“Just Janice’s Stars and Stripes slash Associated Press stories,” Wallace said.
“I was thinking it couldn’t make anything worse than it already is,” Cronley said. “And it might shake up Comrade Serov a little. Where’s Cronley? What’s he doing? And what’s the role of Janice Johansen of the Associated Press in this?”
McMullen granted his approval of that scenario with a grunt.
“Your call, Jim,” Wallace said.
He’s asking me. Again. Not telling me.
What’s going on?
“Florence, call the Military Air Transport Service and make reservations for Major Wallace and Miss Johansen on every Berlin courier flight starting at fifteen hundred.”
“If they give you any trouble,” Wallace said, “get Colonel Aaron of MATS on the line, and tell them the reservations we’re asking for are for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Florence, call the Maison Rouge hotel in Strasbourg and make reservations for Colonel McMullen and me,” Cronley said.
“Yes, sir.”
“And nobody but General Gehlen, Colonel Mannberg, and, if he calls, Mr. Schultz is to know where we are.”
“Keeping the mole in his hole?”
“Well, I don’t think the mole is either Gehlen or Mannberg. So maybe this will make him stick his head out to see what’s going on, and we can lop it off.”
He looked at McMullen.
“Let’s have a late lunch in Strasbourg, sir.”
“Why not? The food’s probably better there than it is in the Vier Jahreszeiten,” he said, and stood up.
“Which one of us is going with you?” Ziegler asked.
“Everybody’s going,” Cronley said. “Florence, find Kurt Schröder. Tell him we’re on our way and to have both Storches ready.”
“And call that hotel and make sure we get rooms, too,” Ziegler said.
[ SIX ]
Hotel Maison Rouge
Rue Des Francs-Bourgeois 101
Strasbourg, France
1620 5 February 1946
Commandant Jean-Paul Fortin and Sergeant Henri Deladier walked into the alcove off the main dining room in the basement of the hotel.
Seated at a long table on which were several bottles of Crémant d’Alsace and an impressive array of hors d’oeuvres were Lieutenant Colonel McMullen, Captain Pierre DuPres, Sergent-chef Ibn Tufail, and DCI agents Wagner, Finney, Ziegler, Schröder, and Cronley.
The Frenchmen and Wagner stood up.
“Clever fellow that I am,” Fortin greeted them, “when I saw those illegal airplanes at the airfield, I intuited that you, Cronley, would be here trying to subvert my staff. But I didn’t expect to see you, Mon Colonel.”
He walked to McMullen and shook his hand, and asked, “Whatever is a fine officer such as yourself doing with these disreputable people?”