The Honor of Spies

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

  "The Air Corps didn't happen to have any Staggerwing Beechcrafts in stock--I think they stopped making them in 1940--but they had an order from the President, relayed through General Arnold, to replace the aircraft lost in South America. So they took a Lodestar intended as a VIP transport and sent that to Brazil, where it was painted with the same identification numbers of the Staggerwing--and in Staggerwing Red--and notified me that the 'plane' was ready. I told our Cletus to go get what I thought would be another Staggerwing.

  "He did. And when he got to Brazil, he saw the Lodestar as a good way to get the radar and its crew into Argentina. So, with about two hours of instruction in how to fly it, he did just that. Without a copilot.

  "And made it. When I heard about it, I caught the next Panagra Clipper and went down there and reamed him a new anal orifice for being so stupidly arrogant as to think he was that good a pilot.

  "Frankly, my heart wasn't in that. What I was hoping was that the ass-chewing would make him think twice the next time he wanted to do something so off the wall."

  "And did that work?"

  "You've met him, Allen, what would you say?"

  Dulles looked at Marine Corps Colonel A. F. Graham and with a straight face said, "I would say that Major Frade is a typical Marine officer," then returned his attention to the message.

  "Man from the Delta?" Dulles asked.

  "Oberstleutnant Frogger," Graham replied. "Frogger's son. We got him out of the VIP POW camp in the Mississippi Delta."

  "And he's at the Brewery?"

  Graham nodded.

  "So what are we going to tell Frade to do?"

  "We are not going to tell him anything, Allen. You blew your right to tell him anything when you didn't tell him--or me, so that I could tell him--about the phony sergeant major. And, on that subject, is there anything else you think Frade or I should know?"

  "No, Alex, there isn't."

  "Until about five minutes ago, that would have been good enough. Now I'm not sure."

  Dulles's face tightened.

  Graham didn't back down. "Goddamn it, we had an agreement--no secrets, nothing that could be misunderstood between us."

  "Yes, we did. And I broke it. By oversight, not intention, but I broke it and I said I was sorry."

  Graham didn't reply.

  "What would you like me to do, Alex? Get on my knees and beg forgiveness? Commit suicide?"

  "Good thoughts," Graham said. "How about getting on your knees and committing hara-kiri on the White House lawn?"

  "As reluctant as I am to correct an always correct military man such as yourself, I have to tell you--presuming you are talking about self-disembowelment--the proper term for it is seppuku."

  "They taught you that at Princeton, did they?"

  "Indeed they did."

  "In that case, go seppuku yourself, Allen."

  They smiled at each other.

  "So what are you going to tell Frade to do?" Dulles asked.

  "Watch and listen, Allen. But first get out of my chair."

  Dulles got up and Graham sat down.

  He pushed the lever on his desk intercom device.

  "Alice, would you ask Colonel Raymond to come in, please?"

  Graham rummaged in his desk drawer and came up with a book of matches.

  Raymond appeared almost instantly at the door. Alice stood behind him.

  "Sir?"

  "Colonel, can you assure me that there are no copies of this message in some file cabinet--or anywhere else--at Vint Hill Farms Station?"

  "Yes, sir, I can."

  "There will be a brief reply to this one. Alice, please write this down--not in shorthand--so that Colonel Raymond can take it back to Vint Hill, send it, and then burn it--repeat burn it."

  "Yes, sir," Alice said.

  " 'Pinocchio did not lie. Princeton didn't think you are as smart as you are. Use your best judgment. Keep me advised. Graham, Colonel, USMCR.' Read it back, please, Alice."

  She did so.

  "Now give it to Colonel Raymond to make sure he can read your writing."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I can read it fine, sir," Raymond said a moment later.

  "Get that out immediately when you get back to Vint Hill Station, please."

  "Yes, sir."

  "That will be all, then, Colonel. Thank you."

  "Yes, sir," Raymond said, came to attention, and saluted. Graham returned it. Raymond did a crisp about-face and marched out of the office.

  When he was gone, Graham said, "Now that it's a done deed, I will listen to your comments."

  "I don't think you had any other choice," Dulles said. "At the moment, we have absolutely no control over what Frade will do or won't do, even if we knew what to tell him to do."

  "Great minds take similar paths," Graham said. Then he struck a match and, holding Frade's message to him over his wastebasket, set the message on fire.

  [FIVE]

  Casa Montagna

  Estancia Don Guillermo

  Km 40.4, Provincial Route 60

  Mendoza Province, Argentina

  1650 3 October 1943

  Mother Superior had made it plain that she regarded Clete Frade's treatment of the mother of his unborn child as the despicable behavior to be expected of someone who had obviously inherited his father's insanity. But, aside from that, Mother Superior had been so cooperative that Clete suspected she had been given her marching orders from whoever in the hierarchy of Holy Mother Church had the authority to order a Mother Superior around.

  One of the most important things she had done was to calm Senora Moller and Senora Kortig--and, as important, the children. She spoke fluent German, which made things easier.

  "The first thing we have to do," Mother Superior told them, "is get you to speak Spanish, and the best way to do that, of course, is to get you in school. We run a bus up here every morning to take the children who live here to our school. It's inside the convent. And then, of course, it brings them home after school. Is there any reason, Don Cletus, they couldn't do that tomorrow?"

  Frade thought, Translation: Would it be safe to do that?

  Clete had looked at Inspector Peralta and saw that he was looking at Subinspector Nowicki, who after a thoughtful moment made a subtle thumbs-up gesture, which caused Inspector Peralta to nod in Clete's direction.

  Translation: The Gendarmeria Nacional can and will protect the bus.

  "I can't think of one," Clete said. "It sounds like a very good idea."

  "And for the first few days," Mother Superior said, "I suggest that it would be a very good idea if Senora Moller and Senora Kortig came to school, too. Would that be all right?"

  As long as I've got their husbands under my thumb here, why not?

  "I think that would be a very good idea," Clete said.

  "And now, so as to leave you gentlemen to your wine, I suggest that I take the ladies and the children to their apartments. I'll see what things they'll need for school, and answer any questions they might have."

  "I think the fathers would like to be in on that," Clete said. "Would that be all right?"

  "I think that would be a very good idea," Mother Superior said.

  "Would you like to come along, Dorotea?" Mother Superior asked.

  "What I think I am going to do is have a little lie-down," Dorotea said. "I'm tired from the flight."

  Translation: I am now going to stand behind a partially open door and listen to what the men will say that they probably wouldn't say if I was in the room.

  "Well, I can certainly understand why you're tired," Mother Superior said, flashing Clete an icy smile.

  A minute later, Clete saw that the bar held men only. Stein was missing.

  He's sitting on the SIGABA and waiting--probably in vain--for the graven-on-stone messages from Mount Sinai.

  What was it Graham said about the more people knowing about a secret the less chance there is that it will remain a secret?

  I trust Nervo and Martin. I trust Inspect
or Peralta because Nervo trusts him. And I suppose I can trust Subinspector Navarro because he works for Peralta.

  That's a hell of a lot of people being told a hell of a lot of secrets.

  Not to mention the local Gendarmeria boss, Subinspector Nowicki. I don't know him, or where he comes from.

  "Don Cletus, did Inspector General Nervo tell you I can read faces?" Inspector Peralta asked.

  "Excuse me?"

  "I can look at a face and tell what that person is thinking," Peralta said seriously.

  What the hell is this?

  "Really?"

  "Would you like me to tell you what you're thinking?" Peralta said, and then went on without giving Clete a chance to reply. "Who the hell are all these people? How the hell do I know I can trust them? Am I close?"

  "That thought has run through my mind, now that you mention it," Clete said.

  "Don't be embarrassed, Don Cletus. I would have been worried if you were not worried. So let's deal with it: Me, you can trust, because the inspector general said you can, and you trust the inspector general. Subinspector Navarro can be trusted because I tell you he can. That leaves Subinspector Nowicki, whom you keep looking at through the corner of your eye. Despite his shifty eyes, I have learned he is trustworthy. But let him speak for himself. Estanislao?"

  Subinspector Nowicki--a burly, totally bald, muscular man in his early forties, who had been sitting slumped in an armchair while sipping steadily at a glass of wine--stood.

  "Don Cletus, I am a Pole. I hate Nazis and Communists. I know what they have done to Poland and I don't want either taking over in Argentina. Before I came here, I commanded the Gendarmeria squadron in Pila. I was privileged to call your father my friend. When the Nazi bastards murdered him and nearly killed my old friend Enrico, I prayed to God for the chance to avenge el Coronel's murder. I swear before God and on my mother's grave that you can trust me."

  He nodded once, then sat down.

  "Enrico, why didn't you tell me you were friends?" Clete challenged, more in wonder than anger or even annoyance.

  "You didn't ask, Don Cletus," the old soldier said matter-of-factly.

  "Well, Don Cletus?" Peralta said. "Now that you're a little less worried about Estanislao . . ."

  "I apologize, Inspector," Clete said.

  "No need," Nowicki said simply.

  ". . . where shall we start?" Peralta finished his question.

  "The arms cache?" Clete replied. "The perimeter defense of this place?"

  "There are more arms, heavier arms, than I expected," Peralta said. "Fifty-caliber machine guns, mortars. And a great deal of ammunition. Which makes me wonder whether el Coronel Schmidt is really after that, rather than using the weapons cache as an excuse to look for the Froggers."

  "Why would he want the weapons? He's got a regiment."

  "Doesn't the U.S. Corps of Marines teach its officers that guns are like sex? You can never have too much."

  "Point taken, Inspector," Clete said.

  "But now that we're on the subject of el Coronel Schmidt, let's get that clear between us, Don Cletus. My orders from Inspector General Nervo are to assist you in any way I can, short of helping you start, or involving the Gendarmeria in, a civil war."

  "I have no intention of starting a civil war," Clete replied. "Is that what Inspector General Nervo thinks?"

  "It's not you he's worried about," Nowicki said. "It's that Nazi bastard Schmidt."

  "Schmidt wants to start a civil war? What the hell for?"

  "To put in the Casa Rosada someone who understands that the Nazis--and until last week, the Italians--were fighting the good fight against godless Communism," Peralta said. "And what makes him especially dangerous is that the bastard really believes he's on God's side."

  "Who does he want to put in the Casa Rosada? A colonel named Schmidt?"

  "Maybe a colonel named Peron," Peralta said. "But probably Obregon."

  "The head of the Bureau of Internal Security?"

  "I've known for some time--as have Nervo, Martin, and some others--that el General de Division Manuel Frederico Obregon likes to think of himself as the Heinrich Himmler of Argentina," Peralta said. "Not the concentration camp Himmler, of course, but as the patriot rooting out godless Communists and other opponents of National Socialism wherever found. Rawson--and others; el Coronel Wattersly, for example--keep him on a pretty tight leash, which Schmidt would love to remove.

  "Rawson is a good man, but not very strong. He could be talked into resigning if he thought the alternative was civil war."

  "And Obregon would move into the Casa Rosada?"

  "More likely Pepe Ramirez--el General Pedro Pablo Ramirez--with Peron as his vice president. They get along pretty well, and nobody really likes Obregon."

  "Jesus Christ!" Clete said bitterly. "So, what do you want to do with the weapons to keep them out of Schmidt's hands?"

  "I think the best place for them is probably here. The Gendarmeria doesn't have any place to store them more securely than they are here. Inspector General Nervo left the decision to me, based on what I found here. And I can't fault your defense of Casa Montagna. What I have to try--try very hard--to do is keep you from having to defend it."

  "How are you going to do that?"

  "Well, Schmidt can't get here without using the roads, and the Gendarmeria owns the roads. We'll know immediately if--I think I should say when--he starts in this direction. You'll probably have two days'--maybe three or four--warning. And Inspector General Nervo will tell Wattersly and the others.

  "In the meantime, today we're going to spread the word that the Gendarmeria came here, found a small cache of weapons, and took them off your hands. So there's no reason for Schmidt to come looking for them. Maybe that will stop Schmidt. Maybe it won't."

  "And if it doesn't?"

  "The only thing I can tell you for sure, Don Cletus, is that if there is a civil war, the first battle will not be between Schmidt's Mountain Troops and the Gendarmeria."

  "But between Schmidt's Mountain Troops and Don Cletus Frade's ragtag little private army?"

  "I don't want that to happen either," Peralta said. "But--and this is not a recommendation or even a suggestion--if you could somehow stall Schmidt outside your gates, perhaps there would be time for Ejercito Argentino officers senior to Colonel Schmidt to come here and ask him what the hell he was doing. I think that maybe even hearing that this was about to happen would send Schmidt back to San Martin de los Andes."

  "Unless, of course," Nowicki said, "the Nazi bastard has decided--or been told--that now is the time to start the civil war."

  "Unless, of course, the Nazi bastard, on orders or on his own, wants to start a civil war," Peralta said.

  "How am I supposed to stall him at the gates?" Clete said.

  When he looked at Peralta, he saw that Stein was standing in the door waiting for permission to enter.

  "A mortar round or two, or several bursts from a .50-caliber machine gun, might do the trick," Peralta said. "I did not say that."

  Stein's eyebrows rose.

  "What have you got, Stein?" Clete asked.

  "We have just heard from Moses, Major. A graven message fresh from Mount Sinai."

  I suppose late is better than never.

  "Let's have it," Frade said.

  Stein walked to him and handed him Graham's message.

  "Oh, shit!" Clete said when he had read it.

  He looked around the room.

  Peralta looked at him curiously.

  "Let me ask a dumb question," Clete said. "Where is it that dead heroes go in the afterlife?"

  "Valhalla," Peralta said. "They are taken there by Valkyries."

  Okay, so you know.

  Captain Madison R. Sawyer III does not know, nor does Staff Sergeant/Major Sigfried Stein.

  What about Subinspector Estanislao Nowicki and Subinspector Navarro?

  From the looks on everybody's faces, nobody except Peralta has a clue.

  Dead heroes
in the afterlife? Valkyries? What the hell?

  Who am I fooling?

  I'm going to have to tell Sawyer and Stein; I really should have told them before. I promised everybody on Team Turtle there would be no secrets between us.

  And Subinspectors Navarro and Nowicki are going to ask Inspector Peralta what the hell is going on, and he's going to tell them.

  And what are my detailed orders from Mount Sinai?

  "Use your best judgment."

  "I would appreciate it if you listen carefully to this," Clete said.

  Everyone looked at him.

  "Senor Kortig and Senor Moller are German officers," Clete began. "Moller is an SS major who told me he believes any officer who violates his oath of personal allegiance to Adolf Hitler is a traitor--"

  "You brought a goddamn Nazi into Argentina?" Nowicki exploded.

  "Easy, Estanislao," Peralta said.

  Frade was nodding. "For reasons--good reasons--known to Inspector Peralta. He can explain them to you if he wishes later, but let me continue.

  "Kortig is a lieutenant colonel. He tells me that he is privy to a very important secret with the code name Valkyrie. He also told me that he was sent on this duty--ostensibly as a suboficial mayor--to keep an eye on Moller, who was sent here because he was getting too close to the Valkyrie secret." He paused, then asked, "Have I succeeded in confusing everybody?"

  "I will tell you what I can of this later," Peralta said to the Gendarmeria officers, then gestured to Frade. "Go on, please, Don Cletus."

  "What we know now is that Moller cannot be trusted."

  "If he can't be trusted, kill him," Nowicki said.

  "You and Enrico think alike," Clete said. "But right now that wouldn't be smart. There is another German officer here, another lieutenant colonel, who is privy to Valkyrie. I know about this man. If he recognizes Kortig, then Kortig can be trusted."

  "That's the South African?" Peralta asked. "The wine expert?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "I wondered about him."

  "How did you hear about him?" Frade said.

  "Subinspector Nowicki heard he was here. He asked me what to do. I asked Subinspector Nervo, who asked Colonel Martin, who asked Inspector General Nervo to back off. We backed off."

  "I'm glad you did."