telligence Directorate, to run Odessa down and eliminate it wherever found. He asked for my help. I’m giving it to him.”
“General Makamson,” Colonel Wallace announced, “speaking as chief of Central Intelligence–Europe, I have no knowledge of any of this.”
“Harry,” Colonel Cohen said, conversationally, “the admiral didn’t tell you because he thought you’d stick your nose in to show who’s boss and then proceed to fuck things up. And they’d be not just fucked up but FUBAR.”
“Colonel,” General Makamson snapped, “you will address officers by their rank! And respectfully! Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Cohen said, evenly. “We just could not afford to have what we were doing Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.”
“I think we all know what FUBAR means, Colonel. And when I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Makamson glared at him for ten seconds, then said, “To avoid losing my temper, I think we have to get on with this. So, you think Odessa is in Berlin?”
“We think that it’s very likely that its senior officers are, sir,” Cohen replied. “Sir, may I start at the beginning?”
“Why not.”
“Sir, we know that Odessa has vast sums of money, which they are using both to get Nazis who are on the run out of Germany and to fund the so-called religion that Heinrich Himmler started.”
“You believe that Hitler/Himmler religion nonsense, do you?”
“Before we took the Berliner last night, we were at Wewelsburg Castle, which is sort of the Vatican of this new religion. We had with us an expert in heretical religions, Father Jack McGrath, whom Admiral Souers found for us. Would you take his word? He’s in Berlin, at the DCI safe house in Zehlendorf.”
“You’re telling me that Admiral Souers also believes in this Nazi religion nonsense?”
“More important, sir, the admiral tells me so does the President. The President regards it as a threat to his intentions to try to hang the people we have in Nuremberg as common criminals rather than martyrs. He ordered the admiral to look into it. The admiral assigned that task to Captain Cronley.”
“Cronley is supposed to be protecting Mr. Justice Jackson,” Wallace said, coldly. “You expect us to believe Cronley was ordered to chase Odessa at the expense of that? And without telling me, or, more important, Mr. Justice Jackson?”
“Mr. Justice Jackson is in the loop,” Cohen said, evenly.
“I find that very hard to believe,” Makamson said. “And there’s one way to find out.”
He picked up the receiver of a red telephone on the desk.
“This is General Makamson. Get me Mr. Justice Jackson at the International Tribunal in Nuremberg on a secure line.”
A moment later, the master sergeant at the court reporter’s keyboard leapt to his feet, came to attention, and bellowed, “Ten-hut!”
Everyone in the room popped to attention.
General Lucius D. Clay had entered the room. He was trim and fit, with a slim, angular face, penetrating dark eyes, and black hair. He wore simple ODs, and had his characteristic Chesterfield cigarette hanging from his lips.
“At ease,” Clay said, a trace of his native Georgia accent evident, as he slipped into a chair at the conference table. Then he said, “Hang that up, General. I just got off the horn with Jackson.”
“Yes, sir,” Makamson said, and then spoke into the red telephone receiver. “Cancel the call.”
Clay looked at Cohen and Cronley.
“General Makamson suggested that you two would be dazzled into silence by my august presence. And that it would be best if I listened to his interrogation over the intercom. That obviously hasn’t worked, so I’ll take over.
“First, let’s clear the air vis-à-vis Justice Jackson. He is fully aware that Captain Cronley was ordered to pursue Odessa by Admiral Souers. He also told me that it was he who dubbed you Super Spook, Captain Cronley, because you’re so good at what you do. So, Captain Super Spook, why don’t you tell us what the hell is going on here?”
“Yes, sir—”
“And start at the beginning, please, keeping in mind that I want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God.”