The Honor of Spies

by W. E. B Griffin

  “We have some problems,” Martín said.

  Inspector General Nervo said, “Schmidt has apparently decided to start the civil war we were talking about—”

  “We don’t know that, Santiago,” Martín interrupted.

  “—with the assistance of Brigadeführer von Deitzberg,” Nervo went on. “And that of el Coronel Juan D. Perón.”

  “I repeat, we don’t know that,” Martín said.

  “What we do know,” Nervo said firmly, “is that Perón and von Deitzberg are at this moment on their way to Bariloche by air. What we do know is that a ten-truck convoy of the 10th Mountain Regiment has departed its barracks in San Martín de los Andes on Route 151 in the direction of General Alvear—which is also in the direction of Mendoza.

  “We also know that on the evening of the fifth of this month, el Coronel Schmidt gave a dinner for von Deitzberg, who is now running around as a dead man named Jorge Schenck, and Señora Schenck, who is almost certainly Frau von Tresmarck, the missing woman from the German Embassy in Uruguay. At this dinner, at which the Nazi flag was displayed, Schmidt toasted Adolf Hitler, and von Deitzberg slash Schenck announced he was going to take pleasure in killing the two traitors from the German Embassy—what’s their name, Señor BIS?”

  “Frogger,” Martín furnished.

  “Right. Thank you. And especially Don Cletus Frade, who, in addition to having the Froggers hidden at his Estancia Don Guillermo in Mendoza, is known to have ordered the murder of his father because el Coronel Frade was unwilling to betray Argentina and become an agent of international Jewry.”

  “Good God!” Wattersly exclaimed.

  “Von Deitzberg actually said that?” Lauffer asked.

  “And el Coronel Schmidt seemed to suggest he had suspected something like that all along,” Nervo said. “A few days after this dinner party, von Deitzberg and the blond woman flew back here, then turned right around and went back, now with Perón and his lady friend.

  “The good news is that Juan Domingo’s new lady friend is not thirteen years old—I believe she’s twenty-four—and el Coronel Perón’s sexual perversions apparently will no longer embarrass you gentlemen of the Ejército Argentino officer corps. She is in fact a, quote, radio actress, unquote, by the name of Eva Duarte, employed by Radio Belgrano.”

  “My God!” Wattersly said.

  “That was very entertaining, Santiago,” Martín said. “But I’ll repeat again that we don’t know what Schmidt is actually up to.”

  “Did I mention the fact that the Edificio Libertador is having trouble communicating with the 10th Mountain Regiment?” Nervo said. “And that as this little, not-authorized motor march exercise has gone up Route 151—did I mention that’s the way to Mendoza?—telephone communication seems to have been lost. My people suspect that’s because the wire has not only been cut but has been taken away. Telephone communication will not be restored until the wire is replaced. Not just spliced.”

  “What exactly is it you think Schmidt plans to do in Mendoza?” Wattersly asked. “Rescue those people Frade has there?”

  “I think he plans to lay his hands on the arms cache, which is his excuse for going there in the first place,” Martín said.

  “And while he’s there, since he’s come all that way, maybe kill the Froggers,” Nervo said. “And the Frades—did I mention that Frade’s wife is very, very pregnant? Maybe they’ll just let her go.”

  “You’re saying Frade will fight Schmidt?” Wattersly asked.

  “Well, Coronel, I’m just a simple policeman. You’re the military man. What do you think he’ll do?” Nervo said.

  “We’re going to have to go to the president,” Lauffer said.

  “You’re pretty good, are you, Bobby, swimming with your hands tied behind you?” Wattersly asked softly.

  “If it comes to that, sir,” Lauffer said, “I guess I’ll find out.”

  Lauffer walked to a telephone on a side table and dialed a number from memory.

  “This is Capitán Lauffer,” he said a moment later. “Put me through to the president, please.”

  There was a delay.

  “He’s not in his office,” Lauffer said. “They’re looking for him.”

  “Wattersly, you look as if you think we should have put going to the president to a vote,” Nervo said.

  “Actually, General, I was thinking that I should have been the one to get on the telephone.”

  Everyone looked at Lauffer for a very long ninety seconds, until he suddenly stood straight and spoke into the telephone again.

  “Lauffer, sir. Mi general, something has come up. . . .

  “I’m in the Círculo Militar, sir. . . .

  “Yes, sir. With el General Nervo, el Coronel Wattersly, and . . .”

  There was a brief pause, and then Lauffer said, “Yes, sir. We’re in the private dining room at the end of the corridor, sir. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  He laid the phone in its cradle and turned to the others.

  “The president was having breakfast in the main dining room. He saw everybody arrive. He’s coming here.”

  Eyebrows were still being raised when el General de División Arturo Rawson—a good-looking, silver-haired man in his fifties with a precisely trimmed mustache—walked into the room. The president of the Argentine Republic was in uniform.

  Everyone stood up and came to attention, everyone more quickly than Inspector General Nervo.

  “Relax, gentlemen,” Rawson said. “Good morning.” He smiled at each man individually. “If I didn’t know you all so well, I’d think I’d come upon a meeting of conspirators. What’s going on?”

  No one replied.

  Finally, Nervo broke the silence.

  “Mi general,” he said, “you have a crazy Nazi coronel who is about to start a civil war.”

  “And which crazy Nazi coronel would that be, General Nervo?” Wattersly answered for him.

  “Schmidt, Señor Presidente. My cousin, el Coronel Erich Schmidt of the 10th Mountain Division.”

  “You agree with General Nervo, Edmundo?” Rawson asked.

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  Rawson looked at Martín.

  “And what does General Obregón think about all this? And where, incidentally, is he? Why is he not here? And why are we all not in the Casa Rosada or the Edificio Libertador?”

  El General de División Manuel Frederico Obregón was director of the Bureau of Internal Security.

  Martín came to attention.

  “I haven’t told General Obregón, Señor Presidente,” Martín said.

  “Why not?” Rawson said.

  Nervo answered: “He doesn’t swim too well with his hands tied, Señor Presidente. None of us do.”

  Rawson glared at him for a moment before softly asking: “And you think that would have happened?”

  “I didn’t want to take the chance,” Nervo said.

  Rawson exhaled, then looked at Martín.

  “If you had taken the BIS and the promotion to general that went with it, Martín, when I offered it to you, you wouldn’t have this problem now, would you?”

  “With respect, sir, that wouldn’t have worked,” Martín said.

  “I shouldn’t be talking to any of you,” Rawson said. “General Nervo, you should have taken these frankly incredible suspicions of yours to the interior minister. Martín, you know you should have taken these suspicions to General Obregón—”

  “At this moment, Señor Presidente,” Nervo interrupted him, “Schmidt is leading a ten-truck convoy toward Mendoza.”

  “Mendoza? What’s going on in Mendoza?”

  “Well, for one thing,” Nervo said, “the arms cache that the late Coronel Frade established on Estancia Don Guillermo is there. And he wants that. And then I think he wants to watch the execution of Don Cletus Frade.”

  “ ‘The execution of Don Cletus Frade’? Did I hear you correctly, General Nervo?”

  “Yes, sir, you did.”

  “That’s pr
eposterous! Why would Schmidt want to execute Cletus Frade?”

  “Schmidt won’t be the executioner, Señor Presidente. That honor has been reserved for SS-Hauptsturmführer Sepp Schäfer. But I think Schmidt would really like to watch.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Nervo?” Rawson snapped.

  “Well, what SS-Brigadeführer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg told Schmidt was that Don Cletus had been sentenced to death by a summary court-martial for ordering the execution of his father, who had nobly refused to ally himself with international Jewry.”

  “I can’t believe my ears. The only von Deitzberg I know is that German general who was here—who came here—to offer the condolences of the German officer corps on the death of Jorge Frade.”

  “Same chap, actually,” Wattersly said. “But he’s not really a German general, but in the SS. He’s Himmler’s chief adjutant. And this time when he came back here, he came by U-boat—by submarine.”

  “By submarine! That’s preposterous!”

  “I saw him come ashore at Samborombón Bay, Señor Presidente,” Martín said.

  “Why didn’t you arrest him?”

  “At the time, I wanted to see what he was up to, sir.”

  “And I agreed at the time,” Nervo said.

  “And when I learned of this, I agreed with Martín, Señor Presidente,” Wattersly said.

  “And so did I, sir,” Lauffer said.

  Rawson was silent for a long moment.

  “When I walked in here just now, I jokingly said something to the effect that if I didn’t know you all so well, I’d think you’re conspirators. It’s a damned good thing for you that I do know you all so well; otherwise I would call for the Policía Militar to haul you off to Campo de Mayo for confinement pending court-martial.

  “But what we are going to do now is this: You are going to tell me everything. And I mean everything. I think we’ll start with you, Martín, if you please.”

  “And Perón and von Deitzberg are now in San Martín de los Andes?” Rawson said fifteen minutes later.

  “They are en route, sir,” Martín said. “They and their lady friends.”

  “And what are they going to do when they get there?”

  “I have no idea, sir,” Martín said. “But I don’t think they went there for the trout fishing.”

  “Is there some way you can put them under surveillance from the moment their airplane lands?”

  “The Gendarmería Nacional is taking care of that, Señor Presidente,” Nervo said. “And it’s not only keeping an eye on Schmidt’s convoy but doing its best to slow it down.”

  “The Húsares de Pueyrredón will take care of slowing el Coronel Schmidt down,” Rawson said.

  “Excuse me, Señor Presidente?” Nervo said.

  “Just as soon as I can get to a military phone—” Rawson interrupted himself and turned to Lauffer. “Bobby, call down and have my car ready two minutes ago.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lauffer said, and picked up the telephone.

  “I’m going to order the Húsares to saddle up immediately for Mendoza,” Rawson finished.

  He saw what he correctly interpreted to be something close to contempt on Nervo’s face.

  “Figuratively speaking, of course, General Nervo. I’m going to order the Húsares to immediately begin to move to Mendoza by truck. They have enough trucks to move a troop with their mounts.”

  Nervo did not respond, and the look of near contempt remained.

  “That was one of el Coronel Frade’s innovations when he had the Húsares de Pueyrredón,” Rawson said. “He called it his Immediate Reaction Force.”

  When there was no response to that either, Rawson said, “Jorge Frade even got airplanes for his regiment. Piper Cubs. Cletus flew me into Buenos Aires in one of them during Operation Blue, and I was able to prevent two regiments from inadvertently engaging each other as they marched on the Casa Rosada.”

  Nervo was still silent.

  “General, if you have something on your mind, please say it.”

  “You’re sure, Señor Presidente?”

  “Consider it an order, General!”

  “When I joined the Gendarmería, I was advised by a man I respected that I was never going to get anywhere in the Gendarmería unless I learned to keep my mouth shut and never tell any of my superiors anything they didn’t want to hear, or, more importantly, that they were wrong.

  “I followed that advice, and it worked. Here I am, inspector general of the Gendarmería Nacional. I don’t have to worry about getting promoted anymore. What I have to worry about now is keeping stupid bastards like Schmidt from starting a civil war that will destroy Argentina. And, of course, from keeping General Obregón from sending me swimming with my hands tied behind me. . . .”

  “If you have something to say to me, Inspector General, say it!” Rawson said angrily.

  “Well, I’m just a simple policeman, Señor Presidente, but I see several things wrong with you sending the Húsares charging down the highway in trucks to Mendoza to roadblock Schmidt and the 10th Mountain Troops.”

  “Is that so?”

  “For one thing, the Húsares wouldn’t know where to find the Mountain Troops. The last word I had from my people who are following them is that they plan to halt for the night near General Alvear.

  “That means in the morning they can do one of two things. They can turn right in San Rafael and take Highway 146 to San Luis, and then Highway 7 to Mendoza.”

  “I know the area,” General Rawson said thoughtfully.

  “Or,” Nervo went on, “they can turn left at San Rafael and then about twenty kilometers down 146 get on the secondary roads to Mendoza. They’re not paved and some of them are in bad shape, but it’s only two-thirds—maybe half as far—going that way.

  “We don’t know which route Schmidt will take. So you won’t know where to order the Húsares to set up their roadblock. And you can’t split the Húsares and put half on one route and half on the other. How big is Frade’s—el Coronel Frade’s—Immediate Reaction Force? A troop? What’s that, maybe fifty guys on horses?”

  “About sixty-two, I think,” Lauffer said.

  “Okay. You split that many in half, you have thirty-one guys on horseback, armed with nothing heavier than Thompson submachine guns and Mauser carbines. On Schmidt’s trucks are two hundred, give or take, men armed with everything up to .30- and .50-caliber machine guns, mortars, and God only knows what else.

  “The Húsares won’t stand a chance against the Mountain Troops. All they’ll be is a footnote in the history books: ‘The first battle in the Argentine Civil War of 1943-53 was between the 10th Mountain Regiment and the Húsares de Pueyrredón, who were wiped out near General Alvear.’ ”

  He paused, then asked, “You want me to go on, Señor Presidente?”

  “Please do so, Inspector General.”

  “ ‘When word reached Buenos Aires that the 10th Mountain Regiment troops—who were now calling themselves the National Socialist 10th Mountain Regiment—had executed Don Cletus Frade, prominent estanciero and son of the former commander of the Húsares de Pueyrredón, for treason, troops of the 3rd Cavalry Regiment rushed from Campo de Mayo to the Casa Rosada to protect el Presidente Rawson, who was known to be a close friend of Don Cletus. They were met by the 2nd Regiment of Grenadiers—now the National Socialist Grenadiers—who wanted to execute Rawson. A battle ensued in the vicinity of the Retiro Railway Station.’ ”

  He paused, met Rawson’s eyes, and went on: “It won’t matter who wins that battle, Señor Presidente. The civil war will have begun.”

  There was silence for a full sixty seconds.

  Finally, Rawson said, “If you have any suggestions as to how your scenario might be averted, Inspector General, I’d like to hear them.”

  Nervo nodded. “You prepare three orders, Señor Presidente. The first one orders Schmidt to immediately return to San Martín de los Andes. El Coronel Wattersly and I personally hand this order to el Co
ronel Schmidt—”

  “How are you going to do that? You’re here, and he’s . . . where exactly?”

  “El Coronel Martín has ordered SAA to hold an SAA Lodestar for us, Señor Presidente. We would fly to Mendoza, find out where Schmidt is, and drive there.”

  Rawson nodded. “And if Colonel Schmidt chooses to ignore the order?”

  “Then we hand him the second order, which relieves him of command of the 10th Mountain and orders him to consider himself under arrest pending court-martial for disobedience of a lawful order. The same order appoints Edmundo to assume command of the 10th Mountain, which he then orders to return to San Martín de los Andes.”

  “And if Schmidt refuses to acknowledge the second order?” Rawson asked.

  “Then I will kill him,” Nervo said.

  “Whereupon el Coronel Schmidt’s loyal—loyal to him—officers will kill you. Kill you and Wattersly. Have you considered that?”

  “That possibility has run through my mind,” Nervo said.

  “You said three orders,” Rawson said.

  “The third order is to el Coronel Perón. It is for him to report to you immediately in person here in Buenos Aires.”

  “Two questions there, Inspector General,” the president replied. “First, how would you get this order to Coronel Perón? And what makes you think he would obey it?”

  “My deputy, Subinspector General Nolasco, will be on the Lodestar, Señor Presidente. After it drops Edmundo and me off in Mendoza, it will take him to San Martín de los Andes, where Perón will already be under surveillance. He will give the order to Perón and then offer to fly him to Buenos Aires in the Lodestar, which will leave for Buenos Aires just as soon as Nolasco concludes the business—unspecified—he has in San Martín. If Perón gives him any trouble, or makes any effort to contact Schmidt, he will be arrested.”

  “And then what?”

  “That’s as far as I got, Señor Presidente,” Nervo said.

  “Anyone else have anything to say?” Rawson asked.

  “Señor Presidente . . . ,” Wattersly began.

  “Hold it a second, Edmundo. Let’s follow the practice of asking the junior officers first. Bobby? What have you got to say?”

  “Mi general, I’m your aide-de-camp, a capitán . . .”