Death and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  Leibermann and Frade had agreed early on that the less they were seen together the better it would be for both. They maintained contact through Ashton and Pelosi, and the latter took care to see that their contacts took place not only inside the embassy but out of sight of Commander Delojo as well. It was not in either Frade’s or Leibermann’s interests that Delojo know of their association.

  The last time Leibermann had been at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo was for the wedding of Clete and Dorotea. Frade was genuinely surprised to see Leibermann now, and concerned. Agents of the BIS knew who Leibermann was and kept him under pretty tight surveillance.

  The mystery grew even more when instead of pulling into the parking area in front of the big house, Ashton stopped just long enough for Leibermann to get quickly out of the car, then drove away.

  Leibermann trotted up the stairs and across the verandah—passing Clete and Dorotea—and went into the house.

  Enrico picked up his shotgun and looked down the drive as if he expected someone to be chasing the Chevrolet.

  “I think he’s headed for the hangar, Enrico,” Clete said. “Go down there and see if you can be useful.” Then, when he saw the look of reluctance on the old soldier’s face, he added: “Go! We’ll be all right. There’s a Thompson in the vestibule.”

  When Clete and Dorotea went into the house, they found Leibermann in the vestibule.

  “Where’s the resident BIS agent?” Leibermann asked.

  “Delgano’s waiting for me at Campo de Mayo,” Clete said. “Where today, after dutifully cramming for it all last night, I take my pilot’s exam.”

  “What he meant to say, Milton,” Doña Dorotea said, “was: ‘Good morning, Milton. How are you? Nice to see you. You’re looking well. Can we offer you a cup of coffee? Or some breakfast?’ ”

  "What I meant to say is: ‘What’s the hell’s going on, Milt?’ ”

  “At half past eight this morning, the commercial attaché of the German embassy appeared at my apartment door with his wife and surrendered,” Liebermann said. “They’re in the car with Ashton.”

  "What do you mean, surrendered?” Clete asked.

  “They’ve been recalled to Germany, and he doesn’t want to go. So he wants me to get them to Brazil, where he can get them interned.”

  “He tell you why?” Clete asked, but before Leibermann could reply, he asked another question: “What’s their relationship to you?”

  “Well, I’ve been trying to recruit them, but until this morning, when they showed up at my place, I had no idea that I’d even caught their attention.”

  “Recruit them for what?”

  Leibermann’s face showed he thought that was a really stupid question.

  “Can you do that? Get them to Brazil?” Clete asked.

  “Not without permission,”’ Leibermann said. “Which means I would have to ask the ambassador, who would ask your friend Commander Delojo . . .”

  “Another stupid question: Why can’t they get themselves interned here?”

  “Because neutral Argentina is not granting political asylum to Germans. Or, for that matter, to Americans. Brazil is at war . . .”

  “Okay. Back to my first question: Why doesn’t he want to go back to Germany? What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing that I believe,” Leibermann said. “But what I think is very likely is that he’s afraid he’s going to be identified as Galahad.”

  “But he’s not.”

  “I know that, and you know that, and probably so does Generalmajor von Deitzberg, who was sent here to find the traitor and he’s not going to fail. Or at least that’s what Frogger is worried about.”

  “That’s his name?”

  Leibermann nodded. “Wilhelm Frogger.”

  “So what’s wrong with letting Delojo have him?”

  “Delojo’s going to ask why he came to me, and I have solemnly promised him I would let him know in advance before I tried to recruit anybody, so there would be ‘no duplication of effort.’ ”

  “And Delojo,” Dorotea said, “would certainly ask him who he thought the traitor really was, and this man would probably give him a list of names, including the right one.”

  Leibermann looked at her and nodded.

  “I wonder what this guy knows about Operation Phoenix and the ransoming operation,” Clete wondered aloud.

  “I don’t know. He probably knows something he doesn’t know he knows. Presuming he doesn’t know all about both operations,” Leibermann said.

  There was the sound of a car pulling up outside.

  “Now what the hell?” Clete said.

  It was Enrico and Max Ashton.

  “I told you to make yourself useful at the hangar,” Clete said less than kindly.

  “Rodolfo is at the hangar, Don Cletus,” Enrico said.

  Cletus was about to bark at Enrico, then just in time remembered, Never give a subordinate an ass-chewing in the presence of others, and turned back to Leibermann.

  “Well, what we’re really saying is that we should hide these people someplace until we make up our minds what to do with them,” he said.

  “And pick their brains about what they might not know they know,” Leibermann quickly agreed.

  “Which is why you brought them here, right?” Clete said. “Why the hell didn’t you come right out and say so?”

  “I didn’t want to suggest something that could endanger your operation. But once it was your idea . . .”

  “Well, we can hide them here, I guess.”

  “This is the first place Colonel Martín would look for them,” Dorotea said. “If he doesn’t think you kidnapped them, the Germans will make that suggestion.”

  Leibermann didn’t say anything, but it was clear on his face that he agreed with Dorotea.

  “Don Cletus?” Enrico said.

  “What?” Clete asked, somewhat impatiently.

  “Is it important that we hide these people where El Coronel Martín and his clowns cannot find them? Or the Germans?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “We could hide these people in Casa Chica, Don Cletus.”

  “What’s Casa Chica?” Frade said. “One of the casas on the estancia? Didn’t you hear what Doña Dorotea just said? This is the first place Martín’s going to look. And, God damn it, the people who work for him are not clowns; they’re good.”

  “This is somewhat delicate, Don Cletus.”

  “Delicate? What the hell are you talking about?!”

  “Casa Chica is a very small estancia near Tandil in the hills between La Pampas and Mar del Plata,” Enrico explained. “No more than maybe two hundred hectares.”

  “Whose estancia is it?”

  “It is yours, Don Cletus.”

  “How come I never heard of it?”

  “It was one of your father’s most closely kept secrets, Don Cletus,” Enrico said.

  “You mean during the . . . before the coup? Because of that?”

  “No, Don Cletus,” Enrico said uncomfortably. “Señor . . . it was where he and Doña Claudia would go when they wished to be alone.”

  Leibermann smiled. Frade glared at him.

  “There is an airstrip and a nice little house. Very romantic, Don Cletus. There is a very nice view of the hills. There is a waterfall, not a very big one, but a very nice one. And—”

  “And nobody knows about this place?” Clete shut him off.

  “No, señor. Only myself and Rodolfo. When El Coronel and Doña Claudia went there, he took with them only Rodolfo or me, and Mariana María Delores, may she be resting in peace.”

  Frade’s mind flashed the image of Enrico’s sister, Señora Mariana María Dolores Rodríguez de Pellano, her throat slashed during the failed attempt to assassinate Frade.

  When Clete didn’t reply, Enrico went on: “There are just a few servants there, Don Cletus. All of them my family. They know how to keep their mouths shut.”

  “That sounds ideal, Clete,” Leibermann said.

  “
Can we get these people there without anyone seeing them?”

  “In the back of a truck,” Enrico said.

  “Honey, I really have to go,” Clete said. “If I’m late getting to Campo de Mayo, the first thing they’ll think is that I’m involved in this.”

  Dorotea nodded.

  “Call Casa Número Veintidós. Tell Chief Schultz to send Sergeant Stein here with a truck and a couple of Thompsons. Tell Stein to dress like a gaucho. And then, Enrico, truck these people out to this place in Tandil. Don’t let them be seen, and don’t let them near a telephone.”

  “I will go with you, Don Cletus,” Enrico said softly.

  Clete ignored him.

  “I have no intention of riding in the back of a truck,” Dorotea said. “I’m pregnant, in case you haven’t noticed. Factor that into your planning, Napoleon.”

  “What are you talking about?” Clete asked. “You’re not going to this place, wherever it is. Jesus Christ!”

  “Permission to speak, Don Cletus?” Enrico asked.

  When Frade looked at him, he saw Enrico was standing at attention.

  Restraining a smile, Clete barked, “Stand at ease, permission granted,” and then glowered at Ashton, who was smiling.

  “Señor, if I am not with you at Campo de Mayo, questions would be asked . . .”

  Jesus, he’s right about that!

  “. . . but if Rodolfo were to drive Doña Dorotea in the Horch and the truck following them was carrying furniture, and provisions. . . .”

  “Good idea, Clete,” Leibermann said. “Nothing suspicious about that. What do they call that? ‘Hiding in plain sight’?”

  Clete considered that a moment, then agreed. “Yeah, it is. You sure you’re up to this, baby?”

  “Of course I am. All I do is ride over there—I’ve never been to the estancia, but I’ve been to Tandil; I’d guess it’s about two hours from here—unload the provisions and the furniture, and ride back. As long as Rodolfo and Seigfried don’t hang out a sign, no one will suspect that we’re hiding a couple of Nazis in what is now my little love nest in the hills.”

  Clete was surprised at her use of the term Nazi and then wondered why. He quickly decided that was because the word called up images of Nazis in steel helmets or SS uniforms in B movies, not the dumpy looking guy and his matching wife he had seen in the back of the Chevrolet.

  He turned to Leibermann.

  "And you and Max head back to Buenos Aires and hope nobody saw you come out here.”

  [THREE]

  Office of the Ambassador Embassy of the German Reich Avenida Córdoba Buenos Aires, Argentina 1140 14 July 1943

  “I suggest for the moment,” Ambassador von Lutzenberger said, “that we accept Sturmbannführer Raschner’s premise that Herr Frogger has chosen to desert his post—”

  “What other reason for his disappearance could there possibly be?” von Deitzberg interrupted almost indignantly.

  Von Lutzenberger ignored him and went on: “—which then poses the question of why.”

  “He did not wish to go home, obviously,” Gradny-Sawz said.

  “If so, wouldn’t that raise the question why?” von Lutzenberger said.

  “Isn’t that equally obvious?” von Deitzberg said sarcastically. “He’s the traitor we’ve been looking for.”

  Cranz had several thoughts, one after the other:

  Nonsense.

  Frogger not only had no reason to be a traitor but was psychologically incapable of being one.

  Does von Deitzberg actually believe what he’s saying?

  Of course not.

  Von Deitzberg was sent here to find the traitor, and failed.

  But he can now say that he suspected Frogger all along, and was getting close to having enough proof when Frogger somehow found out—or simply sensed it—and deserted.

  That makes him look a lot better than having failed to find the traitor.

  And if there is a traitor, knowing that Frogger has been “exposed” might just make him relax enough so that he’ll make a mistake. If that happens, von Deitzberg will get credit for catching both.

  My God, he’s good!

  “Cranz,” von Deitzberg asked, “wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I’m only wondering, Herr Generalmajor, how it is that Frogger managed to escape the attention of Herr Gradny-Sawz, Oberst Grüner, and Untersturmführer Schneider.”

  “Or mine,” von Lutzenberger said. “I’m as culpable as they are.”

  And so you are, Your Excellency, Cranz thought.

  You are nobly accepting responsibility for something over which you had no control, and could not be expected to, with a senior Sicherheitsdienst officer—now conveniently dead—in charge of that sort of thing.

  The proof of that came immediately.

  “Your Excellency,” von Deitzberg said smoothly, “I admire your position, but I respectfully suggest that if Oberst Grüner—an expert in these matters— could not detect this traitor, you really couldn’t be expected to.”

  Now he’s “Your Excellency”?

  And you “respectfully suggest,” von Deitzberg?

  You’re now friends, are you?

  “I am the ambassador of the German Reich, Herr Generalmajor, and responsible for everything that happens—or doesn’t happen—on my watch,” von Lutzenberger said. “But, readily acknowledging your expertise in these areas, may I ask what you suggest we do now?”

  And if you go along with that, von Deitzberg, won’t that dump the responsibility for whatever happens next in your lap? I know you’re too smart not to see that.

  So the question becomes, How are you going to react? As a professional, and agree with von Lutzenberger that the responsibility is in fact his? Or will your ego take over?

  Von Deitzberg took a moment to reply. When he finally did, Cranz thought his ego had overridden his common sense.

  “Let’s consider other possibilities before we decide on a course of action,” von Deitzberg said. “And, please, feel free to interrupt me at any time.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Generalmajor,” Cranz said.

  “The first question, it would seem to me,” von Deitzberg began, “is, Where is this swine? Did he just put his wife on a train and go somewhere? Or— and we know he had to plan for this—are the English or the Americans perhaps involved?”

  “Frogger was of course under routine security surveillance,” von Lutzenberger said. “And Gradny-Sawz and I read all of the reports that Schneider and others submitted to Grüner. There was nothing that ever suggested any contact with the Americans or the English. Isn’t that so, Gradny-Sawz?”

  “I never saw anything, Your Excellency.”

  “His social life, such as it was,” von Lutzenberger went on, “was limited to participation in activities of the German community. The Froggers were Protestant and regularly attended church services at the German community church—”

  “Where, so far as we know, the man on his knees next to them,” Cranz interrupted, “might well have been from MI-5, right? Or the OSS?”

  “More likely MI-5, Karl,” von Deitzberg said. “I don’t think the Americans are that smart.”

  Cranz chuckled his agreement.

  I’m now “Karl,” am I, Herr SS-Brigadeführer von Deitzberg?

  Well, since we are now friends and dealing with a common problem, I will not argue with your assessment of the ability of the OSS by saying the Americans were smart enough to find and sink the Reine de la Mer.

  “Frogger,” von Deitzberg went on, “was obviously far more clever than even Oberst Grüner thought. I don’t think, therefore, that we stand much chance at all of locating them by ourselves. It would be my recommendation, Your Excellency, that we report they are missing to the Argentine authorities.”

  “And what will we tell the Argentine authorities?” Cranz asked.

  The ambassador said, “What we know for sure: that they are missing. And we are naturally concerned for their safety.”

  “Mentionin
g nothing about their possibly having deserted?” Gradny-Sawz asked.

  It earned him a withering glare from von Deitzberg.

  “We don’t know that they have deserted, do we?” von Deitzberg said. “For all we know, Gradny-Sawz, they may have been stolen by gypsies or taken bodily into heaven.”

  “Gradny-Sawz will call the foreign ministry,” von Lutzenberger said as he pushed his telephone to him. “And I suggest, Herr Generalmajor, that we get Boltitz and von Wachtstein in here and explain the situation.”

  “Go get them,” von Deitzberg ordered, gesturing to Cranz. Then he had a second thought. “But before we do that . . . Is there any way Herr Frogger and his wife could just disappear? Do we know anyone who could arrange that?”

  “I don’t,” von Lutzenberger said. “Oberst Grüner dealt with things like that.”

  “Not too well, apparently,” von Deitzberg said. “Well, if the situation presents itself, that would be a satisfactory solution to this problem. Keep your eyes and ears open, Raschner. Take whatever action seems appropriate.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Brigadeführer.”

  Von Deitzberg looked at him as if he was about to remind him that he was to be addressed as “Herr Generalmajor” but then changed his mind.

  [FOUR]

  Diplomatic Liaison Section Foreign Ministry of the Republic of Argentina Plaza San Martín Buenos Aires, Argentina 1205 14 July 1943

  The first call El Señor Alfredo Mashewitz, the chief of Diplomatic Services, made after assuring First Secretary Anton Gradny-Sawz of the German embassy that he would “get right on this” was to the chief, Office of Ethical Standards, Bureau of Internal Security, Ministry of Defense, in the Edificio Libertador on Avenida Paseo Colón.

  The call was taken by Warrant Officer Frederico Attiria, who said that El Coronel Martín was not available—that he was with the president of the Republic, General Arturo Rawson, who was attending some sort of luncheon function at the Campo de Mayo military base. Attiria said that he would get word to him as quickly as possible.

  Señor Mashewitz next called Comisario Santiago Nervo, chief of the Special Investigations Division of the Policía Federal, and got him on the phone. He told him what had happened.