Death and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  Frade ignored the question.

  “Varig, the national airline of Brazil, is flying Lockheed Lodestars—just like mine—all over South America. As an Argentine, I feel a little embarrassed that Argentina isn’t. Doesn’t this embarrass you?”

  Duarte rolled his eyes.

  “Cletus, you may or may not know this, but Brazil is an ally of the United States in their war with Germany, and the Americans—”

  “Humberto, you may or may not know this, but I seem to remember that America is also at war with the Japanese—actually, I have some painful memories of their airplanes—and with Italy, too, although from what I hear, the Italians don’t seem to have their heart in it. How many hundred thousand of them surrendered in Africa?”

  Duarte, smiling, shook his head and went on: "... and the Americans are therefore willing to sell to Brazil certain aircraft they are not willing to sell to Argentina.”

  “Well, if the Americans think that the Argentines think the Germans and the Japanese are going to win the war, doesn’t that make sense?”

  “Argentina is neutral in this war, Cletus, and you know it.”

  “So people keep telling me. But let’s not go down that street. If what you say is true, why doesn’t Aeroposta buy some airplanes from Germany? Could it be that Germany doesn’t have any airplanes to sell?”

  “Are you suggesting that the Americans would be willing to sell airplanes to Argentina?”

  “Just for the sake of argument, let’s say I have reason to believe this Argentine could buy, say, a dozen—maybe more than a dozen—Lockheed Lodestars.”

  “You didn’t answer me before when I asked if this has anything to do with what El Coronel Martín—and others—suspect you are doing for the OSS.”

  Ignoring the reference again, Frade went on: “Just think what that would mean, Humberto, if you went out to El Palomar to catch a plane to Pôrto Alegre and instead of getting a Brazilian airplane, you could get on one with the flag of Argentina painted proudly on the vertical stabilizer? Wouldn’t that make your heart beat proudly?”

  Duarte shook his head but didn’t reply.

  “Or you wanted to fly to Mendoza, where I know you do business, and there at El Palomar was a shiny new Lodestar with—what? ‘Argentine Air Lines’ has a nice ring to it—painted on the sides of the fuselage to fly you there in comfort and safety, instead of one of Aeropostal’s junkers?”

  “Now that I know you’re serious about this, may I suggest we have our lunch and afterward continue this conversation while I show you around the hipódromo? ”

  “That’s probably a very good idea. I may be paranoid, of course, but I feel curious eyes burning holes in the back of my head.”’

  “You’re not paranoid,” Duarte said. “Some of those looking at you curiously were wondering who you were, at first sitting here all by yourself with no member having you as his guest. The others, having asked Señor Estano and been told, are naturally curious to see what El Coronel Frade’s long-lost American son looks like.”

  “How do they know I’m an American? You just told me I look like my great-grandfather. ”

  “Cletus, you are slumped in your chair with your legs stretched out in front of you, something that’s not often seen in here, and on your feet are boots of a type never seen here and certainly not in the Jockey Club.”

  “If I had known everybody was going to be so curious about me, I’d be working on a chaw of Red Man.”

  “ ‘Red Man’?”

  “Chewing tobacco. That’d give them something to talk about when I spit.”

  He mimed the act.

  “Oh, God, Cletus! For a moment I thought you were serious.”

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  Duarte shook his head and waved his hand over his head to summon a waiter.

  Frade pointed to a family crest engraved in a two-foot square of pink marble set in the wall beside what was the entrance to a long, vine-covered stable.

  “This mine, too?”

  Duarte nodded and smiled.

  “Your grandfather used to say he made a lot of money breeding thoroughbreds for the family while his brother—your Granduncle Guillermo—lost even more betting on them.”

  “Not only money,” Clete said. “My father told me he bet on a slow horse and lost the guesthouse across from the downtown racetrack.”

  “Your grandfather bought it back, and your granduncle was banished to Mendoza. When your grandfather died, your father and Beatrice stopped racing altogether. Your father said there was enough of a gamble in just breeding and dealing in horses. You’re still pretty heavily invested in that. I was hoping you were going to become involved yourself. You know horses.”

  When my grandfather died, Frade thought, his property, under the Napoleonic Code of Inheritance, was equally divided between his two children.

  My father then bought out his sister’s share; that money became her dowry for when she married Humberto.

  And now, when Beatrice and Humberto die, since Cousin Jorge went for a ride he shouldn’t have taken in a Storch at Stalingrad and there being no closer blood relative, everything will come to me.

  Jesus Christ, what a screwed-up law!

  Even my father thought so.

  When he explained it to me, he used as an example a family with two children, a son and a daughter. The son takes off for Paris and spends his life chasing women, boozing it up, never even sending a postcard. The daughter spends her life caring for their parents, and can’t even get married.

  Yet, when the parents die, the Napoleonic Code splits everything fifty-fifty.

  “Instead of doing what El Colonel Martín suspects I’m doing, you mean?” Frade asked.

  Duarte nodded.

  “Let’s go find ourselves a clean stall in here and talk about that,” Frade said.

  “I really believe, Humberto, that El Colonel Martín and I have reached an accommodation, ” Frade said, his arms crossed and leaning with his back against the wooden wall of an empty stall.

  “How so?”

  “This is my opinion, okay? Backed up by what’s happened, or hasn’t happened.”

  “Understood.”

  “I was sent down here—Martín has figured this out—to stop the Germans from replenishing their submarines from quote neutral unquote ships in the Río de la Plata. I’ve done that. The Reine de la Mer was sunk by an American submarine. Martín—and everybody else, including General Ramírez—knows that, and that I had something to do with it.

  “Sinking the Reine de la Mer proved that we know what they were doing, know the identity of the ships that are violating Argentine neutrality, and are prepared to send submarines—or whatever else it takes—into the Río de la Plata to stop it. Argentineans, no matter how much they dislike Americans or love Der Führer, do not want naval battles in the Río de la Plata. Somebody high up in the government has told the Germans to do their submarine replenishment somewhere else. And that’s what they’re doing. They send supply U-boats from Europe and they rendezvous on the high seas.”

  He waited a moment, and after Duarte nodded his understanding, went on: “I know—but they don’t know I know—that my aircraft mechanic, his name is Carlos Olivo, works for Martín. So Martín knows that every time our radar picks up something interesting, a ship we don’t know about, I get in the Lodestar and fly out over the muddy waters of the Río de la Plata and have a look at it. If it’s suspicious, Martín gets an ‘anonymous’ call. Martín knows where it comes from. I keep my people on the estancia, and Martín doesn’t come onto the estancia looking for them or the radar, or ask where I’ve been in the Lodestar.”

  “You seem pretty sure of all this,” Duarte said.

  “I am. Now, while I have no idea why President Roosevelt wants an airline down here—”

  “Roosevelt? That’s where this idea comes from?”

  Frade nodded. “There’s all sorts of possibilities, one being that he wants to stick it to Juan Trippe of Pa
nagra, but I just don’t know. Anyway, it has nothing to do with what I’m doing for the OSS. I’ll see to that.

  “Martín, being Martín, will suspect otherwise. I would, in his shoes. So what I have to do is convince him that I’m as pure as the driven snow. To that end, the pilots of this airline will be Argentine. The whole operation, except for maintenance supervisors and some American airline pilots who will come down here to train the pilots and maintenance people and set it up, will be Argentine. And the cherry on the cake will be that my Tío Juan will be one of the investors and play an active role. I don’t know if he’ll be suspicious or not.”

  “You can count on it that he will, Cletus.”

  “Then good. Let him snoop wherever he wants to. There will be nothing for him to find, because there will be nothing.”

  “You said you want Perón to be one of the investors.”

  “Right.”

  “Before we get to who the others might be, where is Perón going to get the money to invest? He doesn’t have anything but his army pay.”

  “The Anglo-Argentine Bank is going to loan it to him. When I talk to the sonofabitch, I’m going to tell him that I’m absolutely confident that the Anglo-Argentine Bank would be delighted to loan an important man, such as himself, whatever he needed for this business venture.”

  “The board won’t like that,” Duarte said. “Where’s the collateral?”

  “You’ve just been telling me how wise I would be to be nice to the sonofabitch, that he’s destined to become really important. Tell the board the same thing.”

  “If you’re going to be in business with him, it might be a good idea for you to stop referring to him as ‘the sonofabitch.’ ”

  “Yes or no? If necessary, I’ll guarantee his loan, but I’d rather he thought I had nothing to do with it. And that Martín learned that, too.”

  Duarte didn’t reply directly. “And the other investors?”

  “Why do I think you’re not slobbering at the mouth to get a piece of my get-rich-quick scheme?”

  “Because I’m a banker, and I recognize a risky venture when I see one. Who else, Cletus?”

  “My father-in-law, for one. Señora Carzino-Cormano, for another, and possibly even—I don’t know if she has any money—Señora Alicia Carzino-Cormano de von Wachtstein.”

  “Alicia? Because of her husband?”

  “How could I possibly be doing something anti-German with my airline if the wife of Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein is a major investor? I suspect the Germans would tell him to get as close to it as he could.”

  “But not with the money we hope the German embassy doesn’t know about?”

  Frade shook his head.

  “Not with that money, no,” he said. “I don’t care who the investors will be so long as I hold sixty percent. I need fifty-one percent for control, and the other nine because I don’t want something unexpected to happen that will cut my piece below fifty-one percent.”

  Duarte looked at him for a long moment.

  “Cletus, you are very much like your father,” he said. “Remembering your father showing up in the Third Floor Lounge drunk as an owl and in full gaucho regalia—which happened more than once—I was not surprised to see you there, in cowboy boots and tie-less. But I confess I am surprised a little to see that you also have his business acumen. You’ve given this airline idea a good deal of thought, haven’t you?”

  Frade nodded, then said, “Does that mean you’re not dismissing the idea out of hand as lunatic?”

  “Actually, it seems like a pretty good idea. I’ll have to ask some questions, and give it some thought, of course.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Humberto.”

  [FOUR]

  The Office of the Reichsführer-SS Berlin, Germany 2255 7 July 1943

  “You wished to see me, Herr Reichsprotektor?” Obersturmbannführer Karl Cranz asked as he entered the office of Heinrich Himmler.

  Cranz was a good-looking, blond, fair-skinned man in his early thirties.

  “I wished to see you an hour and a half ago,” Himmler said.

  “I regret that Sturmscharführer Neidler had trouble finding me in the air raid shelter, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

  Sturmscharführer (Sergeant Major) Neidler was Himmler’s de facto private secretary. He rarely left Himmler’s side. That he had been sent to find Cranz had told Cranz there was absolutely no question that Himmler wanted to see him.

  “You were not at home?”

  “I took my wife to the opera, Herr Reichsprotektor. Neidler knew where I was.”

  Himmler waved him into a chair.

  “While you were at the opera, Cranz, Admiral Canaris came to see me. He would have liked to have had a word with you, but as you said, Sturmscharführer Neidler apparently had difficulty locating you, and the admiral could not wait.”

  “Whenever you are through with me, Herr Reichsprotektor, I will go to see the admiral and offer my most sincere apologies.”

  Himmler did not respond to that.

  “Canaris had two things on his mind, Cranz. First was that there had been a radio message from the Ciudad de Cádiz. Two words: ‘Smooth seas.’ ”

  “Well, that’s good news, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

  “Meaning the special cargo is already aboard U-405.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The second thing Canaris wanted to tell me was that he had a talk a few days ago with Parteileiter Bormann. Bormann told him that a couple of things had been decided. First, that Gradny-Sawz would be the man charged with enlisting Oberst Perón in the plans we have for him, and second, on the recommendation of Brigadeführer von Deitzberg, that Korvettenkapitän Boltitz will become the naval attaché of our embassy in Buenos Aires, whose additional duties will be threefold: supervising the execution of Operation Phoenix, keeping an eye on Gradny-Sawz, and finding the traitor—or possibly the spy—in the embassy.”

  Himmler looked at Cranz as if expecting a reply, and when none was forthcoming, said, “Comments, Cranz?”

  “Sir, the Herr Reichsprotektor did not tell me he had made those decisions. ”

  “I didn’t tell you that I had because I hadn’t. Parteileiter Bormann apparently has taken it upon himself to make them for me and Admiral Canaris. And in the case of Boltitz, acting on the recommendation of Brigadeführer von Deitzberg, who was presumably speaking for me.”

  Himmler stared at Cranz for a full thirty seconds to give him time to consider what he had just said.

  “Admiral Canaris further told me that he had told Bormann that while he considers Boltitz a fine officer, he does not consider him qualified for those sort of intelligence and security duties. Off the top of my head, Cranz, thinking aloud, so to speak, what I replied to that was, ‘I’d really rather have someone like Obersturmbannführer Cranz in that role.’ ”

  Cranz didn’t reply.

  “The problem now, of course, Cranz, is that Bormann has made his decisions known. The only way to have them reversed would be for Canaris and me to go directly to the Führer. For obvious reasons—the Führer’s time is fully occupied, for one thing, and Canaris and I believe that our Führer would be reluctant in any case to overturn any decision of Parteileiter Bormann—we don’t want to do that.”

  “I think I understand the problem, Herr Reichsleiter.”

  “I hope so, Cranz,” Himmler said. “But there is, if I might coin a phrase, a silver lining to the black cloud. If Bormann feels he may make unilateral decisions, it would seem that Admiral Canaris and I have the same right.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “For example, despite that Wehrmacht Generalmajor’s uniform he is wearing while offering suggestions and recommendations on my behalf to Bormann, Brigadeführer von Deitzberg is a member of the Schutzstaffel, and consequently subject to my orders. I can, for example, order him back to Berlin without having to consult with anyone.”

  “Is that your plan, sir?”

  “It is my decision, Cranz. There’s a d
ifference. Admiral Canaris went on to say that he thinks Boltitz would make a fine naval attaché and probably would be very useful in the other areas I mentioned had he someone skilled in those areas to advise him. Which brings us back to what popped into my head earlier—‘I’d really rather have someone like Obersturmbannführer Cranz in that role.’ ”

  “I’m not sure I follow you, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

  “I have every hope, Cranz, that when you permit me to finish, everything will be clear to you.”

  “I beg your pardon, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

  “Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop was good enough to come here when Canaris called him,” Himmler went on. “Canaris told him that inasmuch as Gradny-Sawz had not been entirely cleared of suspicion of involvement, he and I were both a little uncomfortable with Bormann’s decision to put him in charge of Operation Perón and having him continue his role in Operation Phoenix without having someone more skilled than Korvettenkapitän Boltitz watching him. And Canaris told the foreign minister that we were understandably loath to bother the Führer with the problem.

  “Von Ribbentrop asked if we had any ideas, whereupon I said that the ideal solution would be to have someone in the foreign service with the necessary skills—someone already privy to Operation Perón and Operation Phoenix— who could advise Boltitz and keep an eye on everybody. I asked the foreign minister if he could think of such a person he could send. He said that without making that person privy to both operations, he could not. Whereupon Canaris asked me, ‘What about your man Cranz, Himmler?’

  “I replied that you would be ideal for that duty, were you a member of the Foreign Service. To which von Ribbentrop responded that he could see no reason why you could not be seconded to the foreign ministry—the precedent having been set with the seconding of von Deitzberg to the Wehrmacht—and sent to Buenos Aires as, say, the commercial attaché.”

  He paused and smiled. “Congratulations on your new duties, Foreign Service Officer Grade Fifteen Cranz.”

  “Sir, when is this going to happen?”

  “Your credentials and diplomatic passport will be delivered to you just before you board the Lufthansa Condor flight at Tempelhof at seven tomorrow morning.”