Office of the Director Office of Strategic Services National Institutes of Health Building Washington, D.C. 0845 24 July 1943
“What brings you to work so early, Alex?” OSS Director Donovan said to Deputy Director for Western Hemisphere Operations Graham. “I didn’t think you Latinos got out of bed before ten.”
“With all possible respect, Mr. Director, sir,” Graham said as he made a rude upward gesture with his middle finger, “I beg to inform you that I have been hard at work since about five, in order that you would find something on your desk to do when you came to work, almost certainly hungover from a lateevening—perhaps an into-early-morning—soiree with our commander in chief, his charming wife, and your dear pal J. Edgar Hoover.”
“You heard about that, did you?”
“I hear about everything,” Graham said. “I thought you knew that.”
Donovan shook his head and asked, “You want some coffee?”
“Since I was not at all sure you would be so charmingly hospitable, I told her to bring me a cup.”
Donovan smiled and chuckled and then pointed to the thick stack of eight-by-ten-inch photographs on his desk.
“I presume you have seen these?”
Graham nodded. “I watched as most of them appeared miraculously on paper in that tray of whatever chemical it is in the photo lab.”
“And the lieutenant—‘Flags,’ nice-looking young man—where is he?”
“I sent him out to Vint Hill Farms in my car. I told him to stay loose, and my driver to stay there until he hears otherwise. Flags—Fischer—was pretty beat.”
"What about him?”
Donovan’s secretary came in with a simple coffee service of two china mugs and a thermos bottle on a plastic tray, set it down, then filled the mugs.
Graham waited until she had left the office and closed the door behind her before answering: “I said he was pretty beat. I should have said ‘in shock.’ Forty-eight hours ago, he thought he was going to be either thrown in a cell or shot, then all of a sudden he’s back in Washington.”
“He came here?”
“I met the B-26 that brought him up from Miami. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’ve been up and at it since five.”
“Well, the pictures came out,” Donovan said. “Would I be far off if I guessed that the other young man—the handsome chap in a racetrack tout’s plaid jacket with the foulard at his neck and in desperate need of a barber—is Major Cletus Frade, USMCR?”
“You never saw Don Cletus before?”
Donovan shook his head.
“I think I’ll have that shot blown up and use it as a dartboard,” the OSS director said. “Can you guess what the President—and, for that matter, Eleanor—and of course J. Edgar wanted to talk about last night?”
“What you solemnly promised Allen Dulles and me you wouldn’t talk about?”
“J. Edgar is humiliated that he hasn’t been able to make good on his promise to FDR that he would find out who Galahad is. I think that’s why the subject came up. Roosevelt wanted to suggest to J. Edgar that J. Edgar’s not as sublimely efficient in all intelligence matters as J. Edgar thinks he is.”
“You did tell the President how far along his airline is?”
Donovan sipped at his coffee, then said, “And he seemed pleased.”
“And by any chance did the subject of the Germans trying to buy sanctuary in Argentina come up?”
“Yeah, it did. The President asked J. Edgar what he knew about it, to which J. Edgar replied that he’s working on it, and would have something on it for him soon.”
“Which means he’s still in the dark,” Graham thought aloud.
Donovan nodded his agreement.
“About Operation Phoenix or our involvement in it?” Graham asked.
“I think J. Edgar has heard the term, but I suspect that’s all he knows. I know he knows there’s the program concerning the ransoming of concentration camp inmates, because I was there when Roosevelt told him he wanted to know what the FBI found out about it, and ordered him to take no action without his specific approval. I don’t think he knows how deeply we’re involved, or whether we’re involved at all.”
“Then you would say—Roosevelt would have told you—if he’d changed his mind about just letting the Phoenix program go ahead, and we’ll deal with it after the war?”
“I think Roosevelt is less interested in Operation Phoenix than he is in not interfering with the ransoming operation. As despicable as that is, it keeps some Jews alive.”
Graham nodded.
“Which is not to say that FDR is not interested in Operation Phoenix,” Donovan said.
“Then why don’t you read this,” Graham said, handing him several sheets of paper, “and tell me what you think we should do about it?”
URGENT
VIA ASA SPECIAL
TOP SECRET LINDBERGH
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
FROM TEX
TO AGGIE
1—AT APPROX 1700 LOCAL YESTERDAY GALAHAD AND POPEYE WITNESSED THE UNLOADING OF SIX (6) HEAVY WOODEN CRATES AND HALF A DOZEN (6) SS GUARDS FROM U-405 NEAR NECOCHEA APPROX SIXTY (60) MILES SOUTH OF MAR DEL PLATA. IT WAS ALMOST CERTAINLY THE QUOTE SPECIAL SHIPMENT END QUOTE THE GERMANS PREVIOUSLY FAILED TO GET ASHORE AT SAMBOROMBÓN BAY.
2—THE OPERATION WAS CONDUCTED BY STANDARTENFÜHRER KARL CRANZ (HEREAFTER LIMBURGER), WHO OSTENSIBLY IS GOOD KRAUT’S REPLACEMENT AT EMBASSY, AND LITTLE-Z. BIG-Z HAS BEEN RECALLED AND HAS DEPARTED FOR BERLIN, LEAVING LIMBURGER AS SENIOR OSS OFFICER. GALAHAD AND POPEYE WERE NOT INFORMED OF OPERATION UNTIL IT WAS UNDER WAY AND THERE WOULD BE NO CHANCE FOR EITHER OF THEM TO TELL SOMEBODY ABOUT IT.
3—GALAHAD REPORTS THE FORCE ON THE BEACH WAS ARGENTINE ARMY MOUNTAIN TROOPS UNDER COMMAND OF A GERMAN-SPEAKING COLONEL. SOME SOLDIERS WERE IN WORKMAN COSTUMES, OTHERS IN UNIFORM. COLONEL WORE CIVVIES AND USED PHONY NAME. CRATES AND SS GUARDS WERE LOADED ONTO ARGENTINE ARMY TRUCKS THEN DRIVEN OFF TO UNKNOWN DESTINATION OR DESTINATIONS. PROBABLY, AS THEY WERE MOUNTAIN TROOPS, TO THE CHILEAN BORDER AREA IN THE ANDES MOUNTAINS.
4—GALAHAD REPORTS THAT U-405 CAPTAIN WAS KÄPITANLEUTNANT WILHELM VON DATTENBERG (HEREAFTER GUPPY) WHOM GALAHAD KNEW IN COLLEGE AND WITH WHOM POPEYE HAD SAILED IN OTHER U-BOAT. GALAHAD FURTHER REPORTED THAT GUPPY LET SLIP THAT U-405 HAD TAKEN SPECIAL CARGO ABOARD FROM SPANISH-FLAGGED CIUDAD DE CADIZ OFF FALKLAND ISLANDS APPROX TWO (2) WEEKS EARLIER. VESSEL APPARENTLY HAS BEEN CONVERTED TO REPLENISHMENT VESSEL WITH FUEL TANKS, REEFERS, CLOTHING STORES, TORPEDOES, AND SO ON.
5—GALAHAD REPORTS THE OPERATION WAS VERY SKILLFULLY PLANNED AND EXECUTED AND THAT FROM REMARKS OF LIMBURGER, GUPPY, AND OTHERS THIS WAS NOT A ONE-TIME OPERATION.
6—MY CHANCES OF FINDING THE CRATES ARE PRACTICALLY NONEXISTENT, BUT I WILL WORK ON IT. LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU WANT ME TO DO IN CASE I GET LUCKY.
7—ALSO PLEASE ADVISE IF THE CAMERA WORKED AND WHAT I AM SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THE TOURISTS.
8—PLEASE ADVISE WHEN FLAGS WILL ANSWER THE PHONE.
TEX
Donovan looked up from the papers and said, “Well, just to be sure we know what and whom we’re talking about, who’s Popeye?”
“Oh, no, Bill,” Graham said while wagging his right index finger for effect. “Allen Dulles and I know who he is. But so that you can look FDR straight in the eye and truthfully say you don’t know who he is, we’re not going to tell you.”
Donovan exhaled audibly, but didn’t respond directly.
"And Big-Z is von Deitzberg, right?”
“Himmler’s adjutant,” Graham confirmed. “SS, but he was sent to Argentina in a major general’s uniform.”
Donovan nodded.
“Presumably to run the smuggling operation,” Graham added, “in addition to Phoenix.”
“And now he’s been recalled to Berlin? Any idea why?”
Graham shook his head.
“And his replacement, Limburger?” Donovan asked.
“Another member of the SS inner circle.”
“Who kept both Popeye and Galahad
in the dark about when and where, et cetera?”
“That’s what it says.”
“And the Argentine army was involved?”
“Same answer.”
"How come Galahad gave Frade his friend the U-boat skipper’s name?”
“Why not? What could Frade do with it?”
“And there’s a new replenishment ship?”
“So it would appear.”
“Can we do anything about it, now that we know the name?”
Graham shrugged, then said, “I haven’t made up my mind yet whether we should. And I don’t know if we can. We can’t board her on the high seas. I don’t understand that decision, but the President made that very clear.”
Donovan looked at Graham for a long moment.
“Okay, Alex, what do you want to do?”
“Let me throw something else into the equation. Lieutenant Colonel Frogger, who’s now in that VIP POW camp—Camp Clinton, in Mississippi—has been classified as a Class Three.”
“Am I supposed to know what that means?”
“I had to ask. Class One is a professional officer and dedicated National Socialist. Class Two is a Nazi who holds commission; it includes all members of SS and most other officers. Class Three is a professional officer not known to be a Nazi, or to be sympathetic to the idea. Apolitical.”
“And is there a Class Four?”
“An officer who professes to see the errors of his ways and is ready to do what he can to help us rid the world of those terrible Nazis.”
“You don’t seem to approve of the Class Fours.”
“I generally don’t trust people who find it easy to change sides.”
“How do you feel about Putzi Hanfstaengl?”
“Putzi didn’t become anti-Nazi until Adolf Hitler decided to eliminate him, now did he?”
“The President trusts him.”
“FDR also trusts Henry Wallace, and I know J. Edgar has told the President that he knows Wallace is at the very least a Communist sympathizer.”
“How do you know that?”
“What? That Henry Wallace is somewhat to the left of Joe Stalin, or that J. Edgar told Roosevelt that he is?”
“Either, both.”
“Hoover told me. In the strictest confidence, of course.”
“Not to leave this room, of course, but J. Edgar told me the same thing, in the strictest confidence, of course. And I confided—in the strictest confidence, of course—in J. Edgar that I had told Roosevelt precisely that when he picked Henry Wallace for his Vice President.”
They shook their heads and smiled at one another.
“We seem to have digressed,” Donovan said. “So what does this Afrikakorps lieutenant colonel’s classification as a Three suggest to you that you should do?”
“You’re sitting down; I can tell you,” Graham said, and paused. “I’m going to bring Frade up here to see if he can enlist Colonel Frogger in our noble cause.”
“Which noble cause would that be?”
“Giving his father some backbone. A conservative estimate of what’s in those special shipment crates is a hundred million dollars. I suspect it’s more than that. I don’t want to lose track of it. And more will be coming. The key to keeping track of it is Frogger’s knowledge of who the German embassy has in its pocket.”
“Backbone?”
“His wife is the real Nazi in the family.”
“This woman?” Donovan asked incredulously, pointing to a photo of Frau Frogger standing beside Len Fischer.
Graham nodded. “And she’s been working on him to go back. I don’t know whether she thinks all will be forgiven, or whether she’ll denounce her husband.”
“Frade’s not going to let her go, is he?”
“Absolutely not. And Frogger’s too smart, too scared, to think all would be forgiven.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“He’s a bureaucrat. He’s going to take the middle ground. Tell us just enough to keep us hoping for more, but not everything he knows. We need his full cooperation; he has to be really turned. And the way to do that is through the son.”
“And what makes you think the son will go along with this? You said he’s been classified as apolitical.”
“I don’t know if he will or not. But I think we have to try.”
“Alex, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“That makes it two to one, Bill. You lose.”
“Meaning what?”
“Allen thinks it’s worth a shot.”
“You talked to Dulles about this?”
Graham nodded. “I called him as soon as I saw the picture of Frau Frogger and what looks like her grandson.”
“You mean Fischer?”
Graham nodded again. “Allen’s original thought was that I would take Fischer and the pictures of Frogger’s mother and father to Camp Clinton and between us we could turn this guy—”
“Presuming you could turn him,” Donovan interrupted, his tone on the edge of sarcasm, “what would you do with him, take him to Argentina?”
If Graham heard the sarcasm, he ignored it along with the question.
“—but when I saw the picture of the two of them, Frau Frogger and Fischer, I realized that a nice-looking young Jewish second lieutenant like Fischer was not going to have much of an impact on an Afrikakorps lieutenant colonel. So I called Allen.”
“You talked about this on the telephone?” Donovan asked, both incredulously and on the edge of anger.
Graham saw this, and his lips tightened.
“Yeah. And Allen and I also chatted about the plot to assassinate Hitler, the Manhattan Project, Operation Phoenix—”
“All right, all right,” Donovan said. “Sorry.”
“—and other subjects of high interest,” Graham finished. “Then Allen asked me what I thought of having Frade deal with Colonel Frogger.”
“He asked you that?”
“Yes, he did. He also said that if I hadn’t called, he would have called me. Great minds, you may have heard, run in similar paths.”
“I’m getting the feeling, Alex, that you’re not in here asking my opinion of this idea of yours and Allen’s, much less for permission to carry it out.”
“That’s because you’re perceptive, Bill. Probably a result of your legal training.”
“But I am permitted to ask a question or two?”
“Certainly.”
“How are you going to get Frade to come here? I’ve always had the impression that he might ignore an order to come home. And how is he going to explain his absence to his Argentine friends?”
“Allen and I have a plan.”
“Which is?”
“If I told you, you would be in a position to say, ‘I told you so,’ should it not turn out as well as we hope it will.”
[TWO]
Office of the Managing Director Banco de Inglaterra y Argentina Bartolomé Mitre 300 Buenos Aires, Argentina 1650 30 July 1943
“Well, that was quick, Cletus,” Humberto Valdez Duarte said as he waved Frade into his office. “We didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
Frade came into the office trailed by Captain Gonzalo Delgano. Frade wore aviator sunglasses, a battered long-brimmed aviator’s cap, khaki trousers, an open-collared polo shirt, a fur-collared leather jacket bearing a leather patch with the golden wings of a Naval Aviator and the legend C.H. FRADE 1LT USMCR, and a battered pair of Western boots. Delgano was in his crisp SAA pilot’s uniform.
They crossed the office to Duarte’s desk and shook his hand.
“The message we got,” Frade said, “was that you wanted to see us as soon as possible. So here we are.”
“The message was addressed to you, Señor Frade,” a voice said behind them. “Captain Delgano will not be required.”
Frade was surprised. He hadn’t seen anyone but Duarte when he and Delgano came into the office. Then he realized that the voice had come from the adjacent conference room. He walked to its doorway and
looked inside.
South American Airways corporate counsel Ernesto Dowling—a tall, ascetic-looking, superbly tailored fifty-odd-year-old—was sitting near the head of a long conference table. Next to him was Father Kurt Welner, S.J., and beside the superbly tailored cleric was Doña Claudia de Carzino-Cormano, who wore a simple black dress adorned with what looked like a two-meter-long string of flawless white pearls. El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón, in uniform, was sitting at the far end of the conference table.
“Not to worry, children,” Frade called to them cheerfully. “The Marines have landed and the situation is well in hand.”
That earned him a very faint smile from Father Welner. No one else smiled, and Dowling looked at him with disapproval.
Either they have never heard that before, or they don’t know what it means.
Or they’re all constipated.
“If I’d known there was going to be a meeting of the board, I’d have worn a necktie,” Frade then added.
He went to Claudia and kissed her, meaning it; next kissed Perón, not meaning it; and shook Welner’s hand, telling him that the Lord’s distinguished representative was again surrounded by sinners and thus had his work cut out for him.
Then Frade offered his hand to Dowling.
Fortunately, I don’t know the sonofabitch well enough to have to kiss him.
And what an arrogant sonofabitch!
Delgano is SAA’s chief pilot, not some flunky who can be dismissed with: “Captain Delgano will not be required.”
“Captain Delgano!” Frade called. “The party’s in here. We’ve apparently missed the champagne, but no doubt the dancing girls are on the way!”
Claudia shook her head. Everyone else seemed uncomfortable or reproachful.
I think I have just failed inspection.
Well, I’m not running for office.
Delgano came into the office.
“Sit here beside Colonel Perón and me,” Frade ordered. “With a little luck, we won’t have to talk to the civilians.”
Perón smiled at that.
Duarte came into the room and took the seat at the head of the conference table.
“Can I get either of you coffee or anything?”
“No, thanks,” Frade said. “What I’m hoping is that whatever this is won’t take long, and Delgano and I can go to the Círculo Militar for a couple of well-deserved jolts of their best whiskey. We’ll take you along with us, Tío Juan, if you’ll pay.”
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