Death and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Admiral Canaris once told me that any intelligence officer who thinks he’s pretty good is sadly mistaken,” Boltitz said.

  “He’s obviously a wise man,” Frade said. “Well, if I happen to bump into your man Frogger, I’ll mention that his friends are looking for him.”

  “I suspect he knows that,” Boltitz said. “What he really should worry about is that Frau Frogger thinks they are really friends.”

  “You know that, too, do you?” Frade said.

  “What do you want done with what you gave Peter?”

  “Just let me know if it’s accurate. If it is, call my house in Buenos Aires and leave word that my new suit is ready.”

  “And if it’s not?”

  “Leave word that I have to come in for another fitting,” Frade said.

  Boltitz nodded.

  “We should probably rejoin the ladies,” von Wachtstein said. “Before El Bitcho comes out to wag her tail at Karl.”

  X

  On 10 July 1943, Allied troops invaded the island of Sicily. General Bernard Montgomery’s Eighth British Army landed at five places on the southeastern tip of the island. Lieutenant General George S. Patton’s United States Seventh Army went ashore on three beaches to the west of the British.

  There was little opposition, and Patton’s troops quickly took Gela, Licata, and Vittoria before nightfall. The British took Syracuse on the day of the landing, Palzzolo the next day, Augusta the day after that, and Vizzini on 14 July. On the same day, the Americans took Niscemi and the Biscani airfield.

  Patton moved to the west and his II Corps, under Lieutenant General Omar N. Bradley, struck out to the north. British forces were being held up by German forces under Field Marshal Albrecht Kesselring.

  On 22 July 1943, the U.S. Seventh Army’s Third Infantry Division, under Major General Lucian Truscott, took Palermo, and in so doing cut off fifty thousand Italian troops from their intended path of retreat. Patton then started to move on to Messina, intending, he announced, to get there before General Montgomery.

  [ONE]

  Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 0915 22 July 1943

  Clete Frade pointed out to the left to show Len Fischer that they were almost at the airfield. Fischer, his arms wrapped around his small suitcase, nodded and smiled somewhat wanly.

  Frade had learned only that morning—just before they boarded the Piper Cub—that Fischer had about as much experience with light aircraft as he had with horses—none—and it was a toss-up which of the two made him more uncomfortable.

  Frade now made gestures with his hand to show—if not warn—Fischer what he intended to do with the aircraft, which was make at least one low pass over the field to make sure that it would be safe to land.

  Not on the runways. These were cluttered with heavy machinery, tractors, graders, dump trucks, and cement mixers. Instead, Frade planned to land— presuming he found nothing parked or dumped there—on the grass of what had only recently been a cattle-feeding lot.

  He made two passes to ensure his intended “runway” was clear, then turned to signal Fischer that he was about to set down the airplane.

  From the look on Fischer’s face, it was obvious that, until this moment, Fischer had never considered the possibility that they would not be landing on a wide and smoothly paved runway.

  His concern—terror—was evident.

  Frade felt sorry for him, but they had to land. Otherwise, none of the items on what Clete thought of as “the list” were going to be addressed.

  And there were a number of critical items on the list, ones that Frade had been unable to neatly categorize as Priority One, Priority Two, and so on, because they were all interrelated with one another.

  For example, they had to make sure they got electrical power run to the control tower, then make sure the Collins transceiver there worked, then use the Collins to call Delgano aboard SAA Zero Zero One.

  Also high on the list: getting Second Lieutenant Len Fischer safely out of Argentina.

  There had of course been the temptation to get Fischer out of the country immediately, but there were problems with that. One of them was that it would be suspicious if he left before the Collins transceivers were set up and operating at the field at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and at what was now Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade.

  Setting up the radios was what Fischer was supposed to be doing in Argentina. If he seemed to be fleeing, Martín would certainly wonder why—If someone warned him, who?—and that finger would point at Delgano.

  Delgano was a card Frade was unwilling to play, because he simply didn’t know how far Delgano was willing to go to close his eyes to things Martín would (a) certainly want to know and (b) expect to hear from Delgano.

  Delgano hadn’t told Martín what the SIGABA device was. But there was no guarantee he would do the same sort of thing ever again.

  And, for that matter, it was possible—not likely, but possible—that Delgano had told Martín about the SIGABA device, and the two of them were in the clever process of lulling Señor Frade into thinking he had no problems.

  What Clete had decided to do was keep Fischer around until the Collins radios were functioning—but only at the estancia and here, in the control tower of what he in aviator shorthand had already begun to think of as “Jorge Frade.”

  The problem with that was there was no electrical power at the terminal building. In fact, the terminal building itself was nowhere near finished, and when it was electrical power would be about the last thing installed. And no power in the terminal meant no power in the tower.

  Frade thought—indeed had been told—that he had solved the no-power problem by calling the electrical contractor and applying a West Texas business tactic: Clete had offered him a bonus if there was power to the unfinished control tower by quitting time—six p.m.—yesterday.

  It was the same technique he had earlier used to get all the contractors working almost feverishly. And he’d done it over the objections of the SAA board of directors—“Cletus, things are just not done that way in Argentina” was the way Humberto Valdez Duarte, financial director of South American Airways, had put it.

  As they were about to let the contracts, Frade had insisted that the contracts include bonus and penalty clauses. And so, there were generous bonuses provided for completion of the various aspects of the construction ahead of schedule, and increasingly heavy penalties if the work was not completed when it was promised.

  Frade landed the Cub without incident—neither from the aircraft nor from his squeamish passenger—and taxied to the terminal building behind one of the three hangars under construction. This one was almost done. Workmen were hanging the sliding doors. More important, there was a gasoline-powered generator at the base of the still-unfinished control tower, with a cable snaking up the tower and through an opening that would eventually hold a window.

  “Greed triumphs, Len,” Frade said after he had shut down the engine.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” He pointed to the tower. “Let’s climb up there and see if the Collins will work.”

  Thirty minutes later, with a pleased smile, Second Lieutenant Leonard Fischer, Signal Corps, USA, handed Major Cletus Frade, USMCR, a headset.

  “Your cans, sir,” Fischer said.

  Frade put them on and heard a distinct metallic sound: dit dah dah dah, dah dat dit, dit dit dah dit.

  He smiled.

  There was a pause, then his smile broadened as dit dah dah dah, dah dat dit, dit dit dah dit came again.

  And, after another pause, the Morse code for JGF sounded again. And again. And again.

  “If you weren’t so ugly, Lieutenant, I think I’d kiss you.”

  Fischer smiled, handed Frade a microphone, and threw a switch.

  “That’s ready, too?” Frade asked, surprised.

  Fischer nodded.

  Frade pressed the TALK button on the microphone.

  “South American
Airways Zero Zero One,” he said in Spanish, “this is Jorge Frade.”

  There was no reply. Over the next few minutes, Frade made the call again, and again, and again. Still, no reply. He shook his head and shrugged, and started to take the earphones from his head.

  “Jorge Frade, this is South American Zero Zero One. Go ahead.”

  Frade recognized Delgano’s voice.

  “Zero One. What is your position?”

  “Jorge Frade, Zero One is fifteen kilometers north of El Palomar at two thousand meters, indicating three hundred kph.”

  “Zero One, Jorge Frade, report reception of our RDF signal.”

  “Frade, Stand by.”

  There was a minute’s silence as Delgano tuned his radio direction finder.

  “Frade, Zero One. Receiving RDF signal loud and clear.”

  “Zero One, using RDF signal as navigation device, proceed to Frade, descending to one thousand meters, report when field is in sight.”

  “Zero One understands proceed Frade using RDF, descend to one thousand meters, report when in sight of field.”

  “Zero One, Frade. That is correct.”

  “Frade, Zero One has field in sight.”

  “South American Airways Zero Zero One, you are cleared to make a low-level east-west pass over Jorge Frade at an altitude of your choice.”

  Frade expected Delgano to make the pass at a minimum of fifteen hundred feet above ground level. Thirty seconds later, South American Zero Zero One flashed along the east-west runway of Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade at no more than five hundred feet AGL—her engines roaring, the throttles apparently against their stops.

  Fischer watched in amazement as startled ground workers on and near the runway raced for cover.

  Frade watched the aircraft roar past, then dramatically pull up and bank.

  As her tail disappeared into the distance, he thought, Goddamn, that’s one pretty airplane!

  It was a moment before Frade trusted his voice. Then he said, “South American Zero Zero One, proceed to El Palomar and terminate your flight.”

  [TWO]

  Aeropuerto de El Palomar Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1030 22 July 1943

  South American Airways Chief Pilot Gonzalo Delgano was standing beside SAA’s Lodestar, tail number Zero Zero One, when Frade taxied up to it in the Piper Cub. Five other pilots of South American Airways also stood there. They were all in uniform, a powder blue tunic with four gold stripes on the sleeves, and darker blue trousers.

  Frade wondered how Delgano had come up with the uniforms so quickly. He recognized several of the faces but couldn’t come up with a single name.

  Delgano marched up to the Piper Cub as Frade and Fischer got out.

  Then he spread his arms wide.

  “Cletus,” he said emotionally. “El Coronel would be so proud!”

  Then he wrapped his arms around Frade, wetly kissed both of his cheeks, and hugged him tightly.

  Fischer looked uncomfortable.

  Then one by one the other pilots marched up to Frade and solemnly shook his hand.

  “And we are so grateful to you, Señor Fischer,” Delgano said, turning to him, “for your skill and hard work.”

  He embraced Fischer and kissed him with almost as much emotional enthusiasm as he had shown with Frade. Fischer smiled bravely. Then the pilots advanced on Fischer and shook his hand.

  “I’m happy to have been able to be of service, Captain,” Fischer said.

  “El Señor Fischer will be going with us on the Varig flight, Gonzalo,” Frade said. “It is time for him to go home.”

  “I have been thinking about that, Cletus,” Delgano said. “Perhaps it will not be necessary to subject our friend El Señor Fischer to the rigors—perhaps even the danger—of flying with our competition.”

  Frade immediately thought, Oh, shit!

  Getting Fischer safely out of Argentina—with the two rolls of high-speed 35mm film that when processed would show Fischer, looking uncomfortable, standing beside a scowling Frau Frogger holding a copy of La Nación—had become Priority One on the list.

  Frade had considered, and decided against, having the film developed and copies made. If El Coronel Martín of the Bureau of Internal Security suspected—which was entirely likely—that not only was Fischer more than the technical representative of the Collins Radio Company of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, but further suspected—which also was entirely likely—that Cletus Frade had something to do with the missing Froggers, he might suggest that the customs officials pay special attention to Fischer’s luggage before he was allowed to board the Varig flight to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

  If the film were developed, there would be the proof that not only was Fischer more than a radio technician but—there he was, standing beside Frau Frogger—a kidnapper of a German diplomat and his wife.

  Fischer—surprising Frade—said he was willing to take the risk.

  After Frade accepted that, he said, “Then what you’re going to do, Len, if it looks as if you’re going to be searched, is ruin the film by pulling it out of the cassettes.”

  “Those pictures are important to Mr. Dulles. You know that, Clete.”

  Frade had then ordered, “What you’re going to do, Lieutenant Fischer, if it looks as if you’re going to be searched, is pull the film out of the cassettes. Say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”

  Getting Fischer on the Varig flight to Rio had depended on getting the Collins transceiver at Morón’s not-yet-completed Aeropuerto Jorge G. Frade up and running, so they could contact South American Airways Chief Pilot Gonzalo Delgano in SAA’s Lodestar, call sign Zero Zero One, and thus prove that his technical duties had been completed and he could leave Argentina.

  When they had left Jorge Frade just now, Clete had decided that that much had been accomplished, and all that remained to be done was to get Fischer on the Varig flight to Brazil with himself and Delgano.

  And now Delgano doesn’t want to subject Fischer to the “rigors and danger” of flying on Varig?

  What the hell?

  Get him to install the radios, then arrest him?

  “I think we should not say unkind things about our competition, Gonzalo,” Frade said. “No matter how tempting that may be.”

  “What I was thinking, Don Cletus, is that we should fly to Canoas in Zero One, taking these gentlemen with us”—he nodded at the pilots—“which would give them more time at the controls. You could serve as the instructor pilot on the way back here in Zero Zero Two.”

  Thank you very much, Chief Pilot.

  It didn’t take you long to forget who taught you to fly a Lodestar, did it?

  “Otherwise,” Frade said, “Zero One would just be sitting here until you and I got back and no one would get any cockpit time. Right?”

  Delgano nodded.

  “Can we do that?” Delgano said. “I mean will they let us land there? I had the feeling that the American general doesn’t like you very much.”

  “We’ll just have to find out,” Clete said. “I think that’s a hell of a good idea.”

  “I thought you would agree,” Delgano said, smiling, and pointed to a fuel truck that had just rolled up beside Zero Zero One, one he’d clearly arranged for before bouncing his idea off Frade.

  “Gonzo, I’d like to make sure nothing happens to the Collins while we’re gone. We turned it off, but . . .”

  “I think the control tower should be manned around the clock starting right now,” Delgano said. “We know the runways are not yet usable, but a Varig pilot just might hear our RDF signal and think that they are. I will have operators there within the hour.”

  Thirty minutes later, they took off for Canoas. Frade rode in the back, the first time he had ever been in a Lodestar passenger seat.

  Once Frade felt the aircraft break ground and heard the hydraulic whine as its landing gear retracted, he heaved a mental sigh of relief. He had succeeded in getting Len Fischer—and equally important, perhaps even more important, the two cassettes of 3
5mm film—out of Argentina. In about two hours and thirty minutes, the Lodestar—and the film—would touch down at the U.S. Army Air Forces field at Canoas.

  That left only one problem—that of protecting the Froggers—on what hours before had become The List of Things That Might—Probably Would— Go Wrong.

  That remained a serious problem—Boltitz had told him that von Deitzberg had ordered their assassination when and where found—but that too looked as if it might go away.

  When he had gone to Enrico to discuss that question with him, the old sergeant major told him he had already dispatched a dozen workers of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo—all retirees of the Húsares de Pueyrredón Cavalry Regiment—to Casa Chica.

  “They will know what to do, Don Cletus,” Enrico had said confidently.

  Frade had asked for an explanation.

  “If the same kind of people who tried to kill you and who killed El Coronel and my sister—may they be resting in peace with all the angels—come to Casa Chica, they will be left on the pampas for the birds to eat.”

  “And if it is the army or the police?”

  “Then the Nazis will be taken onto the pampas. I know how to deal with this, Don Cletus.”

  “I don’t want the Froggers killed unless it’s absolutely necessary—”

  “So you have said, Don Cletus.”

  “And when I have Fischer out of Argentina, we will have to find some other place to keep them.”

  “There are places, Don Cletus. I will think on it.”

  Frade now thought: I could very well be pissing in the wind, but this just might work out okay.

  He took a cigar from a leather case and bit off a piece of its closed end.

  “You don’t happen to have another of those, do you?” Len Fischer asked from his seat across the aisle.

  Frade offered him the case and said, “I didn’t know you smoked cigars.”

  "This will be my first ever,” Fischer said. “But I feel like celebrating, and a cigar ...”

  [THREE]

  Canoas Air Base Pôrto Alegre, Brazil 1305 22 July 1943

  Captain Gonzalo Delgano, who was in the co-pilot seat of the Lodestar, consulted his chart, the needle of the radio direction finder, and looked out the side window of the cockpit. Then he looked over his shoulder at the managing director of South American Airways standing behind him, pointed at the chart, the ground, and then the RDF indicator.