If Delgano, Peralta, or Vega was curious how it was that the Portuguese station chief for SAA could call London and come up with that sort of information, they were too prudent to ask.
“Is there an airport in our zone?” Frade asked.
Aragão nodded. “Tempelhof.”
“The Americans have Tempelhof?” von Wachtstein asked.
“London told me General White has it surrounded by tanks and has been flying his Piper Cubs into it from his Division Rear, which is still at the other side of the Elbe River. You know something about Tempelhof?”
“It’s—it used to be—Lufthansa’s terminal. Good airport. I could get the Connie into it with no trouble.”
If Aragão was curious to know how an SAA pilot knew so much about Tempelhof, he was too prudent to ask. But von Wachtstein saw the look on his face. And so did Frade.
“Fernando,” Clete said, “say hello to Special Agent Peter von Wachtstein of the OSS, formerly major of the Luftwaffe. Peter, Fernando is the OSS station chief here.”
Aragão didn’t reply but looked at Boltitz.
Clete went on: “And Special Agent Karl Boltitz used to be Kapitän zur See of the Kriegsmarine. When we get to Germany, he’s going to see what his U-boat buddies can tell us about all these submarines that Mr. Dulles tells us are supposed to be headed for Argentina.”
“Damn it,” Aragão suddenly exclaimed.
Clete looked on curiously as Aragão stabbed his right hand into his suitcoat and came out with a sealed envelope.
“This came for you earlier, Clete. There’ve been fifty different stories making the rounds about those subs, each harder to swallow than the other. And I’m not sure this helps.”
Frade took the envelope, opened it, and extracted the single page inside. His eyes fell to it: PRIORITY
TOP SECRETDUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
FROM AGGIE
TO TEXVIA OSS LISBON STATION
MSG NO 412 1805 GREENWICH 16 MAY 1945
LAST NIGHT—15 MAY—DAVID BRUCE DISPATCHED FOUR AGENTS FROM OSS LONDON STATION TO BERGEN NORWAY TO INTERVIEW SIXTEEN (16) GERMAN POWS BEING HELD THERE. OUR INFORMATION IS THAT CAPTAIN SCHAFFER OF U-977 GAVE HIS MARRIED CREWMEN THE OPTION OF CONTINUING ABOARD OR BEING PUT ASHORE IN EUROPE TO REJOIN THEIR FAMILIES. ON 10 MAY THE TOTAL OF NINETEEN (19) WHO TOOK HIM UP ON THE OFFER WENT ASHORE BY DINGHY AT HOLSENOY ISLAND NORWAY. SIXTEEN (16) SURRENDERED TO BE REPATRIATED. THREE (3) REMAIN AT LARGE.
IN INITIAL INTERVEWS NONE OF THE POWS SAID THEY HAD SEEN ANYBODY ONBOARD OTHER THAN FELLOW SUBMARINERS.
FURTHER, MARSHAL ZHUKOV IN BERLIN REPORTS THAT RUSSIAN AGENTS HAVE THE CHARRED REMAINS OF HITLER AND HIS BRIDE AS WELL AS THE GOEBBELS FAMILY AND OTHERS. ZHUKOV SAID THE REMAINS WERE RECOVERED OUTSIDE THE FUHRERBUNKER, IN THE REICH CHANCELLERY GARDEN. WHILE THE RUSSIANS ARE NOT EXACTLY BEING PARAGONS OF HONESTY WE HAVE NO REASON NOT TO BELIEVE THEM IN THIS INSTANCE.
MEANTIME SCORES OF ATTACK U-BOATS HAVE FOLLOWED THE ORDER OF ADMIRAL DONITZ TO STAND DOWN AND SURRENDER WITH THEIR CREWS. OPERATION DEADLIGHT WILL SEE THESE VESSELS SCUTTLED. U-977 AND U-234 ARE NOT AMONG THOSE HAVING SURRENDERED AND THEIR WHEREABOUTS AND ANY POSSIBLE TANKER U-BOATS REMAIN UNKNOWN. WE CAN ONLY PRESUME THEY CONTINUE EN ROUTE TO ARGENTINA. GEN BENDICK HAS BEEN ALERTED.
WILL LET YOU KNOW WHAT WE LEARN FROM U-977 POWS IN NORWAY. LET ME KNOW WHAT IF ANYTHING YOUR U-BOAT EXPERT LEARNS THERE. THAT SAID, IT MAY OR MAY NOT MATTER—WILD BILL SUSPECTS OUR LITTLE ORGANIZATION COULD BE OUT OF BUSINESS SOONER THAN EXPECTED.
TEX
END
TOP SECRET DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
Frade shook his head, then folded the sheet and stuffed it in his pocket.
“When the hell is ‘sooner than expected’?” he said. He shook his head, then looked at Aragão and added, “Well, the only thing we know for sure now is that at least one U-boat is headed for Argentina. I never believed that Hitler was aboard. I also don’t buy the story that there’s a fleet of U-boats. Maybe one or two, and some tankers. Then again, maybe not. Karl should be able to get us some answers.”
Aragão nodded. He said: “Where did the general at Val de Cans get his intel about this ‘rescue the diplomats’ operation you’re on being a cover to get Nazis out of Germany?”
“From me,” Clete said. “I wasn’t being exactly truthful with the ambassador. Something about this smells, starting with why are these Argentine diplomats still in Berlin? Argentina declared war on Germany on March twenty-seventh—that’s almost two months ago. They could have been in neutral Sweden that night, or the next day. Or in Spain the day after that. They stayed because they wanted to, and I don’t mean for the joy of watching Russian T-34 tanks roll down . . . what’s the wonderful name of that street? The Unter den Linden. They stayed for a reason.”
“What kind of a reason?” Delgano asked.
“Any of a number of reasons. For example, suppose you were Heinrich Himmler and you had a couple of kilograms of diamonds you wanted to get to Argentina. Wouldn’t it make more sense to give a quarter of them, or even half, to some friendly Argentine diplomat in exchange for his taking them to Argentina for you? Submarines get sunk.”
“You think that’s what it is?”
“I don’t know, but if the secretary of Labor and Retirement Plans—my beloved Tío Juan—is involved, it’s entirely likely. And we know he’s involved because his good friend Nulder is in charge of the rescue mission.”
“But you implied,” Aragão said, “that they were going to try to smuggle Nazis back on your airplane.”
“They may have had that in mind. Maybe just one or two really big Nazis. Who’s going to count heads on a mercy flight? But I don’t think so, now that I’ve led Nulder and Ambassador Hernández to believe the Americans are onto them. But precious stones, or something else? That wouldn’t surprise me at all. Who’s going to search the luggage of a rescued diplomat?”
“So that’s what that was all about,” Delgano said.
“I’m an evil man, Gonzo. You’ve said so yourself.”
“So, what happens now?” Delgano asked.
“First, we finish this bottle of wine, and then maybe another, and then we have dinner and a bath, not necessarily in that order.”
“I meant tomorrow, Cletus,” Delgano said, shaking his head in resignation.
“We wait for the flyover clearances. We can’t go to Berlin without them.”
VII
[ONE]
Hotel Britania Rua Rodrigues Sampaio 17 Lisbon, Portugal 1705 18 May 1945
Ambassador Claudio de Hernández was sitting at the hotel’s bar with Fernando Aragão when Frade, Delgano, Stein, Vega, and Peralta walked in.
Stein deposited a heavy, dripping burlap sack on the bar.
The barman appeared, looking askance at the burlap bag.
“Where have you been all day?” Ambassador de Hernández asked. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Have a sniff of the bag and take a guess,” Frade said.
“I beg your pardon?”
Frade sniffed loudly and pointed at the burlap sack.
“After you pour us a little of that splendid Altano Douro 1942,” Frade ordered the barman, “please ask the chef to join us.”
Aragão sniffed the bag and smiled.
“I really thought you were kidding,” he said.
“I never kid about whiskey, women, or fishing,” Frade said. “Aside from Vega getting a little seasick, everything went . . . swimmingly.”
“You have been fishing?” Ambassador de Hernández asked incredulously. “In the ocean?”
“That’s where the fish usually are, Mr. Ambassador.” Frade then added, “You’re in luck, Fernando. There’s even enough for the ambassador and the diplomats.”
The chef, an enormous fat man in stained kitchen whites, appeared.
“Slide Siggie that tray, Mario,” Frade ordered, pointing down the bar. “Siggie, put a sample of our fruits of the sea on the tray for the chef’s edification.”
/> Stein dipped into the bag, came out with three large fish fillets, and arranged them on the tray.
The chef bent over and sniffed them, then punched them with his index finger.
“Caballa,” he said.
“Yes,” Frade said. “In English, they say ‘mackerel.’ These are from what a norteamericano would call a ‘king mackerel.’”
“And fresh,” the chef said approvingly.
“Mere hours ago, they were swimming. Into your capable hands, my friend, I entrust them.”
“I usually bake the whole fish,” the chef said.
“Indulge me,” Frade said. “I am Argentine, and the whole world knows we’re crazy. For now, I want you to dribble a little olive oil on the fillets, lay some lemon slices on top, and grill them. Serve them with some fried potatoes and a small salad. Can do?”
The chef nodded. “Can do.”
“After first selecting the best-looking fillets,” Frade then ordered, “which you will serve to us just as soon as you can, serve the leftovers to the diplomats traveling with South American Airways with the compliments of Chief Pilot Delgano.”
The chef nodded again.
Then Frade said: “They will taste much better if you drink a little Altano Douro as you grill them. Put a bottle for the chef on Señor Aragão’s bill, Señor Barman.”
Ambassador de Hernández’s face showed that he believed Frade was either crazy or drunk. Or both.
The chef smiled, picked up the burlap sack, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
Frade looked at de Hernández. “You were looking for me, Mr. Ambassador? Why?”
“The overfly permission has come, Señor Frade. But only as far as Frankfurt am Main.”
“We are supposed to go to Berlin,” Frade challenged.
“I know,” the ambassador said more than a little lamely.
“What does Buenos Aires have to say about this?”
“About this specifically, nothing.”
“And about things in general?” Frade pursued. “What about the assurance of either the Foreign Ministry or the President that no attempt will be made to smuggle Nazis to Argentina on SAA’s airplane?”
“There has been no response to that specifically, Señor Frade.”
“Then we’re not going,” Frade said.
“There was a message from el Coronel Perón, routed via the embassy, to Señor Nulder, which Señor Nulder shared with me.”
“And are you going to tell me what it said?”
“It said that the Foreign Minister was doing everything he can to get the necessary overfly permissions, as the president is very anxious to relieve the diplomatic contingent in Berlin as soon as possible.”
“We already knew that, didn’t we?” Frade said.
Frade then took an appreciative sip of the Altano Douro, sighed audibly, and announced: “Well, if the secretary of Labor and Retirement Plans tells us that General Farrell is anxious to relieve the diplomatic contingent in Berlin as soon as possible, I don’t see that we, as patriotic Argentines, have any choice. Have the passengers at the airfield no later than five-thirty tomorrow morning, Mr. Ambassador.”
“That early, Señor Frade?”
“We have already lost more than a full day, haven’t we, Mr. Ambassador, waiting for you to come up with the flyover permissions? I don’t want to lose any more time.”
“I’ll pass that to Señor Nulder right away,” Ambassador de Hernández said. He then stood and excused himself.
When the ambassador had gone, Delgano softly asked, “Half past five in the morning, Cletus?”
“I didn’t say we would be there at that unholy hour. I think we should try to get off the ground at, say, nine.”
[TWO]
Aboard Ciudad de Rosario Approaching Frankfurt am Main, Germany 1235 19 May 1945
When Clete Frade had announced that Peter von Wachtstein would fly Ciudad de Rosario from Lisbon to Frankfurt am Main in the left seat, and that he would fly as copilot, the faces of the three SAA pilots showed they didn’t like it at all.
Frade remembered what he had learned in the Marine Corps: When there is dissension in the ranks, try explaining your reasons.
He told them: “Von Wachtstein has flown all over Spain, France, and Germany. None of us has. And we don’t have reliable charts. We’re going to have to fly by the seat of our pants, looking out the window to see where we are. And Peter is the only one of us who’ll know what the hell he’s looking at.”
“But, Cletus,” Gonzalo Delgano protested, “von Wachtstein has less time at the controls of a Constellation than anybody else.”
Rule Two: If reasoning doesn’t work, apply a two-by-four with great force to the temples of the dissenters.
“Actually, Gonzalo, there’s an even more important reason von Wachtstein will fly in the left seat.”
“Which is?”
“I said so. Any further questions?”
Delgano’s face reddened, but he didn’t argue further.
Once they were in the cockpit, von Wachtstein suggested that while crossing Spain they take advantage of the Constellation’s capabilities to become inconspicuous. The Connie could cruise at twenty thousand feet at better than three hundred miles per hour. At that altitude they would be hard to see from the ground, and even if there were contrails, the natural presumption would be that they were an Allied bomber. Further, von Wachtstein said, the Spanish had no aircraft capable of climbing that high to investigate, and even if they tried, any Spanish aircraft would have trouble catching up with the Connie.
“What the Spaniards have are Luftwaffe rejects,” von Wachtstein said. “Nothing as fast as the Connie.”
You just lucked out again, Cletus Frade.
You put Hansel in the left seat impulsively. And he just showed you it was the right thing to do.
“Let’s do it,” Frade ordered.
On takeoff, they navigated by dead reckoning, flying southeast across Portugal toward Spain while climbing to an altitude of twenty-two thousand feet. The weather was clear, and there were only a few isolated clouds.
They had been airborne just about an hour when von Wachtstein said, “Take a look at three o’clock, Clete. That’s Madrid. Now, let’s see if we can find the Pyrenees.”
“Clete,” von Wachtstein said, “did you ever see pictures, or maybe a newsreel, of crazy Spaniards running away from bulls down a narrow street?”
Clete thought a moment, then said, “Yeah.”
“They do that in Pamplona,” he said, and pointed. “Which means that we’re about to fly over the Pyrenees. The last time I was here, I was flying an Me-210 and the oxygen wasn’t working. So, I had to fly through them. Very interesting experience.”
“Welcome to France,” von Wachtstein announced, pointing downward at the snowcapped Pyrenees mountains. “Now, let’s see if we can find Lyon.”
“God, I hope that isn’t what I think it is,” von Wachtstein said.
“What do you hope it isn’t?”
“Köln. You know, where the aftershave lotion comes from.”
“You mean Cologne.”
“That’s what I said,” von Wachtstein said. “If it is Köln, we’re too far north.” He shoved the yoke forward. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”
“Please keep in mind this aircraft is not a fighter plane. Try not to tear the wings off.”
“That’s Köln, all right. That’s the cathedral. Christ, the whole city is destroyed!”
“My God!” Clete said, looking at square miles of utter destruction.
“Welcome to the Thousand-Year Reich, Herr Oberstleutnant,” von Wachtstein said.
“It’s hard to believe,” Clete said.
“Well, now that we’ve found the Rhine, I suppose we better go the rest of the way close to the ground.”
“Well, there’s what’s left of Frankfurt am Main,” Peter announced.
“The airport is to the south.”
“That looks as
bad as Cologne,” Clete said. “Jesus, there’s hardly a building left standing.” He paused. “There’s one. A great big building.”
“The I.G. Farben building,” von Wachtstein said.
He pointed the Constellation toward it.
Clete saw the altimeter was indicating fifteen hundred feet.
They dropped another five hundred feet before flashing over the huge building that stood unscathed in the rubble.
“You’re going to give our passengers heart failure,” Clete said. “Jesus, there’s an American flag on that building!”
“The Americans must have decided they were going to need it and did not bomb it,” von Wachtstein said matter-of-factly. “Now, let’s see if we can find the airport. You have the tower frequency?”
Von Wachtstein shoved the throttles forward and raised the nose of the Constellation as Clete dialed in the radio.
“Frankfurt Air Base, this is South American Airways Double Zero Four.”
There was no response after several calls.
“Take us to five thousand feet, Peter. l’ll try another frequency.”
“Going to five thousand.”
“Frankfurt, South American Double Zero Four.”
There was no answer on the new frequency.
“Clete, we have company,” von Wachtstein announced.
Clete looked past von Wachtstein and saw a twin-tailed Lockheed P-38 fighter.
It was so close that Frade could count seven swastikas—signifying seven kills—painted on the nose. Next to those was the picture, a drawing, the image of something else. It looked like an automobile with crossed lines going through it.
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