The Honor of Spies

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

  Clete stuck his head out the window and saw that the bunting-draped stairway had been pulled back.

  He fastened his shoulder harness, put his headset over his ears, and pushed the switch activating the public address system.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "this is your captain. Welcome aboard SAA Flight 1002, one-stop service to Lisbon, Portugal. We are about to take off. Please fasten your seat belts."

  He paused, then smiled and went on. "Then place your head between your knees and kiss your ass good-bye."

  The copilot looked at him in shock.

  Clete repeated the message in Spanish.

  The copilot first smiled, then giggled, then laughed almost hysterically.

  "Get on the horn and get us taxi and takeoff," Clete ordered.

  Still laughing, the copilot reached for his microphone.

  "Flight engineer, you awake?" Clete asked over his microphone.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, let's wind up the rubber bands and see if we can get this big sonofabitch off the ground."

  "Starting Number Three, sir."

  There was the whine of the starters and then the sound of an engine--somewhat reluctantly--coming to life. The aircraft trembled with the vibration of a 3,250-horsepower Wright R-3350-DA3 engine running a little rough.

  In a moment, it smoothed out.

  "Starting Number Four."

  The second engine started more easily.

  "I have Three and Four running and moving into the green," Clete said.

  "Confirmed, Captain."

  "We are cleared to taxi, Captain," the copilot reported. "We are Number One for taxi-off."

  "Thank you. Disconnect auxiliary power."

  "Disconnecting auxiliary power."

  "I have auxiliary power disconnected," Clete said after a moment. "Three and Four in the green. Engineer, start Number Two."

  "Starting Number Two."

  "See if you can get us to the threshold without running over anything big."

  "Jorge Frade, SAA 1002 taxiing to the threshold of Runway Three Zero."

  "Engineer, start Number One."

  "Starting Number One."

  "Jorge Frade clears 1002 to take off as Number One."

  Two minutes after that, Frade said, "I have everything in the green."

  "Confirm all green," the flight engineer said.

  Clete then ordered: "Copilot, pay close attention. I am now going to try real hard not to bend our bird."

  "Yes, sir," the copilot said, smiling.

  "Take-off power, please," Clete ordered.

  Five seconds later, the copilot reported, "Ten Zero Two rolling."

  The pilot-in-command tried very hard to spot the mother of his unborn child on the tarmac, but could not.

  [FIVE]

  Office of the Ambassador

  The Embassy of the German Reich

  Avenida Cordoba

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  1620 27 September 1943

  First Secretary Anton von Gradny-Sawz was already in Ambassador von Lutzenberger's office when Commercial Attache Cranz appeared at the door.

  Von Gradny-Sawz was drinking coffee and eating pastry.

  Cranz felt his temper flare.

  Gottverdammt Wienerwurst!

  "You should have waited for me," Cranz snapped. "I had to ride all the way back in the cab of that goddamned truck. And then take a taxi here."

  "Herr Cranz, Herr Raschner came to me, told me you could see no point in waiting any longer for U-405, so we left," von Gradny-Sawz said on the edge of self-righteousness.

  "Aside from the inconvenience von Gradny-Sawz caused you--I'm sure inadvertently--were there any problems?" von Lutzenberger asked somewhat coldly.

  He's reminding me that he's the ambassador, the ultimate authority.

  What we really should have is a rule--a simple order from the Fuhrer would do it--saying that ambassadors are in charge of everything but the missions and activities of the SS.

  Himmler's title, after all, is Reichsprotektor.

  If that isn't the most important responsibility any German official but the Fuhrer has, I'd like to know what is.

  And here is this canape-pusher sitting with the Wienerwurst, stuffing his face with pastry and asking me what I've been up to.

  What I have been doing, Exzellenz, is standing in the rain in the dark on the goddamned beach in the middle of nowhere for four hours waiting to see a flash from a signal lamp I knew goddamned well wasn't coming.

  While I am doing this, the gottverdammt Wienerwurst is sitting in his car a kilometer from the beach, stuffing his fat fucking face with something--when he's not sleeping--while I am getting soaked to my skin and catching pneumonia.

  And then the sonofabitch leaves me there, and I have to spend four hours in the cab of a goddamn truck getting back to Buenos Aires.

  Cranz--as he had trained himself to do--smiled as he tried to rein in what he realized was a dangerous tantrum.

  And then suddenly the flaming rage was gone, as if it had been washed away with a sudden torrent of ice water. He knew he was now in full control of himself.

  My God, why didn't I think of this before?

  Von Lutzenberger is behind this kidnapping operation!

  He's been here forever. He knows his way around Buenos Aires.

  He's the goddamned ambassador, the senior German officer. He doesn't have to tell me he's hired some of the local thugs to kidnap Mallin, much less ask my permission.

  If he succeeds, Berlin will think he's a genius, the man who got the Froggers back when I failed to do that.

  And he will tell everyone the reason he took it upon himself to deal with the situation was because neither I nor Raschner could.

  And because we also failed to eliminate that goddamned American, Frade.

  If we've proven we're not smart enough to eliminate Frade, why should he have turned to us to carry out an operation requiring the skill and finesse of an experienced diplomat?

  And he doesn't care whether or not Frade makes good on his threat to give the photographs of Peron with the SS in Tandil to the press. Or that map von Deitzberg gave Peron.

  God, that was stupid of von Deitzberg!

  Actually, von Lutzenberger probably hopes that happens. Then not only does SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Cranz look like an incompetent moron, but so does SS-Brigadefuhrer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg.

  And it won't matter that we can explain what happened to Himmler. Even if Himmler believes us, we still will have committed the worst sin of all--making the SS look stupid in the eyes of the Fuhrer. And that the Reichsfuhrer will not forgive.

  And if von Lutzenberger's kidnapping operation fails--that goddamned Frade has his private army guarding Mallin; and they have proved they know what they're doing--all he has to do is back off and pretend he knows nothing about it.

  Hinting, of course, that SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Cranz may know something about it.

  "Cranz and Raschner were more than a little embarrassed that they had no idea the Froggers were going to desert."

  Is anybody in this with him?

  Certainly not von Gradny-Sawz. Von Lutzenberger doesn't think the Wienerwurst can be trusted any further than I do.

  Von Wachtstein?

  Probably not. Although he could be useful in knowing where and when Mallin would be someplace.

  Boltitz?

  Now, that makes a little sense. He's close to Canaris, and I have never trusted that sonofabitch. Or sailors in general.

  So what do I do now?

  "Were there any other problems, Cranz?" von Lutzenberger asked again.

  "Excuse me, Exzellenz, I was lost in thought," Cranz confessed, smiling. "No, Exzellenz, there were not. I have communicated with Oberst Schmidt and set up the rendezvous points for tomorrow. All that remains to be done is for Raschner and me to be on the beach of Samborombon Bay at half past four tomorrow morning. And, of course, for von Gradny-Sawz to be prepared to drive Brigadefuhrer
von Deitzberg here once he is safely ashore."

  He turned to von Gradny-Sawz and smiled. "Gradny-Sawz, could I impose on you again to drive me down there? Let Raschner ride in the truck with our Gunther tomorrow."

  "Of course," von Gradny-Sawz said. "Pick you up at midnight?"

  "I would really appreciate it," Cranz said.

  "My pleasure," von Gradny-Sawz said.

  [SIX]

  Aboard U-405

  South Latitude 36.05, West Longitude 57.17

  Samborombon Bay, River Plate Estuary

  0430 28 September 1943

  Kapitanleutnant Wilhelm von Dattenberg had just spotted the first light from the shore when SS-Brigadefuhrer Manfred von Deitzberg climbed awkwardly up through the hatch to the conning tower.

  It was dark, there was wind from the direction of the beach, and there was a cold drizzle. Von Dattenberg and the signalman standing beside him were wearing oilcloth hooded jackets. Von Deitzberg was in civilian clothing, including a top coat and a homburg hat.

  "Send, Zero Seven," von Dattenberg ordered his signalman.

  "Zero Seven, aye aye, sir," the signalman replied, tapping the key of the signal lamp.

  "Well?" von Deitzberg asked.

  Von Dattenberg ignored the question.

  "Shore sends, Nine Nine sir," the signalman reported.

  "Send, One Five," von Dattenberg ordered.

  "One Five, aye, sir."

  "We have established contact with the beach," von Dattenberg said to von Deitzberg. "I have just sent them code for 'Commencing disembarkment.'"

  He picked up a telephone handset.

  "Open two and five. Put boats on deck and inflate. I want a line on every man on deck."

  "What happens now?" von Deitzberg asked, his tone implying that whatever that was, he reserved the right to correct anything of which he did not approve.

  "I have ordered the rubber boats to be brought onto the deck," von Dattenberg said. "There are, in all, four of them. They will be inflated and put over the side. Two trips to the beach will be necessary, presuming nothing goes wrong.

  "How the boats will be loaded is up to you, Herr Brigadefuhrer, by which I mean it is your decision whether you want to be put ashore first, or whether you would rather wait until some of your men are ashore. Each boat will carry six men, two of whom will be my sailors.

  "We are approximately a thousand meters offshore. I estimate it will take fifteen minutes to row ashore, and probably ten for the boats to return here."

  "Why the difference?"

  "Coming back to the ship, the rubber boats will be lighter and the wind will be behind them."

  "Why can't you go closer to the beach?"

  "We would run aground, Herr Brigadefuhrer," von Dattenberg said simply.

  Von Deitzberg was quiet for a moment, then he said, "I think it would be best to put the SS men ashore first. I will go with the special shipment when we know all is well on the beach."

  "Whatever you wish, Herr Brigadefuhrer," von Dattenberg said, then picked up the telephone again.

  "Send the SS men to the deck, put a line on each of them, and load them into the rubber boats as soon as possible."

  "What is that? 'Put a line on each of them'?" von Deitzberg asked. "You've said that before."

  "That's a safety measure, Herr Brigadefuhrer. In case they fall into the water."

  "There's a risk of that?"

  "Yes, there is. The hull is curved and slippery."

  And if God is in his heaven, you arrogant SS sonofabitch, you will take a bath.

  [SEVEN]

  Cafe Dolores

  Dolores Railway Station

  Dolores, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

  0845 28 September 1943

  When the dark green--almost black--1941 Buick Roadmaster sedan pulled into the parking area and stopped, a clean-cut young man in a business suit suddenly appeared and walked quickly to the car.

  "Senor . . . ," the driver of the Buick said, not in alarm, but warily.

  "That's Sargento Lascano, Pedro, relax," the middle-aged, muscular, balding man in the passenger seat said as he opened the door and got out.

  "Buenos dias, senor," Sargento Manuel Lascano said.

  "Nice suit, Lascano," the muscular man said. He was Inspector General Santiago Nervo, chief of the Special Investigations Division of the Gendarmeria Nacional. He was de facto, if not actually de jure, Argentina's most powerful policeman.

  Sargento Lascano had spent five of his twenty-three years in the army, and almost all of that in the infantry, and almost all of that in remote provinces. Just before the coup d'etat that had made General Arturo Rawson the president of Argentina, Lascano had been transferred to the Edificio Libertador headquarters of the Ejercito Argentino for "special duty."

  Having been selected as the most promising among ten candidates for training as an intelligence agent, it was intended that he receive a final vetting for suitability by the then-el Teniente Coronel Alejandro Martin--the chief of the Ethical Standards Office of the Argentine Bureau of Internal Security--by "working with him" for a week or two.

  The coup d'etat had changed all that. Sargento Lascano had been given responsibilities during the chaos of the coup far beyond his expected capabilities and handled them remarkably well. Martin had been promoted to coronel, and Lascano had been given the credentials and authority of a BIS agent--and, although this was not made public, the promotion to warrant officer that went with them--and became officially what he had been during the coup, assistant to Martin.

  "Thank you, senor," Lascano said. "Senor, el coronel suggests you park your car in the garage over there." He pointed. "They are expecting you."

  "Who are we hiding from, Lascano?" Nervo asked.

  "Just about everybody, senor."

  "Where's your jefe?"

  "There is a room in the cafe."

  "Go park the car, Pedro," Nervo said, and then asked, "Is he welcome in the cafe?"

  "You are Subinspector General Nolasco, senor?" Lascano asked.

  "You didn't recognize him, right?" Nervo said sarcastically.

  "Guilty," the driver said.

  "El coronel said Subinspector General Nolasco is welcome, sir."

  "Congratulations, Pedro," Nervo said. "Martin trusts you. Go park the car and then join us."

  The room in the back of Cafe Dolores was small and crowded. The tables had been pushed together and held a number of telephones.

  To take advantage, Nervo decided, of the railway telephone network.

  Large maps were pinned to the walls.

  There were now ten people in the room. El Coronel Alejandro Martin and "Suboficial Mayor" Jose Cortina--Nervo knew the stocky, middle-aged man to be both a longtime BIS agent and actually a teniente coronel--were seated at the end of the pushed-together tables. Both were in civilian clothing. Lascano had followed Nervo into the room.

  A half-dozen other men in civilian clothing were at the table manning the telephones and two typewriters.

  And there was someone else whose presence surprised Nervo: a tall, good-looking man in his late twenties who was wearing the uniform of a capitan of cavalry, the de rigueur cavalry officer's mustache, and the heavy golden aiguillettes of an aide-de-camp.

  Nervo knew Capitan Roberto Lauffer to be the president's aide-de-camp and more: As with Lascano, the chaos of the coup d'etat had seen Lauffer given responsibilities far beyond those ordinarily given to young captains.

  The successful coup had moved General Rawson into the president's office in the Casa Rosada and put Lauffer in the adjacent office, where he had become, again de facto if not de jure, chief of staff to the president.

  "People will talk, Alejandro, if it comes out we're meeting like this," Nervo said.

  Martin smiled, then chuckled, then, shaking his head, laughed heartily out loud.

  "Was it that funny?" Nervo asked.

  "Whenever I run into Don Cletus Frade, he offers that same tired joke," Martin said. "Is Nolasco
with you?"

  "He's parking the car. What the hell is going on here?"

  "Why don't you all go have a coffee?" Martin said to the men manning the telephones and the typewriters. They quickly got to their feet and left the room.

  Deciding that Martin was going to wait for Nolasco before explaining what was going on, Nervo walked to the wall of maps and studied them. One of them--actually three, patched together--showed the national routes between where they were and San Martin de los Andes. Pins--Probably indicating some sort of checkpoints, Nervo decided--were stuck along the route.

  There were maps, of different scales, of the highways leading to Buenos Aires, of the neighborhood of Belgrano in Buenos Aires, and of the area around Samborombon Bay, all stuck with pins.

  Nervo turned to look at Martin, his eyebrows raised questioningly. At that moment, Nolasco entered the room. His face registered surprise when he saw Lauffer.

  "Subinspector," Lauffer said.

  "Capitan."

  "I have been rehearsing my little speech about what you are about to hear," Martin said. "And about asking you to give me your word it doesn't leave this room. But I've decided not to ask that of you. You are all going to have to make that decision yourselves. What I've decided to do--as my friend Frade would say--is roll the dice and see what happens. Go ahead, Cortina."

  Cortina stood and walked toward the wall. Then he stopped. Lauffer had put his high-crowned uniform cap on the table. He held his riding crop--a standard accoutrement for a cavalry officer.

  "May I?" Cortina asked.

  Lauffer nodded.

  Cortina walked to the map and pointed the riding crop at the map of Samborombon Bay.

  "At approximately oh four-thirty today," Cortina began, "the German submarine U-405 began to land, using rubber boats, two German SS officers and ten other ranks of the SS and a large wooden crate onto the beach at this point on Samborombon Bay.

  "One of the SS officers we believe to be SS-Brigadefuhrer Manfred von Deitzberg, first deputy adjutant to the Reichsfuhrer-SS Himmler. The identity of the other--junior--SS officer we do not know. We believe he is the officer in charge of the detail guarding the wooden crate."