From the #1 New York Times bestselling author, a brand-new series about the Cold War-and a different breed of warrior.
In the first weeks after World War II, a squeaky-clean new second lieutenant named James D. Cronley Jr. is spotted and recruited for a new enterprise that will eventually be transformed into something called the CIA. One war may have ended, but another one has already begun, against an enemy that is bigger, smarter, and more vicious: the Soviet Union.
The Soviets have hit the ground running, and Cronley's job is to help frustrate them, harass them, and spy on them any way he can. His recruiter thinks he has the potential to become an asset-though, of course, he could also screw up spectacularly. And in his first assignment, it looks like that's exactly what might happen. He's got seven days to extract a vital piece of information from a Soviet agent, but Cronley's managed to rile up his superior officers (he seems to have a talent for it), and if he fails, it could be one of the shortest intelligence careers in history.
There are enemies everywhere-and, as Cronley is about to find out, some of them even wear the same uniform he does.
Release date:
August 5, 2014
Publisher:
G.P. Putnam's Sons
Print pages:
528
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The triple-tail Lockheed Constellation with howell petroleum lettered on its fuselage came in low over the Potomac River, lowered its gear, put down its huge flaps, and touched smoothly down at the very end of the main north-south runway.
Her four engines roared as the pilot quickly moved the propellers into reverse pitch and shoved her throttles forward. When the Connie finally stopped, she was very uncomfortably close to the far end of the runway and her tires were smoking.
The pilot radioed: “National, Howell One on the ground at six past the hour. Request taxi instructions.”
“Howell One, turn and take Taxiway One on your right. Hold there.”
“Howell One understands hold on Taxiway One.”
The Constellation was the finest transport aircraft in the world. It was capable of flying forty passengers in its pressurized cabin higher—at an altitude of 35,000 feet—and faster—it cruised at better than 300 knots—and for a longer distance—4,300 miles—than any other transport aircraft in the world. When National Airport had opened in June 1941, it had been not much more than a pencil sketch in the notebook of legendary aviator Howard Hughes, who owned, among a good deal else, the Lockheed Aircraft Company. Hughes, who had designed the Lockheed P-38 “Lightning” fighter plane, had decided that if he took his design of the P-38’s wing, enlarged it appropriately, put four engines on it, and then married it to a huge, sleek fuselage with an unusual triple-tail design, he would have one hell of an airplane.
“Build it,” Hughes ordered. “The Air Corps will buy it once they see it. And if they don’t, I know at least one airline that will.”
Although the Congress, in its wisdom, had decreed that airlines could not own aircraft manufacturing companies, and vice versa, it was widely believed that Hughes secretly owned TWA, then known as Transcontinental & Western Airlines, and later as Trans-World Airlines.
No sooner had Howell One stopped on Taxiway One than a small but impressive fleet of vehicles surrounded it. There were four Ford station wagons and two large trucks. On all their doors was the insignia of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. There was also a third truck with a crane mounted in its bed, and a black 1942 Buick Road- master. Neither was marked. The Buick had a large chrome object housing a siren and a red light mounted on its left front fender. Finally, there was a truck carrying the logotype of National Airport. It had a stairway mounted in its bed.
A dozen or more men in business suits and hats and carrying Thompson submachine guns erupted from the station wagons as the truck with the stairs backed up against the Constellation’s rear door.
Two men in business suits got out of the Buick and quickly climbed the stairs up to the fuselage.
They stood waiting at the top until the door was finally opened.
A handsome young officer—blond, six-foot-one, 212 pounds— stood in the doorway. He was wearing an olive drab woolen “Ike” jacket and trousers. The jacket’s insignia identified him as a second lieutenant of Cavalry. The jacket was unbuttoned, and his necktie pulled down.
The two men in suits flashed him looks of surprised disapproval as they pushed past him and entered the cabin.
The cabin looked more like a living room pictured in Architectural Digest than the interior of a passenger aircraft. Instead of rows of seats, there were leather upholstered armchairs and couches scattered along its length. There was a desk and two tables. A full bar was at the front of the cabin. The floor was lushly carpeted.
Seated in armchairs were three people: a tall, sharp-featured, elegantly tailored septuagenarian; a stocky, short-haired blond woman in her late forties; and an attractive, tanned, and athletic-looking young woman of about twenty.
They were, respectively, Cletus Marcus Howell, president and chairman of the board of the Howell Petroleum Corporation; his daughter-in-law, Martha Williamson Howell; and her daughter—the old man’s granddaughter—Marjorie.
“I’m Assistant Deputy Director Kelly of the FBI,” the older of the two men who had come into the cabin announced. He was in his fifties, wore spectacles, and had a short haircut. “Welcome to Washington.”
No one responded.
“Where is the officer-in-charge?” Kelly asked.
The old man pointed to the young officer standing at the door.
“You just walked past him,” he said.
“I asked for the officer-in-charge, sir,” Kelly snapped.
“Sonny,” the old man said, “I hate to rain on your parade, but if that FBI army you have with you was intended to dazzle me, it has failed to do so.”
“Dad!” the older woman said warningly.
Her daughter smiled.
There came the sound of a siren, and then the squealing of brakes, and finally the faint sound of car doors slamming closed.
A moment later, three men came into the cabin.
One wore the uniform of a rear admiral. Another, an Army brigadier general, was in “pinks and greens”—a green tunic with pink trousers. The third, a colonel, wore an Army olive drab uniform.
The colonel stopped just inside the door to both shake the hand of the young officer, then affectionately pat his shoulder.
“You done real good, Jimmy,” Colonel Robert Mattingly said.
“Thank you, sir,” Second Lieutenant James D. Cronley Jr. replied.
“Admiral,” Kelly said.
“What are you doing here, Kelly?” Rear Admiral Sidney W. Souers, U.S. Navy, demanded coldly.
“Self-evidently,” Kelly announced, “the FBI is here to guarantee the security of the cargo aboard this aircraft until it can be placed in the hands of the Manhattan Project.”
The door to the cockpit opened and a man wearing an airline- type uniform stepped into the cabin. His tunic carried the four golden stripes of a captain.
Admiral Souers turned to him.
“Any problems, Ford?”
The “captain,” who was in fact U.S. Navy Commander Richard W. Ford, came to attention.
“None, Admiral,” he said. Souers turned to Kelly.
“Thank you for your interest, Mr. Kelly. You and your people may go.”
“Admiral, the FBI will stay here until the cargo is in the hands of the Manhattan Project.” Souers gestured toward the man in pink and greens. “This is General Tomlinson of the Manhattan Project, Mr. Kelly.
You may report to Mr. Hoover, if you are here at his orders, that you witnessed my turning over of the cargo to the Manhattan Project.” Kelly, white-faced, didn’t reply. “Are you going to leave, taking your people with you, Mr. Kelly?
Or am I going to have to go down to my car, get on the radio, wake the President up, explain the situation to him and ask him to call Director Hoover and tell him to tell you your presence here is not required?”
Kelly turned on his heels, made an impatient gesture for the man with him to follow, and left the cabin. Souers shook his head as he looked away from the door. “How did those sonsofbitches manage to beat us here?” he asked rhetorically. He then quickly added, “Pardon the language, ladies.” “My daughter-in-law and granddaughter have heard the word before,” Cletus Marcus Howell said. “Mattingly, do you think Hoover has someone in my office?”
Souers asked. Mattingly shrugged. “Sir, I would not like to think so. But . . .” “Admiral,” Commander Ford said, “the FBI must have had people at the airport in Miami . . .” “Where you refueled,” Souers instantly picked up his thought.
“With orders to keep an eye out for a civilian Constellation coming from South America.”
“And they called Washington,” Mattingly added. “When they learned you had filed a nonstop flight plan to National.”
“And instead of calling me,” Souers concluded, “the FBI— probably J. Edgar himself—decided to meet the plane here.”
“Why?” General Tomlinson asked.
“J. Edgar is very good at turning any situation so that it shines a flattering light on the FBI,” Souers said.
He turned and walked back to Second Lieutenant Cronley.
“I have a message for you, son, from President Truman,” he said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Quote Well done unquote.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The President also said he wants to see you. That won’t happen today, but when it does, I wouldn’t be surprised if he said you can replace your golden bar with a silver one. But . . .”
Souers stopped as a colonel in an olive drab uniform with Corps of Engineers insignia appeared in the doorway.
“Good morning, Broadhead,” General Tomlinson said. “Come in.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Admiral Souers,” Tomlinson said, “this is Colonel Broadhead, who will take charge of the cargo.”
Souers nodded, and then asked of Cronley, “Where is it, son?”
“In the cargo hold, sir.”
“How hot is it?” Colonel Broadhead asked.
Commander Ford answered for him.
“There are six packages, Colonel. Each weighing a little over two hundred pounds. They’re roped so as to be manhandle-able.
Each came with two lead blankets, each weighing about a hundred pounds. With the blankets off, my Geiger counter indicated significant, but not life-threatening, radiation within a two-hour period. With the lead blankets in place, the counter shows only insignificant radiation.”
“You are?” Broadhead asked.
Ford looked to Souers for permission to answer the question. Souers nodded, just perceptibly.
“Commander Richard Ford, sir.”
Broadhead then said, “Where did you first put the Geiger counter to it, Commander? On the submarine?”
“Colonel,” Souers snapped, “who told you anything about a submarine?”
“Admiral,” General Tomlinson put in, “Colonel Broadhead has worked for me in the Manhattan Project for three years. He has all the necessary security clearances.”
“That’s very nice, General,” Souers said unpleasantly. “But my question to the colonel with all the necessary security clearances was ‘Who said something—anything—to him about a submarine?’ ”
“Sir,” Broadhead said, “one of my duties at the Manhattan Project was to keep an eye on the German efforts in that area. I knew they had some uranium oxide—from the Belgian Congo—and I heard about the missing German U-boats. When I heard that the OSS was about to turn over to us a half ton of it that they’d acquired in Argentina, it seemed to me the most logical place for the OSS to have gotten it was from one of the missing U-boats.”
Souers went on: “And did you share this assumption of yours, Colonel, with a bunch of other colonels—all with the necessary security clearances—while you were sitting around having a beer?”
Broadhead, sensing where the line of questioning was headed, replied, “Yes, sir. I’m afraid I did.”
“Not that it excuses you in any way, Colonel,” Souers said icily, “but you’re just one of a great many stupid senior sonsof . . . officers with all the necessary security clearances who think it’s perfectly all right to share anything they know with anyone else who has such clearances. Now do you take my point? Or do I have to order you not to share with anyone anything you’ve seen or heard here today or any assumptions you may make from what you have seen or heard?”
“Sir, I take your point.”
Souers let the exchange sink in for a very long twenty seconds, and then ordered, “Ford, answer the colonel’s question.”
“When Cronley seized the cargo, sir,” Ford said, “he did not have a Geiger counter device.”
“May I ask who Cronley is? And why he didn’t have a radiation detection device?”
Admiral Souers turned to Cronley. “Son, I’m going to give Colonel Broadhead the benefit of the doubt, meaning I am presuming that he has a reason beyond idle curiosity in asking it. Therefore, you may answer those questions.”
“Yes, sir,” Cronley said, then looked at Broadhead. “Sir, I’m Second Lieutenant James D. Cronley Junior. The first Geiger counter I ever saw was the one Commander Ford used on the . . . packages that I took off . . . wherever they were and gave to him.”
“I predict a great military career for this fine young officer,” Admiral Souers said. “I’m sure everyone noticed that he didn’t say ‘submarine’ or ‘U-boat’ or ‘uranium oxide’ even once.”
Souers let that sink in for another ten seconds, and then went on: “Now my curiosity is aroused. Why did you want to know, Broadhead, if the Geiger counter had been used on . . . wherever these packages were when Cronley seized them?”
“Sir, I was hoping that someone looked for radiation that might have leaked from the packages while they were on the sub—” He stopped.
“Now that the cat’s out of the bag, Colonel,” Souers said, “you can say ‘submarine.’ You can even say ‘U-boat’ and ‘uranium oxide.’ ”
“Yes, sir.”
Souers looked at Cletus Marcus Howell, who was grinning widely.
“Please don’t think this is funny, Mr. Howell,” he said.
“That was a smile of approval, Admiral. From one mean sonofabitch to another.”
“Dad, for God’s sake!” Martha Howell said.
“I will take that as a compliment, Mr. Howell,” Souers said.
“It was intended as one,” the old man said.
Souers turned to Broadhead.
“You think the submarine may be hot, Broadhead?”
“I think it’s possible, sir. The uranium oxide was on the submarine for a couple of months, maybe even longer.”
“Mattingly, get that word to Frade just as soon as we’re finished here,” Souers ordered. “We don’t want to sterilize half the brighter officers of the Armada Argentina, do we?”
“Yes, sir,” Colonel Mattingly said, smiling. “And no, sir, we certainly wouldn’t want to do that.”
Second Lieutenant Cronley chuckled.
“I don’t understand that,” Cletus Marcus Howell said.
“Possibly, Dad,” his daughter-in-law said, “because you’re not supposed to. It’s none of your business.”
“Actually, with apologies to the ladies, I was being crude in order not to have to say ‘suffer radiation poisoning,’ ” Souers said. “And, ma’am, the President ordered me to answer any questions Mr. Howell might have.”
“I thought I told you, Martha,” the old man said, “that ole Harry and I have the honor to be Thirty-third Degree Masons. We can trust one another.”
“May I ask who ‘Frade’ is?” Broadhead said. “And if he’s qualified to conduct an examination of this kind?”
“No, Colonel, you may not. You don’t have the Need to Know,” Souers said. “Are you and General Tomlinson about ready to get the cargo moving?”
“At your orders, Admiral,” Tomlinson said.
“Then may I suggest you get going?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Show them how to get into the cargo bay, Ford.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Cronley made a move suggesting he was going with them.
Souers held up his hand. “Unless the commander can’t find the cargo without your help, son, you stay here.”
“Yes, sir,” Cronley said.
Souers waited until enough time had passed for Tomlinson, Broadhead, and Ford to have gone down the stairway, then walked to the door to make sure they had.
He turned to Cronley.
“The next problem we have, son, is what to do with you. My first thought, when we first heard of what you had done, was regret that you were coming with the uranium oxide.”
“For Christ’s sake, Admiral,” Cletus Marcus Howell exploded. “You wouldn’t have that goddamned radioactive dirt if it wasn’t for
Jimmy! It seems to me a little gratitude is in order. Starting with a leave so that he can go to Texas and see his father and mother.”
Souers ignored him.
“In the best of all possible worlds,” Souers went on, “you would already be back in Germany. But the worst-case scenario has happened. Hoover now knows your name and that you have had something to do with the uranium ore. He will now be determined to learn that precise relationship.”
“And Truman can’t tell him to mind his own business?” the old man asked. “I think he will if I ask him. And I goddamned sure will. I figure ole Harry owes me a little favor—hell, a large favor. You know what it costs by the hour to fly this airplane? And I don’t mind at all calling it in.”
“I hope I can talk you out of doing that, Mr. Howell. The problem there is that if the President tells Hoover to mind his own business, all that will do is whet Hoover’s curiosity. And we have to keep in mind that the ore isn’t the only thing Cronley knows about.”
“You mean the Germans we sneaked into Argentina?”
Souers nodded. “That whole operation.”
“And you don’t trust Jimmy to keep his mouth shut, is that it? That’s insulting!”
“The less he tells the FBI agents that Hoover certainly is going to send to ‘interview’ him, the greater their—Hoover’s—curiosity is going to be. I don’t want—can’t permit—the ax of Hoover learning about the Gehlen operation to be hanging over the President.”
“I understand this, Mr. Howell,” Cronley said, then met Souers’s eyes. “Sir, I’m perfectly willing to go back to Germany right away.”
“And then where do we get married?” Marjorie Howell demanded. “In the ruins of Berlin? Maybe we could get married in that bunker where Hitler married his mistress the day before he shot her. That would be romantic as hell, wouldn’t it?”
“Chip off the old block, isn’t she, Admiral?” the old man said, smiling with obvious pride. “She’s got my genes. I advise you not to cross her.”
“Squirt,” Cronley said. “This is important stuff.”
“So far as I’m concerned, getting married is pretty important stuff,” she said.
“Not that I think the admiral is at all interested,” Martha Howell said, “but I thought you and Beth wanted a double wedding. And I can’t set up something like that in less than three months.”
“You wanted the double wedding, Mother,” Marjorie said. “Let’s get that straight. Beth would like to get married today. And so, goddamn it, would I, now that I think about it.”
“I’m afraid your marriage plans are going to have to be put on hold until we get this straightened out, Miss Howell,” Souers said.
“On hold for how long?” Marjorie demanded. “Or is that another classified secret?”
“Yes, it is classified,” Souers said. “Highly classified. Lieutenant Cronley is right, Miss Howell. This is very important stuff.”
“So you’re going to send him right back to Germany?” Marjorie said. “ ‘Thank you for all you’ve done, Lieutenant. Don’t let the knob on the airplane door hit you in the ass as you get on board.’ ”
“That’s quite enough, Marjorie!” her mother announced.
“Cool it, Squirt,” Cronley said. “I’m a soldier. I obey my orders.”
“I would like to send him back to Germany immediately, Miss Howell,” Souers said. “But unfortunately, that’s not possible. President Truman wants to see him before he goes back, and that’s it.”
“You’re going to explain that, right?” Cletus Marcus Howell said.
“What Colonel Mattingly suggested, and what we’re going to do, is put Lieutenant Cronley on ice, so to speak, until the President’s schedule is such that he can see him.”
“What does ‘on ice, so to speak’ mean, Admiral?” Marjorie said.
“Well, since we can’t put him in a hotel, or at Fort Myer, because
J. Edgar’s minions would quickly find him, what we’re going to do is put him in the Transient Officers’ Quarters at Camp Holabird. That’s in Baltimore. Mattingly tells me junior CIC officers passing through the Washington area routinely stay there—it’s a dollar and a half a night—so he won’t attract any attention. Mattingly will arrange for them to misplace his registry card, so if the FBI calls for him they can say they have no record of him being there.” “And how long will he be there?” the old man asked.
“Just until he sees the President. And on that subject, Mr. Howell, the President would like to see you there at the same time. And he would be furious with me if he later learned that your granddaughter and Mrs. Howell were here and I hadn’t brought you along to the White House for his meeting with Lieutenant Cronley.”
“And after he meets with the President, he gets on the plane to Germany?” Marjorie said.
Souers nodded.
“If Jimmy goes to Germany, I’m going to Germany,” Marjorie then announced.
“We’ll talk about that, dear,” Martha Howell said.
“If Jimmy goes to Germany, I’m going to Germany. Period. Subject closed.”
[ TWO ]
The Officers’ Club
U.S. Army Counterintelligence Center & School Camp Holabird
1019 Dundalk Avenue, Baltimore 19, Maryland
1730 25 October 1945
The artwork behind the bar at which Second Lieutenant Cronley was sipping at his second scotch was more or less an oil painting. It portrayed three soldiers wearing World War I–era steel helmets trying very hard not to be thrown out of a Jeep bouncing three feet off the ground.
Rather than an original work, it was an enlargement of a photograph taken at Camp Holabird in 1939. The U.S. Army Quartermaster Corps, which had then reigned over Camp Holabird, was testing the new Willys-designed vehicle. Some GI artist had colored the photograph with oil paints.
Cronley had heard the rumor that it was at Camp Holabird that the vehicle—officially known as “Truck, ¼ Ton, 4×4, General Purpose”—first had been dubbed “Jeep,” from the G and P in General Purpose.
He wasn’t sure if this was true or just lore. Or bullshit, like the rumors circulating among the student officers and enlisted men about My Brother’s Place, the bar directly across Dundalk Avenue from the main gate. That lore, or bullshit, held that an unnamed “foreign power” had a camera with a long-range lens installed in an upstairs window with which they were taking photographs of everyone coming out the gate.
That, the lore said, would of course pose enormous problems for the students when they graduated and were sent “into the field.”
His thoughts were interrupted when a voice beside him said, “Cronley, isn’t it?”
He turned and saw the speaker was a major.
“Yes, sir.”
The major offered his hand. “Remember me, Cronley? Major Derwin? ‘Techniques of Surveillance’?”
“Yes, sir, of course. Good to see you again, sir.”
“So they sent you back, did they, to finish the course?”
“Just passing through, sir.”
“From where to where, if I can ask?”
“Munich to Munich, sir. With a brief stop here. I was the escort officer for some classified documents.”
That bullshit came to me naturally. I didn’t even have to wonder what cover story I should tell this guy.
“Munich? I thought you’d been sent to the Twenty-second in Marburg.”
“Yes, sir. I was. Then I was transferred to the Twenty-seventh.”
Counterintelligence Corps units were numbered. When written, for reasons Cronley could not explain—except as a manifestation of the Eleventh Commandment that there were three ways to do anything, the Right Way, the Wrong Way, and the Army Way— Roman numerals were used. For example, the XXVIIth CIC Detachment.
“I’m not familiar with the Twenty-seventh. Who’s the senior agent?”
Is that classified? No. It’s not.
The XXIIIrd CIC Detachment and what it does is classified—oh, boy, is it classified!—but not the XXVIIth. The XXVIIth is the cover for the XXIIIrd.
“Major Harold Wallace, sir.”
“Wallace? Harold Wallace?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t think I know him.”
“I’m not sure if this is so, sir, but I’ve heard that Major Wallace was in Japan, and sent to Germany because we’re so under strength.”
Actually, before President Truman put the OSS out of business, Wallace had been deputy commander of OSS Forward. I can’t tell this guy that; he doesn’t have the Need to Know. And if I did, he probably wouldn’t believe me.
And, clever fellow that I am, I learned early this morning from Admiral Souers—who really knows how to eat someone a new anal orifice—that sharing classified information one has with someone who also has a security clearance is something that clever fellows such as myself just should not do.
“That would explain it,” Major Derwin said. “The personnel problem is enormous. They scraped the bottom of the Far East Command CIC barrel as they scraped ours here.”
“Yes, sir.”
As a matter of fact, Major, the morning report of the XXIIIrd CIC Detachment shows a total strength of two officers—Major Wallace and me—and two EM—First Sergeant Chauncey L. Dunwiddie and Sergeant Friedrich Hessinger. And we really see very little of Major Wallace of the XXVIIth.
“No offense, Cronley,” Major Derwin said.
“Sir?”
“It certainly wasn’t your fault that scraping the barrel here saw you sent into the field before you were properly trained. Did you find yourself in over your head?”
“Sir, that’s something of an understatement. No offense taken.”
On the other hand, this morning Colonel Mattingly patted my shoulder and said, “You done good, Jimmy.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the bartender, a sergeant who was earning a little extra money by tending bar. He inquired, “Is there a Lieutenant Crumley in here?”
Speaking of the devil, that’s Colonel Mattingly, calling to tell me the President can’t find time for me and that he’s sending a car to take me to the airport for my flight back to Germany.
And I probably won’t even get to say goodbye to the Squirt.
Shit!
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