You had to be a smart-ass with Dzerzhinsky’s name, didn’t you?
“Of Russian ancestry, obviously,” Welner said. “But now he’s a citizen of Vatican City.”
“So I see,” Johansen said, handing both passports to the priest.
Sergeants Clark and Lewis appeared, with an unconscious Orlovsky strapped securely to a stretcher.
“There is a bed for our patient in a small area behind the cockpit,” Cronley said, pointing. “Captain von Wachtstein will suggest the best way to get him there.”
After a moment’s thought, Hansel said, “If you two could carry him up the passenger stairway, and then down the aisle…”
“Not a problem, sir,” Sergeant Clark said.
He bent over the stretcher, unfastened the buckles, picked Dzerzhinsky up, and then, cradling him in his arms, walked without apparent effort up the passenger stairway. Lewis followed.
“Sturdy fellow, isn’t he?” Major Johansen observed.
“Well, that’s it,” Cronley said. “Thank you for waiting, Captain von Wachtstein.”
“Happy to oblige.”
“When you get close to Buenos Aires, it might be a good idea to call ahead to have an ambulance and a stretcher waiting.”
“I can do that.”
“Have a nice flight,” Cronley finally said. “You, too, Father Welner.”
“I’m sure it will be less stressful than my last flight. God bless you, Jim.”
He then started up the stairway.
Von Wachtstein shook Cronley’s hand, and then Major Johansen’s, and started toward the crew ladder.
“Captain,” one of the MP lieutenants said. “Don’t forget those two medics you have onboard.”
“They’re going,” Cronley said.
“Sir, I didn’t see any passports or travel orders,” the lieutenant said to Major Johansen.
Johansen looked at Cronley. Cronley turned so that only Johansen could see his face, and put his finger in front of his lips.
Johansen looked at him for a long moment.
“Not a problem, Stewart,” Johansen said. “It’s an intelligence matter. You didn’t see those medics get on that airplane. I’ll explain later.”
“Yes, sir.”
Both sets of stairs were pulled away, and the doors closed.
There came the sound of engines starting, as Cronley shook Major Johansen’s hand and then walked toward the ambulances.
[ELEVEN]
Cronley took a healthy sip of his double Dewar’s scotch whisky — to which, he decided, he was most certainly entitled — and went through his mental To Do list.
The major item — Orlovsky — was off the list obviously. So was the potential problem of someone questioning Kurt Schröder’s right to fly a U.S. Army Storch. He had flown back to Kloster Grünau immediately after dropping off Clark and Lewis at Eschborn. The ambulances would return to Kloster Grünau in the morning, after picking up Cronley at the hotel and then driving him to Eschborn to pick up his Storch.
Only two things remained to be done, he concluded, and the sooner he did them the better.
“Hand me that telephone, please, Sergeant,” he said to the American non-com supervising the bar. The bartenders and waiters were German.
“It’s for official use only, sir,” the bartender said somewhat righteously.
“Is that so? Hand it to me, please.”
The phone was reluctantly slid across the bar to him.
“Munich Military 4474,” Cronley ordered into the receiver.
When that order had been passed along and the phone in Munich was ringing, Cronley extended it to the sergeant, who put it to his ear.
The sergeant heard, clearly, and Cronley less so, “Twenty-third CIC, Special Agent Hessinger speaking, sir.”
“Okay, Sergeant?” Cronley asked, gesturing for the handset to be returned to him.
The sergeant did not reply as he did so.
“This is Special Agent Hoover, Special Agent Hessinger,” Cronley said. “The package is on the way as of 1515 hours. Please advise Colonel Norwich and Sergeant Gaucho immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Hessinger said.
“I should be in Rome about noon tomorrow, weather permitting.”
“Yes, sir. Be advised your friends from Washington are still looking for you.”
“How kind of them. Please give them my best regards and tell them I’m making every effort to fit them into my busy schedule.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nice to talk to you, Special Agent Hessinger.”
“And to you, sir.”
Cronley put the handset in its cradle, then slid the telephone back across the bar.
“Thank you so much, Sergeant.”
If the FBI had tapped Hessinger’s phone — and if Hessinger thought they had, it was ninety-nine percent certain they had — it wouldn’t take them long to figure out that Special Agent Hoover was Captain James D. Cronley Jr. giving them the finger. It might take them a little longer to conclude that Colonel Norwich was First Sergeant Chauncey Dunwiddie and even longer to decide that Sergeant Gaucho was Lieutenant Colonel Cletus Frade, USMCR, but eventually they would.
It didn’t matter. Fat Freddy understood that he was now to go out to the Pullach compound to get on the SIGABA and send an URGENT to Tex that von Wachtstein was on his way to Buenos Aires with Orlovsky and the Jesuit — who would explain everything — as of three-fifteen Frankfurt time. Dunwiddie would get a copy of that message, plus one of his own, telling him that Cronley would be back at Kloster Grünau at noon tomorrow. The FBI could not tap the SIGABA.
That the FBI would eventually catch up with him was a given. But they didn’t know where he was right now, which would give him time to deal with the last item on the To Do list. That item was spelled Schumann, Mrs. Rachel.
Cronley drained his Dewar’s and ordered another.
And then I will go to my room and call Mrs. Rachel Schumann.
As he crossed the lobby of the hotel toward the elevator bank, Cronley saw something he hadn’t noticed before. There was a Class VI store. For reasons he couldn’t even guess, the Army classified hard liquor as Class VI supplies, and the places that sold such spirits to officers as Class VI stores.
He bought a quart bottle of Haig & Haig scotch whisky and took it to his room, sampling its contents before picking up the telephone to call Rachel.
Rachel answered on the third ring.
“If you can’t talk, say ‘wrong number’ and hang up.”
“I’ve been waiting and waiting to hear from you.”
“Well, I’ve been busy. Rachel, I don’t have your Leica.”
“I know that, sweetheart. Where are you?”
“In the Park Hotel. You know, by the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof?”
“What are you doing there?”
“Well, it was too late for me to fly home, so I’m spending the night here. Rachel, we have to talk.”
“What are you doing in Frankfurt?”
“Actually, what I was doing was putting that Russian you’re always asking about on an airplane.”
Now, that wasn’t smart. Why the hell did you tell her that?
What the hell. It doesn’t matter. Orlovsky’s gone.
“You put him on an airplane? What was that all about?”
“If I told you, I would have to kill you.”
“Have you been drinking, Jimmy?”
“What gave you that idea? Rachel, we have to talk.”