The Hunting Trip (17 page)

After that conversation, Pancho had realized that unless he took some other action, Ginger and ol' Phil were going to be in Scotland and he was going to be all alone in London except for Randy and his new bimbo.

So he called Guatemalan Air, got Pilar on the line, and asked her how she would like to go to London and Scotland.

Once everybody was in Atlanta, he reasoned, they could sort things out.

VIII

PHIL VERSUS THE RED MENACE

[ ONE ]

Berlin, Germany

Saturday, August 9, 1947

W
hile it could not be truthfully said that Phil was ever in any real danger of being named an Honorary Member of the Berlin Garrison Chapter of the West Point Protective Association, it is true that he soon worked out a harmonious relationship with those members associated with the German-American Gospel Tract Foundation.

For one thing, he used the respectful term “sir” a good deal when conversing with them and, for another, when he came to work in the morning, he fell into the habit of taking his U.S. Pistol, Cal. .45 ACP Model 1911A1, from his shoulder holster and laying it on his desk for all to see.

Within a very short time, most, if not all, of the West Pointers realized that it was really better to hand their reports of investigations
and other activities over to the man they described—behind his back, of course—as “a
EXPLETIVE DELETED!!
enlisted man who didn't even finish
EXPLETIVE DELETED!!
high school” for his red pencil, than the alternative, which was to send them directly to SSA Caldwell, with the inevitable result there, presuming undetected ambiguities and errors of grammar would surface, as they inevitably would, of having a new anal orifice reamed by SSA Caldwell, who could and did ream such orifices as only a lieutenant colonel of cavalry, pay grade O-5, can ream them.

And then firearms, in particular smooth bore shoulder arms, often called “shotguns,” entered the picture.

On a Saturday morning about three months after Administrator Williams had assumed his duties as chief, Literary Division, German-American Gospel Tract Foundation and as bodyguard to the pastor-in-charge, Phil went to his office after driving Pastor-in-Charge and Mrs. Caldwell in their Cadillac to Tempelhof Airfield, where they caught the 10:20 a.m. Pan American flight to Frankfurt am Main.

They were headed for the Frankfurt International Book Fair, which was to be the beard for a meeting between Pastor Caldwell and the Reverend Phineas Logan, which was the beard ol' Bill Colby, now Ralph Peters, was using for the moment.

After making a quick stop to examine the religious tomes on display at the book fair, they were going to Baden-Baden, in the Black Forest, where they would discuss Intelligence Business, and then put to the test on the
vingt-et-un
tables of the Baden-Baden Casino a new theory of mathematical probability ol' Bill had developed.

On the way from the Caldwell residence to the airfield, they had made a quick stop at an apartment on Onkel Tom Allee the German-American Gospel Tract Foundation maintained to house very senior NKGB officers, or very senior officers of other Eastern Bloc nations,
and/or their families, following their defection until they could be moved to Palm Beach, Florida, or Palm Springs, California, or wherever they would begin their new lives in the United States.

“Be a dear, Philip,” Mrs. Caldwell said, “and pop in there for me. The countess is going to loan me her Persian lamb to wear in Baden-Baden. She knows you're coming.”

Phil understood that Mrs. Caldwell meant Persian lamb
fur coat
, not a live animal, as his mother had a Persian lamb fur coat. And he looked forward to popping in and getting the coat from the countess, a/k/a Magda, Countess of Kocian, who was a redheaded older Hungarian woman—probably twenty-eight, maybe even twenty-nine—but remarkably well preserved, especially in the bosom department.

Angus McTavish had spirited the countess across the border hidden in a cage with an aging gorilla and an about-to-expire python. She had brought with her only the clothes on her back and a small pigskin suitcase holding the Kocian family jewels, mostly diamonds but with a sprinkling of rubies and pearls.

The countess had left her husband, a colonel in the Hungarian Secret Police, behind in Budapest. She would wait in Berlin for him to join her.

The countess had met the pastor's wife, and soon they were chums, spending long hours together comparing the socio-sexual foibles of the Hungarian aristocracy with those of the aristocracies of Detroit, Michigan, and Boston, Massachusetts, while sipping at Slivovitz, a Hungarian plum brandy with which the pastor's wife had previously not been familiar, but had quickly come to really appreciate.

Phil had overheard the pastor's wife confide in her husband, “Don't push that
EXPLETIVE DELETED!!
dwarf of yours, McTavish, too hard about getting Magda's husband out. For one thing, I'm going to miss the countess terribly when she's gone to Palm Springs, or wherever, and for another Magda has confided in me that their marriage was
one of convenience. The
EXPLETIVE DELETED!!
Reds had taken over her castle and it was either marry him or move out. And the only reason he married her was that his hanky-panky with barely pubescent girls of the Magyar Állami Operaház Corps de Ballet was getting to be too much of an embarrassment for even the
EXPLETIVE DELETED!!
Hungarian Secret Police to keep overlooking and he needed a beard.”

—

The countess answered
Phil's buzz at her door with both her flaming red hair, which reached her waist, and her dressing gown askew. Before she pulled her neckline together, he inadvertently happened to notice perhaps eighty percent of the left of her bosom.

“Good morning, Countess. I'm here to pick up the Persian lamb.”

“Nem vagyok grófné, az én kis szilva cukor,”
the countess replied, taking her hand from where it was holding her gown closed and using it to pinch his cheek.

Phil now had what was known to intelligence professionals as a
one hundred percent clear with zero obstructions visual
of both of the countess's mammary glands.

His heart jumped. When he could find his voice, he confessed, “Countess, I'm afraid I don't speak Hungarian.”

“What I said, my little dumpling,” she said in English, “was that you don't have to call me countess.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You may—when the pastor and his wife are not around, of course—call me Magda.”

“That's very kind of you, Magda.”

“And what are your plans for this Saturday, after the pastor and his wife fly off to Frankfurt, dumpling?”

“Actually, I have none, Magda, so if you would like me to drive you
anywhere at all you'd like in the pastor's Cadillac, I would be happy to oblige.”

“Well, maybe that, too, but what I was thinking was that since you don't speak Hungarian, I would like to teach you a little Hungarian. And some other things, which your innocent face, my little dumpling, tells me you have yet to learn. Would you like that?”

“That would be very kind of you, Magda.”

“I'll get the coat.”

When she handed him the coat, she said, “I wouldn't mention our conversation to the pastor. I'm afraid he would understand.”

“Yes, ma'am . . . I mean, Magda.”

—

After dropping
Pastor-in-Chief and Mrs. Caldwell at Tempelhof, Phil drove to his office. He realized that he needed time to think things through and that was the place to do it, as no one else in the German-American Gospel Tract Foundation worked on Saturday but him.

Logic told him, of course, that it would be illogical to think that a startlingly beautiful redheaded, magnificently bosomed older woman of at least twenty-eight could possibly be interested in an administrator who was the world's last known living seventeen-year-old virgin.

On the other hand, she had pinched his cheek, and called him her little dumpling. And, having already acquired the cynicism that is the hallmark of those who labor in the intelligence fields, he wasn't absolutely sure that her bosom exposure had been entirely accidental and thus innocent on her part.

And he was having trouble thinking clearly, as the visual of Magda's bosom kept interrupting his chain of thought. And then his thought chain was again interrupted when there came a knock at his office door.

He ran to open it, throwing caution to the wind, and just knowing it was Magda come to teach him Hungarian and whatever else she had in mind.

[ TWO ]

I
t wasn't.

It was a delegation of members of the Berlin Garrison Chapter of the West Point Protective Association.

“How may I help you, sirs?” Phil politely inquired.

“We're hoping you might find time in your schedule, Administrator Williams, to discuss with you a problem we're facing.”

“Sirs, my time is your time. Please come in, sirs, and have seats.”

The delegation—consisting of Captain J. K. Brewster, cavalry, pay grade O-3, and two of his underlings—entered the office and sat down.

“We are hoping, Administrator Williams, that you will keep this conversation to yourself,” Captain Brewster began.

“Sir, you have my word that what's said in this room will stay in this room.”

“We are aware, Administrator Williams, that in order to better serve him, the pastor-in-charge has moved you out of the barracks housing the Thirty-third CIC detachment's enlisted men and into the field grade bachelor officers' hotel.”

“Yes, sir. The pastor-in-charge did so in order that his Cadillac, in which I often drive the pastor-in-charge's wife to the PX, the Senior Officers' Club, and similar destinations, and in which I have just now driven the both of them to Tempelhof Field to catch the Frankfurt
flight, can be parked out of the sun and rain, and also to separate me from certain members of the Thirty-third CIC he felt were trying to corrupt me.”

“Despite this, we are hoping that you still remember Lieutenant Colonel O'Reilly from your days in the Thirty-third's barracks.”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“And we hope you also remember that despite your civilian clothing status and residence in the field grade bachelor officers' hotel, you are still,
de jure
, so to speak, a corporal, pay grade E-3, and carried on the Morning Report of the Thirty-third as such.”

“Sir, I am also fully aware of that.”

“
Entre nous
, Administrator Williams, Lieutenant Colonel William ‘Don't Call Me Bill' O'Reilly is what we call a ‘ticket puncher.' Behind his back, of course.”

“Sir, I have heard that allegation, but I'm afraid I don't know precisely what that means.”

“Let me put it to you this way, Administrator Williams. A ticket puncher is an officer who believes the way to higher command lies in getting his ticket punched as many times as possible, whatever the cost. Understand?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, let's try this. Word comes from Berlin Brigade that the commanding general hopes that the brigade will support the Red Cross Drive. The response of normal officers, such as myself and these gentlemen, to the general's hopes would range from the verbal—‘Yeah, us too'—to a decision to actually drop a dollar in the Red Cross's bucket if one is presented to us. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“On the other hand, a ticket puncher such as Lieutenant Colonel William ‘Don't Call Me Bill' O'Reilly, on learning of the general's
hopes
vis-à-vis
the Red Cross, will regard it as a clarion call from on high to see that every last member of his organization contributes a dollar to the Red Cross Drive. Understand?”

Phil said, “Yes, sir,” and handed Captain Brewster a dollar.

“I'm always willing, sir, to do my part.”

“Jesus H.
EXPLETIVE DELETED!!
Christ!” Captain Brewster exclaimed.

He then got control of himself and continued, “We seem to have gotten a few paces off my intended path, Administrator Williams. Pray let me attempt to get us back on course.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, presuming that Lieutenant Colonel William ‘Don't Call Me Bill' O'Reilly succeeds, by fair means or foul, to have every member of the Thirty-third contribute a dollar to the Red Cross, he will then make every effort to make sure the general learns of this. When the general does, and then says, ‘Good job, Bill,
vis-à-vis
the Red Cross,' or words to that effect, Colonel O'Reilly will consider that to mean his ticket has been punched. Get it?”