Death and Honor
Page 37
Frade nodded his understanding of what he had been shown, then said, “I think it would be better if I worked the radio.”
Smiling at Captain Francisco Sánchez, who was in the pilot seat, Frade said, “Can I get in there, please, Captain?”
“Yes, of course, señor,” Sánchez said, then unfastened his harness, stood up, and squeezed past Frade.
“It might be best, Captain,” Frade said, his tone very serious, “if you went in the back and strapped yourself in. Captain Delgano will be landing the aircraft, and more often than not that is both a frightening and bumpy experience.”
“Mother of God!” Delgano said in disbelief, shaking his head.
Captain Sánchez tried but failed to restrain a smile.
Frade fastened his harness, then keyed the microphone.
“Canoas, this is South American Airways Zero Zero One,” he said in English, “thirty miles south of your station at five thousand feet, indicating one eight zero knots. Request approach and landing.”
The reply did not come immediately. When it did, it was an American voice.
“Aircraft calling Canoas, be advised that Canoas is a Brazilian air base closed to civilian traffic.”
Frade looked at Delgano, said, “I thought that might happen,” then pressed the mike button.
“Canoas, South American Airways Zero Zero One has aboard aircrews to pick up a Lodestar that you have on your field. If you have any questions, please contact General Wallace. Tell him the pilot in command is Señor Frade.”
“South American Zero Zero One, Canoas. Stand by.”
“South American Zero Zero One, Canoas.”
“Zero One.”
“Zero One, state your type of aircraft and position.”
“We’re a Lodestar a couple of miles south, passing through two thousand feet, indicating one five zero knots. I have the field in sight.”
“Canoas has you in sight, Zero One. Canoas clears Zero Zero One for a straight-in approach to Runway Three-Five. Be advised that a Follow-Me will meet you at the end of your landing roll.”
“Understand straight in to Three-Five. Thank you.”
[FOUR]
Office of the Commanding General U.S. Army Air Forces Establishment Canoas Air Base Pôrto Alegre, Brazil 1400 22 July 1943
“Yes, sir,” a portly, middle-aged USAAF master sergeant wearing aircrew wings said to his intercom box, then looked somewhat disapprovingly at Frade. “The general will see you now, Señor Frade.”
“Thank you,” Frade said, and, motioning Fischer to come with him, walked through the door to the office of Brigadier General J. B. Wallace, U.S. Army Air Forces.
Wallace was sitting behind a highly polished desk. It held a leather-bound green blotter, a telephone, a pen holder, a sign reading Brig Gen Wallace, and nothing else.
“Thank you for seeing me, General,” Frade said politely.
Wallace nodded but did not reply.
“General, I’m going to need some assistance,” Frade said.
“Is that so?” General Wallace asked in his somewhat nasal tone.
“Yes, sir. The first thing—”
“Forgive me, Señor Frade,” Wallace interrupted, “but what gives you the authority to demand anything of me?”
Frade took a leather folder from his trousers pocket and laid it on the general’s desk. It was his set of the credentials that Colonel Graham had issued to everyone on Team Turtle on 5 July. His identified him as the OSS regional commander.
“Those credentials do, sir. And you are advised that those credentials are classified Top Secret, and you are not permitted to disclose to any of your subordinates that I have shown them to you.”
The general picked up the folder and began to examine it.
“And my superiors ?” he challenged, sarcastically. “Am I permitted to disclose to them that you have shown me whatever this is?”
“You may inform your superiors, in the grade of major general or above, that I presented them to you, but not the circumstances under which I have done so. Any questions you or they may have about the credentials or me should be directed to the Office of Strategic Services in Washington.”
General Wallace tried to stare Frade down. He failed.
The general examined the credentials again, this time very carefully. Finally, he raised his eyes to Frade.
“Frankly, I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“Very few people have, sir.”
“What is it you want me to do, Mr. Frade?”
I thought those credentials would dazzle you, you pompous sonofabitch!
“I want you to fly Mr. Fischer to Rio de Janeiro as soon as possible so that he can catch the next Pan American Airways flight to the United States.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” General Wallace said.
“I want him escorted, very discreetly, of course, by armed officers—one of whom should be at least a major—who will stay with him until they see the Pan American plane take off.”
“That can be arranged. And what else?”
“I need to send a small package by officer courier to Washington,” Frade said. “I thought perhaps one of your pilots flying up there—a major or more senior officer?”
“Again, that should be no problem to arrange. Am I permitted to ask what’s in the package?”
Frade did not answer immediately. Instead he gestured to Fischer.
“Let me have one of those cassettes, Len.”
When Fischer had handed him one, Frade held it up for General Wallace to see.
“This is also classified Top Secret,” he said.
“I understand,” General Wallace said seriously.
“I will need three large manila envelopes—better make it four, right, Mr. Fischer? You’re the expert here.”
“Four would be better,” Fischer agreed.
“And a grease pencil and Scotch tape. The wider the better.”
“Sergeant!” General Wallace raised his voice.
The portly master sergeant appeared at the door.
“Mr. Frade will require four large manila envelopes, Sergeant, some Scotch tape, and what else was there, Mr. Frade?”
“A grease pencil, black, please, Sergeant,” Frade said. “And if you have some of the two-inch-wide Scotch tape?”
“Yes, sir,” the master sergeant said. “Right away.”
Frade used the grease pencil to write Unexposed Film Top Secret Eyes Only DDWHO in large letters on both sides of one of the manila envelopes, put the film cassette he’d shown Wallace in it, and wrapped it tightly with the Scotch tape.
Then he repeated that operation twice, creating a thick roll of envelopes and tape. He put the roll into the fourth envelope, then on that outer envelope wrote BY OFFICER COURIER TOP SECRET EYES ONLY DDWHO OR GENERAL DONOVAN. He sealed the envelope, then signed C. FRADE, AREA COMMANDER on the flap, and covered his signature with more Scotch tape.
“Do you think that’ll do it, Mr. Fischer?”
“I think that should do it,” Fischer said. “General, you don’t happen to have a courier’s briefcase we could use, do you?”
“I don’t know what a courier’s briefcase is,” General Wallace said.
“They have sort of a stainless-steel wire and handcuff arrangement,” Fischer said, “so the briefcase can be attached to the courier.”
Where the hell did Len get that?
“Perhaps we could improvise something,” General Wallace said.
“That would be helpful,” Fischer said. “Thank you.”
“May I ask what DDWHO means?” General Wallace asked.
“Deputy Director, Western Hemisphere Operations,” Frade said. “The courier doesn’t need to know that. All he has to do is take the briefcase to the National Institutes of Health Building, ask for the duty officer, and give it to him.”
“I understand,” General Wallace said. “May I make a suggestion?”
“Certainly.”
“We have
an aircraft—a B-24—leaving within an hour or two for the United States. Perhaps Mr. Fischer could travel on that?”
Why not? That would save Len the trip to Rio de Janeiro.
But it’s a long goddamn ride in the bomb bay of a B-24 from here to the States.
“Ordinarily, General,” Frade said, “that would be a splendid idea. But there are reasons why Mr. Fischer should travel on Pan American Grace”—for example, sitting in a softly upholstered seat while a steward in a white jacket serves him chilled champagne and a five-course meal—“that make that ill-advised. Perhaps the B-24 pilot—presuming he’s a field-grade officer—could serve as the officer courier, but my priority now is to get Mr. Fischer to Rio de Janeiro just as soon as possible.”
“I understand,” General Wallace said, and raised his voice again: “Sergeant!”
The master sergeant appeared in the door a moment later.
“Sir?”
"Call Base Ops and have a C-45 readied for an immediate flight to Rio. Priority One.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” Frade said.
Besides, if Len went on the B-24, that would put both film cassettes on the same plane, and that would not be a good idea.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Frade?”
“I can’t think of a thing, General.”
“If you’ll be with us tonight, perhaps we could have dinner.”
“That’s very kind of you, General, but just as soon as I see Mr. Fischer’s plane lift off, I’m going wheels-up myself back to Buenos Aires.”
“Sergeant!”
“Sir?”
“Have my car brought around to take these gentlemen to the field.”
As they walked across the tarmac to a USAAF Beechcraft C-45 Expeditor, Fischer smiled at Frade and said, accurately mimicking General Wallace’s somewhat nasal speech, “ ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Frade? Dinner, perhaps?’ ”
Frade chuckled.
“You really put that stuffy sonofabitch in your pocket,” Fischer said.
It wasn’t me, Frade thought.
It was that OSS badge that put Wallace in my pocket.
“I’m a Marine officer, Lieutenant,” Frade replied with a mock-serious tone. “Perhaps you should keep that in mind.” Then he smiled and, when Fischer smiled back, put out his hand.
“Thanks, Len. You’ve done a wonderful job.”
“I’m a Signal Corps second lieutenant,” Fischer said, mimicking Frade’s tone. “Perhaps the major might want to keep that in mind.”
Clete laughed, then, surprising the both of them, they embraced in the Argentine manner—except neither kissed the other.
“I’ll see you around, Clete. And we’ll be in touch.”
“Yeah, we will.”
Frade punched Fischer in the arm, then watched as Fischer ducked through the small door of the small twin-engine aircraft.
Frade didn’t move as the Expeditor taxied to the end of the runway, ran up its engines, and took off. It wasn’t that he was that interested in watching the airplane take off. He was considering the fact that, once again, he was about to be a prick.
Fischer was under the impression that he was going back to the safety of Vint Hill Farms Station.
Tough luck, Len, ole buddy. I need you.
If not here right now, then kept on the shelf to be taken down and expended as needed.
[FIVE]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1810 22 July 1943
It was admittedly a little dark when Frade lined up the Piper Cub to land on the estancia runway, but not as dark as Doña Dorotea Mallín de Frade apparently thought it was. There were half a dozen vehicles lined up on the sides of the runway, their headlights illuminating the runway boundaries.
I could have made it in here no problem, but it’s really nice to know that Dorotea is really trying to take care of me.
As he taxied up to the hangar, he saw that Schultz’s Model A pickup was part of the improvised landing light system, and that Enrico was at the wheel of the Buick convertible and that Dorotea was at the wheel of the Horch.
“Thanks, baby,” he said as he embraced his wife.
“First, did Len get away all right?” she asked.
“At this moment, he is in the Copacabana Palace Hotel in Rio sipping champagne and ogling the near-naked ladies on the beach.”
“I’m serious,” she said, not amused. “What about the film?”
"So am I. I should have added, he has an armed guard, courtesy of the U.S. Army Air Forces, who will stay with him until he—and the film—takes off in the Pan American clipper. And second?”
“Why did you have to fly down here in the dark?”
“Well, for one thing—not that I’m not grateful for the landing lights—it wasn’t dark.”
“You were taking an unnecessary chance. The station wagon’s at the house; you should have driven.”
“I had two things in mind. In addition to knowing when there wouldn’t be enough light to land here.”
“Which were?”
“My stomach told me to go home to get something to eat. I didn’t get to eat any lunch. And I needed to see that ugly gaucho.” He turned. “How goes it, El Jefe?”
Schultz, who of course was wearing his gaucho costume, smiled at him.
“If you weren’t such a bloody ass,” Dorotea said, “the proper response would have been, ‘I couldn’t wait to be with my beloved wife.’ ”
Clete smiled. “That, too, of course.”
Enrico walked up.
“Everything okay at Casa Chica, Enrico?”
“It is under control, Don Cletus.”
“Then it’s time for my supper,” Clete said. “A bife de chorizo, I think, with a glass—perhaps a bottle—of merlot. And during supper, Jefe, I will dictate a message to Graham which I want you to get out an hour ago.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Dorotea said.
“Excuse me?”
“After consulting with Oscar and Enrico, I’ve made some changes in our operation. ”
Now what?
“Made some changes in our operation”?
“Oh, really? Such as?”
“It will save time if I show you,” she said, “rather than trying to explain.”
When they got to the big house, Dorotea led everybody to what had been El Coronel Frade’s study. Schultz walked quickly ahead of them and unlocked the heavy door.
Where the hell did Schultz get a key? Enrico’s got one, but I never gave Schultz one.
Which means Dorotea did.
What the hell is going on?
The answer to that became apparent the moment the lights were switched on in the study. Something had changed. It still was lined with books and framed photos, but the furniture had been rearranged and a sturdy table added. The new table sat close to one wall. On it was a Collins transceiver and the SIGABA encryption device.
Jesus H. Christ! What’s that doing in here?
“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on here? Maybe you, Jefe?”
“Well, Dorotea and Enrico and I talked things over,” Schultz said. “And decided that putting the equipment in here made more sense than having it out in the boonies.”
“For one thing, darling,” Dorotea said, “it’s rather obviously both a nuisance and time-consuming for the team to have to run back and forth to Casa Veintidós every time you get a message, or want to send one.”
He nodded and waited for her to go on.
Schultz picked up their reasoning. “Enrico said your father thought the study—when he was setting up the revolution—was the safest place on the estancia to do things in the dark. . . .”
“Otherwise, Don Cletus,” Enrico chimed in, “El Coronel, may he be resting in peace in heaven with all the angels, would have gone onto the monte himself. He worked here.”
“And what if El Coronel Martín decides to raid the place?” F
rade challenged.
“I rigged thermite grenades,” Schultz said. “We’d have more time to torch this stuff here than if it was in Casa Veintidós. I showed Enrico and Dorotea how to do that. There wasn’t time to teach anyone else, and anyway, Enrico’s still making up his mind about who else he wants to know about this.”
“You know how to set off the thermite grenades?” Frade asked his wife.
She nodded. “And I also know how to operate the SIGABA.”
“You know how that thing works?”
She nodded again. “Would you like me to demonstrate?”
“May I ask why I wasn’t asked whether I thought this was a good idea?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s obviously the thing to do,” Dorotea said. “And this was the time to do it. Carlos isn’t here—”
“Where is he?”
“He told me that Delgano wanted him at El Palomar to assist in teaching mechanics what he knows about the Lodestar,” she said.
What the hell is that all about?
Interest in South American Airways?
Or to get him out of here?
For what reason?
Dorotea went on, “We of course don’t know, darling, when Carlos will show up here again. But since he wasn’t here, he wasn’t able to see Oscar and Enrico moving the equipment into the house and setting up the antennae. And of course you and Delgano were flying back and forth to Brazil, so Delgano doesn’t know. For those reasons, darling, Oscar, Enrico, and I decided that this was the moment to do it. Did we do wrong?”
Frade exhaled audibly.
“No. The only thing you’ve done is embarrass me for not thinking of this myself.”
Dorotea, Enrico, and Oscar looked very pleased with themselves.
“Is it up and running?” Frade said.
“We got the first message right after you took off this morning,” Schultz said. He took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Frade.
URGENT
VIA ASA SPECIAL
TOP SECRET LINDBERGH