Victory and Honor

by W. E. B. Griffin

  Three days later, as Clete lay in the bed, an angry la Señorita Dorotea Mallín burst in and gave him hell for not calling her after the attack. What happened next caused Clete’s first son to be conceived—and for Clete to no longer be able to lovingly refer to Dorotea as “the Virgin Princess.”

  And, late one December night, it had been in Uncle Willy’s house that Clete had first come across a young man in the library. The stranger, slumped in one of the armchairs, had worn a quilted, darkred dressing gown. There’d been a cognac snifter resting on his chest, a lit cigar in the ashtray on the table beside him, and Beethoven’s Third Symphony coming from the phonograph.

  That night First Lieutenant Cletus H. Frade, USMCR, met Capitán Hans-Peter Freiherr von Wachtstein of the Luftwaffe. Peter had accompanied to Argentina the body of Clete’s cousin, who’d been killed at Stalingrad flying as an observer in a German Storch. While Clete and Peter immediately understood that they were enemies, they also learned they were fighter pilots—and more. “Suppose,” Peter had suggested, “that as officers and gentlemen, we might pretend it’s Christmas Eve? We’d only be off by a couple of weeks.” They had—and over time had become close friends.

  [THREE]

  4730 Avenida Libertador General San Martín Buenos Aires 1500 11 May 1945

  Hors d’oeuvres and cocktails were being served when Clete and Dorotea entered the enormous, richly appointed library. The Frades looked as satisfied—maybe as satiated—as if fresh from the shower.

  Clete saw the look Peter von Wachtstein was giving him and had an epiphany.

  I know what you’re thinking, Hansel!

  “How come you and Dorotea, who you last saw only a week ago, just got to enjoy the splendors of the nuptial couch, while I—without the opportunity to do the same since last July—sit here sucking on a glass of wine and a black olive with my equally sex-starved wife but two kilometers away?”

  Or words to that effect.

  Clete and Dorotea walked across the polished hardwood floor toward von Wachtstein.

  “I have several things to say to you, Hansel,” Clete said as he took two glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon from a maid, handing one to his wife.

  “Really?” von Wachtstein said.

  “‘Life is unfair,’” Clete intoned solemnly.

  “Is it?”

  “‘Fortune favors the pure in heart.’”

  “You don’t say?”

  “‘Patience is a virtue, and all things come to he who waits.’”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Dorotea asked, confused.

  “Hansel, you may wish to write some, or all, of that down,” Clete concluded.

  Clete looked around the room. With the exception of Father Welner, who was smiling and shaking his head, everyone looked baffled.

  “Why don’t we go in and have our lunch?” Clete went on. “I’m sure that everyone—Peter especially—is anxious to get this over and move on to other things.”

  Frade stood at the large double doors between the library and the ornate dining room and waited politely as his guests passed through.

  When the last of them had done so, Clete looked around the library.

  With a couple of exceptions, he thought, it’s just like it was the night I found Peter here listening to the phonograph. Then there was only one leather armchair and footstool. Now there’s two, because Dorotea wanted her own.

  And, of course, when this was my father’s library, there was no hobbyhorse or baby blue prison pen to keep the kids from crawling around—or any other accoutrements of toddlers and infants.

  My father never had anything to do with kids.

  Would he have liked it—or not given a damn?

  His reverie was interrupted by Lavalle.

  “Mi coronel,” the butler said, “there is a telephone call.”

  “When did you start calling me ‘mi coronel,’ Antonio?”

  Both Dorotea and Lavalle had told Clete—many times—that gentlemen referred to their butlers by their surnames. Clete thought it was not only rude but also that gentlemen referred to their friends by their given names, and Antonio Lavalle often had proved just how good a friend he was.

  “When you were promoted, mi coronel,” Lavalle said with a smile.

  Clete smiled and shook his head.

  “Tell whoever it is that we’re having lunch and I’ll call back.”

  “It is el Señor Dulles.”

  Clete gave that a long moment’s consideration, then said: “Start feeding the hungry, Antonio. Tell Doña Dorotea I had to take a call.”

  Clete walked to one of the large, brown-leather-upholstered armchairs. As he settled in it, his mind went back to the first time he’d met Allen Welsh Dulles.

  It had been a remarkable meeting—one in which some staggering pieces of the greater espionage puzzle that affected Clete began to fall into place. It had taken place at Canoas Air Base, Puerto Alegre, Brazil, in the commanding officer’s Mediterranean-style red-tile-roof cottage in July of ’43, days after “Aggie”—Colonel Graham—had sent “Tex”—Frade—a cryptic radio message that he was to see the CO at “Bird Cage”—Canoas, where the first Lockheed Lodestars destined for the newly formed South American Airways had been sent for final delivery to el Señor Cletus Frade, managing director of SAA.

  Frade, of course, had expected to see the commanding officer. Instead, the cottage held only a stranger.

  “Allen Welsh Dulles,” he introduced himself, then made them drinks, then casually announced that they had mutual friends. “My brother—John Foster Dulles—has a law firm in New York City; among his clients are Cletus Marcus Howell and Howell Petroleum. And, of course, I have been friends with Alejandro Graham a long time—and not just our time working for Wild Bill Donovan.”

  Frade, not knowing what to believe of the stranger’s story, didn’t reply.

  Then Dulles really surprised him by naming Frade’s mole in the German Embassy: “Galahad is Major Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein.”

  Frade, who refused to reveal that to anyone in or out of the OSS, professed ignorance.

  Dulles answered: “The FBI, the Office of Naval Intelligence, the Army’s Chief of Intelligence, and of course SS-Brigadeführer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg—among others—would dearly like to know that, too.”

  And that got Frade’s attention, too.

  He knew that the Germans had at least two secret programs in Argentina. Von Deitzberg—Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler’s deputy—was running one, an unnamed operation in which senior SS officers were ransoming Jews to be released from concentration camps and moved to Argentina. The other was Operation Phoenix—senior members of the Nazi hierarchy purchasing property in South America, primarily in Argentina but also in Paraguay, Brazil, and other countries, to which they could flee when Germany fell, and from which they could later rise, phoenix-like, to bring Nazism back.

  Then Dulles described the private dinner in the Hotel Washington he’d had only nights earlier—“Just me, Graham, Donovan, the President, and Putzi Hanfstaengl.”

  Frade again professed ignorance—this time truthfully. “Am I supposed to know who Putzi Haf-whatever is?”

  Dulles explained that the wealthy Ernst “Putzi” Hanfstaengl, who had attended Columbia with Roosevelt and Donovan, had been in Hitler’s inner circle before he got smart and fled to the United States—just prior to the SS’s plan for Putzi to suffer a fatal accident. FDR prized Putzi’s insider perspective of the mind-set of Hitler’s high command. And, as Dulles related to Frade, it was Putzi’s belief that most if not all senior Nazis knew the war was lost, that Hitler was psychologically unable to face that, and that no one dared suggest it to him.

  “Which explains the existence of such secret operations as Phoenix and Valkyrie,” Dulles said.

  Then, finally convincing Frade that Dulles was who he said he was, Dulles said: “I am privy to a secret about Valkyrie known to no more than nine Americans, one of whom is you. Through Admiral Wil
helm Canaris”—he paused to see if Frade recognized the chief of the German military intelligence service, the Abwehr, then went on after he’d nodded—“I am in communication with General von Wachtstein, who in fact intends to assassinate Adolf Hitler. One of his other co-conspirators—Lieutenant Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg, Count von Stauffenberg—is a close friend of young von Wachtstein . . . your Galahad.”

  Clete felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

  Peter had told Clete that he’d seen von Stauffenberg in Munich and that the subject of regicide had been discussed.

  Then, making Frade’s head really spin, Dulles broached the biggest secret: the Manhattan Project. He explained that the Americans were racing the Germans to develop an enormously powerful atom bomb from an element known as uranium.

  “Whoever creates this bomb first is going to win the war. It’s as simple as that,” he said. Then, saying Graham shortly would TOP SECRET message him the same, he laid out Frade’s marching orders: “So your first priority is the immediate reporting of anything you hear about uranium or a superbomb.”

  The next priorities, Dulles went on, were of equal importance: allowing the ransoming and Phoenix operations to continue while learning everything about them.

  “As morally despicable as the ransoming is,” Dulles explained, “FDR says the bigger issue is saving lives wherever and however possible. If we were to expose the ransoming, the real result would be the extermination of all the Jews in concentration camps. And if we expose Phoenix, the Nazis will simply deny its existence. Letting it continue, however, allows us to trace the money from the moment it arrives in Argentina. You’ll create a paper trail of what was bought with it, and from whom. Plus the names of the officials—Argentine, Paraguayan, Uruguayan—who are being bought. Everything.

  “The thinking is that if we went to General Ramírez or General Rawson now with what we have, or what you might dig up, they would tell us to mind our own business. The Argentines are not convinced the Germans have lost the war. But, while the Germans will hang on as long as possible, ultimately they will surrender unconditionally, as demanded by Roosevelt at the Casablanca Conference. And what that means, under international law, is that the moment the Germans sign the surrender document, everything the German government owns falls under the control of the victors. Things like embassy buildings, other real estate, bank accounts.

  “Our ambassador will then call upon the Argentine foreign minister, present him with a detailed list of all German property in Argentina—which you will have prepared, to include bank account numbers, descriptions of real estate, et cetera—and inform him that we’re taking possession of it.

  “The Argentine government may not like it, but it’s a well-established principle of international law, and it really would be unwise of them to defy that law. I rather doubt they will. Nations, like people, tend to try to curry favor with whoever has just won a fight.”

  Cletus Frade then admitted that his head was indeed spinning, and suggested that he was way out of his depth, that starting up South American Airways was proving challenging enough.

  Dulles replied: “Alec Graham said, vis-à-vis you, something to the effect that the first impression you give is of a dangerously irresponsible individual who should not be trusted out of your sight. And then, depending on how much experience one has with really good covert intelligence officers, one comes to the realization that one is in the company of a rare person who seems to be born for this sort of thing.”

  Frade had considered that, wondered how much of it was smoke being blown up his ass, then said: “Does that mean you’re going to tell me what this airline business is all about?”

  “Alec and I talked about that, and General Donovan told me he’d asked the President. No one knows anything except that Franklin Delano Roosevelt thinks it’s a good idea, and that he was pleased to learn of your remarkable progress in getting one going.”

  Two years later, Frade—who now knew a helluva lot more than he wanted about the usefulness of South American Airways and about the secret German operations—picked up the telephone from the lower shelf of the table next to his chair. He crisply announced, “Area Commander Frade speaking, sir.”

  He heard Allen W. Dulles chuckle.

  “How was your flight from Washington, Area Commander?” Dulles asked.

  “How did you hear about that?”

  “I spoke with someone who began the conversation along the lines of ‘I’m glad you’re there. You won’t believe what Alec’s loose cannon just did with a pair of POWs at Fort Hunt.’”

  “From that I infer ‘there’ is ‘here,’ right?” Frade said.

  “I’m in the Alvear Palace.”

  “And you’re here because of what allegedly happened in Washington? I don’t understand . . .”

  “In part that. I thought we—you, me, and those allegedly sprung from Fort Hunt—need to discuss some new developments, ones that have come up in the week since you and I last spoke in Lisbon—”

  “Oh, do we absolutely have to talk!” Frade announced.

  “—and so,” Dulles went on, “believing that because you had just flown the Atlantic you probably would spend at least a day or two in the bosom of your family, I went back to Lisbon and caught the very next South American Airways flight to Buenos Aires.”

  He paused, chuckled, then went on: “Tangentially, an observation or two about that: Your airline must be making money, Cletus. I was lucky to get a seat. Every one got sold, despite the outrageous prices you’re charging for a ticket. Many of the seats were occupied by Roman Catholic clergy of one affiliation or another. I decided that Buenos Aires must be overflowing with sinners for the Pope to spend so much money rushing all those priests, brothers, and nuns over here to save souls.”

  Clete laughed.

  “I’ll tell Father Welner what you said,” he said.

  “Have you seen the good Father lately?”

  “He met the airplane and he’s here now. Having his lunch. He and General Martín—they met the plane and said we had to talk.”

  “Do they know about von Wachtstein and Boltitz?” Dulles said.

  “Welner handed them—in front of Martín—Argentine identity documents stating that they’d immigrated to Argentina in 1938.”

  “Then what Martín probably wants to talk about is what should be done with them in the immediate future. So far as a great many Germans in Argentina are concerned, both are traitors to the Thousand-Year Reich.”

  “Not only Argentine Germans,” Frade said, “but I’d say at least half of the newly converted clergy—of the sort you said were on your flight—also think they’re traitors. I don’t mind the good Germans, but I’ve about had enough of these Kraut bastards.”

  Dulles didn’t reply immediately. Then he said, “Understood. We need to discuss that, too.”

  “So,” Frade said, “can you tell me about these new developments you just mentioned?”

  And why they are so important that you came all the way here to tell me about them?

  “When can we get together?” Dulles said. “I don’t want to talk about them on the phone.”

  “I don’t think you want to come here to Uncle Willy’s house.”

  “Not if Martín and Father Welner are there, Cletus.”

  “Okay. Well, what I’m planning now—and, unless I’m given a good reason not to, what I’m indeed going to do—is spend the night here, then load everybody on the Red Lodestar and fly them out to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. From there, I don’t know.”

  “Okay.”

  “So then why don’t you drop by Jorge Frade about nine tomorrow morning and fly out to the estancia with us? Martín and Welner aren’t going.”

  “Very well. I’ll see you at the airport at nine,” Dulles said, and hung up.

  [FOUR]

  Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province Republic of Argentina 1005 12 May 1945

  Cletus Frade brought the Lodes
tar in low over the pampas and smoothly touched down on the runway. The first time he’d flown here, the runway had been grass. Now, three years later, it was pebble and lined with lights. And the tarmac was now cobblestones, and there was another hangar, this one large enough for two Lodestars.

  During the landing, he had seen that there was a welcoming party. It wasn’t until he had taxied up to the hangars and stopped the aircraft that he really realized how large the group was.

  “It looks like the Turtles have come out to welcome us,” Frade said, turning to look at his wife in the copilot seat.

  When I met you, he thought, you’d never even been in an airplane.

  And look at you now, Amelia Earhart!

  “Darling,” his copilot said resignedly, as she shut down the engines and then took off her headset, “I’ve told you time and again that they don’t like being called the Turtles.”

  A Top Secret personnel roster filed in Colonel Alec Graham’s office at OSS Headquarters in Washington, D.C., listed the members of OSS Western Hemisphere Team 17, which was code-named Team Turtle. A sunken ship was sometimes said to have “turned turtle”—and the original mission of the team had been to cause the sinking of the Reine de la Mer to stop its replenishments of German U-boats.

  The roster listed, under one Lieutenant Colonel Cletus Frade, USMCR, Majors Maxwell Ashton III and Anthony J. Pelosi (now assistant military attachés at the U.S. Embassy); Captain Madison R. Sawyer III; Navy Lieutenant Oscar J. Schultz, the team’s radioman; Master Sergeant William Ferris, their weapons and parachute expert; and Technical Sergeant Jerry O’Sullivan, who operated the team’s highly secret radar.

  Ferris, Ashton, and Sawyer all came from wealthy, socially prominent families, thus meeting the criteria for the—possibly a little jealous—critics of the OSS who suggested the abbreviation actually stood for “Oh, So Social.”