Delgano examined the passport.
“According to this, Mr. Fischer is already in Argentina,” he said.
“It also shows he’s been all over South America in the last six months. And if you look carefully, Gonzo, you’ll see that the immigration officer was a little sloppy with his stamp. You can’t quite make out the date when he passed through immigration. Just that it was this month.”
“Very good,” Delgano said. “Why the name ‘Fischer’?”
Len Fischer answered the question: “Colonel Graham said because Fischer, ‘one who fishes,’ is close to Frogger, ‘one who spears frogs.’ And easy to remember. ”
“Who are you?” Frogger asked Delgano somewhat arrogantly.
Frade said: “He’s the chief pilot of South American Airways, Mr. Fischer. And if you don’t exchange any more information than that, both of you will be able to truthfully tell anyone who asks that you don’t know anything about the other one. I introduced you here. Leave it at that.”
He let that sink it, then said: “Two questions, Len. One, is there any reason that we—the Lodestar and the Constellation—can’t leave here at first light? And, two, do you know how to get in touch with the Connie crew?”
“Colonel Graham said it was your call how far I went?” Len Fischer said.
“I can’t see any reason why you can’t go back to the States on the Connie. So answer my questions.”
“The crew is in the BOQ. I have a number.”
“Call it. Tell them as soon as General Wallace sends a car, we’re going to the club for dinner. Ask the pilot to meet me there.”
[THREE]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1105 12 August 1943
“How’s your dead-reckoning navigation, Gonzo?” Frade had asked as they had begun the climb-out from Canoas, the sun still low on the horizon.
“I’m afraid to ask why we’re going to need it.”
“I don’t want to fly across Uruguay or Argentina to Jorge Frade. Nobody’s going to spot us if we fly fifty miles off the coast, then make a hard right to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo at Samborombón Bay.”
Delgano understood.
“And then go back out to sea, then up the River Plate to Jorge Frade, once we discharge our passenger?”
“You got it.”
“And you’re not going to call Jorge Frade with our ETA?”
Frade gestured at the instrument panel. “Our radios are out. Didn’t you notice that I couldn’t tell Canoas what our destination was when they asked?”
Delgano shook his head. He dug into his overnight bag and came out with an E6B flight computer, an unusual-looking slide rule.
“Where’d you get the Whiz Wheel?” Frade asked, surprised that Delgano had one.
“Courtesy of the Lockheed Aircraft Company. They gave everybody one.”
“Not me.”
“Well, they probably figured if Howard Hughes let you fly a Constellation, you probably already had one. Or they don’t like you. One or the other.”
“Compute time at three hundred twenty knots per hour to Punta del Este. I’ll come in close enough to see it. If you’re anywhere close, we can use that to plot where to turn for Samborombón Bay.”
Delgano had nodded his understanding.
Punta del Este, Uruguay, a point jutting into the Atlantic Ocean and marking the northern end of the 120-mile-wide mouth of the River Plate, became visible ninety seconds before Delgano’s calculations said it would.
And, about forty minutes later, so did Dolores, a village not far from the shore of Samborombón Bay. And, ten minutes after that, Frade made a pass over the runway at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.
There was now only one more problem, which Frade had first seriously thought of when taking off from Canoas. In the passenger compartment, in addition to Mr. Wilhelm Fischer and his two genuine if somewhat battered South African leather suitcases, there was an assortment of spare aircraft parts that included an engine and a propeller. It all brought the Lodestar to just about maximum gross takeoff weight.
The runway at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo had not been constructed with an aircraft as large as a Lodestar in mind. Landing there had not been a problem so far, but never before had he attempted to land in such a heavily laden Lodestar.
Or tried to take off in one.
The worst scenario was that the wheels would sink into the runway during the landing roll, causing a crash. More probably, if they were going to sink through the macadam, they would do so when the aircraft had stopped, which wouldn’t cause a crash but would keep him from getting the Lodestar back in the air until most of the weight was removed.
Whatever the risk, Frade had decided it had to be taken. The priority was to get Frogger safely off the airplane. He would have to deal with whatever happened after that had been done.
The direction of the windsock told Frade that the wind was from the south, which meant that he would have to land passing over the big house and end the landing roll at the southern end of the runway.
The landing itself went well, and if the weight was tearing up the runway, he couldn’t tell it by feel. He braked carefully, and when the Lodestar had slowed until it was just moving, he immediately began to turn the airplane around. If it was going to sink into the ground, better that it do so near the hangar and the house. He had no trouble turning, and as he taxied toward the hangar, he could see no evidence of damage to the runway.
Frade first saw that his red Lodestar was parked in the hangar—but only as far in as its wider-than-the-hangar-doorway wings would permit. Then he saw Señora Dorotea Mallín de Frade standing in front of the hangar and waving.
As he drew closer, he could see the expression on her face. It was not that of the loving bride and mother-to-be joyously greeting her husband’s return home.
Frade grew concerned.
Something’s gone wrong.
From the look on her face, something terrible.
Then Clete saw Oscar Schultz, in his gaucho costume and a Thompson submachine gun hanging from his shoulder. Standing just inside the hangar were Technical Sergeant William Ferris and Captain Madison R. Sawyer III. Ferris had a self-loading shotgun cradled in his arms, and Sawyer another Thompson, plus a Model 1911-A1 in a holster.
What the hell is going on?
“Shut it down, Gonzo,” Frade ordered. And then he changed his mind. “Leave Number Two running. We may have to get out of here.”
He unfastened his harness and made his way quickly through the passenger compartment. Frogger was about to unfasten his seat belt.
“Stay there,” Frade ordered as he wrestled with the door.
Dorotea ran to him and embraced him. He was conscious of the swell of her belly against him.
“What’s with all the guns?” Clete asked, his mouth against her hair.
She exhaled audibly and pushed away from him.
“We couldn’t be sure it was you in the plane,” she said. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Sweetheart, what’s happened?”
“Oscar and I went out to Casa Chica yesterday afternoon to take supplies. Oh, God, darling! There was nobody there, and bullet holes all over. And a lot of blood on the verandah and the stairs from the landing strip.”
“The Froggers?”
She shook her head.
“Nobody was there. Not Enrico, not Rodolfo—he was out there, too—none of our gauchos, nobody.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Where the hell have you been? We didn’t even know where to call you.”
“I’ve been flying down here from Burbank. Delgano and me. And Oberstleutnant Frogger.”
Her face showed her confusion and surprise at that announcement. She said: “And Peter sent word—not much—telling me to be very careful.”
Clete looked over her shoulder at Schultz as he approached.
“Chief?”
“It looks like somebody figured out where y
ou stashed the Froggers, Major, and went and took them out.” He held his hands out in front of him in a gesture of apology. “Christ, I’m sorry.”
“Forget sorry,” Frade said.
Delgano came out of the Lodestar, followed by Frogger, and walked up to them.
“We have a problem,” Frade announced to them, then looked at Frogger. “Colonel, somebody—somebody, hell, who else could it be?—SS-Obersturmbannführer Cranz found out where we had your parents. Now we don’t know where they are.”
“Mein Gott!”
“It gets worse. According to Lieutenant Schultz”—he nodded at Schultz and Frogger’s face showed surprise at that—“and my wife, they shot up the place pretty well. There was blood all over.”
“The house is a fucking mess, Colonel,” Schultz confirmed. “Looks like it’s been in a war. We picked up some nine-millimeter Parabellum cases, which is interesting.”
“You’re saying my parents are dead?” Frogger asked evenly.
“We don’t know that,” Frade said.
Frogger’s face showed that he was not in the mood for wishful thinking.
“But I think we have to accept that Obersturmbannführer Cranz’s order that they be killed when and where found has been carried out. I’m very sorry, Colonel.”
Frogger nodded just perceptibly.
“And now?” he asked.
“Now we have to keep the same thing from happening to you,” Frade said, then turned to Delgano. “And we have to keep your ass out of a crack, Gonzo.”
“Where did you have the Froggers?” Delgano asked.
“On a small estancia, Casa Chica, not that far from here.”
“How could Cranz have heard about that?”
“I don’t know. But it has to be him and the Germans. The Argentines would have just taken them and returned them to the embassy.”
“Unless the Germans are somehow going to make it look as if you’re responsible, ” Delgano said. “That would solve a lot of problems for them.”
Frade looked at him as he considered that, then said, “The problem right now is to keep the colonel alive, and keep you out of trouble.”
He waved for Captain Sawyer to come over. Sergeant Ferris came with him.
“This is Colonel Frogger,” Frade said. Both saluted.
“Take him out on the estancia. Make him comfortable. He’s very important. I can’t tell you why, but we can’t have him captured by either the Argentines or the Germans. We might have to take off for Uruguay—or Brazil—in a hurry, so be prepared for that. If he goes, everybody goes. Get my airplane out of the hangar and make it ready to take off in a hurry.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Jorge Frade, where Gonzo and I will know nothing about any of this. I’ll see what I can find out. The truth is we’re going to have to play this by ear. The priority is to keep Colonel Frogger safe.”
[FOUR]
Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1305 12 August 1943
They used up most of the runway getting the SAA Lodestar off the ground, but they made it.
“Write this down, Gonzo,” Clete said as they were climbing out. “Don’t try to take off from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo in one of these at max gross takeoff weight.”
Delgano didn’t reply.
Frade said: “What you’re going to do—what I hope you’re going to do, because I wouldn’t blame you if you went right to Colonel Martín—”
“I’m not going to do that. Did you really think I would?”
“Sorry. And thank you.” He was quiet in thought a moment, then went on: “Since I don’t think anybody saw us at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, maybe we can get away with acting as if we know nothing about what happened. We have just arrived from a very long flight from the States. I keep saying this, but keeping Frogger out of the hands of the Germans is the priority. He knows too much about the plot to take Hitler out.”
“There’s no way they can know we brought him with us,” Delgano said. “If . . . you for some reason can’t do it yourself, I’ll take your Lodestar and fly him anywhere you say.”
Frade looked at him. “That would be really putting your neck in the noose, you understand?”
“I understand.”
Frade nodded. “Okay. If that becomes necessary, take Captain Ashton and the others with you. They’ll—”
“Dorotea, too?”
Frade hesitated just perceptibly before saying, “Yeah, you’d better take her, too. She won’t want to go, thinking she can somehow help me if she stays. Tell her I’m already in Canoas.”
“I understand.”
Frade spent most of the just-over-one-hour-flight to Morón thinking of the worst possible scenarios for what was going to happen next. There were at least a half-dozen of them—and they were all frightening.
They called the Jorge Frade tower as soon as they could pick up the radio direction finder signal. They were then just inside the mouth of the River Plate, from there a thirty-minute flight to Morón. But they were not more than twenty minutes out when the tower responded.
Clete Frade had an insane thought as he turned on final and ordered Delgano to put the gear down.
If we crash on landing, a lot of problems would be solved.
And as soon as the Lodestar touched down, Clete saw that the problems were about to begin: In civilian clothing, El Coronel Alejandro Bernardo Martín—the Chief of the Ethical Standards Office of the Bureau of Internal Security—was in front of one of the hangars, leaning on the fender of a 1939 Dodge sedan.
“I was afraid of that,” Delgano said.
“Just remember: You know nothing.”
“And what if someone did see us at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo?”
Frade didn’t reply.
As the Lodestar taxied past the closest hangar toward the second one, where Martín waited, Frade saw something he absolutely didn’t expect to see: Sergeant Major Enrico Rodríguez, Cavalry, Retired. Enrico was sitting on the open tailgate of a 1941 Ford station wagon.
“Did you see what I saw, Gonzo?”
“Maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem.”
“That’s known as pissing in the wind. But at least Enrico’s alive.”
Martín was waiting for them when they got out of the airplane.
“Well, I’m flattered to see you here, Colonel,” Frade said. “But Delgano and I really expected a brass band.”
Martín—not surprising Frade at all—did not seem amused.
“You look distressed,” Frade said. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Colonel Perón made it quite clear that he would prefer to explain the situation to you personally.”
“Well, I’m in no mood for him right now. It’s been a very long flight, and I want to go home. I just saw that Enrico has brought a station wagon—”
“Going home,” Martín interrupted, “will have to wait until you see Colonel Perón, I’m afraid, Señor Frade.”
“That sounds awfully official, Colonel. Almost as if I said, ‘I’m going home,’ you’d put handcuffs on me and throw me in the back of your car.”
“I hope it won’t come to that, Señor Frade.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Frade said disgustedly. “Well, let me tell Enrico what’s going on, then send him to my house in Buenos Aires.”
Martín considered that for a long moment.
“All right,” Martín said finally. “Please don’t do anything impulsive like getting in your car and driving off.”
“You want to come, Gonzo, and call your wife to let her know you’re back?”
“I need a word with Señor Delgano,” Martín said. “Please don’t be long, Señor Frade.”
“Señor Clete, when I saw you in the airplane, I knew that a merciful God had answered my prayers,” Enrico said emotionally, and wrapped his arms around Frade.
He
’s actually crying.
But no time to get emotional.
“I have to know what happened, Enrico, and quickly.”
Enrico nodded. “I have a dear friend in the mountain troops in San Martín de los Andes. He called me. We went to corporal’s school together and to sergeant’s school and—”
“What did he say when he called you?”
“That something strange was happening. He said the regiment had been quartering a half-dozen Nazis—the German Nazis, not Argentine, the ones who wear black uniforms and have a skull on their caps?”
Frade nodded his understanding.
“They came off a submarine?” Enrico asked.
Frade nodded again. “So I was told.”
“Well, these Nazis were getting ready to—what he said was ‘take care of some traitors’—and that they would be transported to Tandil in regimental trucks. And my friend said he knew that Casa Chica was near Tandil, and that I might want to tell you.”
“So you were ready for them?”
“What is very sad, Don Cletus, it breaks my heart to tell you, is that this was done at the orders of El Coronel Perón.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw him with my own eyes, Don Cletus. I even took his picture when he was on the road.”
“You did what?”
“I took his picture.”
“I didn’t know you had a camera,” Clete said, thinking out loud.
“Doña Dorotea brought it to Casa Chica one day and then forgot it, and Señor Frogger showed me how to use it.”
“Where is Señor Frogger now?”
“On Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, of course. Safe, of course.”
“What happened at Casa Chica, Enrico?”
“Well, when I knew that the Nazi bastards were up to something, Sergeant Stein and I took the Froggers back to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.”
How the hell is that possible?
Dorotea knows nothing about that . . .
“Where’s Stein?” Frade said.
“With the Froggers. If you keep interrupting, Don Cletus . . .”
“Sorry.”
“I took them to the estancia, and picked up a few gauchos, all old soldiers, and took them back to Casa Chica.”
Death and Honor Page 55