A moment later, La Vallé extended one to him on a small silver tray.
“Gentlemen, if I may?” Martín asked, looked around, and then turned to Frade and began: “The night el Señor von Deitzberg came ashore from U- 405—on September twenty-eighth, three days ago—Nervo, Nolasco, Lauffer, and I met to discuss our options. Among the things decided—since we are agreed on what has to be done—was that we should meet regularly to share information. That first meeting was held yesterday at lunch between Lauffer and Nervo at the Círculo Militar. Lauffer and Nervo concluded that there were two additional people who should be involved, el Coronel Wattersly and yourself.
“I concurred. I got in contact with Edmundo, then I met you when you landed at Jorge Frade today. Let me be frank, Cletus. While el Coronel Wattersly fully agrees that you should be part of this, Inspector General Nervo is more than a little nervous. . . .”
“The question in my mind, Don Cletus,” General Nervo said, “is where do your loyalties lie? Are you an Argentine or a Norteamericano?”
Clete met Nervo’s eyes for a long moment.
What the hell. When in doubt, tell the truth!
“To tell you the truth, which you probably won’t like, General, I’m both. I’m a serving officer of the United States Marine Corps—”
“And the Office of Strategic Services,” Nervo interjected.
“—attached to the Office of Strategic Services. I am also legally an Argentine and the son—”
“Of an Argentine hero who was murdered by the Nazis,” Wattersly said. “And someone who risked his life—for Argentina—during Operation Blue. That should satisfy you, Santiago.”
Nervo grunted, gave Wattersly a dirty look, grunted again, and then said: “Don Cletus warned I probably wouldn’t like his answer. I don’t. But I like it a hell of a lot more than if he had said—as I expected him to—‘Not to worry, I’m an Argentine. Trust me.’ ” He paused. “Okay. Let’s get on with this.”
“Let me ask you, Santiago,” Martín said. “Do you—and you, Nolasco—believe what I told you of the disgusting operation in which Jews are permitted to buy their relatives freedom from German concentration camps—from German poison gas?”
Both men nodded.
“Cletus, is this man von Deitzberg in charge of that?” Martín asked. “Is that what he’s doing here?”
“That’s two questions. So far as I know, he’s the highest-ranking SS officer involved—and it’s an SS operation. I don’t know if Himmler is involved. I wouldn’t be surprised, but I don’t know. As to what von Deitzberg’s doing here, I’m sure both Operation Phoenix and the ransoming operation are involved, but there’s more, I’m sure. I just don’t know what.”
“That brings us to Herr von Gradny-Sawz, the first secretary of the German Embassy,” Martín said. “He is their liaison man with BIS in regard to the missing Froggers.”
“And to the Gendarmería Nacional,” Nervo said. “You have them, Major Frade, right?”
Clete didn’t reply.
“More than likely in one of two places,” Nervo went on. “Either on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo or—this is my gut feeling—at Estancia Don Guillermo in Mendoza. Specifically at your house—what’s it called?—Casa Montagna— in the mountains.”
That wasn’t a question. Not only does he know, but he was giving me the opportunity to lie about it.
“They’re at Casa Montagna,” Frade said.
“Good God! Another bloody complication!” Wattersly exclaimed.
“Excuse me?”
“Carry on with this, Alejandro,” Wattersly said. “I’ll pick this up later.”
“Well, as I was saying, von Gradny-Sawz invited me to lunch a couple of weeks ago at the ABC on Lavalle. During lunch, he just about asked for asylum, and told me that they—specifically el Señor Cranz, who is the commercial attaché at their embassy and, until von Deitzberg got off the U-boat, was the senior SS man in Argentina—intended to kidnap Señora Pamela de Mallín, Cletus’s mother-in-law, her son, and possibly Señor Mallín, and exchange them for the Froggers. He said something to the effect that he was ‘morally offended at the involvement of an innocent woman and her fifteen-year-old son in this sordid business.’ ”
“Alejandro, I put Pedro on that,” General Nervo said. “He had a talk with one of our more prominent kidnappers who said—and Pedro believes him—that neither he nor any of his friends had been approached, nor had he or they heard anything about kidnapping any of the Mallín family.”
“And you believe that, Comandante?” Wattersly asked.
Nolasco nodded. “The man I talked to, Coronel, depending on what the general tells the court, is facing either five years or twenty-five behind bars. He is motivated to be as cooperative as he possibly can. And while we’re on the subject, he volunteered the information that he’s reliably heard that the assassination community is reluctant to work for our German friends, especially when that is connected with Don Cletus. They prefer to deal with people who don’t shoot back . . . or at least don’t shoot back as well as Don Cletus and Rodríguez do.”
“Carrying that further,” General Nervo said. “The people I have in the German Embassy have heard nothing about this kidnapping plot either. So what’s it all about?”
Frade thought: So he has people in the German Embassy? Why don’t I believe that?
Someone in his position would almost be expected to have “people” in the German Embassy.
But for some gut reason, I don’t believe him. For one thing, it would be the last thing someone like him would volunteer without reason.
Martín shrugged and held both hands up.
“You’re saying there never was a plan to kidnap my mother-in-law?” Clete asked.
“We’re saying we don’t know,” General Nervo said. “If I were you, I wouldn’t take your people off any of them. It’s always easier to keep people than to get them back.”
“Returning to Señor von Gradny-Sawz,” Martín said. “Yesterday, he called to tell me that he had just spent several days with von Deitzberg, who was in Argentina covertly and using the identity of a deceased ethnic German-Argentine named Jorge Schenck; that von Deitzberg had told him that Hitler has personally ordered him to destroy South American Airways’ new aircraft—”
“I want to hear about that,” General Nervo said. “What the hell that whole thing is all about, as well as the plans to destroy the airplanes.”
“—I misspoke a moment ago. Von Gradny-Sawz said that Hitler had personally ordered Himmler to have von Deitzberg ‘deal with the airplanes.’ ”
“If you take that as being true,” Wattersly said. “And I find it difficult to believe that Herr Hitler even knows about South American Airways. He has a pretty full plate before him at the moment. But if that is the case, one must then assume that Hitler knows von Whatsisname is here. And if that is true, one must assume that von Whatsisname is up to something important.”
“Von Deitzberg,” Martín said somewhat impatiently. “SS-Brigadeführer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg.”
“Thank you,” Wattersly said politely.
“Von Gradny-Sawz also said that von Deitzberg told him he is to ‘eliminate’ the Froggers wherever and whenever found, and do the same to Don Cletus,” Martín went on. “And then he told me that von Deitzberg was going to be on this afternoon’s SAA flight to Montevideo.”
“He’s really being helpful, isn’t he?” Nervo said. “What do you make of that?”
“Generally, I have the feeling that he’s trying to ingratiate himself with me so that he can find asylum here. So far as von Deitzberg flying to Montevideo is concerned, I had the feeling—feeling only, nothing to back it up—that he would not have been distressed had von Deitzberg been arrested at the border.”
“Why didn’t you have him arrested?” Nervo asked.
“I want to arrest him—if it comes to that—for something more than having illegally entered Argentina. Blowing up airplanes, for example. Or h
iring members of our criminal community to have another go at my friend Cletus.”
Nervo grunted.
Martín went on: “The thought occurred to me that once I had arrested him, what would I do with him? The president would have to be informed immediately, of course. And he would have questions. ‘How did he get into Argentina? ’ I would then have the choice between pretending I had no idea—in other words, lie—or telling the president about U-405.”
“Which would make the president then wonder both how you knew about U-405,” Capitán Lauffer said, “and why you didn’t arrest him on the beach at Samborombón Bay.”
“And that would involve el Coronel Schmidt and his Mountain Troops,” Nervo said. “And the German SS men who also came ashore, whom Schmidt took with him to San Martín de los Andes. And why didn’t you arrest the lot?” He turned to Lauffer. “Tell me, Roberto, what would El Presidente do if this was laid before him? Seek the wise counsel of el General de División Manuel Frederico Obregón, the director of the Bureau of Internal Security, to see what he made of it?”
“I’m afraid, sir, that’s just what he would do,” Lauffer said.
“I don’t swim well with my hands tied,” Nervo said. “So confiding in El Presidente doesn’t seem to be an option.”
“If SS-Brigadeführer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg . . .” Wattersly began, and then stopped. “Was that right, Martín?”
“That was correct, Coronel.”
“. . . is the major problem, the solution seems obvious. Any suggestions, Rodríguez?”
Frade thought: What’s he talking about? What obvious solution?
Certainly, he’s not suggesting . . .
Enrico popped to his feet, came to attention, and barked, “If Don Cletus approves, mi coronel, the Nazi bastard will be dead before the sun sets tomorrow.”
“Good chap!” Wattersly said.
“Let’s see what the Nazi bastard is up to before we do that,” Clete said evenly.
“But, my dear fellow, you heard what Alejandro said. What he’s up to is blowing up your airplanes and then killing you and the Froggers, not necessarily in that order. I say nip the whole bloody thing in the bud.”
“I’d like to see who he contacts here, people we don’t know about,” Frade said.
Nervo grunted.
“So would I,” Nervo said. “We can always kill him later.”
“Well, now that that’s come up,” Wattersly said, “I am a bit curious to see if he tries to contact Coronel Schmidt.”
“The Mountain Troops guy?” Clete said. “I thought he was Juan Domingo Perón’s good buddy.”
“Not exactly, Old Boy,” Wattersly said. “You’re really not aware of the di chotomous feelings Erich has toward your Tío Juan?”
“That’s Schmidt’s name, ‘Erich’?”
“Erich Franz Schmidt. His mother and mine are cousins,” Wattersly said. He paused and looked between Martín and Nervo. “We’re getting off the track a bit here, but I think he should hear this. Agreed?”
Martín nodded. Nervo said, “I agree.”
“Erich believes—he’s from Bavarian Roman Catholic stock; they tend to be devout and nonquestioning—that Stalin, Communism, embodies the Antichrist, and that Hitler and the Nazis are fighting on the side of God.
“He is not a fool. Foolish, sometimes, but not a fool. He fully understands that Juan Domingo Perón’s fascination with Fascism and National Socialism is based not so much on religious conviction but on what’s good for Juan Domingo Perón.
“Erich is offended by Perón’s morality, as manifested in his sexual tastes. He was one of the colonels who went to discuss them with him. You’ve heard about that, of course?”
“No,” Frade said simply.
“A number of his fellow coronels went to Juan Domingo and asked him, in essence, ‘Juan Domingo, what about this thirteen-year-old girl?’ To which he replied, ‘What’s wrong with that? I’m not superstitious.’”
“Jesus Christ!” Clete said. “Is that true?”
“Unfortunately,” Wattersly said. “I know because I was a member of the delegation.”
“That degenerate sonofabitch!” Inspector General Nervo said bitterly.
“Now,” Wattersly went on, “when furthering the interests of the Germans—protecting the landing site at Samborombón Bay, for example, or shooting up your Casa Chica in Tandil—coincides with what Perón wants, Erich will do it. He is sure God wants him to.
“But, and this is the point of this, he does not want Perón to become president—and will do whatever he thinks is necessary to see that Perón doesn’t.”
“That’s not in the cards, is it?” Frade asked.
“Edmundo hasn’t touched on this, Cletus, so I will,” Inspector General Nervo said.
That’s the first time he’s called me by my first name.
Does that mean he’s starting to like me?
Or just a slip of the tongue?
“What all of us in this room are doing is trying to prevent a civil war,” Nervo said. “None of us wants what happened in Spain to happen here. Brother killed brother. A half-million people died. Her cities lie in ruins. The Communists took the national treasury to Russia to protect it—then kept it. Priests were shot in the street. Nuns raped. Need I go on?”
“No, sir. I’m aware of the horrors of the Spanish Civil War.”
Nervo nodded, then went on: “The reason I looked away when your father—and of course Edmundo—were setting up Operation Blue was that I knew your father would not permit that to happen here. With him in the Casa Rosada and Ramírez as minister of war, there would be no civil war. Nor would Argentina become involved in the war itself. At the time, I thought the war was not Argentina’s business.
“Things changed, of course, when your father was assassinated. I assumed that General Ramírez would step into your father’s shoes and become president. That didn’t happen. Ramírez decided that as minister of war he could keep a tighter grip on things—I’m talking about the armed forces, of course—than he could from the Casa Rosada. He put General Rawson into the Casa Rosada. I now believe that was the right decision.
“What I should have seen and didn’t—Martín did; Wattersly did; others did; I didn’t—was that as it becomes apparent to the German leadership that they have lost the war, they are becoming increasingly desperate. Desperate is the wrong word. Irrational? Insane? Insane. That’s the word.
“I should have seen that when they tried to assassinate you. The first time. Trying to assassinate the son of the man who was about to become president of the nation was insanity! And I certainly should have seen it when they assassinated your father. But I didn’t.
“It was only when el Coronel Martín brought to me proof of Operation Phoenix and then this other unbelievable operation of ransoming Jews out of concentration camps that my eyes were really opened.
“Do they really believe the Americans are going to stand idly by while Hitler and Himmler and the rest of the Nazis—thousands of them—thumb their noses at them from their refuge in neutral Argentina?
“What the Americans would do is sail a half-dozen battleships up the River Plate and tell us to hand over the bastards. At which point proud and patriotic Argentines would set out to do battle with our pathetic little fleet of old de stroyers! I don’t want the Edificio Libertador taken down by sixteen-inch naval cannon.
“Unfortunately, this is life, not a movie. A bugle is not going to sound and the cavalry will not charge across the pampas to set everything right overnight.
“I would estimate that from sixty to seventy percent of the officer corps of the army think all those stories about concentration camps and the murder of hundreds of thousands of people in them are propaganda in the newspapers, which are all controlled by Jews. They believe it is only a matter of time before the godless Communists are driven back into Russia, and the American and British are driven out of Italy and North Africa by the Germans, who have secret weapons they wil
l unleash on the forces of the Antichrist, if not tomorrow, then next week.”
He stopped.
“Sorry, I got a little carried away.” He passed his whisky glass to La Vallé. “May I have some more of Don Cletus’s scotch, please, La Vallé?”
“You’re doing fine, General,” Clete said.
“Hear, hear,” Wattersly said.
Nervo didn’t reply. He just looked between Frade, Martín, and Wattersly as he took several deep swallows from a whisky glass that La Vallé had handed him so quickly that Clete decided La Vallé must have had it waiting.
Finally, Nervo took a last sip, signaled La Vallé for another, and went on, his voice now very calm.
“Within the officer corps of the Armada Argentina, I would estimate twenty- or twenty-five percent are German sympathizers. What that translates to mean, come the civil war, is that the navy—after the Nazis are hung, or forced to walk the plank, or simply shot—will be firmly in the hands of the pro-British forces, which means they will be able to bring the Casa Rosada, the Retiro train station, and Plaza San Martín under naval gunfire.
“At those locations, proud and patriotic soldiers—after standing the anti-Germans in the officer corps against a wall and shooting them for treason—will engage the Armada Argentina with field artillery.
“I’m not sure if you know this, Cletus, but everybody else in your library knows that this has happened before in the history of the Argentine Republic. I don’t intend to let it happen again,” Nervo said softly, then took another sip of his fresh drink.
“None of us do,” Martín said.
“I’d say the general has summed up the situation rather well,” Wattersly said.
Lauffer nodded.
“All right, Cletus,” Nervo said. “Your turn. Tell us—the truth—about your airline.”
Frade looked at him.
And now I’m going to have to lie.
Frade then bought a moment of thought by passing his empty glass to La Vallé.
I really don’t want to lie to Nervo—to any of these people—but I certainly can’t tell them that SAA has already begun to infiltrate Gehlen’s men into the country.
The Honor of Spies Page 41