The Honor of Spies

by W. E. B. Griffin; William E. Butterworth; IV

  As he walked to the verandah, the other hunters dismounted and followed him.

  "Okay, what happened?" Clete asked as he walked onto the verandah.

  "There's been a small problem," Dorotea said.

  "I would never have guessed from your happy faces," Clete said. "What kind of a small problem?"

  "Right after we got here, la Senora Frogger asked if she could go for a walk," Dorotea said.

  Dorotea and Schultz had carried the makings of lunch from the big house, bringing the food, the wine, the tableware, cooks, and several maids in Schultz's Model A Ford pickup truck. That, too, was in case anyone was watching.

  "And you said, 'Okay,' right?"

  "I did," Chief Schultz said, more than a little uncomfortably. "I sent Dorotea with her."

  He was now speaking of The Other Dorotea, who was euphemistically described as "El Jefe's housekeeper."

  "And then what happened?" Clete asked softly.

  "Well," Schultz began, and then stopped. He sighed, then went on: "Clete, I sent a couple of guys on horses with them. Told them to stay out of sight but to keep their eyes open. . . ."

  "And then what happened?" Clete repeated softly.

  "Well, I guess they were half a mile, maybe a kilometer, out in the boonies when Dorotea took a little break. . . ."

  "What do you mean, 'a little break'?"

  "She went behind a bush, so to speak, is what I mean," Schultz said uncomfortably. "You know?"

  That triggered a mental image of the massive "housekeeper" Frade would just as well have not had.

  "And then what happened?" Clete asked for a third time.

  "Then the Kraut belted her behind the ear with a thing from the fireplace--you know, a poker. She must have had it hidden in her skirt."

  Clete looked back to Schultz. "And then?"

  "The Kraut took off running," Schultz said. He then remembered that three of the men listening to him were German and might consider that a pejorative term. He tried to justify his lack of tact by saying, "Jesus, she could have killed Dorotea with that goddamn poker."

  "Is Dorotea badly injured?" Clete inquired.

  "She's got a lump behind her ear the size of a baseball."

  "Where did Frau Frogger think she was going?" Frade asked.

  Schultz shrugged.

  "She didn't get far," Schultz said. "Dorotea went after her."

  "And where is she now?" Father Welner asked.

  "In the house," Schultz said. "He's taking care of her."

  "I presume you mean Herr Frogger?" Clete asked.

  Schultz nodded.

  "Define 'taking care of her,' " Frade ordered.

  Schultz now looked even more uncomfortable.

  "When she caught her, Dorotea did a job on her," he said. Then he added: "It took two of the guys to pull her off of her." There was another pause, this one a little longer. "And it took them a little time to get there to pull her off."

  "May I see her?" Oberstleutnant Frogger asked softly.

  "Perhaps it would be better if I went in to see her first," Father Welner said. When neither Frogger nor Frade replied, the priest added, "You said earlier, Wilhelm, that there was some difficulty between you two when you first saw her."

  Frogger nodded. "Thank you, Father."

  Welner reached down and unbuttoned several of the buttons on his plaid woolen shirt. Then he reached inside and pulled out a dickey to which was attached a clerical collar. In a few seconds, he had fastened the collar around his neck and rebuttoned the shirt.

  He looked at Frade and the others, and asked, "All right?"

  They nodded.

  Frade said what he was thinking: "In that plaid shirt, she's going to think you're a Presbyterian."

  Von Wachtstein chuckled. Everybody else gave him a dirty look.

  Welner went back to his horse and retrieved what looked like a small doctor's bag from where he had it tied to the saddle. Then he walked purposely past everyone and onto the verandah. He went in the house without knocking.

  "Now that everything's in capable Jesuit hands," Frade said, "I'm going to have a little fermented grape while waiting to see what happens next."

  He went onto the verandah, where the luncheon table had been set up, and helped himself to a large glass of red wine. Von Wachtstein joined him almost immediately, and then the others, one by one.

  For the next ten minutes, everyone on the verandah could hear the sound of an excited female voice inside the house and the murmurs of male voices. The thick walls of the house and drawn draperies kept them from understanding any of it.

  Gradually, the sound of the female voice became less audible, and finally it stopped.

  Two minutes after that, the door opened and Father Welner pointed first at Oberstleutnant Frogger and then Cletus Frade and motioned them to come inside.

  Frade had the unkind thought that the priest's gesture was not unlike the one the headmaster of his boarding school--also a priest, albeit an Episcopalian--had used to summon miscreants into his office to face the bar of ecclesiastic justice.

  And then, knowing that he probably should not, he refilled his wineglass before going through the door.

  Frau Frogger was half-lying on the couch. After a moment, Frade saw that she was asleep.

  Not asleep, stupid. The way she was howling a couple of minutes ago, there's no way she could have just dozed off.

  She's been drugged.

  Christ, Welner drugged her!

  She was an ordinary-looking middle-aged woman, just an inch the far side of plump. Her black, faintly patterned dress was dirt-smudged and torn in several places.

  Her face was battered, and Clete had a mental image of the two gauchos trying to pull the massive Dorotea off her as Dorotea's arms flailed beating her.

  "Mein Gott!" Oberstleutnant Frogger said softly.

  "She'll be sore for a while, and I'm afraid she's going to lose a tooth," the priest said. "But aside from that, she's not seriously injured physically."

  "She's sedated?" Oberstleutnant Frogger asked.

  The priest nodded. "I gave her something."

  "She attacked the Father," Herr Frogger said softly. "She . . . your mother smashed a water pitcher against the table, and then tried to shove what was left of it in the Father's face."

  "She's disturbed," Father Welner said, using the calm, considerate tone of a priest.

  "That makes trying to shove a broken water pitcher in your face okay?" Frade said sharply.

  "We had to wrestle her to the ground," Herr Frogger said. He exhaled. "I had no idea she was that strong."

  No one said anything for a moment.

  "That's when Father gave her the injection," Herr Frogger said. "If he hadn't done that, I don't know what would have happened."

  "How long will she be out?" Clete asked.

  "She'll sleep soundly for four or five hours--perhaps longer, because she's physically exhausted as well--and then she will gradually become awake."

  Oberstleutnant Frogger asked what Clete was thinking: "And then what?"

  "Then we're back to square one," Clete said. "And we can't have that."

  "My mother belongs in a hospital. Not for what that woman did to her, but for her . . . that uncontrollable, irrational rage."

  "Colonel," Frade said. "You know that's not an option."

  "Well, then," Oberstleutnant Frogger replied, "what do we do, put her in chains?"

  "That is one option," Clete said.

  "Cletus, you can't be serious," Father Welner said.

  "I'm perfectly serious," Frade said. "She's made it clear that she will do anything--she could have killed Dorotea--to get away. She has decided that both her husband and her son are the enemy. And, for that matter, that you are. And since putting her in a hospital is out of the question, what other option is there?"

  "Actually, I can think of one," the priest said.

  "Well, let's have it," Frade said, more sharply than he intended.

  "When your A
unt Beatriz became unstable after your cousin Jorge's passing--"

  "He didn't pass, Father," Frade said. "You know what happened to him."

  Oberstleutnant Frogger looked at Frade.

  "He was an Argentine army officer, Colonel," Frade said. "A quote unquote neutral observer at Stalingrad. The damned fool went flying around in a Storch and got himself killed when it was shot down."

  "That's a bit cruel, don't you think, Cletus?" the priest asked.

  "It's the truth. Cruel? Maybe. We're in a cruel business. Let's hear your possible solution. The other options I can think of start with chaining her to the floor."

  "At the risk of Major Frade taking offense at my defense of him, Father," Oberstleutnant Frogger said, "there are things in play here involving many lives."

  "Are you going to tell me what they are?" the priest asked.

  "No," Frade said. "And 'things in play here' was a very bad choice of words. The one thing we're not doing is playing."

  The priest gathered his thoughts for a moment, then said, "All right, speaking bluntly: When your Aunt Beatriz lost control, your Uncle Humberto and your father were agreed that she should not be kept in the hospital any longer than necessary. A 'nervous breakdown' was one thing, perhaps even to be expected under the circumstances. An indefinite period of hospitalization in the psychiatric ward of the German Hospital was something else. 'What would people think? She could never raise her head in society again.' "

  "Oh, for Christ's sake!" Frade said disgustedly.

  "Unfortunately, may God forgive them, it's true," the priest said. "The solution finally reached was that she would be released from the German Hospital, and as long as she could be controlled by drugs and kept under supervision, she would be allowed to remain at home."

  "She doesn't seem to be very controlled to me," Frade said.

  "Relatively speaking," the priest said carefully, "she's farther down the road to recovery than any of us thought would be the case. In the beginning, when we took her from the hospital, Cletus, your Aunt Beatriz was much sicker than she is today.

  "But, as I was saying, in the event that she would not show improvement, or grew worse, another means to deal with the situation was put in place. There is a hospital operated by the Little Sisters of Santa Maria del Pilar in Mendoza. It's a nursing order, and the sisters--some of whom, including the Mother Superior, are physicians--have experience in dealing with the mentally ill--"

  "Cutting to the chase," Clete interrupted. He saw on everyone's face that no one understood that, but went on anyway. "You're suggesting I put Frau Frogger in a psychiatric hospital in Mendoza? What's the difference between that and putting her in the German Hospital in Buenos Aires? She would either escape--"

  "Let me finish, please, Cletus," the priest said, not very patiently.

  "Sorry," Clete said, but it was clear he wasn't.

  "That wine you're drinking comes from one of your vineyards, Don Guillermo, which is in the foothills of the Andes near Mendoza. On the property is a rather nice house, Casa Montagna, designed by an Italian architect for your Granduncle Guillermo in the Piedmont style. It sits on the side of a mountain overlooking the vineyards and the bodega. No one lives there, not even the Don Guillermo manager, but there is a small staff so that it will be ready on short notice should we need it for Beatriz. I can't remember your father ever going there or even mentioning it. I learned of it--went there--only after he had offered it to Humberto for Beatriz."

  "I don't understand," Clete said.

  "What Humberto did--actually, what I did for him--was convert one wing into a place where Beatriz could be cared for in comfort. I had the garden walled in, and converted the rooms above her apartment into living quarters suitable for the Little Sisters who would care for her around the clock."

  "You arranged for the nuns?" Frade asked.

  Welner nodded.

  "The Mother Superior came to understand that the greatest good for the greatest number would come from the generous contribution that would be made by Humberto as an expression of his appreciation for the Little Sisters' care of Beatriz. They could use the money to treat the less fortunate."

  "How could they have been sure Beatriz would stay there?" Frade asked.

  "Well, they were prepared to watch her twenty-four hours a day. Suicide was a potential problem. Thank God that's passed. And as I said, the garden was walled in. There are locks."

  "How much is it going to cost me to put Frau Frogger in there?"

  "Wouldn't, using your terminology, 'putting Frau Frogger in there' be the decision of her family?"

  "No," Frade said simply.

  "We are in Major Frade's hands, Father," Oberstleutnant Frogger said.

  "I can't be a party to taking her there as a prisoner," the priest said.

  "If you can arrange for the nuns to take my wife, Father," Herr Frogger said, "you will be saving her life, mentally and physically."

  And Frade had a sudden insight: Welner wouldn't have brought this up unless he knew it was the best solution possible. But he now has convinced Frogger, father and son, to think it's their idea.

  Goddamn, he's clever!

  "Then the problem becomes: How do we get her there?" Welner said.

  Frade walked to the wall-mounted telephone intending to call Gonzalo Delgano, but then changed his mind.

  He walked instead to the door.

  "Enrico, I need a half-dozen reliable men to go to Mendoza with me right now. Don't tell them where we are going, only that they'll be there several weeks at least."

  "We are taking the German woman to Casa Montagna, Don Cletus?"

  Enrico knows about Casa Montagna?

  "That's right."

  "You are going to fly?"

  "Just as soon as I can get the Lodestar in the air."

  "And who will help you fly?"

  "Dona Dorotea."

  "What will Delgano say?"

  "I think he will be distressed that I allowed Dona Dorotea to fly the airplane from here to Jorge Frade, when it appears there first thing tomorrow morning. It's about six hundred miles to Mendoza."

  "He will be even more distressed if you kill yourself and everybody else before tomorrow morning, Don Cletus. Call Major Delgano. Either have him come here or, if time is so important, go to Buenos Aires."

  "Then he would learn what I'm doing."

  "He would learn anyway, Don Cletus. Don Cletus, you would insult him if you did this without him. He is now one of us."

  Frade considered that a moment.

  Damn it, he's right.

  If I were Delgano, after all he's done already, and got the idea I was hiding something from him, I'd be insulted.

  "What I think we should do, Don Cletus, is drive into Buenos Aires to his home. . . ."

  "I don't know where he lives."

  "I do. And you tell him what you need. The worst thing that can happen is that he will tell you he doesn't want to do it. But he would not betray you. I told you. He is now one of us."

  "You're right, Enrico. Thank you, my friend."

  "Or--I just thought of this--you could telephone him and tell him that there is something he needs to look at on your airplane. And then go to Buenos Aires in one of the Pipers and bring him here. If the clowns are listening, there is nothing suspicious about that."

  "You would let me fly into Buenos Aires all by myself?"

  The gentle sarcasm was lost on Enrico.

  "If you give me your word of honor you will not leave the airfield when you are there and are very careful while you are there."

  Frade, knowing he could not trust his voice, clapped the old soldier on both arms. He went back into the house, picked up the telephone, and, when the estancia operator came on the line, told her to get Chief Pilot Gonzalo Delgano in Buenos Aires for him.

  IV

  [ONE]

  Approaching El Plumerillo Airfield

  Mendoza, Mendoza Province, Argentina

  1745 14 August 1943

&n
bsp; "I have been in here before," Gonzalo Delgano's voice came over the earphones.

  "Chief Pilot," Frade ordered sternly, "take command of the aircraft."

  Frade took his hands off the yoke and raised them much higher than was necessary to signal he was no longer flying the Lodestar.

  Delgano smiled at him.

  "Sometimes there's a little crosswind coming off the mountains," Delgano said, nodding toward the Andes. "You can tell when the wind-sock pole is bent more than forty-five degrees."

  He demonstrated a bent wind-sock pole with his index finger.

  Frade smiled at him.

  Delgano shoved the yoke forward so that he could make a low-level pass over the field to have a look at the wind sock.

  They were not in communication with the El Plumerillo tower. Delgano was not surprised; he told Clete that there was only one Aeropostal flight into Mendoza every day at about noon--and sometimes not that often--and as soon as it took off again, the tower closed down. There was some other use of the field by the military, and even some private aviation traffic, but not enough to justify a dawn-to-dusk tower. The runway was not lighted, which made a tower useless at night.

  Delgano had told Frade just after they had taken off that at this time of year they should not be surprised if the field was closed due to weather or--flying dead-reckoning navigation due to no reliable radio navigation aids--they could not even find the field before dark. Winds aloft could knock them as much as fifty or a hundred miles off course.

  They were in no danger. There was more than enough fuel to take them back to Buenos Aires, where runway and taxi lights had been installed at Aerodromo Jorge Frade in Moron while they had been in the United States. Nor would they have trouble finding Jorge Frade, as there was both a radio beacon and an around-the-clock tower operation using a Collins Model 7.2 transceiver, which was just about the latest thing in the States.

  And the radio direction finder would be working, awaiting the six Lodestars en route from the United States. No one knew when they would leave or arrive, but Jorge Frade had to be ready to guide them in.