“And I want you to know, Mr. Dulles, that this Irishman will be proud for the rest of his life that he was privileged to work for you.”
Ashton stood and said, “Hear, hear!” and began to applaud.
Five seconds later, everyone was on his feet and applauding.
I’ll be goddamned, Clete thought. Mister deputy director of the OSS looks like he’s going to blubber.
Dulles finally found his voice.
“Colonel Frade,” he said, “I would suggest that these proceedings are at the point where you may reopen the bar.”
That caused the applause to increase in volume.
“Thank you, all,” Dulles said, then drained his glass. “Now, let us really celebrate victory in Europe.”
[THREE]
Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 0905 13 May 1945
As the Red Lodestar turned onto a taxiway, Clete Frade saw that two of the Constellations he’d arranged to have brought down from Los Angeles were already painted in the South American Airways color scheme. Another was in a hangar being painted, and the other two were parked waiting for their new paint jobs.
And then he saw two familiar men walk out onto the tarmac from the passenger terminal. One was his uncle, Humberto Duarte, managing director of the Anglo-Argentine Bank and director for finance of South American Airways. The other was the vice president, secretary of War, and secretary of Labor and Welfare of the Argentine Republic, el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón.
Shit! Tío Juan!
What’s that sonofabitch want?
“Do you see what I see?” Peter von Wachtstein asked from the copilot’s seat as he turned the aircraft from the taxiway to the tarmac.
“Don’t let anyone off the plane until I say so,” Clete said, and quickly unstrapped his seat belt and shoulder harness. He was at the fuselage door in the passenger compartment before von Wachtstein had stopped the plane in front of the passenger terminal.
The original idea the previous day—that after the meeting and lunch Clete would fly Dulles in one of the estancia’s Piper Cubs to Jorge Frade, where he would board South American Airways Flight 717 to Canoas—had failed by increments. First, Clete flying anybody anywhere was obviously out of the question once the bar had been reopened.
The alternative plan—that a South American Airways pilot would fly an Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Piper Cub conveniently at Jorge Frade to the estancia, pick up Dulles, and fly him back to Jorge Frade so he could catch a plane to start flying to Washington—went out the window during lunch.
There had still been a great deal to talk about with Dulles:
How was the current status of Boltitz and von Wachtstein going to be affected by the German surrender?
What was to be done with the Germans who had been brought to Argentina in the deal with Oberstleutnant Gehlen? They were divided into three groups—the Good Gehlen Germans, Good Germans, and Nazi Germans—and one answer to that question obviously would not fit all.
There had been no satisfactory answers to these questions. Dulles said that he was either going to have to look into the problem, or they would just have to wait and see what developed, or Clete would just have to use his best judgment.
About three in the afternoon, Clete had realized the discussions were getting nowhere.
“All we’re doing here is kicking a dead horse,” Frade announced. “Or, to quote the distinguished Kapitän zur See Boltitz, ‘All we’re doing here is pissing into the wind.’ I suggest we knock it off. In the morning, on the way to Mendoza, we’ll drop Mr. Dulles off at Jorge Frade in time for him to catch SAA’s oh-nine-thirty Flight 701, nonstop Lodestar service to Rio de Janeiro.”
At that point, Dulles had raised his hand, and when he had everyone’s attention said, “One final thought, Colonel Frade. I am aware that circumstances beyond my control are leaving everyone here—and especially you, as commanding officer—out on a limb. The only thing I can do—and do herewith—is order that any orders you consider it necessary to give will be presumed to be based on my authority.
“In other words, Clete, do what you think should be done. I’ll take responsibility for any action of yours.”
Frade approached Perón and Duarte on the tarmac at Aeropuerto Jorge Frade. Argentine social protocol dictated that Frade wrap his arms around his uncle and make kissing noises with their faces in close proximity. That was fine with Clete; he really liked his uncle.
But the same protocol applied to his godfather, which wasn’t quite the same thing. And Clete had hated every second of their greeting.
That faint tinkling sound is drops of ice falling to the tarmac after a less-than-warm embrace with my Tío Juan.
“When I called San Pedro y San Pablo,” Humberto Duarte then announced, “Dorotea said you were on your way here. So Juan Domingo and I came to intercept you.”
“So I see. What’s up, Humberto?”
Perón cleared his throat, then answered for him: “President Farrell is aware that I am a director of SAA, Cletus, and he called me to see how soon a special flight could be set up to go to Germany. I naturally called Humberto.”
“The President himself did, did he?” Clete said in an unimpressed tone that Perón could not mistake.
Clete felt all of Argentina’s recent presidents—Rawson, Ramírez, Farrell—were flawed, but especially Edelmiro Julián Farrell.
Farrell had overthrown Ramírez in a bloodless coup d’état, masterminded—Clete was sure, but could not prove—by el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón. Because one of General Farrell’s first acts as president of the Provisional Government of Argentina was to name Labor Secretary Perón to the additional posts of vice president and minister for War.
Farrell had also summoned Clete to the Pink House, where he told him that “as a dear friend of your father from our days at the military academy” he had been pleased that Clete had been wise enough not to accept a position in General Ramirez’s government.
Farrell added that he had deeply regretted having to depose Ramirez.
“But P. P. simply seems unable to understand that Germany and Italy are fighting our fight—Christian civilization against the Antichrist, the Russian Communists.”
That shortsightedness had confirmed to Clete that Farrell was not to be trusted. And his opinion hadn’t changed when a year later, almost to the day, President Farrell conveniently announced that the Argentine Republic was now in a state of war with Germany, Italy, and Japan.
It all caused Clete to wonder: What would’ve happened had my father indeed become president? Would he have shown similar deficiencies?
“Yes, Cletus,” el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón now replied arrogantly, “el Presidente himself.”
Clete said: “Exactly what kind of a special flight?”
Clete watched Perón mentally consider his answer.
Just what are you really up to now, you sonofabitch?
“In military terms,” Perón then replied officiously, “a reinforcement and replacement flight. Our diplomatic personnel in Germany not only have been under an enormous strain lately, but may not even have enough to eat or adequate shelter.”
“You want me to fly some diplomats to Germany?” Frade asked incredulously.
“President Farrell and Foreign Minister César Ameghino do. You would take some diplomatic personnel there, to replace the diplomats whom you would then bring home. Plus some supplies—food and medical supplies, that sort of thing—to support our embassy.”
“I’m sure the Americans and the British would be happy to see that food and medical attention would be made available to the embassy personnel,” Clete said. “And, for that matter, see that they got safely to Sweden or Switzerland. Now that I think of it, that’s probably already been done.”
“I’m sure that Minister Ameghino has considered his options,” Perón said, “and concluded that sending a plane is the thing to do.”
Frade looked between Perón and Duarte, and thought:
&
nbsp; Whatever this is all about, it has nothing to do with rushing aid to a clutch of abused diplomats.
Damn it! What is this sonofabitch up to?
My God! Has he got Hitler stashed somewhere? And he wants me to go over there so the sonofabitch can fly to sanctuary here in comfort?
That’s more absurd than Hitler on a U-boat!
I didn’t believe that bullshit—and neither did Dulles—about Hitler and his girlfriend taking off from some tree-lined street in Berlin and flying to Norway in a Storch to board the sub.
Perón looked toward the new Constellations, then went off on a tangent: “I presume those are the new aircraft you acquired?”
“That’s them, five Connies,” Clete said.
“I wasn’t aware until this morning, when we got here, that we were even contemplating such an investment,” Perón said.
“The executive board approved the purchase, Juan Domingo,” Duarte offered. “I’m sure that you were sent a copy of the minutes of that meeting.”
“Presumably, these five new aircraft would solve the problem of not having enough aircraft?” Perón said.
Frade shook his head and said, “Having aircraft available is not the problem. What is a problem is that I can’t fly into Germany without clearance. You do know what’s going on over there, right?”
“You think it’s necessary for you to personally fly the relief mission?” Perón asked.
You don’t like that? Fuck you, Tío Juan!
“If an SAA aircraft is going to be flown into Germany, I’ll fly it.”
“You have a reason?” Perón pursued.
“Let’s say I want to protect my investment in SAA,” Clete said.
“Perhaps, with your contacts, your information about conditions in Germany is better than mine,” Perón said.
Does he know Dulles is here?
“Germany will be—probably already has been—divided into four zones,” Clete said. “Russian, English, French, and American. Berlin itself will be sort of an island in the Russian zone, and also divided into four zones. We would need permission from either Eisenhower’s headquarters or the French, whoever is controlling the airspace, to fly across France into Germany—as a matter of fact, it would probably be better to have permission from the Spaniards to fly across Spain into France—and I don’t know if we can get it.”
“Request has been made for whatever permissions are required from the appropriate ambassadors in Madrid and Paris,” Perón said regally. “I cannot imagine their denying it.”
Frade held his gaze a long moment, then said: “You get me the clearances and I’ll do it. I’ll be back from Mendoza tomorrow. Say, anytime twenty-four hours after that.”
“Why are you going to Mendoza?” Perón asked.
That’s none of your fucking business, Tío Juan!
“I have business there, Tío Juan.”
“You know, Cletus, if I didn’t know better, I’d say Major von Wachtstein was sitting in your airplane. That fellow looks just like him.”
No use trying to deny it.
“That’s Peter,” Clete said. “Now that he’s been released from his POW camp, he needed a job. SAA hired him.”
“That was unusually quick for him to be released from POW status, wasn’t it?”
“What I heard was that the Americans released him as soon as the surrender was signed. Sort of a reward for his contributions to the war effort.”
“Please give him my regards,” Perón said.
“I’ll do that.”
“I’ll tell President Farrell and Foreign Minister Ameghino that you see no problems with the relief flight.”
“None but getting the clearances,” Clete said.
“Thank you,” Perón said.
After another icy embrace, Perón marched into the passenger terminal.
Humberto then embraced Clete and looked into his eyes.
“Whatever you’re thinking of saying, don’t,” Clete said.
“You do have a very strange relationship with your godfather, don’t you?”
Clete laughed, then punched Duarte fondly on the arm.
As he turned to walk toward the Red Lodestar, he saw Dulles, Boltitz, and von Wachtstein at the foot of the stairs and starting toward him.
Damn it, Hansel! So much for keeping everyone on the aircraft.
[FOUR]
“Trouble?” Allen Dulles asked Clete when they’d stopped near the nose gear of the Red Lodestar.
“I don’t know exactly. It’s damn sure out of left field. The president and the foreign minister—with how much input from Perón, I don’t know—want me to take a Connie into Germany, presumably Berlin, ostensibly to take a replacement diplomatic crew in, and bring the diplomats that are there back here. And to take supplies of food, medicine, et cetera with me.”
“Interesting,” Dulles said.
“I thought so,” Clete said. “And it’s just what we don’t need—another diversion.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
Frade shrugged. “I guess I’m going to take a Connie into Germany.”
“Is that wise?”
“It looks like I don’t have much of a choice,” Clete said. And then he had another thought, and said it aloud: “But, yeah, I do think it’s wise. Maybe I can meet Colonel Gehlen, since we’re agreed that getting him and his people out still is our priority.”
“I’d like to go with Clete,” von Wachtstein suddenly said.
Dulles and Frade looked at him in surprise.
Peter explained: “I’d like to see that my father’s body, presuming I can find it, is taken to Schloss Wachtstein and buried with my mother and my brothers.”
Dulles said: “Peter, I appreciate your feelings, but—”
“I’d like to go, too,” Boltitz put in. “I want to see if I can find out what happened to my father.”
“And I can appreciate that, too,” Dulles said, “but—”
“Perhaps I also could learn something about the U-boots we’re interested in,” Boltitz argued.
“I’m not sure that any of you going over there is a good idea,” Dulles announced. “And there is a simple solution to the problem. When I get to Washington, I’ll call David Bruce—he’s with Eisenhower, wherever that might be—and tell him to tell Ike to have SHAEF deny SAA permission to enter occupied Germany.”
Frade grunted, then looked past Dulles and saw Enrico Rodríguez coming toward them, and the women milling on the tarmac near the foot of the stairs.
“What did that sound mean?” Dulles challenged.
Frade turned to look at him and said, “That policy didn’t last long, did it?”
“Excuse me?”
“I seem to recall you telling me that since I was out on a limb, I was free to do what I think should be done.”
Dulles studied Frade for a long moment.
“Touché, Colonel Frade,” he said finally. “I also recall saying I would take responsibility for any action of yours. So, what I’ll do when I get to Washington is call David Bruce, tell him I’m sending you over there, and tell him to do what he can for you.”
“Thank you,” Frade said.
“One final comment, Clete,” Dulles said. “Please consider that when General Donovan, as he so often does, refers to you as ‘our loose cannon,’ he’s unfortunately often right.”
“Ouch!” Frade said.
Dulles put out his hand. Clete took it, then ordered, “Enrico, see that Mr. Dulles gets on his plane.”
“Sí, Don Cletus.”
Dulles was barely out of earshot when von Wachtstein asked, “Was that a polite way of making it easier for you to tell Karl and me that we cannot go to Germany?”
“Probably, Hansel,” Clete said, “but the problem for you and Karl is not Dulles. It’s those two.” He nodded toward the back of the Lodestar, where Alicia von Wachtstein was sitting with Miss Beth Howell. “As far as I’m concerned, you guys need their permission, not Dulles’s.”
C
lete knew that neither woman was going to be remotely thrilled to hear that the men they loved—and had just been reunited with—were about to leave them for war-torn Germany.
“I would suggest, Karl,” Clete said as they stood on the tarmac, “based on my long experience with a live-in woman, that you not broach the subject of you going to Germany with me until we’re on our way back from Mendoza. Unless you really meant that vow of celibacy you took.”
Von Wachtstein laughed.
Boltitz’s face turned red.
“Clete,” Karl said, “I have been meaning to discuss my relationship with Beth with you.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you have, Karl. Confession is good for the soul!”
Von Wachtstein laughed again, this time louder.
“What are you three laughing about?” the baroness called.
“I don’t think you really want to know, Alicia,” Clete called back. “In case anybody needs to ‘freshen up,’ do it now. As soon as Dulles’s plane takes off, we go wheels-up for Mendoza.”
[ONE]
Casa Montagna Estancia Don Guillermo Km 40.4, Provincial Route 60 Mendoza Province, Argentina 1550 14 May 1945
Casa Montagna had been built by Clete’s Granduncle Guillermo after he returned from a tour of Tuscany and had had an out-of-character very good year at both the Hipódromo and the poker tables at the Jockey Club.
“In other words, damn the expense!”
Casa Montagna had been built on a natural plateau two thousand feet above the vineyards of the estancia. Carving a road up to it out of the granite of the foothills of the Andes had taken two years. The last—upper—kilometer of the road was so steep it had to be taken in a vehicle’s lowest gear.
The plateau was perhaps three hundred meters wide and two hundred meters long. A low stone wall on three sides kept people and animals from falling off the mountain.
The main house was built of natural stone and stood three stories tall. The third floor had dormer windows, and the red tile roof extended over a verandah whose pillars were covered with roses. From the front of the house, there was an unobstructed view of the Andes Mountains. The rear of the house was against what anywhere else would be called “the mountain” but here was referred to as “the hill.”
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