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In three days I will become chief, Directorate of Central Intelligence-Europe, which means essentially Operation Ost. I have zero, zilch qualifications to be given such an enormous responsibility. But I will have it, and I am about to compound the problem of the Pentagon’s determination to take over control of Operation Ost from what they correctly believe to be a wholly unqualified—and very junior—officer by shifting into what Colonel Robert Mattingly has often referred to as my “loose-cannon” mode.

Specifically, I am going to apply what I was taught at my alma mater, Texas A&M: The best defense is a good offense.

If I told Tiny and Fat Freddy what I plan to do, they would conclude that I was once again going to do something monumentally stupid—and God knows I have quite a history of doing that. They would possibly, even probably, go along with me out of loyalty, but that’s a two-way street.

If, as is likely, even probable, this blows up in my face, I want both Tiny and Freddy to be able to truthfully tell Mattingly, and/or General Greene—for that matter, Admiral Souers—that they had no idea how I planned to deal with Lieutenant Colonel Parsons and Major Ashley. So I can’t tell them.

The same applies to General Gehlen. While my monumental ego suggests he would probably think it might be a good idea, I don’t know that. So I can’t tell him. If I did, and he suggested ever so politely that I was wrong, I would stop. And I can’t stop, because it’s the only way I can think of to deal with Parsons and Ashley.

[THREE]

The Main Dining Room

Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten

Maximilianstrasse 178

Munich, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

2000 29 December 1945

Lieutenant Colonel George H. Parsons and Major Warren W. Ashley were not in the dining room when Cronley, Gehlen, Mannberg, Dunwiddie, and Hessinger arrived, but the table was set with places for everyone.

Important people arrive last, right? Screw you, Parsons!

Cronley took the chair at the head of the table.

“General, why don’t you sit here?” Cronley said, pointing to the first side chair. “So that when Colonel Parsons arrives, he can sit across from you.”

Gehlen, his face expressionless, sat where Cronley suggested.

Cronley then pointed to people and chairs and everyone sat where he pointed.

Twenty minutes later, Colonel Parsons—a tall, trim forty-five-year-old—and Major Ashley—a shorter thirty-six-year-old version of Parsons—walked into the dining room. Both were in pinks and greens, and both of them wore the lapel insignia of the General Staff Corps and the shoulder insignia of the Military District of Washington.

Parsons marched on Cronley, who stood up but didn’t put down his whisky glass.

“Glad to see you again, Cronley,” Parsons said. “Sorry to be late. Tied up. Couldn’t be helped.”

“Good evening, Colonel,” Cronley replied. “I was about to introduce you to General Gehlen, but he just told me he thinks you met when he was in Washington.”

“No,” Parsons said.

“My mistake,” Gehlen said. “There was a Colonel Parsons at Fort Hunt, and I thought it might be you. But—”

“I don’t have the pleasure of Herr Gehlen’s acquaintance,” Parsons said, and put out his hand.

“Herr Gehlen”? Okay, Colonel, if you want to go down that route, fine.

“And this is Oberst—Colonel—Mannberg, General Gehlen’s deputy,” Cronley said. “And Mr. Hessinger, who is my chief of staff, and Captain Dunwiddie, my deputy.” He paused and then said, “And you’re Major Ashburg, right?”

“Ashley, Captain Cronley, Ashley,” Ashley corrected him.

“Right,” Cronley said. “I’m bad with

names. Well, gentlemen, I’m really glad you were free to join us. We’re celebrating Captain Dunwiddie’s commissioning.”

“General Greene mentioned that you had been . . .” Parsons began.