He gave a Nazi salute and barked, “Heil Hitler!”
Von Dattenberg didn’t return the salute, but asked, “You’re German?”
“Rottenführer Plinzer, Herr Kapitän,” the boy barked.
Von Dattenberg took the uniform.
“That will be all, Plinzer. Thank you.”
“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän,” Plinzer said, threw out his arm, barked, “Heil Hitler!” again, then stood there, obviously waiting for von Dattenberg to return the salute.
He almost didn’t.
Fuck the Nazis and their salute!
What’ll this kid do, report me to one of the SS officers?
And, anyway, what the hell could they do to me on a submarine-replenishment vessel off the Falkland Islands?
For that matter, what the hell is the SS doing on a submarine-replenishment vessel off the Falkland Islands?
In the end, he returned the salute by raising his arm from the elbow.
That arrogant kid would’ve reported me for not saluting.
But he’s not going to complain that my salute wasn’t as crisp or enthusiastic as he thought it should’ve been.
Capitán de Banderano came back to his cabin moments after von Dattenberg had put on the new uniform, still smelling of camphor mothballs.
He smiled and raised his hands in a gesture that said, Well, what a change!
Von Dattenberg smiled back.
“When the fuel’s running low, the first thing that gets shut down is the seawater distiller,” von Dattenberg said.
De Banderano nodded his understanding.
“Is there anything else I can get you?”
"I don’t suppose you have a well-breasted blonde—or two—who just loves sailors?”
De Banderano chuckled as he shook his head.
“Thank you very much for all you’ve given me so far, Capitán.”
"My privilege, Kapitän,” de Banderano said. He looked at the young U-boat captain for a moment—he had liked him from the moment he saw him in the conning tower of the U-405—and decided to go ahead with what he had just about decided to do somewhat later.
“I have your orders, Kapitän,” de Banderano said. “I’m familiar with them. Would you like to have them now, or wait until Sturmbannführer Kötl, to whom the orders also apply, can join us?”
Without hesitation, von Dattenberg replied, “I’d prefer to have them now, if you don’t mind.”
De Banderano went to a wall safe, took three large gray manila envelopes from it, and handed one of them to von Dattenberg.
“Sir, the seal is broken,” von Dattenberg said.
“My orders gave me the authority to open yours,” de Banderano said.
MOST SECRET
Oberste Hauptsitze der Kriegsmarine
Berlin
2 June 1943
Kapitänleutnant Wilhelm von Dattenberg
Commanding U-boat 405
(One): You have been entrusted with a mission of great importance to the Reich. You will be informed of the details thereof as considered necessary. The details of this mission will be shared with as few people as possible, consistent with executing the mission.
(Two): For the purposes of this mission, inasmuch as Kapitän Jose Francisco de Banderano, master of the motor vessel Ciudad de Cádiz, is acting at the direct orders of the undersigned, and despite his civilian status, he will be considered the senior officer of the German Reich present.
(Three): You will receive from Kapitän de Banderano a special cargo which you will in absolute secrecy see safely ashore at a location in Argentina to be later identified to you. Attached are chart overlays and signal cryptographic matériel to be used in this connection.
(Four): Sturmbannführer Kötl will board the U-405 together with a small detachment of SS to protect the cargo until it is safely ashore. If the discharge operation is successful, the SS will remain ashore. If the mission encounters difficulty, the priorities are (1) to return the special cargo to the U-405 and (2) return the SS to the U-405.
(Five): Sturmbannführer Kötl’s responsibility and authority is limited to the protection of the special cargo. The decisions to attempt to land the special cargo, the methods of doing so, and, should it be necessary, to break off the attempt are entirely your responsibility.
(Six): The packaging of the special cargo is not to be opened under any circumstances.
(Seven): From the time the special cargo is placed aboard U-405, you will not engage any enemy warships or merchant vessels under any circumstances until the special cargo is safely ashore. Similarly, if the landing attempt is unsuccessful, and the special cargo is taken back aboard the U-405, you will undertake no hostile action of any kind until the special cargo is placed back aboard the Ciudad de Cádiz or other disposition of same is made.
Doenitz
Karl Doenitz
Grand Admiral
Concur:
Himmler
Heinrich Himmler
J. v. Ribbentrop
Reichsprotektor Joachim von Ribbentrop
Foreign Minister
Canari’s
Wilhelm Canaris
Rear Admiral
MOST SECRET
Kapitänleutnant von Dattenberg looked at Capitán de Banderano.
“What is this ‘special cargo’?” von Dattenberg said.
“Six wooden crates, each a meter long, three quarters of a meter wide, and three quarters of a meter deep.”
“And in them . . . ?”
“When we tried this the first time, I was told they contain radios and civilian clothing and other items intended to facilitate the escape of the officers from the Graf Spee from their internment.”
“When you tried this the first time?”
De Banderano nodded.
“Obviously without success,” von Dattenberg said. “What happened?”
“The Argentines were waiting for us. Oberst Grüner, the military attaché in Buenos Aires, and Standartenführer Goltz were killed.”
“But you managed to save the special cargo, obviously?”
“God spared Major von Wachtstein and me; we were able to get the crates off the beach.”
“Who did you say? Von Wachtstein?”
“A distinguished Luftwaffe officer. He received the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross from the Führer personally.”
Von Dattenberg smiled. “He was not always that respectable, Capitán.”
“You know him?”
“We were almost sent down from university together. I mean, he was sent down, and I was lucky. He went into the Luftwaffe and became a corporal pilot. He flew in Spain with the Condor Legion. I’d heard, after he got the Knight’s Cross, that he’d been commissioned, but I didn’t know he’d been promoted major. One of the world’s good people, Capitán. And he’s involved in this, whatever it is?”
De Banderano was pleased to hear that von Dattenberg and von Wachtstein knew each other, that they were friends. He thought they were both fine young officers.
“I think his role was much like yours, Capitán, to assist in getting the special shipment ashore. Not more than that.”
“Radios and clothing to help the Graf Spee officers escape sounds fishy,” von Dattenberg said, making it a question.
“That’s what I was told; I didn’t ask questions.”
“An SS-sturmbannführer to guard some radios and clothing?” von Dattenberg pursued.
De Banderano shrugged.
“If I may offer a suggestion, Kapitän. It might not be wise to express your questions to Sturmbannführer Kötl.”
“I am young, Capitán, and inexperienced, but not stupid.”
“Shall I ask the sturmbannführer to join us?”
Sturmbannführer Alfred Kötl looked up after having read his orders. “This is highly unusual,” he objected, “subjecting an SS officer to the orders of a foreign citizen.”
“Perhaps that is why Reichsprotektor Himmler personally signed the concurrence of the SS to the Grand Admiral’s orde
rs,” von Dattenberg offered.
“If you wish clarification of the orders, or confirmation, whatever, we can radio Berlin and get that in perhaps ten or twelve hours,” de Banderano said.
“When will the replenishment of your submarine be finished, von Dattenberg? ” Kötl asked bluntly. “Certainly that won’t take an additional ten or twelve hours.”
“There will be time to send a message, Kötl, if that’s what you want to do,” de Banderano said. “It is my decision that the crew of the U-405 should not undertake this mission until they have had twenty-four hours to recuperate from the ordeal of their voyage so far. Several hot meals and a night in a real bunk should do wonders for them.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest, Herr Kapitän, that I was questioning your orders. I merely was stating that they were highly unusual.”
“In other words, you don’t want me to radio Berlin?”
“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”
“When you have selected the men you’ll be taking with us, Herr Sturmbannführer, ” von Dattenberg said, “please instruct them that they may bring aboard one extra uniform, two changes of linen, one spare pair of shoes, their toilet kit, and such personal items as they may be able to hold in their armpit.”
"I don’t believe I can get even my smallest suitcase under my armpit,” Kötl said, smiling at his wit.
“And no suitcases, Herr Sturmbannführer. Space is at a premium aboard submarines.”
[THREE]
Third Floor Lounge Hipódromo de San Isidro Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1255 7 July 1943
Humberto Valdez Duarte, a tall, slender, superbly tailored man of forty-seven, with a hawk nose and, plastered to his skull, a thick growth of black hair, walked into the lounge and looked around until he saw Cletus Frade, then walked quickly toward him.
The Hipódromo de San Isidro—the racetrack—provided seats in six stands for a hundred thousand spectators. Today, there was perhaps half that number of racing aficionados seated in them.
The Third Floor Lounge was reserved for members, and thus sat atop the members stand. Its plate-glass windows offered a clear view of the finish line and of the entire 2.8-kilometer racing oval.
Frade, wearing a necktie and tweed sports coat and slacks, was sitting alone at a table near the windows. He was puffing on a large black cigar and his hand rested on a long-stemmed wineglass.
As Duarte approached the table, he fondly called out, “Cletus!”
Frade smiled at the voice, stood up and put out his hand—then retracted it. He suddenly remembered he was in Argentina, where male relatives and good friends exchange kisses, not shake hands.
Frade thought of Humberto Duarte as both a good friend and a relative. Duarte was married to his father’s sister and had proved to be a good friend.
They embraced. Duarte detected that Cletus was uncomfortable with the physical greeting but not offended.
“How’s my Tía Beatrice?” Frade dutifully asked.
Beatrice Frade de Duarte had, as Frade somewhat unkindly thought of it, gone around the bend on learning that her only child had gotten himself killed at Stalingrad. She was under the direct attention of a psychiatrist—almost around the clock—and in a tranquilized fog. Seeing Frade, who was the same age as her late son and alive, usually made her condition worse.
Duarte’s face contorted, and he held up both hands in a helpless gesture.
Before Frade could say anything, Duarte asked, “Have any trouble finding it?”
He sat down, and raised his arm to catch the attention of a waiter.
“Finding it?” Frade said. “No. Enrico knew where it was. Getting in posed a couple of problems.”
Duarte frowned. “How so?”
“When I went to the gate to this place, a guard asked if he could help me, so I said, ‘How do I get to the Third Floor Lounge?’ He put his nose in the air and asked why I wished to go to the Third Floor Lounge. I didn’t like his attitude, so I told him I wanted to get a couple of drinks and maybe pick up some girls. Then he put his nose up even higher and told me that was quite impossible, the Third Floor Lounge was for members only. I asked him if he had a list of members, and if so to have a look at it, as I thought I might be a member. And gave him my name. So he stiffly told me to wait, please, and disappeared. Then he showed up with two other guys—they were wearing dinner jackets and looked like a headwaiter and his assistant. The older of them asked me if I was really Don Cletus Frade of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. I said, ‘That’s me.’ They were considering this when Enrico, having parked the car, showed up—”
“Cletus, you didn’t try to bring Enrico up here!” Duarte said, chuckling.
“Yeah, I did,” Frade said, and discreetly pointed to a table at the side of the room. Enrico Rodríguez was sitting there with what looked like an untouched glass of beer. A raincoat covered a long, thin object that could have been a shotgun. “Actually, if the headwaiter hadn’t recognized Enrico, I’d still be downstairs arguing with him.”
“But they did let you in,” Duarte said, shaking his head.
“Only after I was so kind as to put this on,” Frade said, lifting a necktie.
“You came here without a necktie?” Duarte said, chuckling again.
“I almost came in khaki pants and a polo shirt, but Dorotea wouldn’t let me out of the house that way.”
“Cletus, you are impossible. A delight, but impossible.”
Two men in dinner jackets were now hovering near the table.
“Don Humberto,” the older of the two said. “It is so nice to see you, sir.”
“Manuel, I don’t think you know my nephew, do you? Cletus, this is Señor Estano, the general manager.”
“I don’t believe I have had that privilege,” Estano said. “I regret, Don Cletus, the difficulty earlier. I can assure you it will not happen again.”
“And I assure you, señor, that I shall never appear at the door again without a necktie,” Frade said, putting out his hand. “I’m sorry about that.”
“They should have known,” Estano said, nodding at one of the oil paintings on the wall. “The physical resemblance is undeniable.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Duarte said, then added, “I’ll have some of whatever Don Cletus is drinking.”
“What else would he—or you—drink but a pinot noir from Bodegas de Mendoza?”
“Indeed, what else?” Duarte said.
“This is a ’39,” Estano said.
He snatched a glass and then a wine bottle from the waiter.
“We still have several cases here, and there’s more on Calle Florida, of course.”
He poured wine into the glass and Duarte sipped it appreciatively.
“Very nice,” he said.
“I, from time to time, have a small sip myself,” Estano said. “Would you like menus now, or perhaps wait a few minutes?”
“Give us a few minutes, please,” Duarte said as Estano added wine to both their glasses.
After Estano had left, Cletus said, “Okay. You want to explain all that to me?”
“All what?”
“Why was he so sure we would drink this? I told the waiter to bring me a nice, not-too-sweet red.”
“You own Bodegas de Mendoza,” Duarte said. “Which is well known— perhaps even famous—for the quality of its pinot noir. And ’39 was a particularly good year.”
“I thought I owned a vineyard called Bodegas Frade.”
“You do. You own both. Actually, you own four vineyards.”
“Well, that explains that, doesn’t it? And why are there cases of it on Calle Florida?”
“Because that’s where the Jockey Club is.”
“Oh, yeah. My father took me there. Fantastic place.”
“You haven’t been back?”
Frade shook his head.
“Your father must have arranged for your membership right after you came down here.”
"I suppose. I know he did that at the Círculo
Militar.”
“We could have had lunch there,” Duarte said. “Either the main club, or the Círculo Militar.”
It was a question Frade elected not to answer. “And what was that business about the ‘undeniable physical resemblance’?”
“Six men are credited with founding the Jockey Club, in 1876, in a restaurant called Foyot de Paris. Your great-grandfather, second portrait from the left, was one of them.”
“Oh, boy!”
“And now may I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Why the sudden interest in the Hipódromo de San Isidro?”
“That was Dorotea’s idea. I asked her where we could have lunch so that (a) I could be pretty sure the guy at the next table was not working for El Colonel Martín, and (b) I would not run into my Tío Juan. She first said at the Jockey Club, then changed her mind and said here would be even better.”
“I knew it was too much to hope that you’d developed a sudden interest in thoroughbred racing. Well, Dorotea was right. I don’t think Martín could get past the guard downstairs.”
“And my Tío Juan?”
Duarte shook his head.
“This and the Jockey Club are beyond his pocketbook, Cletus. Well beyond.”
“Then I’m not liable to run into him here?”
“No, you’re not. But if you want my advice—which I’m sure you don’t— maybe you should invite him here for lunch sometime.”
“I can’t stand the sonofabitch. You know that.”
“El Coronel Perón can be very useful to you, Cletus.”
“So everybody keeps telling me. Actually, that’s the reason I asked you to meet me here. I wanted to ask you how useful he would be to me if I wanted to start an airline.”
“ ‘Start an airline’?” Duarte parroted, almost startled by the announcement.
Frade nodded.
“You mean here?”
Frade nodded again.
“Argentina has an airline.”
“Not a very good one,” Frade said. “The few airplanes Aeropostal has are small and old, and they only fly to a couple of places, none of them out of the country.” He paused. “Not like Varig, for example.”
“Cletus, you will forgive my asking, but has this anything to do with what El Coronel Martín and some others—completely without justification, of course—think you are doing?”
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