The Assassination Option Part 19

"You know the admiral'll be furious when he hears about this."

"Then let's make sure he doesn't hear about it until after we pull it off, and Mrs. Whatsername and the kids are in Argentina. Then we'll tell him and maybe he won't be so furious."

"My G.o.d!" Ashton said.

"How do we get to Vienna?" Schultz asked.

"On the train," Cronley said.

"Is it too far to drive? I'd like to have wheels in Vienna."

"It's not far, Lieutenant Schultz," Gehlen said. "It's about a six-hour drive. The problem is-"

"Why don't you try calling me 'Chief,' General? I'm more comfortable with that."

"Certainly. Chief, the problem is crossing the borders. Austria has been divided among the Allies. The American Zone of Austria abuts the American Zone of Germany. Permission, even for Americans, is required to move across that border. And then, like Berlin, Vienna is an island within the Russian Zone of Austria. Permission is required to cross the Russian Zone."

"Permission from who?" El Jefe asked. "The Russians?"

"Freddy?" Cronley said.

"I don't know if this applies here," Hessinger said, "but if someone from the Twenty-third CIC wants to go to Vienna, I would cut travel orders. Major Wallace went there a couple of weeks ago. I cut travel orders for him, and then took them to Munich Military Post, who stamped them approved. You need that to get on the train. That would work for Captain Cronley, but Oberst Mannberg and Ostrowski?"

"Because they're not American, you mean?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not a problem," Schultz said.

"Not a problem?" Cronley parroted.

"I have goodies in my briefcase, in addition to the start-up money," Schultz said. He went into his briefcase and rummaged through it. He came up with a plastic-covered ident.i.ty card and handed it to Cronley.

On one side was Schultz's photo. Above it were the letters DCI. Below it was the number 77, printed in red. On the other side was the legend: Office of the President of the United States Directorate of Central Intelligence Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.

The Bearer of This Ident.i.ty Doc.u.ment Oscar J. Schultz Is acting with the authority of the President of the United States as an officer of the Directorate of Central Intelligence. 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. Directorate of Central Intelligence "After we put Colonel Mannberg's-and the English-Polack's-pictures on one of these, do you think this Munich Military Post is going to ask them if they're American?" El Jefe asked.

"Very impressive," Cronley said. "Do I get one of these?"

He handed the card to Gehlen.

"I've got twenty-five of them," El Jefe said. "I can get more, but I thought that would be enough for now."

"If I may?" Gehlen said.

"Go ahead."

"I can make a small contribution. Seal the cards you brought in plastic."

"How are you going to do that?" Schultz asked.

"Abwehr Ost's special doc.u.ments facility survived the war," Gehlen said. "Amazingly intact."

"Survived where?" Schultz asked.

"Here in Munich. In a sub-bas.e.m.e.nt of the Palontologisches Museum on Richard-Wagner Stra.s.se."

"I thought that was pretty much destroyed," Hessinger said.

"Not the sub-bas.e.m.e.nt," Mannberg said. "But just about everything else."

"We're back to getting something to drive in Vienna. What I'd like to have is a couple of cars-I'm too old to ride around in a jeep in this weather-and maybe a small truck-like that ambulance you had at the airport."

"That's no problem," Cronley said. "We have half a dozen of them. I don't know about cars. If we ask the Ordnance Depot for cars, they'll want to know why we want them."

"No, they won't," Schultz said. "I've got another letter from the admiral in my briefcase. This one directs all U.S. Army facilities to provide DCI-Europe with whatever support we ask for."

He produced the letter and pa.s.sed it around.

"That'll do it," Hessinger p.r.o.nounced. "I recommend you get Fords or Chevrolets, not German cars."

"Why would you recommend that?" Cronley asked.

"Because there's no spare parts for the German ones."

"So what's left to do?"

"Except for getting the cars, cutting the orders, and getting these ID cards filled out, I can't think of a thing," Hessinger said.

"Except wait to hear from Rahil," Gehlen said. "That would be useful."

"The one thing I didn't expect you to be, General, is a wisea.s.s," Schultz said.

"Life is full of surprises, isn't it, Chief?" Gehlen said.

Cronley saw they were smiling at each other.

And that Mannberg and Ashton, seeing this, seemingly disapproved.

Screw the both of you!

V.

[ONE].

Quarters of the U.S. Military Government Liaison Officer The South German Industrial Development Organization Compound Pullach, Bavaria The American Zone of Occupied Germany 1305 4 January 1946 "How'd you do at the Ordnance Depot, Freddy?" Cronley asked, when Hessinger, trailed by First Sergeant Tedworth, came into what they were now calling "the sitting room."

"I got us four 1942 Fords, one with three hundred miles on the odometer, one with forty-five thousand, and the other two somewhere between the extremes."

"I was hoping for at least one Packard Clipper," Cronley said.

"Even if you could get one, that would be stupid," Hessinger said.

"Stupid? What have you got against Packards?"

"A Packard would draw unwanted attention. As will painting 'Mess Kit Repair Company' on the b.u.mpers of the Fords. I came to talk to you about that."

"Painting what on them?" Oscar Shultz asked.

He was sitting with Maksymilian Ostrowski at the bar. They were hunched over mugs of coffee and the Stars and Stripes. El Jefe had exchanged his naval uniform-and Ostrowski his dyed-black fatigues-for Army woolen OD Ike jackets and trousers. Civilian triangles were sewn to the lapels.

"You have to have your unit painted on the b.u.mpers of your vehicles," Cronley explained. "Since I didn't want to paint CIC on them, and certainly don't want to paint HQ DCI-Europe on them, I told Freddy to have what we have on all the other vehicles-711th MKRC-painted on them."

"Which is?"

"It stands for the nonexistent 711th Mess Kit Repair Company," Cronley explained.

"Very funny, but one day some MP is going to get really curious," Hessinger said.

"What would you paint on them, Freddy?" El Jefe asked.

The question was unexpected, and it showed.

"Maybe some military government unit," he said after a moment.

"Freddy, when you don't like something, always be prepared to offer something better," Schultz said. "Write that on your forehead. It's up to Cronley, but I sort of like the sound of Seven-One-One-Em-Kay-Are-See."

"Yes, sir."

"And don't call me 'sir,' Freddy. I am trying to pa.s.s myself off as a civilian."

"I thought Captain Cronley would continue to be unreasonable," Hessinger said, "so I got him and Captain Dunwiddie these."

He handed each of them a small box.

"Oh, Freddy, you're sweet, but you shouldn't have!" Dunwiddie mocked.

"What the h.e.l.l is this?" Cronley asked.

"Quartermaster Corps lapel insignia," Hessinger said. "It is possible that when you are stopped by the MPs, they will be less suspicious if they think you're in the Quartermaster Corps. Those swords you're wearing now . . ."

"Sabers, Freddy," Cronley corrected him. "Cavalry sabers."

". . . might make them curious."

"He's right," El Jefe said.

"Again. That's why I hate him. He's right too often," Cronley said. "Thanks, Freddy."

"I will be disowned if anybody in my family hears I'm trying to pa.s.s myself off as a Quartermaster Corps officer," Dunwiddie said.

"Say, 'Thank you, Freddy,'" Cronley ordered.

"Thank you, Freddy," Dunwiddie said.

One of the three telephones on the bar rang. The ring sound told them it was a leather-cased Signal Corps EE-8 field telephone connected to the guardhouse on the outer ring of fences.

Ostrowski picked it up, thumbed the TALK switch, answered it in Polish, listened, and then turned to Cronley.

"Captain, there are two CIC agents at the checkpoint. They have packages and letters for Lieutenant Cronley."

"What?"

Ostrowski repeated what he had announced.

"Pa.s.s them in," Dunwiddie ordered. "Have them report to me."

The two CIC agents came into the sitting room. Both were in their early thirties. He recognized both of them from his days at the XXIInd CIC Detachment in Marburg.

He knew they were enlisted men because they had not been billeted with the officers. He also knew that they were "real" CIC agents, as opposed to Special Agent (2nd Lt) J. D. Cronley Jr., who had been sort of a joke CIC special agent, whose only qualification for the job was his fluent German.

What the h.e.l.l is going on?

What are these two guys doing here?

With packages? And letters?

What kind of packages?

Letters from whom?

"How you been, Lieutenant?" the heavier of the two agents asked of Cronley.

Cronley now remembered-or thought he did-that the man's name was Hammersmith. And that he was a master sergeant.