine whom the NKGB has turned before the move to Pullach. But we don't have much time."

What the h.e.l.l is he talking about? "Determine whom the NKGB has turned"? Turned how?

Jesus Christ, he's talking about his own people!

"Turned" means "switched sides." He knows that there's a traitor among them.

But then Gehlen has agents in the Kremlin, so why should the Soviets having agents inside Abwehr Ost be so surprising?

"How's that going?" Cronley asked. "The move to Pullach?"

The U.S. Army Military Government had requisitioned Pullach, a village south of Munich, and moved out all of its occupants. The Corps of Engineers was preparing it for use by what they had been told was the South German Industrial Development Organization.

The engineers had been naturally curious about why a bunch of Krauts who were going to try to restart German industry needed a place surrounded by barbed wire, motion detectors, and guard towers. But when they asked, they were either ignored or told, "Who knows? USFET wants it built, so build it."

The engineers did not have the Need to Know that when they were finished Operation Ost-now renamed the South German Industrial Development Organization-would move in.

"They're ahead of schedule," Dunwiddie answered. "Maybe we better start to think of not moving until we find out more about who the NKGB has in here."

Cronley looked at Gehlen. "You have no idea who he might be?"

"No," Gehlen said. "And it might be, almost certainly is, more than one."

"I'm not sure we can break the Soviet," Mannberg said. "Obviously we have to continue his interrogation until we know that it's fruitless."

Cronley had a quick mental image, from the Alan Ladd movies, of a bare-chested man tied to a chair, his body b.l.o.o.d.y and bruised, and his face bleeding from multiple cuts inflicted by the riding crop in the hands of a man wearing a black SS uniform.

"With respect, Herr Oberst," Dunwiddie said, smiling, "I think you may have to reconsider your boiling pot and the beat of drums."

Gehlen smiled. Mannberg laughed.

"Perhaps later," Mannberg said. "There's still time for us to see if the disorientation is working."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about, Tiny?" Cronley demanded.

"This guy is terrified of Tedworth, Jim," Dunwiddie said. "I suggested to Colonel Mannberg that we use this."

"What did Tedworth do to this guy?" Cronley said.

Cronley had another mental image of a b.l.o.o.d.y and battered man in a chair being beaten, this time by Technical Sergeant Abraham L. Tedworth. Even more ma.s.sive than Dunwiddie, he was Dunwiddie's first field sergeant, his Number Two.

"Captain Cronley," Gehlen explained, smiling, "there are very few Negroes in Russia-very few Russians have ever seen someone of Herr Dunwiddie's and Stabsfeldwebel Tedworth's complexion. Or size. When I commented to Dunwiddie that this chap obviously expected to be put in a pot, boiled, and served for dinner, Dunwiddie said he knew there was such a pot-used to process slaughtered pigs-in one of the buildings. He suggested we fill it with water and build a fire under it, let this chap see it, and see if that didn't produce the cooperation we needed. I told him, 'Perhaps later, if the disorientation fails.'"

Gehlen, Mannberg, and Dunwiddie chuckled.

Is that what they call torturing a guy in a chair, "disorientation"?

And now that I think about it, I'm sure Tiny heard from his great-grandfathers, the Indian-fighting Buffalo Soldiers, that the Apaches hung their prisoners head-down over a slow fire to get them to talk. Or just for the h.e.l.l of it. I'm surprised he didn't suggest that.

h.e.l.l, maybe he did. He's the professional soldier and I'm the amateur.

"Disorientation?" Cronley said.

"Disorientation," Mannberg confirmed. "We learned over time that causing pain is more often than not counterproductive. Especially with skilled agents, as we believe this fellow has to be. Disorientation, on the other hand, very often produces the information one desires."

How about pulling out his fingernails? That would certainly disorient somebody.

"What we did here," Mannberg went on, "was put this fellow in a windowless cell, in the bas.e.m.e.nt of what was the church when this was an active monastery. We took all his clothing except for his underwear, and provided him with a mattress, a very heavy blanket, and two canvas buckets, one filled with water and the other for his bodily waste. And a two-minute candle." He held fingers apart to show the small size of a two-minute candle. "Then we slammed the door closed and left him."

"For how long?"

"At first, long enough for the candle to burn out, which left him in total darkness. And then for several hours. Each time, suddenly, his door burst open, and there he could see-momentarily and with difficulty, his eyes trying to adjust to the bright light-Stabsfeldwebel Tedworth. Then the lights-we improvised the lights using jeep headlights-went out and the door slammed closed again.

"The next time the door opened, he was given his dinner. It was time for breakfast, but we served him what the officers were going to have for dinner. And another two-minute candle. By the time his eyes adjusted to the candlelight, it was pretty well exhausted and went out. He had to eat his dinner in absolute darkness and without any utensils. And, pardon the crudity, but can you imagine how difficult it is to void one's bladder, much less one's bowels, into a soft-sided canvas bucket while in total darkness? Are you getting the idea, Captain Cronley?"