Clete casually returned the salutes. To show he appreciated the incongruity of the situation, he smiled and, as a colonel might do on the parade ground, barked, “Stand at ease, men!”
Stein grinned. “I’m a little surprised you could find this place.”
“I had an ACA road map,” Frade said. “How’s our guests?”
“Several answers to that,” Stein said. “Physically fine. They’re in the living room.”
“And the other answer?”
“She’s a real Nazi bitch, Major.”
“She is?”
“I have the feeling that if she could find some Gestapo guy, it would take her about ten seconds to denounce her husband.”
“Then why did she come?”
“Women change their minds, and, oh boy, has this one changed hers.”
“She say anything?”
“Only that she—meaning him, too—will deal only with an ‘officer of suitable rank.’ ”
“And she pegged you as a sergeant?”
“She pegged me as a Jew—maybe something about my accent—and she can’t believe a Jew would be an officer.” He smiled. “I heard her tell him to tell the ‘Jüdisch Gefreiter’ that she was hungry.”
“Well, let’s go see her. I’ll tell her that you’re actually a Jüdisch Oberst.”
“I don’t think that would work. I think you’re even going to have a hard time getting her to believe you’re a major.”
Frade didn’t reply directly; he had had another thought.
“Did you bring any gas with you?”
Stein nodded. “Four jerry cans from the hangar. I hope it’s avgas.”
“If you got it from the hangar, it is,” Frade said. “Enrico, gas it up. I want to get out of here while it’s still light.”
Frade looked at Stein, who waved him up the steps to the house.
Commercial Attaché and Frau Frogger were sitting side by side on a couch in the living room. The couch faced a large plate-glass window offering a view of the valley and the next range of hills.
Frade could imagine his father and Claudia sitting there—maybe Claudia had had her head in his father’s lap as he smoked a cigar and they shared a glass of wine watching the sunset.
He felt a wave of anger at the two Germans sitting on his father’s and Claudia’s couch.
This is not the time to do something stupid!
Frogger, after a moment, stood. His wife clutched her briefcase-sized purse against her stomach and looked at Frade coldly.
“All right, Herr Frogger,” Frade said in German. “What have you got to offer me?”
“Who are you, please?” Frau Frogger demanded.
Frade ignored her.
“Well?” he pursued.
“I don’t really know what you mean,” Frogger said.
“We insist on dealing with an officer of appropriate rank,” Frau Frogger said.
“You are in no position to insist on anything,” Frade said. “Major, did you find anything interesting in their luggage?”
Staff Sergeant Stein accepted his promotion without question. He popped to attention and said, “No, sir. I thought I would wait until you got here, Colonel.”
“Where is it?”
“I put the bags in the housekeeper’s room, sir.”
Frade switched to Spanish and turned to Gómez. “Take the man to get their luggage,” he ordered.
"Sí, mi coronel,” Gómez said, and gestured with the muzzle of the Mauser for Frogger to start moving.
“Let’s have a look at what she’s got in that purse,” Frade said in English, as much to see from her reaction whether or not she spoke English. He saw that she both spoke English and was very unhappy with the notion of having him see what her purse contained.
You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes, Frade!
“Please empty the contents of your purse on the table,” he said in German, pointing.
“Nothing but personal items,” she said.
“Empty the purse on the table,” Frade said coldly.
“We have diplomatic immunity,” she protested. “This is an outrage.”
For a moment, Frade thought of ordering Stein to take her purse, but one look at Stein’s face showed that the last thing he wanted to do was snatch a purse from someone—Nazi bitch or not—who looked like a grandmother.
Frade took four quick steps to Frau Frogger and snatched the purse from her hands. He found the zipper, opened it, turned the purse upside down, and started to shake the contents onto the floor.
When he glanced at her, he saw pure hate in her eyes.
Frade looked at the pile of miscellany from a woman’s purse and saw a silver-framed photograph. He bent over and picked it up.
It was of three nice-looking young men, all wearing Wehrmacht uniforms. It was fairly obvious these were the Frogger children. The oldest of them was wearing a large floppy beret, and from some recess of his mind he recalled that German armed forces wore berets. He had no idea what ranks they held—as a matter of fact, he wasn’t even positive that they were all officers.
For an intelligence officer, Frade, you have enormous voids in your professional knowledge.
“Please give that back to me,” Frau Frogger said, not at all belligerently.
He looked at her, resisted the temptation to hand her the photograph, and instead carried it out of the room, knowing he was going only where Rodolfo Gómez had led the man.
The door led to the kitchen. Frogger, carrying two large leather suitcases, was walking across it. Frade motioned for him to stop. He held the photo out to him.
“These are?”
“My childr—our sons.”
“And they are where?”
“Two have been killed in the war. The third is in the United States.”
“In the United States?”
“Wilhelm, this one”—he pointed at the man wearing the oversized floppy beret—“was captured while serving with the Afrikakorps.”
“His name is Wilhelm Frogger?”
Frogger nodded. “Oberstleutnant Wilhelm Frogger.”
“He is young to be a lieutenant colonel,” Frade said.
“If you will excuse me, Herr Oberst, you look young to hold your rank.”
Well, he swallowed that colonel bullshit. Or he’s pretending he did.
Okay, where do I go from here?
Jesus, I wish I had had more time to talk to Milton!
Milton said they deserted because they didn’t want to go back to Germany.
Okay. Let’s go with that.
“Mr. Leibermann tells me that you want to be interned in Brazil.”
“That is correct.”
“I’m the only person who can get you into Brazil, and right now I can see no reason why I should do that.”
Frogger’s eyes widened, but he didn’t reply.
“Actually, Leibermann made a mistake in bringing you to me.”
“We have surrendered,” Frogger said.
“What you have done is desert your post at the embassy and put yourselves into the hands of a man whose father was assassinated on the orders of the German embassy.”
“But we have surrendered,” Frogger repeated. “We wish to be granted political asylum in Brazil.”
“Then you should have gone to the Brazilians. You didn’t.”
“I am prepared to cooperate,” Frogger said.
“Meaning what?”
“I have information which would be of value to you.”
“Information about Operation Phoenix, for example?”
“Excuse me?”
“Operation Phoenix.”
“I don’t know the term. I’m sorry.”
“Then you are either stupid or a liar, probably both. Stupid, certainly, for thinking you could come and expect help to desert your post, with nothing to offer us.”
“I have information . . .”
“But not about Operation Phoenix?”
“I know nothing about any Operati
on Phoenix.”
“You are lucky you brought your wife with you,” Frade said. “Otherwise, you would already be in an unmarked grave on the pampas. I don’t like to kill women unless I have to.”
“Then simply return us to Buenos Aires.”
“My God, you are stupid, aren’t you? You’ve already seen too much to be allowed to remain alive.”
He gestured with his hands, indicating Frogger should carry the suitcases into the living room. Gómez went next, then Frade followed them in.
“Open them and dump them on the floor,” Frade then ordered coldly.
“Those are our personal possessions!” Frau Frogger complained indignantly.
“Dump them on the floor,” Frade repeated.
When that had been done, he spotted the photo album, went to it, and picked it up. He flipped through it, then tossed it atop the pile of clothing and personal items.
In Spanish, he ordered Gómez to put “these swine” into the house-keeper’s room.
“If they look like they’re even trying to get away, shoot them,” Frade ordered, “put them in a hole in the pampas, pour gasoline on them, then set them afire and leave them for the buzzards.”
“I have information—”
“Shut your mouth, you slimy bastard!”
Staff Sergeant Stein met Frade’s eyes but said nothing.
“You ever watch cop movies, Siggie?” Frade asked when Gómez had led the Froggers away.
Stein nodded. “Sometimes.”
“Then you’re familiar with good cop/bad cop?”
Stein nodded.
“I have just been the bad cop,” Frade said. “I don’t know how convincing I was, but that’s what I was trying. I threatened to kill and burn them—”
“I don’t think they have buzzards down here, Major.”
“I don’t know if they do or not. But I don’t think that they know either.”
Stein smiled at him.
“You’re about to become the good cop, Major Stein. The way you do that is to confirm their suspicions that Colonel Frade is an unmitigated sonofabitch who hates Nazis because they killed his father—that’s not far from the truth, incidentally, but I have people like that sonofabitch Cranz in mind, the SS, not a miserable little shit like this guy. Anyway, being the good guy, tell them you may—just may—be able to talk me out of killing them if they have something to offer . . .”
“Like what?”
“He says he never heard of Operation Phoenix, and I don’t know if he’s lying or not. But work on that. Start—unless he starts on Operation Phoenix, or the ransoming operation, which I think is unlikely—by getting him to give us the manning chart of the embassy. We can have von Wachtstein check that, see if he’s lying.”
“Major, I’ve never done anything like this in my life.”
“Welcome to the club, Sergeant Stein. Neither have I.”
Stein shrugged.
“When will you be back?”
“In a couple of days. I want to talk to Leibermann. It’s going to be tough. Martín showed up as I was about to take off from Campo de Mayo. He suspects we’re involved in this. BIS agents are going to be all over everybody.”
Stein nodded, then shrugged, but didn’t reply directly.
“You better get going, Major. You’re about to lose daylight.”
Frade thought aloud: “Jesus, I wish I could get von Wachtstein out here. He’d know how to deal with them.”
“But then they would know he’s Galahad.”
“What makes you think he hasn’t already figured that out?”
“Or her,” Stein said. “Can you get him out here?”
“I don’t know. I’ll work on it. But in the meantime . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
[SEVEN]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1905 14 July 1943
When Clete dropped the nose of the Piper Cub on his final approach to the landing strip, he saw that the Horch and Dorotea’s Buick were parked side by side at the end of the runway. A dozen other vehicles were parked on either side of the strip, positioned so their headlights would illuminate the strip.
The “emergency lighting system” wasn’t needed yet, but in another fifteen minutes it would have been.
Dorotea set that up.
Jesus Christ, what a great woman!
And then he saw her, standing up in the front seat of the Horch, waving a welcome to him.
You sonofabitch, how did you wind up with a woman like that?
Because God takes care of fools and drunks, and you qualify on both counts?
The Horch and the Buick came up as he and Enrico were tying down the Piper Cub. Chief Schultz was driving the Buick.
“We was about to send out a search party,” he said, then added, “And we just got word that Delgano just came onto the estancia.”
“Then you better get the hell out of here,” Frade said.
Schultz nodded but held out a piece of paper.
“You better read this and see if you want to answer right away,” he said, handing him a message typed on an all-caps typewriter that had once been in the communications room of the USS Alfred Thomas, DD-107. “It took me forever to decrypt the goddamn thing, but I was glad I did.”
Clete didn’t know what that meant. Schultz offered no explanation beyond a smile.
URGENT
TOP SECRET LINDBERGH
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
FROM AGGIE
TO TEX
ARRANGE TRANSFER SOONEST OF TWO MILLION DOLLARS ($2,000,000.00) ACCOUNT LOCKHEED AIRCRAFT COMPANY FIRST NATIONAL BANK OF BURBANK, BURBANK CALIFORNIA, AS INITIAL PAYMENT FOR FOURTEEN (14) LOCKHEED MODEL 18B AIRCRAFT AND APPROPRIATE SPARES.
FIRST TWO (2) AIRCRAFT WILL DEPART US FOR BIRDCAGE WITHIN 48 HOURS.
ETA BIRDCAGE DEPARTURE TIME PLUS SEVENTY-TWO (72) HOURS. LOCKHEED AIRCRAFT WILL NOT REPEAT NOT AUTHORIZE RELEASE OF REMAINING TWELVE (12) AIRCRAFT UNTIL AFOREMENTIONED PAYMENT IS RECEIVED.
ESSENTIAL YOU BE PRESENT BIRDCAGE TO RECEIVE AIRCRAFT AS SIX (6) COLLINS MODEL 295 TRANSCEIVERS PLUS APPROPRIATE SPARES WILL BE ABOARD FIRST DEPARTING AIRCRAFT IN CARE OF MR. LEONARD FISCHER OF COLLINS RADIO CORPORATION WHO WILL ASSIST IN SETTING UP SUBJECT RADIOS.
ADDITIONALLY, IN RESPONSE TO REQUEST OF LT SCHULTZ, MR. FISCHER IS BRINGING WITH HIM, TOGETHER WITH APPROPRIATE SPARES, AN ELECTRICAL TYPEWRITER OF THE TYPE LT SCHULTZ OPERATED ABOARD USS ALFRED THOMAS AND WILL ASSIST IN SETTING IT UP.
ADVISE YOUR ETA BIRDCAGE
AGGIE
Frade looked at Schultz and said, “Why are you smiling, Jefe? Because we’re getting six radios? Or because you’re now apparently a goddamned officer and gentleman, Lieutenant?”
“That, too, Major, sir, but the only electrical typewriter on the Alfred Thomas was a SIGABA.”
“And you’re going to tell me what a Sigaba, whatever, is, right?”
“Last word in encryption/decryption machines. Not only is the encrypted stuff absolutely unbreakable, but it’s as fast as a horny sailor heading for a . . . uh . . . Sorry, Doña Dorotea.”
“Heading for a Christian Science Reading Room, right?” Dorotea said.
“I was thinking of an ice-cream parlor,” Schultz said.
“Who’s this guy they’re sending with it?” Frade asked.
“I’d bet he’s either a sergeant or a smart young lieutenant from the ASA. The SIGABA needs an expert to set it up and fix it.” He paused. “And also to guard it while it’s being moved. That’s a piece of really secret machinery.”
“What’s the ASA?”
“Army Security Agency. They handle this sort of thing for all the services.”
“Message Aggie that I’ll have the Banco de Inglaterra y Argentina wire the money first thing in the morning, and that I’ll be at Birdcage within seventy-two hours.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“And now get out of here, before Delgano sees you.”
“What are you goin
g to do about Delgano while you’re gone?” Dorotea asked. “If they think we have the Nazis, he’ll be all over the place.”
“I’m taking him to Brazil with me,” Clete said. “The minute he shows up here, the managing director of South American Airways is going to tell Chief Pilot Delgano to get us seats on the first Varig flight.”
VIII
[ONE]
Aboard Varig Flight 525 Above Durazno, Uruguay 1505 17 July 1943
“Yes, I would. Thank you very much,” Cletus Frade said in response to the stewardess’s question if he would like another glass of merlot.
“And me, too, if you please,” Gonzalo Delgano said, flashing his most dazzling smile at her.
And then he watched her walk forward in the cabin.
“I forgot about that,” Frade said. “But you really are going to enjoy that, aren’t you, Señor Jefe de Pilotos?”
“Forgot about what?”
“You get to pick the stewardesses.”
“Excuse me?”
“You ever see an American football game, Gonzo?”
“In the newsreels,” Delgano said, confused.
“All those enormous young men, rushing at each other, knocking each other down, getting their teeth knocked out, breaking their arms and legs?”
Delgano nodded.
“Ever wonder why they do it?”
“It is sort of brutal, isn’t it?”
“In the newsreels you saw, did they show the cheerleaders?”
“Excuse me?”
“The pretty young girls in short skirts bouncing around?” He raised his arms above his head in a punching motion. “ ‘Go Aggies! Go Aggies!’ They’re called ‘cheerleaders.’ ”
“Yes, now that you mention it. Very interesting.”
“That’s why they do it,” Clete said seriously.
“That’s why who does what?”
“The young men are so willing to have their arms broken and their teeth knocked out. The winning team gets their pick of the cheerleaders. If you score more than twelve points, you get two.”
Delgano looked at him in shock, then realized his chain had been pulled.
“Holy Mother of God, Cletus, for a moment I actually believed you.”
“Same thing with chief pilots,” Frade said. “If he doesn’t dump more than one airplane in six months, or forget to put the wheels down for the same period of time, he gets his pick of the stewardesses.”
Death and Honor Page 28