"Doctor!" Cronley called.

A slight German in a white coat, who looked undernourished, came into the room.

"I need his b.u.t.tocks," he said in heavily accented English.

Sergeant Clark bent Orlovsky over the small table, knocking the food tray off in the process.

Gehlen's doctor inserted-stabbed-a hypodermic needle into Orlovsky's b.u.t.tocks, and then slowly emptied it into him.

Orlovsky almost instantly went limp.

"Do you wish that I bandage him now?" the doctor asked.

"Might as well do it now."

As he wrapped Orlovsky's head in white gauze, eventually covering everything but his eyes and his nostrils, the doctor explained what Lewis could expect and what he was to do.

"He will start to regain consciousness in approximately three to four hours, depending on his natural resistance to the narcotic. The sign of this will be the fluttering of his eyes. His eyelids. You will then inject him again. I have prepared ten hypodermic needles for that purpose. You understand?"

"Got it," Lewis said.

The doctor then wrapped Orlovsky's hands with gauze and put them in two slings across his chest.

"The greatest risk to his well-being will be during the flight to Frankfurt in the Storch. As soon as possible, get him into a horizontal position. If there are signs of distress, get him on his feet and walk him around."

"Got it," Lewis said.

"Okay, let's get this show on the road," Cronley ordered.

Staff Sergeant Clark, without apparent effort, scooped the Russian up in his arms.

Cronley had an off-the-wall thought: He looks like a bridegroom carrying his bride to the nuptial bed.

Ten minutes later the Storch carrying Cronley, Father Welner, and Orlovsky broke ground. The second Storch, carrying Kurt Schrder and Sergeants Lewis and Clark stuffed in the back, lifted off thirty seconds later.

[ TEN ].

Rhine-Main USAF Base Frankfurt am Main American Zone, Occupied Germany 1550 9 November 1945 Captain Hans-Peter von Wachtstein of South American Airways was standing at the foot of the stairway to the pa.s.senger compartment of the Ciudad de Mendoza when two former ambulances rolled up to it. Standing with him was Major Johansen, the a.s.sistant base provost marshal, and a handful of military policemen, two of them lieutenants.

Cronley was glad to see Major Johansen, whom he had telephoned when they had landed at Eschborn and asked to meet him at the plane. Getting Orlovsky and Father Welner onto the plane wasn't going to be a problem. Getting Sergeants Clark and Lewis onto the Constellation wasn't either, but since they had no orders or travel doc.u.ments, getting them to stay on the plane was likely to be difficult. He thought Major Johansen might prove helpful if he couldn't bluff his way with his CIC credentials.

"Captain von Wachtstein," Cronley greeted him. "Nice to see you again, sir."

Hansel played along.

"Mr. Cronley. How are you?"

"Major, I see you've already met Captain von Wachtstein."

"We've been chatting," Johansen said. "How've you been, Cronley?"

"Overworked and underpaid."

"Sounds familiar," Johansen said.

Father Welner joined them.

"What we're going to need for the patient, Captain von Wachtstein," the Jesuit said, "is someplace where he can be placed horizontally. Where he can rest. I think there's a spot immediately behind the c.o.c.kpit?"

"Can he climb that?" von Wachtstein said, pointing to a narrow ladder leading to the door in the fuselage immediately behind the c.o.c.kpit.

"He's unconscious," Cronley said.

"Who is this patient?" Major Johansen asked.

I'm glad he's asking that question, not one of his lieutenants.

It was smart of me to think of calling him.

And now the other shoe will drop.

"Show Major Johansen your pa.s.sport, Father Welner," Cronley said as he handed Dzerzhinsky's Vatican pa.s.sport to him.

"Russian, huh?" Johansen said. "That name is vaguely familiar."

That's the other d.a.m.ned shoe dropping!

You had to be a smart-a.s.s 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 pa.s.sports 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 c.o.c.kpit," 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 pa.s.senger 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 pa.s.senger stairway. Lewis followed.

"St.u.r.dy 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. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sports 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 ].

Park Hotel Wiesenhttenplatz 28-38 Frankfurt am Main American Zone, Occupied Germany 1705 9 November 1945 Cronley took a healthy sip of his double Dewar's scotch whisky-to which, he decided, he was most certainly ent.i.tled-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 Schrder's right to fly a U.S. Army Storch. He had flown back to Kloster Grnau immediately after dropping off Clark and Lewis at Eschborn. The ambulances would return to Kloster Grnau 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 pa.s.sed 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 Grnau 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.