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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 passenger compartment of the Ciudad de Mendoza when two former ambulances rolled up to it. Standing with him was Major Johansen, the assistant 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 documents, 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 c
redentials.
“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 cockpit?”
“Can he climb that?” von Wachtstein said, pointing to a narrow ladder leading to the door in the fuselage immediately behind the cockpit.
“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 passport, Father Welner,” Cronley said as he handed Dzerzhinsky’s Vatican passport to him.
“Russian, huh?” Johansen said. “That name is vaguely familiar.”
That’s the other damned shoe dropping!
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.”
