The Honor of Spies

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

  "And that, since he just happened to be driving that way anyway, he thought I might want to take a look at it."

  "Could be one of two things," Nervo said. "Holy Mother Church might want to dump a hotel they own that's not making them enough money--or is termite-infested--on a gringo with money, or our wily Jesuit is being accommodating to this Gehlen fellow, for good reasons of his own that I can't even guess at."

  "Well, since real-estate appraisal is not among my many other skills, I gave Kortig a pistol and sent Pablo Alvarez . . ."

  "The estancia manager?" Martin asked. "Apparently, he knows what's going on and can be trusted?"

  Frade nodded, and picked up the rest: ". . . with him to have a look at the hotel in Bariloche, and at other properties on the way. Pablo has friends all over this part of Argentina."

  "Who wouldn't be surprised if he was quietly buying property for a friend of yours?" Martin asked.

  "Yeah," Clete said.

  "You gave Kortig a pistol?" Nervo asked.

  "He asked for one, and I gave him one," Frade replied. "There are people who don't like people who like Valkyries. He wanted to be able to defend himself. That sounded reasonable to me."

  "He gave me one, too, General," Fischer said. "For the same reason."

  Nervo's eyebrow rose, but he didn't say anything.

  "Where's the other German?" Martin asked.

  "Well, I didn't give that Nazi sonofabitch a pistol," Frade replied. "If I did, once he finds out--if he doesn't already know--how my grape expert rides around with the Valkyries, he would be duty bound to use it on him. I've got him under sort of house arrest; I don't know what the hell else to do with him."

  "Just don't let him get loose," Nervo said.

  "I hope he doesn't try to get away. I told him if he or his wife tried, I'd shoot both of them. I don't want him calling my bluff."

  Nervo looked as if he was about to reply, then stopped and said: "I was telling you about the dinner party Schmidt gave for some of his officers and the Schencks. According to Martin's guy, they toasted El Presidente, and then the Fuhrer, as Schmidt stood before the Argentine flag and a swastika. . . ."

  "What did you say about von Deitzberg accusing me of ordering my father's murder?"

  "Senor Schenck gave a little speech, winding it up with saying what great pleasure it was going to give him to do his duty executing not only the Froggers and Sturmbannfuhrer von Tresmarck for treason, but also the even more despicable Milton Leibermann for encouraging the Froggers to desert, and the most despicable of all, the evil Don Cletus Frade, who, when he failed to turn his father into a traitor, ordered his murder and promptly placed all Frade assets in the hands of international Jewry."

  "That's absolutely disgusting!" Dona Dorotea exclaimed. "They believed that?"

  "Everybody but Martin's guy," Nervo said.

  "Are you going to warn Leibermann?" Clete asked.

  "For the foreseeable future, Milton is going to be under close BIS surveillance to make sure he does nothing against the interests of the Argentine Republic," Martin said, and chuckled, and added, "And just as soon as I get back to Buenos Aires, I'll explain to him what it's all about."

  "Tell him what you told me," Nervo said, and then went on without giving Martin a chance to reply: "He said it would be good training for his agents; that Senor Milton is better at escaping from surveillance than anyone he's ever known."

  "You think von Deitzberg will try to assassinate Leibermann?" Clete asked.

  "Actually, no. He'd have to do it in Buenos Aires, either himself or using some German from the embassy. I really don't think our assassination professionals would be available. Both Martin and I have gotten the word to them that the season on Americans is closed. And you and Enrico removed three of the best of them from their rolls.

  "But is von Deitzberg going to try to assassinate you and the Froggers? Oh, yes. Even if he has to do it himself. When he went to Bariloche, he took with him the SS officer in charge of the SS people who were on the submarine. In private conversation after the dinner, Martin's guy said von Deitzberg was talking about the similarities between 'rescuing' someone from Casa Montagna and the rescue of Mussolini from that mountain in Italy. He said the SS officer--his name is Schafer, Hauptsturmfuhrer Sepp Schafer--had gleams of glory in his eyes. He sees a chance for him to become the Otto Skorzeny of South America. What I think Schafer is going to do is reconnoiter this place."

  "If he does, can I shoot him?"

  "I'm just a simple . . ."

  "Yeah, I know. Senor Simple Policeman. Answer the question."

  "They would just send somebody else. If you don't shoot him, then they will think they will have the element of surprise."

  "And they won't?"

  "It's about fifteen hundred kilometers from San Martin to here," Nervo said. "The rule of thumb for a motor convoy is an average of thirty-five kilometers per hour. That's about forty-three hours. Even pushing--say they try to drive fourteen hours a day--that's three days . . ."

  "Gee, I didn't know simple policemen could do that kind of figuring in their heads," Clete said.

  Nervo smiled and shook his head. ". . . and what Martin and I have been doing is arranging to stretch that time a little. The convoy is going to have to take detours along primitive roads; they will have to wait while bridge repairs are accomplished. They may even find that twenty-kilo barrels of nails have been spilled onto the roads at various places by careless carpenters, requiring the time-consuming repair of truck tires. . . ."

  "Oh, mi general, you're evil!" Clete said.

  "Thank you. Coming from a patricidal assassin such as yourself, I consider that a great compliment."

  "I can't believe you two!" Martin said.

  "Neither can I," Dona Dorotea said.

  "I estimate," General Nervo said, "that from the time they leave San Martin--and we will learn that the moment they do--you will have at least four days, and possibly five, before they come knocking at your gate.

  "At the very least, that should give us time to get el Coronel Wattersly from Buenos Aires to (a) best, Bariloche, or (b) last-ditch defense, here, where he can step into the road and ask el Coronel Schmidt where the hell does he think he's going without the permission of the General Staff of the Ejercito."

  "Which may get him shot," Clete said.

  "Indeed. But that's the best I can do right now. I have to repeat what I told you a while ago, Cletus. If there is to be a civil war, the first battle will not be between the 10th Mountain Regiment and the Gendarmeria Nacional."

  "Understood," Clete said. "Thank you, Santiago."

  General Nervo made a Don't be silly gesture.

  "What time did you say the plane will be here?" Clete asked.

  "It should be here now," Martin said. "Delgano said that the earlier we get on it, the better we'll be."

  "Go pack your bags, darling," Clete said to Dorotea.

  "I beg pardon?"

  "You are going with the nice policeman . . ."

  "I am not."

  ". . . who is going to take you from Aeropuerto Jorge Frade in that Buick of his to the Hospital Britanico, where your condition will be evaluated. Depending on that evaluation, you will either stay in what will be the best-guarded room in the Hospital Britanico, or go to the house on Libertador, or your mother's house--your choice--which will look like the site of a Gendarmeria convention."

  "I am not," Dorotea said.

  "Dona Dorotea, I am old enough to be your father," Nervo said. "Listen to your husband. Listen to me."

  "Dorotea--" Martin began.

  "Listen to me," Dorotea interrupted him. "I'm the one about to have this child. I don't know exactly when that will happen. But I do know that if I got in a car and rode down the hill on that bumpy road toward the airport, you would have to take me directly to the Convent Hospital instead. And if that didn't happen and I were insane enough to get onto an airplane, I would have this baby at ten thousand feet over the pampas. I don't wan
t to try that, thank you just the same. Thank you all for your kind interest. Discussion closed."

  With a great effort, Dona Dorotea hoisted herself out of her chair.

  "Have a nice flight," she said. "Give my regards to Capitan Delgano."

  Then she walked back into the house.

  [FIVE]

  Departamento 5B

  Arenales 1623

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  1835 15 October 1943

  El Coronel Juan Domingo Peron crossed the apartment and opened the door to the elevator landing. He was wearing his uniform. But his tie was pulled down and the tunic unbuttoned, revealing worn baggy braces that had seen long service. He obviously had been drinking.

  SS-Brigadefuhrer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg stood there.

  As Peron offered his hand, he said, "A pleasant surprise, Manfred. I wondered why I hadn't heard from you."

  "But you knew I was here?"

  Peron closed the door to the apartment.

  "Cranz told me you were coming, and how," Peron said. "And also that von Gradny-Sawz had told him he'd bought you a car and that you had driven out to San Martin de los Andes to see our friend Schmidt. What was that all about?"

  "You're always one step ahead of me, aren't you, Juan Domingo?"

  "I try to stay that way."

  "Never travel by submarine, Juan Domingo. I am still recovering."

  "What was that all about?" Peron asked. "Why didn't you fly on the Condor? Why all the secrecy?"

  "So far as the submarine is concerned, the Fuhrer himself wanted to know if that transport system will actually work if needed. . . ."

  "Things don't seem to be going very well in the war, do they?"

  "As a senior officer, I cannot agree with you. That would constitute defeatist talk. As a friend, in confidence between us, that's an understatement. You heard the Americans are in Naples?"

  Peron nodded.

  "And things aren't going too well in the east either," von Deitzberg said. "Anyway, I was the guinea pig to check out transportation by submarine. It was a long, long voyage."

  "And driving all the way to San Martin de los Andes to see Schmidt?"

  "Well, there were two reasons for that. The first was that I wanted to check on our Operation Phoenix properties out there. . . ."

  "And the second?"

  "Reichsfuhrer-SS Himmler himself told me to do something nice for you, and Schmidt has been working on that for me."

  "What would doing something nice for me entail, exactly?" Peron asked suspiciously.

  "The Reichsfuhrer wants you to know how much we appreciate all that you have done for us," von Deitzberg said.

  "And?"

  "How about a nine-room villa on two hundred and fifty hectares on the shore of Lake Nahuel Huapi in Bariloche? Does that sound nice to you?"

  "It sounds like something I would have a hard time explaining."

  "We'll talk about it. Believe me, Juan Domingo, it can all be handled with the greatest discretion."

  "Discretion is very important," Peron said. "And speaking of which, there's someone I want you to meet. And here discretion is really the watchword."

  Peron put his index finger below his left eye, closed the right eye, and then pulled down the loose flesh below his left eye.

  He pulled the door open and waved von Deitzberg into the apartment.

  Von Deitzberg thought: What's this? I am about to be introduced to his latest conquest from the cradle?

  Peron gestured at a line of liquor bottles.

  "A little of that Johnnie Walker would go down nicely, thank you very much," von Deitzberg said.

  Peron made the drinks, and as he was handing one to von Deitzberg a not-unattractive blond woman walked into the room and smiled a little uneasily at them.

  This one's not thirteen! She has to be at least eighteen.

  Eighteen, hell! She's twenty-four, twenty-five, trying to look like she's eighteen.

  Who the hell is she?

  "Evita," Peron said, "say hello to my good friend Manfred."

  "It is always a pleasure to meet any acquaintance of el Coronel," the young blonde said.

  "I am enchanted, senorita," von Deitzberg said.

  "I didn't catch the name, senor," Evita said.

  "My name is Jorge Schenck, senorita."

  "I thought el Coronel just said your name is Manfred," Evita said.

  "What this is, my dear," Peron explained, "is state business. That's not his real name, and you've never seen him."

  "Oh!" Evita said. "It's like that, is it?"

  Peron repeated the earlier gesture, this time closing his left eye and pulling the skin below the right eye down with his finger.

  "Might one guess that you're not a Porteno, Senor Schenck?"

  "Only if you call me Jorge," von Deitzberg said. "Actually, I live in Rio Negro. Outside Bariloche. I'm what they call an 'ethnic German.' I'm a German who now calls Argentina his home."

  "And what, if one may inquire, do you do in Bariloche?"

  She talks very strangely, stiltedly formal. What the hell is that all about?

  "Well, I have a number of business interests--May I call you Evita, senorita?"

  "Of course you may, Jorge."

  "I'm glad you raised the question, Evita. Among my interests is real estate. I've come to see Juan Domingo about a property in which I think he will be interested."

  "What's that all about?" Evita asked.

  "Well, as I'm sure you can appreciate, Evita, a man in Juan Domingo's position here in Buenos Aires is always in the public eye. Sometimes that's bothersome."

  "Absolutely," Peron agreed. "Just between us and the wallpaper, just before you came, Manfred, I was explaining to Evita . . . again, I have to say . . . why we have to be careful where we are seen together. I have a number of enemies."

  "You also have a lot of friends, including this one, Juan Domingo," von Deitzberg said. "And all of us are sympathetic to your problem."

  "You see, Evita?" Peron said. "That's just what I was telling you."

  "Sometimes I get the idea you're ashamed of me," she said more than a little petulantly.

  "Don't be silly," Peron said. "What you should know, Man . . . Jorge, is that Evita herself is in the public eye. She is a radio actress on Radio Belgrano."

  "Oh, really?" von Deitzberg said. "I should have guessed. You have a lovely voice, Evita."

  "Why, thank you."

  "So when we go out to dinner, there is usually someone who sees us and says to their friends, 'Oh, look, there's Evita Duarte, the radio actress, out with some officer.' Or: 'Oh, look at the beautiful blonde with el Coronel Peron.' Or, worst of all: 'Oh, look, there's that beautiful blond radio actress Evita Duarte out with the Secretary of Labor, el Coronel Peron.' "

  "It's really not that bad, sweetheart," Evita said. "And it's the price you just have to pay for being prominent."

  "Sweetheart"? Suspicion confirmed.

  Maybe it's finally occurred to him that there would be objections to a president known to have an affinity for adolescent girls.

  This may go easier than I thought it would.

  "Well, all I know is that it's a problem even for someone like me," von Deitzberg said. "Who is not in the public eye. Just between us and the wallpaper, I have a lady friend, and we have the same problem."

  "You're married, Jorge, is that what you're saying?" Evita asked.

  "We haven't lived together for some time," von Deitzberg said. "It just didn't work out, and then it turned nasty. We can't go to dinner anywhere in Buenos Aires. My lady friend and I, I mean. If we do, my wife hears about it by breakfast and--Well, you can imagine."

  "I understand," Evita said sympathetically. "So what do you do?"

  "We do what I came here to suggest to Juan Domingo--and this was, of course, before I had the pleasure of your acquaintance, Evita--that he seriously consider doing himself."

  "Which is?" Peron asked.

  "Have a vacation retreat in Bar
iloche," von Deitzberg said. "And I think I have found just the place for you. For you both."

  "Oh, really?" Evita said.

  "I left my briefcase by the door," von Deitzberg said. "Let me go get it."

  "Well, there it is," von Deitzberg said, pointing to a dozen or more large photographs laid out on Peron's dining room table. "Estancia Puesta de Sol, two hundred and fifty hectares on the shore of Lake Nahuel Huapi. A nine-room villa, plus servants' quarters, with most of the land in forest. Harvestable forest. What do you think, Juan Domingo?"

  "I love it," Evita said. "Oh, sweetheart!"

  I should have been a real-estate salesman.

  "Again between us and the wallpaper, I'm a little strapped for cash," Peron said.

  "That's not a problem," Von Deitzberg said. "I took title to this place when it came on the market, and your credit is good enough with me."

  Peron obviously was trying to come up with the words to squirm out of it.

  "But this is something you would want to consider at your leisure," von Deitzberg said. "Not just jump into."

  "Yes, I would agree with that," Peron said. "Haste does make waste."

  "So what I would suggest you and Evita do is go have a look at it."

  "I'd love to," Evita said.

  "How would we do that?" Peron quickly objected. "It's three days by train out there. If we only spent a day there, we'd be gone a week. I don't have the time for that."

  "And eight hours by air," von Deitzberg said. "I know because I just came back to Buenos Aires by air."

  "Really?" Evita asked.

  "South American Airways now flies there twice a day, with a stop at San Martin de los Andes," von Deitzberg said. "The morning flight leaves Aeropuerto Jorge Frade at eight-thirty."

  "You're not suggesting we do this tomorrow?" Peron asked, incredulous.

  "Oh, darling, why not?" Evita said. "I'm so sick of this dreadful little apartment. And I've never flown. Please?"

  "I'm not sure we could get seats on such short notice," Peron said.

  Evita said what von Deitzberg was thinking: "Of course you can. You're on the board of directors of SAA. They'll find seats for us. Will your lady friend be going, too, Jorge?"

  "Yes, of course. I think you'll like each other."