“That thought has run through my mind, now that you mention it,” Clete said.
“Don’t be embarrassed, Don Cletus. I would have been worried if you were not worried. So let’s deal with it: Me, you can trust, because the inspector general said you can, and you trust the inspector general. Subinspector Navarro can be trusted because I tell you he can. That leaves Subinspector Nowicki, whom you keep looking at through the corner of your eye. Despite his shifty eyes, I have learned he is trustworthy. But let him speak for himself. Estanislao?”
Subinspector Nowicki—a burly, totally bald, muscular man in his early forties, who had been sitting slumped in an armchair while sipping steadily at a glass of wine—stood.
“Don Cletus, I am a Pole. I hate Nazis and Communists. I know what they have done to Poland and I don’t want either taking over in Argentina. Before I came here, I commanded the Gendarmería squadron in Pila. I was privileged to call your father my friend. When the Nazi bastards murdered him and nearly killed my old friend Enrico, I prayed to God for the chance to avenge el Coronel’s murder. I swear before God and on my mother’s grave that you can trust me.”
He nodded once, then sat down.
“Enrico, why didn’t you tell me you were friends?” Clete challenged, more in wonder than anger or even annoyance.
“You didn’t ask, Don Cletus,” the old soldier said matter-of-factly.
“Well, Don Cletus?” Peralta said. “Now that you’re a little less worried about Estanislao . . .”
“I apologize, Inspector,” Clete said.
“No need,” Nowicki said simply.
“. . . where shall we start?” Peralta finished his question.
“The arms cache?” Clete replied. “The perimeter defense of this place?”
“There are more arms, heavier arms, than I expected,” Peralta said. “Fifty-caliber machine guns, mortars. And a great deal of ammunition. Which makes me wonder whether el Coronel Schmidt is really after that, rather than using the weapons cache as an excuse to look for the Froggers.”
“Why would he want the weapons? He’s got a regiment.”
“Doesn’t the U.S. Corps of Marines teach its officers that guns are like sex? You can never have too much.”
“Point taken, Inspector,” Clete said.
“But now that we’re on the subject of el Coronel Schmidt, let’s get that clear between us, Don Cletus. My orders from Inspector General Nervo are to assist you in any way I can, short of helping you start, or involving the Gendarmería in, a civil war.”
“I have no intention of starting a civil war,” Clete replied. “Is that what Inspector General Nervo thinks?”
“It’s not you he’s worried about,” Nowicki said. “It’s that Nazi bastard Schmidt.”
“Schmidt wants to start a civil war? What the hell for?”
“To put in the Casa Rosada someone who understands that the Nazis—and until last week, the Italians—were fighting the good fight against godless Communism,” Peralta said. “And what makes him especially dangerous is that the bastard really believes he’s on God’s side.”
“Who does he want to put in the Casa Rosada? A colonel named Schmidt?”
“Maybe a colonel named Perón,” Peralta said. “But probably Obregón.”
“The head of the Bureau of Internal Security?”
“I’ve known for some time—as have Nervo, Martín, and some others—that el General de División Manuel Frederico Obregón likes to think of himself as the Heinrich Himmler of Argentina,” Peralta said. “Not the concentration camp Himmler, of course, but as the patriot rooting out godless Communists and other opponents of National Socialism wherever found. Rawson—and others; el Coronel Wattersly, for example—keep him on a pretty tight leash, which Schmidt would love to remove.
“Rawson is a good man, but not very strong. He could be talked into resigning if he thought the alternative was civil war.”
“And Obregón would move into the Casa Rosada?”
“More likely Pepe Ramírez—el General Pedro Pablo Ramírez—with Perón as his vice president. They get along pretty well, and nobody really likes Obregón.”
“Jesus Christ!” Clete said bitterly. “So, what do you want to do with the weapons to keep them out of Schmidt’s hands?”
“I think the best place for them is probably here. The Gendarmería doesn’t have any place to store them more securely than they are here. Inspector General Nervo left the decision to me, based on what I found here. And I can’t fault your defense of Casa Montagna. What I have to try—try very hard—to do is keep you from having to defend it.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“Well, Schmidt can’t get here without using the roads, and the Gendarmería owns the roads. We’ll know immediately if—I think I should say when—he starts in this direction. You’ll probably have two days’—maybe three or four—warning. And Inspector General Nervo will tell Wattersly and the others.
“In the meantime, today we’re going to spread the word that the Gendarmería came here, found a small cache of weapons, and took them off your hands. So there’s no reason for Schmidt to come looking for them. Maybe that will stop Schmidt. Maybe it won’t.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“The only thing I can tell you for sure, Don Cletus, is that if there is a civil war, the first battle will not be between Schmidt’s Mountain Troops and the Gendarmería.”
“But between Schmidt’s Mountain Troops and Don Cletus Frade’s ragtag little private army?”
“I don’t want that to happen either,” Peralta said. “But—and this is not a recommendation or even a suggestion—if you could somehow stall Schmidt outside your gates, perhaps there would be time for Ejército Argentino officers senior to Colonel Schmidt to come here and ask him what the hell he was doing. I think that maybe even hearing that this was about to happen would send Schmidt back to San Martín de los Andes.”
“Unless, of course,” Nowicki said, “the Nazi bastard has decided—or been told—that now is the time to start the civil war.”
“Unless, of course, the Nazi bastard, on orders or on his own, wants to start a civil war,” Peralta said.
“How am I supposed to stall him at the gates?” Clete said.
When he looked at Peralta, he saw that Stein was standing in the door waiting for permission to enter.
“A mortar round or two, or several bursts from a .50-caliber machine gun, might do the trick,” Peralta said. “I did not say that.”
Stein’s eyebrows rose.
“What have you got, Stein?” Clete asked.
“We have just heard from Moses, Major. A graven message fresh from Mount Sinai.”
I suppose late is better than never.
“Let’s have it,” Frade said.
Stein walked to him and handed him Graham’s message.
“Oh, shit!” Clete said when he had read it.
He looked around the room.
Peralta looked at him curiously.
“Let me ask a dumb question,” Clete said. “Where is it that dead heroes go in the afterlife?”
“Valhalla,” Peralta said. “They are taken there by Valkyries.”
Okay, so you know.
Captain Madison R. Sawyer III does not know, nor does Staff Sergeant/Major Sigfried Stein.
What about Subinspector Estanislao Nowicki and Subinspector Navarro?
From the looks on everybody’s faces, nobody except Peralta has a clue.
Dead heroes in the afterlife? Valkyries? What the hell?
Who am I fooling?
I’m going to have to tell Sawyer and Stein; I really should have told them before. I promised everybody on Team Turtle there would be no secrets between us.
And Subinspectors Navarro and Nowicki are going to ask Inspector Peralta what the hell is going on, and he’s going to tell them.
And what are my detailed orders from Mount Sinai?
“Use your best judgment.”
&n
bsp; “I would appreciate it if you listen carefully to this,” Clete said.
Everyone looked at him.
“Señor Körtig and Señor Möller are German officers,” Clete began. “Möller is an SS major who told me he believes any officer who violates his oath of personal allegiance to Adolf Hitler is a traitor—”
“You brought a goddamn Nazi into Argentina?” Nowicki exploded.
“Easy, Estanislao,” Peralta said.
Frade was nodding. “For reasons—good reasons—known to Inspector Peralta. He can explain them to you if he wishes later, but let me continue.
“Körtig is a lieutenant colonel. He tells me that he is privy to a very important secret with the code name Valkyrie. He also told me that he was sent on this duty—ostensibly as a suboficial mayor—to keep an eye on Möller, who was sent here because he was getting too close to the Valkyrie secret.” He paused, then asked, “Have I succeeded in confusing everybody?”
“I will tell you what I can of this later,” Peralta said to the Gendarmería officers, then gestured to Frade. “Go on, please, Don Cletus.”
“What we know now is that Möller cannot be trusted.”
“If he can’t be trusted, kill him,” Nowicki said.
“You and Enrico think alike,” Clete said. “But right now that wouldn’t be smart. There is another German officer here, another lieutenant colonel, who is privy to Valkyrie. I know about this man. If he recognizes Körtig, then Körtig can be trusted.”
“That’s the South African?” Peralta asked. “The wine expert?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I wondered about him.”
“How did you hear about him?” Frade said.
“Subinspector Nowicki heard he was here. He asked me what to do. I asked Subinspector Nervo, who asked Colonel Martín, who asked Inspector General Nervo to back off. We backed off.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Before I get them in here, I want to make it clear that I don’t want Möller to know that the wine expert is anything but a wine expert, or that I put him—he’s using the name Fischer; his real name is Frogger—together with Körtig.”
“That’s presuming your man knows Körtig, right?” Peralta asked.
“What if your man, the one you trust, knows Körtig as a goddamn Nazi?” Nowicki asked.
“That’s a possibility,” Frade admitted. “If that happens, I’ll turn both Möller and Körtig over to you and Rodríguez.”
“Clete, you better make sure they understand that was a joke,” Madison R. Sawyer III said. It was the first time he’d opened his mouth.
Frade met Sawyer’s eyes. “It wasn’t a joke, Captain Sawyer.”
“But they have their wives and children . . .”
“Nothing will happen to the wives and children.”
“Jesus Christ, Clete!”
“Enrico, go get Körtig. And, Stein, you go get Fischer.”
“Clete, I can’t believe you’re serious,” Sawyer said.
“I have heard your comments, Captain Sawyer. Don’t question any decision I make, or order I give, ever again.”
Sawyer looked at him incredulously.
“The answer I anticipate, Captain, is, ‘Yes, sir. I understand, sir.’ ”
After a long moment, Sawyer exhaled audibly, then said, “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
Fischer came into the bar first.
He looked curious but not concerned.
“Gentlemen, this is Señor Fischer,” Clete said, “who came all the way from South Africa to help us improve our grapes.”
The handshaking took about a minute.
“A little grape for the grape expert?” Clete asked, holding up a bottle.
“I could use one,” Fischer said. “I have had a hard day.”
Rodríguez led Körtig into the room a minute later.
Neither German could conceal his surprise.
“Ach, du lieber Gott!” Fischer said softly.
“Willi,” Körtig said, “we heard you were captured in North Africa!”
“I gather introductions are not necessary,” Clete said.
Both Germans turned to look at Frade.
“Colonel Frogger, I presume you are prepared to vouch for Colonel Niedermeyer?”
“Absolutely! Absolutely!”
“And you would say that Colonel Niedermeyer knows that Valkyrie means more than some oversexed woman on a horse?”
“Major Frade,” Niedermeyer said, “Colonel Frogger has been part of Valkyrie from the beginning.”
“Sorry, Nowicki,” Frade said. “It doesn’t look as if you’re going to get to shoot him.”
Peralta chuckled.
“From this moment, Captain Sawyer,” Clete said, “while he has the freedom of the compound, I want someone watching Möller twenty-four hours a day. If he tries to escape, kill him. And tell him if his wife tries to escape, we’ll kill both of them.”
“Yes, sir,” Sawyer said.
XV
[ONE]
Calle Talcahuano 207
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1020 4 October 1943
When SS-Brigadeführer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg had telephoned the German Embassy almost immediately after stepping ashore from the motor vessel Ciudad de Cádiz in Buenos Aires, he asked for “Commercial Counselor” Cranz.
“One moment, please, Señor.”
A moment later, a voice announced somewhat arrogantly: “Herr Cranz is not available.”
“With whom have I the pleasure of speaking?”
“This is Assistant Commercial Counselor Raschner.”
“He’s not available, Raschner, or he can’t be troubled talking to ordinary people?” von Deitzberg snapped.
“Who is this?” Raschner had asked. Most of the arrogance was gone from his voice, telling von Deitzberg that Raschner had recognized his voice.
Von Deitzberg hadn’t deigned to reply directly.
“I need to talk to you, and Cranz, somewhere where we won’t be seen together, without the ambassador knowing, and right now. Do not use my name or rank when you reply.”
There was only a moment’s delay.
“At the rear of the Colón Opera House, Mein Herr, is the Café Colón. We can be there in thirty minutes, if that is satisfactory, Mein Herr.”
“Weren’t you listening when I said, ‘somewhere where we won’t be seen together’?”
“What I respectfully suggest, Mein Herr, is that when you see me come into the Café Colón and then leave, you leave yourself and follow me to a place where no one will see us together.”
“Thirty minutes, Raschner,” von Deitzberg said, and hung up.
It took nearly that long for von Deitzberg to find a taxi and then be driven to the Café Colón.
He had just been served a café con crema—which came with a little cup full of solid lumps of real cream, and a little spoon, which triggered the thoughts that Buenos Aires was really a beautiful city—indeed “The Paris of South America,” as they said—and that the Colón Opera House was larger than the opera houses in Berlin, Paris, and Vienna; and that in 1939 Argentina was said to have the largest gold reserves in the world; and that all things considered—such as that Berlin was already half destroyed and the rest would certainly soon be—Buenos Aires was a pretty nice place in which to live—when Raschner walked through the door. He looked around the café long enough to spot and be spotted by von Deitzberg and then turned and left.
Von Deitzberg decided that appreciatively drinking his café con crema was more important than jumping up to join Raschner, and did so.
When he finally left the Café Colón, he saw Raschner standing near the corner but did not at first see Cranz. His temper flared until he spotted him standing on the corner of the street diagonally across from Raschner.
When he started to walk toward Raschner, Raschner crossed the street, walked toward Cranz and then past him, taking a gravel walk that ran diagonally through a small park.
&nbs
p; Von Deitzberg saw that Cranz was now bringing up the rear. Raschner crossed another street and then entered the lobby of a building near the corner. As von Deitzberg approached the door, he saw that the Argentine version of a concierge was holding open an elevator door, obviously waiting for von Deitzberg. When he got on the elevator and turned, he saw that Cranz was about to get on.
Not a word or a look of recognition was exchanged as the elevator rode slowly upward, nor as Raschner opened it and stepped out to put a key into one of the two doors opening on the elevator landing.
Von Deitzberg and Cranz followed Raschner into the apartment.
Raschner popped to attention, his right arm shot out, and he barked “Heil Hitler!” After a moment, Cranz repeated the gesture.
Von Deitzberg returned the greeting casually without the “Heil Hitler!”
“What is this place?” he asked.
“It is the former Frogger apartment, Herr Brigadeführer,” Cranz said.
“The name I am using is Jorge Schenck,” von Deitzberg said. “Use that only, please.”
“Jawohl, Herr Schenck,” both Cranz and Raschner said, almost in unison.
“Señor Schenck,” von Deitzberg corrected them.
“Jawohl, Señor Schenck,” they said, together.
“I want to talk about those swine,” von Deitzberg said. “But right now, I want a cup of coffee, with cream. And some sweet rolls. The voyage from Montevideo was tiring; I hardly slept, and my breakfast was inadequate.”
“There’s a café around the corner,” Cranz said. “Actually, there’s a café around every corner in Buenos Aires. But this one, the Café Flora, delivers.”
“And the telephone is still operable?”
Cranz nodded.
“Then get on it, and have this Café Flora bring us some coffee with cream, real cream; make sure they bring enough, and some sweet rolls. Lots of both—what we have to discuss may take some time.”
“Raschner,” Cranz ordered, and pointed toward a telephone on the table.
“Herr Obersturmbannführer,” von Deitzberg said icily. “I told you to get on the phone.”
The Honor of Spies Page 49