When they finally entered the headquarters building — which also housed the officers’ mess and, on the second floor, the American officers and the senior German officer prisoners — General Reinhard Gehlen and Oberst Ludwig Mannberg were sitting in the foyer.
Gehlen was in an ill-fitting civilian suit. Mannberg, previously and now Gehlen’s Number Two, was wearing a superbly tailored Wehrmacht uniform from which all insignia had been removed. Only a wide red stripe down the trouser leg, signifying membership in the General Staff Corps, remained.
Both stood up when they saw Cronley and Dunwiddie.
“Captain,” Gehlen said. “I hope that you will have a few minutes for Mannberg and myself.”
“Certainly, sir,” Cronley said. He gestured toward the door of the mess.
There was no bartender on duty. Tiny went behind the bar, and in perfect German asked, “May I offer the general a scotch?”
“That would be very kind.”
“Oberst Mannberg?”
“The same, thank you.”
“Captain?”
“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 hell 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 goddamned clear that the Eleventh Commandment is “Thou shalt not share classified 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 Glass 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 Fregattenkapitän 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 hell! 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-Oberführer 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 Japan — U-977 either went to Russia directly from Norway, or met a Russian ship 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 pass outward through the outer barbed wire. He was found to be in possession of a nearly complete roster of my people here in Kloster Grünau, 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.