A month ago, Cronley managed to capture two notorious Nazi war criminals, but not without leaving some dead bodies and outraged Austrian police in his wake. He's been lying low ever since, but that little vacation is about to end. Somebody--Odessa, the NKGB, the Hungarian Secret Police?--has broken the criminals out of jail, and he must track them down again.
But there's more to it than that. Evidence has surfaced that in the war's last gasps, Heinrich Himmler had stashed away a fortune to build a secret religion, dedicated both to Himmler and to creating the Fourth Reich. That money is still out there in the hands of Odessa, and that infamous organization seems to have acquired a surprising--and troubling--ally.
Cronley is fast finding out that the phrase "the enemy of my enemy is my friend" can mean a lot of different things, and that it is not always clear which people he can trust and which are out to kill him.
About the Author
William E. Butterworth IV has been an editor and writer for more than 25 years, and has worked closely with his father for over a decade on the editing and writing of the Griffin books. He is coauthor with him of more than a dozen New York Times bestselling novels. He is a member of the Sons of the American Legion, China Post #1 in Exile; the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) Society; and a life member of the National Rifle Association and the Texas Rifle Association. He lives in Florida.
Date of Birth:November 10, 1929
Place of Birth:Newark, New Jersey
Read an Excerpt
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.
1415 8 April 1946
A Secret Service agent in suit and tie opened the door to the Oval Office and announced, "Mr. President, Admiral Souers."
"Show him in, then close the door," President Harry S Truman ordered. "No interruptions."
Admiral Sidney W. Souers entered the room and stopped short of the coffee table in front of a couch. The stocky fifty-four-year-old was in his Navy Service Dress Blue woolen uniform, its sleeves near the cuffs bristling with gold braid. He had an intelligent face, with warm, inquisitive eyes, a headful of closely cropped graying hair, and a neatly trimmed mustache.
"You took your sweet time getting here, Sid."
"Harry, I hung up the phone and walked out of my office. What's so urgent?"
Truman picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and waved it angrily.
Souers recognized it as the SIGABA message he had sent over hours earlier. He saw that the paper had his handwritten note at the top, which read "There's more to this. Let me know when you want to discuss-SWS."
"These Nazi bastards escaping in Nuremberg," Truman blurted. "That's urgent and goddamn unacceptable."
Truman's eyes went to the paper, scanning it:
FROM: DIRECTOR DCI GERMANY
0010 GREENWICH 8 APR 1946
TO: DIRECTOR WASH DC
1-COL M COHEN, CHIEF NUREMBERG TRIBUNAL CIC, INFORMS THAT BURGDORF AND VON DIETELBURG ESCAPED TRIBUNAL PRISON INFIRMARY 5 APR. COHEN SUSPECTS ODESSA INVOLVEMENT. ESCAPE HAS NOT, REPEAT, NOT BEEN MADE PUBLIC.
2-COL WASSERMAN, CHIEF CIC VIENNA, REPORTS WALTER WANGERMANN, VIENNA POLICE CHIEF OF INTELLIGENCE, HAS INFORMED HIM BRUNO HOLZKNECHT, CHIEF OF POLICE
SURVEILLANCE, IS MISSING AS OF 5 APR. WANGERMANN SUSPECTS DCI INVOLVEMENT. WASSERMAN SUSPECTS NKGB, MOSSAD, OR AVO INVOLVEMENT.
3-CONSIDERING RECENT ACTIVITIES OF CRONLEY ET AL, UNDERSIGNED CONSIDERS DCI INVOLVEMENT IN NUREMBERG AND VIENNA INCIDENTS. AN INVESTIGATION WOULD BE ILL-ADVISED AND NO ACTION IN THAT REGARD HAS BEEN UNDERTAKEN.
4-FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS WILL BE REPORTED AS THEY OCCUR.
WALLACE, COL, DIRECTOR DCI GERMANY
"And you say there's more?" Truman said, tossing the sheet back to the desktop. "Jesus! It's bad enough that this Odessa organization has been smuggling SS bastards out of Europe-and out of our grasp so we can't prosecute them-but now, when we finally grab two of Odessa's top leaders, they somehow snatch the sons of bitches from our prison? It's outrageous!"
The President came out from behind his desk and walked to the couch.
"Pour yourself a drink, Sid. While you're at it, pour one for me."
"It's two o'clock in the afternoon."
"Pour the drinks. You're going to need it," the President said, then sat down, and while Souers was retrieving a bottle of Haig & Haig scotch from the credenza, where it was concealed from public view, he picked up the telephone. "Get Justice Jackson for me," he ordered, then pushed the speaker button and put the telephone handset back in its cradle.
When Truman had been a United States senator from Missouri, Supreme Court Justice Robert H. Jackson would join him and Captain Souers, USNR, for dinner and drinks in Truman's apartment-away from the prying eyes, and ears, of the Washington establishment.
Now, Truman had recently named the fifty-four-year-old Jackson-who had been FDR's attorney general before nominating him to serve on the Supreme Court-as chief U.S. prosecutor for the Nuremberg trials.
Voices from the telephone speaker immediately began to be heard.
"Vint Hill, Presidential priority. Justice Jackson in Nuremberg on a secure line. Conversation will not, repeat, not be transcribed."
"White House, hold one," another voice said, then, "Fulda, Presidential priority. Justice Jackson in Nuremberg. Secure line, no transcription."
"White House, hold one."
"Justice Jackson's chambers."
"This is the White House calling. The President for Justice Jackson. The line is secure."
"One moment, please."
"Hey, Bob," Souers called out.
"Anchors aweigh, Sid."
"Bob," the President said, "Sid and I were sitting around having a little nip, and we figured, what the hell, let's call Bob and have a little chat."
"That's flattering, Mr. President. What would you two like to chat about?"
"How about those Nazi bastards who escaped the Tribunal Prison? We've got to get them back and make damn sure it never happens again."
"Harry, everybody's working on it. Just a few minutes ago, I had Colonel Cohen in my office."
"He's the counterintelligence guy in Nuremberg?" Truman said, glancing at the SIGABA message.
"Right. Smart as they come. The only thing he had new for me was that he added the AVO to the list of suspects."
"And what the hell is that?"
"It stands for 'çllamvedlmi Oszt‡lya.' It's the Russian-controlled Secret Police in Hungary. It's headed by a chap named G‡bor Pter, who Cohen says is a real sonofabitch."
"That's all this Colonel Cohen had to say?" the President asked, almost incredulously, staring at the telephone.
"He said Super Spook might have some ideas. And should be involved, and I heartily agree."
"Who the hell is Super Spook? More important, why isn't he involved?"
"Captain Jim Cronley. The man you chose to be my bodyguard. He ran the operation in Vienna that bagged Burgdorf and von Dietelburg. I started calling him Super Spook when he figured out how Odessa managed to smuggle cyanide capsules into the Tribunal Prison."
"I know who Cronley is, Bob. I promoted him to captain. And gave him the Distinguished Service Medal for what he did in Argentina with that half ton of uranium oxide some other Nazi bastard was about to sell to the goddamn Russians. And now you call him Super Spook? A twenty-two-year-old?"
"He's that good, Harry. Young, yes, but remarkably good. You just said so yourself, in so many words."
"Then why the hell isn't he involved? Jesus H. Christ!"
"He's in Argentina," Souers put in.
Truman's eyes went to Souers.
"Okay, and what the hell is he doing in Argentina? Actually, strike that. I don't give a damn what he's doing in Argentina. Get him back to Germany. As soon as possible. By that I mean yesterday."
"Oh, shit," Souers said. There was a tone of resignation when he said it.
"Oh, shit what, Sid?"
"Harry, the truth is, I didn't tell you . . ."
"I advised Sid not to tell you," Justice Jackson interjected.
"Tell me what, damn it?"
Souers pointed at the SIGABA message.
"It is alluded to in that," he said. "Cronley's op in Vienna that bagged Burgdorf and von Dietelburg. It didn't go smoothly. One Austrian was killed and another wounded as they were arresting Burgdorf and von Dietelburg."
"So what?" the President said, then asked, "Cronley shot them?"
"No," Souers said, "the shooter was a lieutenant named Spurgeon. Of the Vienna CIC." He sighed audibly. "Harry, can you hold your questions until I'm finished telling what went down?"
"Probably not, but let's see."
"Cronley was working pretty closely with the Austrians when he realized what they were up to, that when they captured von Dietelburg he would be an Austrian prisoner, not ours. They intended to put him on trial themselves. Cronley decided this was a bad idea."
"There you go, Harry. Let me finish."
"Make it quick."
The sound of Justice Jackson chuckling came over the phone speaker.
Truman glared at the telephone.
"Okay," Souers began, "I don't know how much Cronley considered your belief that these people should be tried, and hanged, with as much publicity as possible as common criminals so that the Germans would not regard them as martyrs to Nazism, murdered by the vindictive victors. But every time I decide he's too young and inexperienced to understand such and such, he's proved me dead wrong."
"Anyway, he concluded that the solution to the problem was to keep the Austrians out of the actual arrest-"
"He decided this on his own?" the President interrupted, his tone again incredulous. "Without checking with his superiors?"
"And there you go again, Harry," Justice Jackson said, followed by an audible grunt. "Let Sid finish."
Truman impatiently gestured for Souers to go on.
Souers continued. "That's why I wrote on the message that there was more. Including that Cronley's relations with his immediate superior, Colonel Wallace, who sent that SIGABA message to me, are not cordial. Cronley also believes that if you think your superior is going to say no when you ask permission to do something and you know you're right, don't ask, just do it."
"And beg forgiveness afterward," the President added. "I'm familiar with it."
"The justification that Cronley offered," Souers went on, "for arresting Burgdorf and von Dietelburg on his own was that they wouldn't live long in an Austrian prison-"
Justice Jackson interjected: "And he could then fly them directly to Nuremberg, on illegal airplanes, without the hassle of going through border control authorities."
"Illegal airplanes?" Truman parroted.
"Two Fieseler Storches," Jackson answered. "Sort of German Piper Cubs, but much better. Three-place, not just two-place. The Air Force ordered their destruction. Cronley appeared not to know about this order."
Jackson laughed, then went on. "In his 'innocence,' he kept his two in a well-guarded hangar in Nuremberg. The aircraft were thus available to fly to the Compound in Munich, first with one of General Gehlen's assets in Russia, one Rachel Bischoff-"
"Whom the Austrians wanted very much to interrogate," Souers interjected.
"-and later Burgdorf and von Dietelburg to the same place," Jackson finished.
"At this point, the Austrians went ballistic," Souers said. "They issued arrest warrants. For murder, in the case of Lieutenant Spurgeon, and for various crimes and misdemeanors for Cronley, Winters, and everybody else concerned. OMGUS has issued a 'detainer' on everybody for illegally leaving and then entering Germany without passing through an entry point. And the Air Force is demanding that the Army bring charges: one, against Cronley for not destroying the Storches, and, two, against Cronley and Winter for flying them after the Air Force declared them unsafe. And also charges against Cronley for flying at all, because he is neither an Army aviator nor an AAF pilot."
"Lawyer that I am," Jackson said, "I'm finding it hard to understand the legal ramifications of a nonpilot illegally flying an ostensibly nonexistent airplane, but that's where we are, Harry."
"Jesus H. Christ," the President said.
"Oscar Schultz," Souers then said, "on learning what had happened, decided the solution to the problem was to get everybody the hell out of Dodge while he, quote, poured money on the Austrian volcano, unquote. So, everybody went to Argentina just about a month ago. Cletus Frade is hiding them in Mendoza, on one of his estancias."
After a moment, President Truman, his tone unpleasant, said, "Is that all?"
"More or less," Souers said. "For now."
"I was annoyed with this situation when I first got wind of it today," Truman went on, his voice rising. "Now that I've learned all this-and, more important, that both of you bastards kept it from me-I am what is known as royally pissed off."
"Harry," Jackson said, "both Sid and I felt that it would die down."
"But it hasn't, has it?" Truman snapped. "Even worse, Burgdorf and von Dietelburg, those despicable Nazi bastards, are now on the loose, goddamn it!"
"Harry, Bob and I decided that you had more important things on your plate-"
"Well, Sid," Truman interrupted, "you were wrong. The most important thing on my plate at this time is getting those two SS sons of bitches back behind bars so we can try them and then hang them. If this Colonel Cohen thinks Captain Cronley can help him, you get Cronley out of goddamn Argentina and to goddamn Germany as soon as humanly possible. Got it?"
Admiral Souers said, "Yes, Mr. President."
"And you, Bob, you start right now on getting OMGUS and the Air Force and anybody else off Cronley's back-and Cronley's people's backs-and keep them off. They deserve medals and they damn sure shouldn't have to be running from the law like John Dillinger's gang of bank robbers. Got it?"
Justice Jackson said, "Yes, Mr. President."
The Polo Field
Estancia Don Guillermo
Kilometer 40.4, Provincial Route 60
Mendoza Province, Argentina
1345 9 April 1946
Polo was the oldest equestrian sport in the world. It featured opposing four-man teams attempting to strike with long-handled mallets a ball between twelve and a half and fifteen inches in circumference into the other team's goal.
The players on the Mendoza estancia's polo field were expert horsemen mounted on superbly trained Arabian ponies. But they were not dressed in the usual manner-boots, white trousers, and colored cotton short-sleeved shirts-with seven of the eight wearing the outfits of working gauchos, the Argentine version of American cowboys. It included a wide-brimmed black leather hat, a white shirt with billowing sleeves, tucked into equally billowing black trousers tucked into knee-length soft black leather boots. Around their waists, they wore wide leather belts decorated with silver studs, inserted into the back of which were silver-handled knives with blades at least twelve inches long.
The hatless eighth player wore a gray sweatshirt emblazoned with the logo of the Agriculture and Mechanical College of Texas-commonly called Texas A&M-blue jeans, and what were properly termed Western or cowboy boots.
He was a tall, muscular, blond twenty-two-year-old. On the list-classified Secret-of "Detached Officers" maintained in the Pentagon, he was listed as: Cronley, James D. Jr., Captain, Cavalry, AUS O-396754. Permanently detached to Directorate of Central Intelligence.
After wresting control of the ball from an opposing gaucho about to score a goal, Cronley then drove it at a full gallop toward the other end of the field. As he did, he saw a man waving a sheet of paper near the goal.
The man's name was Maximillian Ostrowski. He had spent World War II as an intelligence officer with the Free Polish Army and was now a DCI special agent.
Cronley smacked the ball a final time, scoring.
But instead of returning to the field, he reined in the jet-black Arabian and dismounted.
"This just came," Ostrowski said, handing him the sheet of paper.
Cronley's eyes went to it:
FROM: DIRECTOR SOUTHERN CONE
1945 GREENWICH 9 APR 1946
TO: ALTAR BOY MENDOZA
PASS TO GEN MARTIN
1-LODESTAR WILL PICK UP YOU, WINTERS, SPURGEON, PULASKI, AND OSTROWSKI ASAP TODAY. TRY TO STAY OUT OF SIGHT IN BUENOS AIRES.
2-I WILL SEND MY PRECISE ETA PISTARINI TOMORROW ASAP. HAVE EVERYBODY THERE.
"I wonder if we're about to be let out of jail," Cronley said.
"Either that or be flown in chains to Vienna to face the wrath of the Angry Austrians," Ostrowski replied.
"Wallace would love that."
"Yes, he would. What happens now?"
"We finish the last chucker, Max, and then it's off to Uncle Willy's guesthouse."