The Hunting Trip (20 page)

Boris getting bagged had quickly come to the attention of the Honorable Ralph Peters, deputy director for Soviet Affairs, Central Intelligence Agency, who was both professionally and personally distressed. In another life, Second Lieutenant Peter O'Shaughnessy, which was Boris's real name, had been a classmate of Second Lieutenant Peters (then known as Colby) in one of the first classes of the OSS at the Congressional Country Club outside Washington, D.C., and later at Jedburgh Castle in Scotland.

Peters was especially distressed to hear that his old pal had not been allowed to change clothes, bathe, or even shave since his arrest. In the Good Old Days, so to speak, at Claridge's Hotel in London, he had been known as “Smelly Peter” because of his fondness for
scented bath soap and French cologne. A Russian spy would be needed to exchange for Boris, and he had just the one.

Peters sent the FBI to arrest the Russian spy—a thirty-two-year-old blonde known professionally as “Legs Benidik”—at her place of work, where she was posing for some disreputable photographs.

Peters knew a great deal about Miss Benidik, including that her real name was Natasha Grebenshchikov and that she was an NKGB major, and that prior to sneaking into New York to steal the secret formulas of the American cosmetic industry, she had been carrying on with Colonel Alexis Gorbachov of the NKGB.

Peters arranged a secret meeting with Sergei Petersovich—no relation—the attaché for religious affairs of the Russian Embassy in Washington. Over most of a bottle of Famous Pheasant Scotch whisky consumed in the Bird Cage Lounge of the famed Willard Hotel, the two struck a deal. If Legs Benidik confessed her role
vis-à-vis
stealing the secrets of the American cosmetic industry, Peters would be willing to exchange her for Boris Tolstoy.

Colonel Alexis Gorbachov immediately agreed to the deal. Ralph Peters sent the FBI to cuff Legs—Major Grebenshchikov—and she immediately confessed her NKGB affiliation, and told
The Washington Post
newspaper that she was doing so because she had been broken by the relentless demands of unscrupulous pornographers to do things a decent NKGB major just could not do, even in the furtherance of the peaceful espionage aims of Holy Mother Russia.

When Colonel O'Reilly heard that the exchange in the middle of the Glienicke Bridge would be televised all over the world, he decided it would be simply good public relations for him to happen to mention to the press that all those splendidly turned-out officers with the Thompson submachine guns were members of the Berlin Brigade Chapter of the West Point Protective Association.

And he also decided not to mention the changes he'd made to the exchange protocol to Pastor-in-Charge Caldwell, who would of course be very busy with the details of his end of the exchange.

Peter O'Shaughnessy was being held by the Russians in a disused stable in the former summer palace called Sans Souci, which means
Don't worry about it
, of Frederick the Great, King of Prussia, in Potsdam.

When the NKGB officers in the stables of Sans Souci had positive confirmation that Major Natasha Grebenshchikov had arrived in Berlin, they would drag the man they now knew to really be Lieutenant Colonel Peter O'Shaughnessy, pay grade O-5, from his stable, load him backwards onto a jackass, and take him to their end of the Bridge Over the River Havel.

Meanwhile, Major Grebenshchikov would come down the stair door of the personal plane of the Honorable Ralph Peters on which she had been flown from her place of confinement, the Harry Truman Suite of the Hay-Adams Hotel in Washington, and, with the Honorable Mr. Peters, enter the Cadillac of Pastor-in-Chief Caldwell. Then Administrator Williams, the pastor-in-chief's bodyguard, would drive the Cadillac to our—that is to say, the Free Western World's—side of the Bridge Over the River Havel.

When it appeared there, the 193rd U.S. Army Band would begin to play “The Washington Post March.” Major Grebenshchikov would then exit the Cadillac and march toward the center of the bridge accompanied by the nattily turned-out members of the West Point Protective Association doing Honor Guard duty.

Simultaneously, Colonel Alexis Gorbachov would take the reins of the jackass with Colonel O'Shaughnessy on it, and march toward the center of the bridge, accompanied by six members of NKGB officers.

There the exchange would take place.

These well-laid plans went agley moments after Administrator
Williams opened the door of the Cadillac. The Honorable Ralph Peters exited first, then turned to help Major Grebenshchikov from the vehicle.

She started to exit, which put a good deal of her left leg—actually that portion of her left leg between the knee and where the leg joined her torso—on display. This caused—Major Grebenshchikov was not known as “Legs” without reason—one of the members of the WPPA Honor Guard to tighten his grip on his Caliber .45 ACP M1A1 Thompson submachine gun.

Unfortunately, he had his finger on the trigger when he tightened his grip.

Fortunately, he remembered his instructions to keep the
EXPLETIVE DELETED!!
muzzle pointed at the ground unless he actually intended to shoot somebody. The rounds that burst from his muzzle didn't hit anyone, although they did puncture the bass drum and the horns of both tubas of the 193rd U.S. Army Band.

The three males in and around the Cadillac had, of course, heard the sound of bullets whizzing around in the air many times before, and their Pavlovian reactions to that kicked in.

Pastor-in-Chief Caldwell erupted from the front seat, U.S. Pistol Cal. 45 ACP Model 1911A1 in hand, and leaned across the hood looking for someone to shoot back at. The Honorable Ralph Peters did much the same thing except that he went behind the Cadillac and leaned over the rear fender searching for someone to shoot back at with his Uzi .45, which he preferred over the Colt semiautomatic as it fired more projectiles more quickly.

Sergeant/Administrator Williams had actually heard more shots fired—truth being stranger than fiction—than either Pastor Caldwell or the Honorable Peters because of his service on the KD and other ranges at Fort Dix, Fort Holabird, and elsewhere. There he had learned what to do when he heard a bang, or a series of bangs, and the
whistles of projectiles, not preceded by the appropriate order, to wit: “The Flag is up, the flag is waving, commence fire!”

His Pavlovian reflexes kicked in, and he did what experience had taught him was the only intelligent thing to do in such circumstances. He dove for the ground.

When he did so, he encountered Major Grebenshchikov, with the result that he found himself lying atop the major on the ground.

Meanwhile, things were happening on the bridge.

The 193rd U.S. Army Band, with the exception of two flautists and one slide trombone player, had stopped playing. The jackass with Colonel O'Shaughnessy sitting backwards on it broke free of Colonel Gorbachov's hand on its bridle and galloped toward freedom across the bridge. Colonel Gorbachov and the NKGB chased after it.

And then Major Grebenshchikov kissed Sergeant Williams on the mouth.

“You can get off me now, my hero, now that you have saved my life,” she said.

Then she stood and shouted, as only majors of the NKGB can shout, “All is well, Alexis, my darling! This brave young American officer has saved my life by covering my body with his! Greater love hath no man than to lay down on a Russian NKGB officer to protect her!”

Phil regained his feet just as Colonel Alexis Gorbachov reached the Cadillac.

Colonel Gorbachov kissed Phil. Not on the mouth, of course, but on the forehead.

“You splendid
Amerikānskī
,” he proclaimed. “Not only have you saved the life of my beloved Natasha, but you have prevented World War Three.”

Then he kissed Major Grebenshchikov with even more enthusiasm. He gathered her up in his arms and carried her back across the bridge.

By then the jackass with Colonel O'Shaughnessy on it had reached the Cadillac.

Pastor Caldwell stopped it, untied Colonel O'Shaughnessy, and hustled him into the Cadillac. The Honorable Ralph Peters got quickly in.

“Get us out of here, Phil!” Pastor Caldwell ordered.

Phil backed quickly off the bridge, turned with a squealing of tires, and sped off.

“Open the power windows, young man,” the Honorable Peters said. “Smells like we have a skunk back here. A long-dead skunk.”

“Bill, I'm afraid that's me,” Colonel O'Shaughnessy said. “Those
EXPLETIVE DELETED!!
Russians haven't even let me brush my teeth, much less wash or bathe, since they bagged me.”

“Peter, old comrade-in-arms, I love you like a brother, but there's no way I will fly back across the Atlantic in the confines of my personal jet airplane with you smelling like that,” the Honorable Peters said. “Jonathan, how about taking our old comrade-in-arms to your quarters so he can shower?”

“‘Smelly Peter' may bring back memories of rose petals, lavender cologne, et cetera, in the old days, Bill—sorry, Ralph—but the way he smells now, Victoria not only wouldn't let him in the house, she wouldn't even let me stand him against our garage wall and hose him down. Phil, take us to your quarters.”

—

When he saw the sign
—Field Grade Bachelor Officers' Hotel—on the building to which he was driven, Colonel O'Shaughnessy first asked, “You live here?” and when Phil replied in the affirmative, then commented, “You certainly don't look like you're old enough to be a major.”

“Sir, I'm not. I'm a sergeant, pay grade E-4.”

The conversation was interrupted by the Honorable Peters, who said, “Let's not waste any time getting you into the shower, Peter. You're causing the paint on Caldwell's Cadillac to bubble.”

It resumed tangentially thirty minutes later, immediately after Colonel O'Shaughnessy had failed his fifth sniff test and been ordered back into the shower, when the telephone rang.

The Honorable Ralph Peters answered it, listened for a long time, and finally said, “Я вернусь fo вы,” which is Russian for “I'll get back to you,” and hung up.

He turned to Pastor Caldwell and said, “That was General Smirnoff, chief of the Russian delegation over at the Allied Kommandantenhaus in East Berlin.”

“Boris Smirnoff? Ol' Stainless Steel Teeth?”

“No. This was his brother Giorgi, the one they call ‘Gorgeous George.'”

“What the hell did he want?”

“They're going to decorate ‘the Officer Hero of the Bridge Over the River Havel' with the order of Karl Marx, Second Class, which means it comes with pearls and rubies. He said Colonel Gorbachov tried to get the First Class, which comes with diamonds, pearls, and rubies, but the Kremlin wouldn't go along.”

“Which Officer Hero of the Bridge Over the River Havel? You or me?” Pastor Caldwell asked.

“Actually, he was talking about the officer who put his body between that hail of bullets and Major Grebenshchikov's body.”

“That was Phil, but, as splendid a young man as he is, he's not an officer.”

“Commission him. The Russians are not going to give the Order of Karl Marx, Second Class, to a common enlisted man. You know as well as I do how class-conscious the Communists are.”

“He's not old enough to be an officer.”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

“What does ol' JFC suggest about what?” Colonel O'Shaughnessy asked, as he came into the room attired in a bath towel.

“Your turn to sniff him,” ol' JFC said.

The Honorable Peters did so.

“Under the circumstances, I guess I can live with that level of olfactory offensiveness,” he said. “What were you asking, Peter?”

“I was asking what does ol' JFC suggest about what?”

The problem was explained to him.

“Make him a CIC special agent. Then the Reds won't know he's a common enlisted man,” O'Shaughnessy said.

“If memory serves, I think you have to be a staff sergeant to become a CIC special agent,” Pastor Caldwell said.

“Then promote him and then give him the
EXPLETIVE DELETED!!
badge,” the Honorable Peters said. “How long will that take?”

“Consider it done, Bill . . . Ralph,” Pastor Caldwell said.

Thus it came to pass that Phil went through a remarkable metamorphosis that changed him in a very short time from being the only living seventeen-year-old virgin in the world into the only seventeen-year-old CIC special agent in the world.

Lieutenant Colonel William “Don't Call Me Bill” O'Reilly went through a similarly remarkable metamorphosis as a result of the events on the Bridge Over the River Havel.

One day he was commanding officer of the XXXIIIrd CIC Detachment in Berlin, and three days later he was deputy commanding officer of the Junior ROTC Training Detachment at the Joseph Smith, Jr., Junior High School for Girls, in Salt Lake City, Utah.

[ THREE ]

Berlin, Germany

Monday, November 10, 1947

S
everal months later, depending on the birth certificate referenced, Phil turned either eighteen or nineteen. He spent the morning in his office searching for ambiguities and errors of grammar in agents' reports and the afternoon at the range teaching his regular Monday afternoon class in the care and handling of the Caliber .45 ACP M1A1 Thompson submachine gun to the Berlin Chapter of the West Point Protective Association.

When he returned to his quarters in the field grade bachelor officers' hotel, he found a sad-faced chaplain, a similarly sad-faced male Red Cross official, and a sad-faced but otherwise attractive Red Cross Girl—her bosom reminded him of the countess and her legs reminded him of Major Natasha Grebenshchikov's lower extremities—waiting for him.

Phil intuited that something was wrong.

“Be strong, my son,” the chaplain said. “Your father is gone.”

“Where did he go?”