“So quickly.”
“Does that pose a problem, Cranz?”
“No, sir. But I did have a thought—”
“Which is?”
“I think fewer questions would be raised about my assignment to the embassy if I were accompanied by my family.”
“Being accompanied is obviously out of the question,” Himmler said simply. “You will be on the plane tomorrow. But I can see the merit of your suggestion, so perhaps your family could join you there later.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Insofar as ‘fewer questions’ is concerned, Admiral Canaris said that fewer questions would be raised by Boltitz being named naval attaché if he had the appropriate rank. He brought this to the attention of Grand Admiral Doenitz, who agreed. So you will be taking with you Korvettenkapitän Boltitz’s promotion orders to fregattenkapitän dated several months ago, and which somehow became lost in the bureaucracy. When his appointment as naval attaché is announced to the diplomatic community, it will be as Fregattenkapitän Boltitz. A month or six weeks from now, he will be promoted kapitän zur see.”
Cranz nodded.
“May I ask my role vis-à-vis Kapitän zur See Boltitz, Herr Reichsprotektor? ”
“May I be the first to offer my congratulations on your promotion, Herr Standartenführer Cranz?” Himmler said, smiling. “Since your promotion will predate Boltitz’s promotion to kapitän zur see, when that comes through, you will be the senior officer in the embassy.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“Under the circumstances, your promotion will not be made known to Brigadeführer von Deitzberg until he’s back here. You will carry to him a letter ordering his return to his duties in Berlin. Since you have no idea why I am recalling him, those orders will be as much of a surprise to you as they are to him.”
“I understand, Herr Reichsprotektor.”
“That raises the question of Sturmbannführer Raschner,” Himmler said. “Would you prefer that he return to Berlin with von Deitzberg, or would he be useful to you?”
Cranz considered that for a moment.
“I think he would be very useful to me there, Herr Reichsprotektor.”
“All right, he’s yours. But don’t tell him until von Deitzberg is on his way back here.”
“Yes, sir.”
V
[ONE]
Tempelhof Airfield Berlin, Germany 0725 8 July 1943
Lufthansa Kapitän Dieter von und zu Aschenburg, a tall, blue-eyed, blond-haired, fair-skinned Prussian, sat in the pilot seat of the Focke-Wulf 200B “Condor,” impatiently tapping the balls of his fingers together.
He had hoped to get off the ground before seven o’clock, and here it was nearly half past, and the only information he could get from the goddamn tower was that permission for him to take off “would be coming momentarily. ” They had been telling him that for half an hour.
Lufthansa Flight 1007 was about to begin a journey of some 8,500 miles to Buenos Aires, Argentina. The flight would be made in four legs, and it was arguable which of them was the most dangerous. None of them was anything approaching safe.
The sleek and slender aircraft, powered by four 870-horsepower BMW engines, looked much like the smaller, dual-engine American DC-3, especially in the nose and cockpit area. It would fly—presuming the goddamn tower ever gives me permission for takeoff—first across Germany and German-occupied France, then over neutral Spain, and on to Lisbon in neutral Portugal.
That was the shortest leg—1,435 miles—well within the Condor’s maximum range of 2,200 miles. The danger here was from American and British aircraft over Germany and occupied France. Most of the real danger came from Allied fighters rigged as photo-reconnaissance aircraft. They were fitted with extra fuel tanks, and often most of their machine guns were removed. They were charged with photographing the previous night’s bomber target to see how much damage had been done and which targets needed to be bombed again.
Von und zu Aschenburg knew that not all of the photo-recon aircraft had had their machine guns removed, leaving the fighters with two .50-caliber weapons perfectly capable of shooting down an unarmed Condor if they crossed paths with one—and fast enough to chase it if that was necessary. It was perfectly legal under the rules of warfare for the Allies to shoot down a transport aircraft that had red swastikas, outlined in white, painted on the sides of the fuselage and vertical stabilizer.
Presuming the Condor made it safely to neutral Portugal, the next leg of the flight would be 1,800 miles—safely within the Condor’s range—from Lisbon to Dakar, in the French colony of Senegal on the west coast of Africa.
The danger between Lisbon and Dakar was again Allied aircraft, both long-range bombers on antisubmarine patrol and fighters operating from Moroccan airfields now in American hands, all of whom would regard the Condor as fair game.
Presuming the Condor was not shot down en route to Dakar, the airplane would be inspected and otherwise prepared for the next leg of the trip, 2,500 miles across the North Atlantic Ocean to Cayenne in French Guiana in the northeast of the South American continent.
The work would be done by “technicians” of the German Armistice Commission stationed in Dakar to ensure French neutrality after the Armistice of 1940.
The problem on the Dakar-Cayenne leg was the distance. It was 300 miles, more or less, greater than the Condor could safely fly with its standard load of twenty-six passengers, two stewards, and a ton of cargo. The solution to covering that additional distance, then, was to carry no more than thirteen passengers, plus a steward, and just about no cargo whatsoever. The weight thus saved could be used to carry additional fuel.
Presuming that headwinds or other atmospheric conditions did not cause the Condor to run out of fuel before it reached Cayenne, it would again be inspected and made ready for the final leg of the flight by “technicians” of the German Armistice Commission assigned to French Guiana.
The final leg to Buenos Aires was not only the longest—2,700 miles, 500 farther than the published maximum range of the Condor—but also involved danger from Allied aircraft again. Brazil was at war with Germany, and American B-24 bombers, modified for use as long-range antisubmarine aircraft, here patrolled the Atlantic Ocean all the way to Buenos Aires. Most of their machine-gun positions had been removed, but there were still machine guns in the forward and aft turrets, more than enough to shoot down a Condor should they happen upon one.
But the greatest danger on the final leg was the distance. If there were headwinds and they ran out of fuel, the only option would be to ditch at sea near the shore of Brazil and try to make it ashore in rubber boats. Landing in Brazil would see the Condor fall into Allied hands, and it had been made quite clear to Kapitän Dieter von und zu Aschenburg that doing so would be tantamount to treason.
But what was most galling about the Buenos Aires flights, von und zu Aschenburg had often thought, was that there was no reason even to make them— other than for their propaganda value.
Doktor Paul Joseph Goebbels—that clubfooted minister of propaganda for the Third Reich—can boast: “Germany’s great airline Lufthansa flies a regularly scheduled transatlantic service, while the Allies cannot—therefore Germany and National Socialism are superior!”
Von und zu Aschenburg also thought, very privately if not a bit bitterly, that Goebbels was entirely capable of insisting the flights be kept up because when one of them—inevitably—got shot down or, for that matter, just disappeared, he would be sure of headlines all around the world: Allies Shoot Down Unarmed German Civilian Airliner Carrying Neutral Diplomats and Medical Personnel.
On today’s flight there were three French diplomats to satisfy the “neutral diplomats” portion of that claim, as well as two German doctors and seven nurses en route to Buenos Aires’s German Hospital. There was no shortage of work for German medical personnel in Germany which was being bombed daily. And there was no shortage of competent medical personnel in Argentina. Yet still came the doctor
s and nurses.
Propaganda was very valuable to the Thousand-Year Reich.
Kapitän Dieter von und zu Aschenburg knew that the Condor manifest also listed a German diplomat. But that luminary had not boarded, which was almost certainly the reason the tower’s permission for von und zu Aschenburg to start his engines and take off now had been delayed “momentarily” for more than a half hour.
“Herr Oberst,” the co-pilot said, bringing von und zu Aschenburg back from his thoughts.
He had been addressed as “Herr Oberst” because—airline pilot uniform or not—he was a Luftwaffe colonel. All of Lufthansa was in fact in the Luftwaffe, but that was not for public consumption. Both “First Officer” Karl Nabler and “Flight Engineer” Wilhelm Hover were actually Luftwaffe hauptmanns who had been assigned to the Condor flights after “distinguished service” as Junkers Ju- 52 pilots on the Eastern Front.
Somewhat cynically, von und zu Aschenburg thought that their “distinguished service” meant they had somehow miraculously avoided getting shot down. The tri-motor, corrugated-skin Ju-52, derisively known as “Auntie Ju,” was easy prey for Russian fighters.
Von und zu Aschenburg wondered why he liked Willi and loathed Nabler. For all he knew, Willi might be an even more zealous National Socialist than Nabler. He had never discussed the war, or politics, with either of them.
As an intelligent man, a warrior who had seen his share and more of combat, von und zu Aschenburg was not anxious to give his life for the German Reich. But if that was going to happen as he did his duty, he preferred that he die as a soldier, in uniform. He had not volunteered to fly back and forth over the Atlantic; he had been told he had been honored by being selected for that duty. There was no question in his mind that one day he wouldn’t make it.
It was one of the many reasons he loathed the Nazis.
He often thought, If the swine could read my mind, I would be hanging from a butcher’s hook.
First Officer Nabler was pointing to the tarmac. An open Mercedes, a big one, was coming out from the curved terminal building, obviously headed for them.
Two things immediately caught von und zu Aschenburg’s attention. First, that the license plate of the car incorporated the lightning flashes of the Schutzstaffel. And second, that it held a family. There was one child in front with the driver—and the driver was in an SS uniform—and two more children in back with two adults, almost certainly the parents.
Von und zu Aschenburg thought it was entirely possible that he was about to get into an argument with the man.
Those SS bastards are so impressed with themselves they really believe they can rescind the laws of physics. Or, at the very least, cause the deplaning of lesser persons so that the wife and kiddies can go flying.
There’s simply no way I’m going to take off with the wife and three kids.
“I will see that our distinguished passenger is seated,” von und zu Aschenburg said, and unfastened his seat belt.
“Jawohl, Herr Oberst.”
Von und zu Aschenburg went quickly through the passenger cabin and down the steps.
The man in the Mercedes was already out of the car, and the driver was taking a suitcase from the trunk.
“Captain,” the man said with an ingratiating smile. “My deepest apologies. I know how important it is for you to leave on schedule. Believe me, this couldn’t be helped.”
“It’s not a problem, sir,” von und zu Aschenburg said.
He then surprised himself by taking the suitcase from the SS driver.
“If you’ll come with me, sir, we’ll get you settled.”
Herr Karl Cranz of the Foreign Service kissed Frau Cranz and their three children good-bye, shook hands with the SS-sturmscharführer, then followed von und zu Aschenburg up the steps and into the Condor.
[TWO]
Office of the Managing Director Banco de Inglaterra y Argentina Bartolomé Mitre 300 Buenos Aires, Argentina 1205 10 July 1943
“Come in, Cletus,” Humberto Duarte said as he opened one of the pair of heavy wooden doors to his office.
Frade and Duarte embraced in the Argentine fashion, then they walked into the office, trailed by Enrico Rodríguez.
“Very nice,” Clete said, looking around the luxuriously furnished office. “I guess foreclosing on widows and orphans pays you bankers pretty good, huh? No offense.”
“None taken. And would you be offended—either of you—if I said you are splendidly turned out? Good morning, Enrico.”
Enrico nodded.
“Blame my wife,” Frade said. “She’s responsible.”
Duarte’s eyebrows rose in question as he waved Frade into a chair in front of his enormous, ornately carved desk. Enrico took a chair near the door and rested on the floor the butt of the shotgun that he concealed in his top coat.
“Our suits were my father’s,” Clete said. “In what is now my bedroom, he had a closet full of them. Right after Dorotea and I married, I showed them to her and said we really ought to give them to somebody who could use them. Most looked like he’d never worn them. She said she knew just the people who could really use them, so I told her to have at it. Two days later, an Englishman showed up, a tailor—”
“An Englishman or an Anglo-Argentine?”
“I’d guess an Anglo-Argentine. He talks like my father-in-law . . . or you. His name is Halsey.”
“I know him well,” Duarte said. “And let me guess, he stood you on a stool and took out his tape measure and a piece of chalk?”
Clete smiled and nodded. “And now Enrico and I look like advertisements in Esquire. All he had to do was take them in a little for me, and let them out a little for Enrico.”
“Has Claudia seen you wearing one?” Duarte asked.
Clete shook his head.
“Well, be sure to wear one when she invites you to dinner, which will probably be the day after tomorrow. She’ll be pleased.”
“Why, twice? Why will she be pleased, and why is she going to invite me to dinner?”
“She will be pleased because whenever she could drag your father into Halsey’s place of business, she ordered suits for him. Most of which he hung in his closet and he never wore. And Claudia is going to have you to dinner because of what I want to talk to you about now. After which, we’ll walk over to the Jockey Club and have lunch.”
“I just had one of my better ideas,” Clete said. “Why don’t we walk over to the Jockey Club now and talk about whatever you want to talk about while we eat? Enrico and I were up at dawn moving bulls. I’m starved. I was starved before Dorotea came after us and told me you were going to buy us lunch here, and I had to get dressed and in the airplane right now. ”
“You flew in?”
“It’s the only way to travel. I thought I told you that. It took us longer to drive here from El Palomar than it did to fly in from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo in the Piper Cub.”
“Well, I’m sorry to tell you you’re going to have to live with your starvation a little longer. The rules of the Jockey Club forbid talking business in the dining room.”
“Why?”
“That’s just the way it is, Cletus.”
“If my grandfather and his pals couldn’t talk business in the dining room of the Petroleum Club in Dallas, hardly a hole would’ve been drilled.”
“This is Buenos Aires, Cletus. Try to keep that in mind.”
“Okay. But before we get into what you’re going to try to sell me, which we can’t talk about over lunch, since this is Buenos Aires, what about my airlines idea? Have you given that any solemn thought?”
Duarte, smiling, shook his head.
“What’s funny?”
“You’ll never guess who else has been thinking about an airline for Argentina, ” Duarte said.
“I give up.”
“President Ramírez.”
“And what the hell does that mean? I can’t start one because this is Argentina and the president doesn’t like competition?”
&
nbsp; “Just about the opposite,” Duarte said. “Your Tío Juan Domingo came to see me yesterday. He told me that Ramírez had called him in, said that it was embarrassing for Argentina not to have an airline with modern transport aircraft like Varig. And since he didn’t think the Americans would sell airplanes to Argentina, what about the Germans? And since Perón had such close ties with the Germans, why didn’t Perón look into it?”
"And? ” Frade said, not believing his ears.
“And he did. And Ambassador Lutzenberger told him that just as soon as there was final victory, Germany would be delighted to help Argentina with the most modern aircraft in the world, probably even the Condor. But at the moment, there had been small reverses on the battlefields, and he didn’t think any aircraft would be available right now.”
Frade shook his head in disgust. “Ramírez actually believed that the Germans would sell him airplanes? I thought he was smarter than that.”
“Your Tío Juan Domingo was both surprised and disappointed,” Duarte said. “He admitted as much when he came to me and asked if the Banco de Inglaterra y Argentina could induce the British to sell us some transport aircraft.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“So with Juan Domingo sitting right there”—he gestured at Frade—“where you are, I called the British ambassador and asked him if he thought the English were in a position to sell some transport planes to Argentina. He said he didn’t think so, but to ask him again after the war.”
“All of which leaves me where?” Clete said.
“I then told him that you had come to me, said you thought you could get your hands on some Lockheed passenger airships, and then you asked if I thought you could get permission to start an airline, and that I told you that I thought getting permission would be just about impossible.”
“Why did you tell him that?”
“Because in addition to being a good banker, I’m a good lawyer, and all good lawyers are devious. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”
Death and Honor Page 17