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There was a long moment’s silence, then General Gehlen said softly, “In my judgment, relieving Captain Cronley at this point in this scenario would be ill-advised for a number of reasons.”
“It would be my call, General,” Wallace snapped.
“I suggest you make your decision very carefully,” Gehlen said.
Wallace glared at him and then marched angrily out of the room.
[ TWO ]
44–46 Beerenstrasse, Zehlendorf
U.S. Zone of Berlin
1810 30 January 1946
As the Military Transport Command Douglas C-54 “Skymaster” had made its approach to the Tempelhof airfield in the growing darkness, Cronley saw that what had been the capital of the Thousand-Year Reich was mostly in darkness. There were exceptions. Here and there he saw islands of light, small parts of Berlin that had somehow escaped the damage brought by one thousand-bomber raid after another. The buildings in those parts were lighted, and some of the streets, and he had even seen the red and green of traffic lights.
And one of those islands of light, he knew, was their destination: the city suburb of Zehlendorf.
The Skymaster touched down and taxied under the curved arch of the terminal. An Air Force bus pulled up to the aircraft as its door opened. Two full colonels rose from their seats and walked to the door. Both of them glared at Cronley, Mannberg, and Ostrowski as they did.
The original manifest had had another full colonel and a lieutenant colonel listed as passengers. They had been bumped by a higher travel priority given—for reasons the two colonels who had not been bumped could not imagine—by two young, and therefore obviously not senior, men whose uniforms bore the blue triangles of civilian employees of the Army.
Cronley signaled to Ostrowski and Mannberg to wait until just about all the other passengers had debarked. Then they got on the bus, which carried them farther into the terminal.
—
“My God,” Ostrowski said, as they walked into the terminal, “this place is enormous!”
“First time in Berlin, Max?” Mannberg asked.
“First time on the ground. The last two times I was here I was an exchange pilot with the 8th Air Force flying B-17 escort in a P-51.”
Cronley saw the two were smiling at one another. And then he saw something else, and sa
id, “Well, Comrade Serov will see that we are following his orders.”
He nodded his head toward two Russian officers who were standing against a counter looking at the arriving passengers.
Cronley waved cheerfully at the Russian officers as Mannberg and Ostrowski, shaking their heads, smiled.
—
Staff cars were available for senior officers, and Mannberg’s DCI credentials got them one, an Opel Kapitän driven by a German wearing ODs dyed black.
When they got to the house on Beerenstrasse, Cronley saw a 1942 Ford with 711 MKRC bumper markings. That told him Hessinger, Claudette, and Ostrowski’s men had made it to Berlin.
And then the headlights of the staff car lit up a sign, a four-by-eight-foot sheet of plywood held up by two-by-four studs. It carried the legend SOUTH AMERICAN AIRWAYS, the letters arranged in a circle around a representation of the world.
At first Cronley was amused.
Well, why not? That sign was probably Clete’s idea. This house was taken over by the OSS right after the war. When the OSS went out of business, Operation Ost didn’t, and needed a place in Berlin. You could hardly put a sign reading OPERATION OST on the lawn.
So, why not South American Airways, whose managing director and chief pilot was Señor Cletus Frade—and who’s also, or was then, the senior OSS officer in the Southern Cone of South America?
And then he had more sobering thoughts.
My God! I completely forgot that Berlin, not Frankfurt, is the European terminal for SAA!
