Empire and Honor (Honor Bound 7)

More precisely, he intended to personally hand them to Frade, when Frade was next in Berlin, and at the same time deliver a little speech about how sensitive the material was. In the meantime, until Frade arrived, Mattingly had put the files into the safest place he could think of to put them: two canvas suitcases that he hid in the trunk of the Horch.

He polished this scenario, first by telephoning First Sergeant Dunwiddie and telling him to send Technical Sergeant Abraham L. “Honest Abe” Tedworth and one other responsible senior non-com to the I.G. Farben Building for about a week’s special, unspecified, duty. One or the other, and usually both, kept an eye on the Horch around the clock.

Next, he augmented that protection—frankly feeling rather smug about it—by rigging both suitcases with thermite grenades that could be detonated by pulling on a nylon cord.

As he drove to Berlin, he managed to just about convince himself that he now had things pretty much under control. All he had to do now was put the two canvas suitcases into the hands of Cletus Frade.

—

“Well, that didn’t take long,” Mattingly said when von Wachtstein came into the kitchen. And then he noticed what he was wearing. Von Wachtstein had changed from his SAA uniform into an insignia-less U.S. Army officer’s uniform.

“Why are you wearing that?” Mattingly heard himself demanding.

Von Wachtstein met his eyes for a long moment and then said icily, “Forgive me, Colonel, I was unaware that I needed your permission.”

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Peter, I don’t know why that came out the way it did. Of course you don’t need permission. I was just curious.”

Von Wachtstein considered that for a moment, and then, almost visibly, decided to let it pass.

“I’m going to go over to the Kurfürstendamm,” he said, as he slipped into a chair and helped himself to a cup of coffee, “and I thought I would attract less attention in this than I would in what that lieutenant . . . Cronley . . . ?”

Mattingly smiled and confirmed, “Second Lieutenant James D. Cronley Junior.”

“. . . so aptly described as a Mexican bus driver’s uniform.”

Boltitz laughed.

“Once again,” he said, “unexpected wisdom from the mouth of a leutnant. I probably would have said Hungarian bus driver, but that’s exactly what you look like in that SAA uniform.”

“You can go to hell, Karl,” Peter said.

“Who is this astonishingly wise young officer?”

“That’s right, you didn’t meet him, did you?” Peter said. “Or even hear the story.”

Boltitz shook his head.

“We’ve got him to thank for Elsa. He’s a CIC officer, and pulled her from a line of refugees trying to get to Marburg. Colonel Mattingly had a ‘locate and report’ order out on her, and when Cronley reported he had her, Colonel Mattingly—”

“I wish you would call me Bob,” Mattingly interrupted.

Von Wachtstein looked at him, nodded, and went on. “When Cronley reported to Bob that he had her, Bob arranged for him to take care of her until we could get to Marburg. So we did, and when we walk

ed into the Kurhotel, Cletus looked at him in utter surprise, whereupon Cronley said, ‘Don’t give me a funny look, Cletus, you’re the one wearing that Mexican bus driver’s uniform.’”

“He knows Cletus?”

“They grew up in Texas together. Cletus says he’s the little brother he never had.”

“What a marvelous story!” Boltitz said.

“He now works for me,” Mattingly said.

“I didn’t know that,” von Wachtstein said.

“I put him in charge of the guards around Gehlen’s people at Kloster Grünau. He’s really a bright kid. And he is not burdened with the terrified awe most second lieutenants have for senior officers, which came in handy a couple of days ago.”