Blood and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  ‘‘I have nothing to say to you,’’ Clete repeated, and started up the steps. Enrico was standing by the door.

  ‘‘I am here at the direction of Coronel Martín,’’ Delgano said softly.

  Clete turned and looked at him, then gestured toward the garden.

  Delgano walked down the red-gravel path until almost at the center of the garden, then stopped.

  ‘‘Martín sent you? You’re still working for him?’’

  Delgano did not reply directly, but the question was answered.

  ‘‘I would ask you to consider that people in our profession are sometimes required to do things that are personally repugnant, Mayor Frade. Your father, for whom I had the greatest respect, came to understand that I was, and am, a serving officer, carrying out my orders.’’

  ‘‘I thought you were supposed to be retired,’’ Clete challenged.

  Why am I talking to this sonofabitch?

  ‘‘And you are supposed to have been discharged from the Corps of Marines, mi Mayor.’’

  ‘‘What did Martín send you out here to say, Delgano?’’

  ‘‘I have been here all along, mi Mayor.’’

  Clete’s surprise, or disbelief, showed on his face.

  ‘‘Your father reemployed me a week after you went to the United States,’’ Delgano said. ‘‘At the request of Coronel Martín, after your father understood that Coronel Martín had allied himself with the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos. ’’

  That’s what Enrico meant when he said ‘‘Martín is now one of us.’’

  ‘‘What’s on your mind, Capitán?’’

  ‘‘I have two missions,’’ Delgano said, ‘‘which should make you believe me. The first is to provide any protection I can for your man Ettinger against the German problem.’’

  ‘‘How will you do that?’’

  ‘‘If you will let me know when he leaves the estancia, I will see that he is not alone,’’ Delgano said. ‘‘The more notice you can give me, of course, the better. The second is to deal with the problem of the aircraft you wish to import. We have to reach an understanding about the airplane. ’’

  He could have heard about the assassination order someplace else, but the only place he could have heard about the airplane is from Martín.

  ‘‘What’s the understanding? That every time I get in it, you’re my copilot?’’

  Delgano smiled.

  ‘‘I’m sure our mutual friend would like that, and I am equally sure he realizes that would not be possible,’’ he said. ‘‘My orders are to assist you in bringing the airplane here from Brazil, on condition that you teach me how to fly it, and that the airplane be placed at Coronel Martín’s disposal at a time he has specified—he has a three-day period in mind.’’

  What the hell is that all about? OK!

  ‘‘In case OUTLINE BLUE goes wrong? To take certain people out of the country in a hurry?’’

  Delgano held up both hands, palms outward, and shrugged.

  What did I expect him to say?

  ‘‘Are those conditions acceptable, mi Mayor?’’

  Clete nodded.

  ‘‘Then let’s try to bring the airplane here,’’ Delgano said. ‘‘Where is it now?’’

  ‘‘Somewhere in Brazil.’’

  ‘‘You don’t know where?’’

  Clete shook his head, ‘‘no.’’

  ‘‘But you can find out? We’ll need to know that.’’

  ‘‘I can find out.’’

  ‘‘The scheme is to put the registration numbers of the stagger-wing on the new plane. And then to change the fuselage serial number—and the number of engines—on the Argentine registration documents. The numbers can be put on here, or where the aircraft is now. The question then becomes how to fly the aircraft from where it is in Brazil to an airfield in Argentina. That airfield will obviously depend on where the aircraft is in Brazil and its range.’’

  ‘‘Changing the registration papers will be that easy?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know how easy, but I’m sure Coronel Martín can arrange it.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know the stagger-wing’s numbers.’’

  Delgano reached in his pocket and handed him a slip of paper.

  ‘‘If it could be done, it would be helpful to have the aircraft painted the same color—which I understand is called ‘Beechcraft Stagger-wing Red.’ ’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Let me look into that.’’

  Delgano put out his hand.

  Clete looked at it.

  ‘‘The sooner this can be done, the better,’’ Delgano said. ‘‘Can I tell Coronel Martín that I expect to hear from you soon?’’

  ‘‘We’re about to have a revolution, are we?’’ Clete asked.

  Then he took Delgano’s hand.

  ‘‘I really didn’t expect you to answer that,’’ he said, then turned and walked away from Delgano.

  Enrico was standing at the entrance to the path through the garden.

  ‘‘Why didn’t you tell me Delgano was here?’’ Clete asked.

  ‘‘You didn’t ask me,’’ Enrico replied.

  [TWO] Office of the Director The Office of Strategic Services Washington, D.C. 0830 13 April 1943

  ‘‘This came in overnight, Bill,’’ Colonel A. F. Graham, USMCR, said to OSS Director William J. Donovan, and laid a large manila envelope on his desk. ‘‘I thought you better have a look at it.’’

  Donovan took the manila envelope, removed from it a slightly smaller white envelope stamped TOP SECRET in large letters, from that took two sheets of neatly typed paper, and then started to read them.

  To judge by his expression, his initial reaction was not favorable.

  TOP SECRET

  LINDBERGH

  URGENT

  FROM STACHIEF AGGIE 1605 GREENWICH 12APR43

  MSG NO 0002

  TO ORACLE WASHDC

  EYES ONLY FOR DDWHO GRAHAM

  1. IN RE LINDBERGH.a. RELIABLE SOURCE (HEREAFTER GALAHAD) REPORTS REINE DE LA MER REPLACEMENT IS SPANISH REGISTERED COMERCIANTE DEL OCÉANO PACÍFICO (HEREAFTER GROCERYTWO) EN ROUTE ARGENTINA CARRYING LARGE AMOUNTS OF MONEY AND VALUABLES (UNCONFIRMABLE FIGURE 100 REPEAT 100 MILLION DOLLARS) PURPOSE ACQUIRING SAFE HAVEN FOR FUNDS AND/OR ACQUIRING REAL ESTATE FOR POSSIBLE POSTWAR HAVEN FOR SENIOR NAZIS. INVESTIGATING.

  b. POSSIBILITY EXISTS LINDBERGH RANSOM FUNDS INTENDED FOR SAME PURPOSE. INVESTIGATING.

  ‘‘There he goes again,’’ Donovan said.

  ‘‘Excuse me?’’

  ‘‘Another unidentified ‘reliable’ source. Who the hell is ‘Galahad’?’’

  ‘‘He doesn’t say,’’ Graham said.

  Donovan ran his eyes down the rest of the message.

  ‘‘And he hasn’t identified the other one, ‘Cavalry,’ either. You did ask for that information, didn’t you?’’

  ‘‘Yes, I did.’’

  ‘‘Do you think he forgot to send it?’’ Donovan asked sarcastically. ‘‘I would hate to think he’s ignoring you, Alex.’’

  ‘‘Frade may have his reasons.’’

  ‘‘For example?’’

  ‘‘It comes immediately to my mind that he doesn’t want the others on the team to know the identities of these people in case they find themselves interrogated.’’

  ‘‘And what if something happens to Frade and nobody else knows who Cavalry or Galahad are? They would then be lost to us.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure he’s considered that.’’

  ‘‘And decided not to tell you?’’

  Graham nodded. ‘‘That’s possible. Maybe even likely. I think I have to give Frade the benefit of the doubt on something like this.’’

  ‘‘You understand the implications of that ‘safe haven,’ Alex?’’

  ‘‘It suggests someone high up in Berlin isn’t quite as sure of the ‘Final Victory’ as they would have people believe? ’’

  ‘‘I’d like to go to the President with this safe haven business, but
I’m not doing that on the basis of a ‘reliable source’ without a name.’’

  ‘‘I’ll ask him again,’’ Graham said.

  ‘‘No. You will tell him again.’’

  They locked eyes for a long moment, then Graham shrugged.

  ‘‘You’re the boss,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Yes, I am,’’ Donovan said, and resumed reading.

  ‘‘Are you going to the President with the name of the German vessel?’’ Graham asked.

  ‘‘If we board, much less sink, a Spanish ship on the high seas,’’ Donovan said, visibly annoyed at the interruption, ‘‘we’ll have to have a more reliable source than somebody we know only as ‘Galahad.’ No. I’m not going to the President with that.’’

  ‘‘The Comerciante del Océano Pacífico is one of the ships on our list,’’ Graham said.

  ‘‘You’re not listening, Alex. We need to know who Galahad is, how he came by this information, and why he’s telling us. Now, can I finish reading this, please?’’

  2. IN RE AIRCRAFT: REQUIREMENTS TO MOVE AIRCRAFT HERE FOLLOW:a. ENTIRE AIRCRAFT IS TO BE PAINTED IN COLOR KNOWN AS BEECHCRAFT STAGGER WING RED.

  b. REGISTRATION NUMBERS Z DASH 5 8 4 3 REPEAT Z DASH 5 8 4 3 ARE TO BE PAINTED1. EIGHT INCH BLACK BLOCK LETTERS ON OUTWARD FACING SURFACES VERTICAL STABILIZERS APPROXIMATELY ONE FOOT FROM TOP.

  2. TWENTY-FOUR INCH BLACK BLOCK LETTERS CENTERED ON TOP SURFACE RIGHT WING

  3. AS (2) ABOVE EXCEPT UNDER SURFACE LEFT WING

  c. LOCATION OF AIRFIELD FROM WHICH COVERT TAKEOFF PREFERABLY IN HOURS OF DARKNESS CAN BE MADE. WOULD APPRECIATE ONE HOUR OF COCKPIT FAMILIARIZATION AND TOUCH AND GOES.

  d. AIRCRAFT SHOULD BE AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY ON ARRIVAL OF UNDERSIGNED AT AIRFIELD THEREFORE WILL NEED NAME OF 24 HOURADAY CONTACT OFFICER WITH AUTHORITY TO TRANSFER AIRCRAFT TO UNDERSIGNED AND CLEAR COVERT TAKEOFF.

  e. WILL REQUIRE 48 TO 72 HOURS FROM RECEIPT YOUR NOTIFICATION FOR TRAVEL TO AIRFIELD. URGE SOONEST POSSIBLE ACTION YOUR PART.

  STACHIEF END

  TOP SECRET

  LINDBERGH

  ‘‘Well, it looks as if he’s figured out how to take the airplane into Argentina, doesn’t it?’’ Donovan asked. ‘‘Can we handle what he wants, painting it?’’

  ‘‘That shouldn’t pose a problem,’’ Graham said.

  ‘‘He wants it painted. Painted red. ‘Beechcraft Staggerwing Red.’ That’s a color? What the hell’s that all about?’’

  ‘‘I have no idea. But I’m sure he has his reasons.’’

  ‘‘Wait a minute, ‘‘ Donovan said. ‘‘There was something about that airplane!’’

  ‘‘What about it?’’

  ‘‘Helen!’’ Donovan raised his voice. ‘‘Can you lay your hands on the file about that airplane we sent to Brazil, Direction of the President?’’

  Donovan’s middle-aged but still very attractive secretary laid a file folder stamped TOP SECRET on his desk two minutes later. Donovan flipped through it quickly.

  ‘‘Yeah, I knew there was something,’’ he said, a slight triumphant tone in his voice. ‘‘It was not a Beechcraft. They couldn’t come up with a Beechcraft on such short notice.’’

  ‘‘And?’’

  ‘‘When we asked the goddamned Air Corps for an airplane, they said they could give us a C-45. We said fine. Then they said they couldn’t give us a C-45, after all, how about a C-56?"

  ‘‘What’s a C-56?" Graham asked. ‘‘I can’t keep those model numbers straight.’’

  ‘‘The Air Corps man I asked,’’ Helen offered, ‘‘said they were about the same thing. Both twin-engine small transports. ’’

  ‘‘How small?’’ Donovan asked. ‘‘Compared to the C-47, for example?’’

  ‘‘Smaller,’’ Helen said. ‘‘The Air Corps man, I can’t think of his name offhand, he was a brigadier general, it should be in there somewhere, said they were both smaller than the C-47."

  ‘‘Is that a problem?’’ Graham asked.

  ‘‘Not for me, Alex,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘For you. You’ll have to find this Air Corps general’s name, and then, without telling him why, tell him he has to arrange for the Air Corps in Brazil to paint this C-56, or whatever the hell it is, fire-engine red, and then have somebody available around the clock down there who can show Frade how to fly it. But you can’t, of course, tell him who Frade is, when he’s showing up, or where he’s going with the airplane. Good luck!’’

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ Graham said, chuckling.

  ‘‘I’m not really trying to be funny,’’ Donovan said. ‘‘After we go through all this, how do we know that Frade can really fly this airplane? Have you considered that?’’

  ‘‘He’s a Marine aviator, Bill,’’ Graham said. ‘‘Of course he can fly it!’’

  ‘‘Oh, God!’’ Donovan groaned. ‘‘Get out of here, Alex, and let me do some work.’’

  [THREE] Above Nueva Helvecia Uruguay 1105 13 April 1943

  Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein turned and looked into the backseat of the Storch to see if Standartenf ührer Josef Goltz was awake.

  He was. He was wearing a gray flight suit, a coverall-like garment that he had reluctantly crawled into at La Palomar airfield an hour and a half before. He had earphones on his head.

  Peter gestured with his hand out the window and down. When he saw that Goltz was looking at the small town under their right wing, he picked up his microphone.

  ‘‘New Switzerland, Herr Standartenführer,’’ Peter said.

  It took Goltz some time to locate his microphone and push its transmit button.

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘New Switzerland, Herr Standartenführer,’’ Peter repeated. ‘‘They call it Nueva Helvecia. A little further up the river, there is Nueva Berlin.’’

  Goltz did not seem grateful for this recitation of travel lore.

  ‘‘How far to Montevideo?’’ Goltz asked impatiently.

  ‘‘Approximately fifty-minutes, Herr Standartenführer,’’ Peter replied, then gave in to the impulse and added, ‘‘unless we pick up some more headwinds, which may delay us another twenty minutes or so.’’

  There were no headwinds. Peter had invented them for the same reason he’d made a full-flaps, full-power takeoff from La Palomar, which he knew would cause an unpleasant sinking feeling in the Herr Standartenführer’s stomach. Likewise, whenever he’d glanced in the rear seat and noticed that the Herr Standartenführer was about to doze off, he’d made sudden small attitude and directional changes that he knew would wake him up.

  We would be touching down right about now at Carrasco, Schiesskopf, if you hadn’t insisted we fly the overland route.

  He’d taken off from La Palomar and headed north— Montevideo was to the east. Avoiding the Restricted Zone around Campo de Mayo, he’d flown over El Tigre and the Delta, then turned east and crossed the Río Uruguay into Uruguay, south of a small town called Carmelo.

  ‘‘Have we sufficient fuel?’’ Goltz asked.

  Peter looked at the fuel gauges and did the mental arithmetic. They had at least two hours to make the airfield at Carrasco, ten miles or so east of Montevideo.

  ‘‘I’m sure we’ll make it all right, Herr Standartenf ührer,’’ Peter said with what he hoped was a detectable lack of conviction in his voice. ‘‘But there’s nothing to worry about, Herr Standartenführer. I can set this thing down almost anywhere, on the road or in a field.’’

  He then picked up his chart and studied it carefully— and wholly unnecessarily. He was going to use Uruguay’s Route Nacionale Number One, below him, to find Montevideo. But with a little bit of luck, Herr Schiesskopf might think they were lost.

  When he lined up with the one paved runway of Carrasco’s airfield, it occurred to Peter that this was the ninth time he had been to Uruguay. But it would be the first time—Goltz said he was going to spend the night—that he would be able to see more of it than the airport.

  Most of his previous flights had been to deliver or
pick up a diplomatic pouch or other correspondence between the Embassy in Buenos Aires and the German Embassy here. There had been only a few passengers. Most of the Embassy staff of sufficient importance to have access to the Storch preferred the comfort of the overnight ship to Montevideo to the un-upholstered backseat of the Storch. Always before, Peter had landed at Carrasco, turned over or picked up his cargo, refueled, and flown back to Buenos Aires.

  The Condor Dieter von und zu Aschenburg had flown in on Friday carried a pouch for the German Embassy in Montevideo. Ordinarily, Peter would have flown it across the river the same day; but Gradny-Sawz’s insistence that Peter attend the services for Oberst Frade had delayed that until today. That pouch was now under Goltz’s seat. And tomorrow, when he returned to Buenos Aires, he would almost certainly have a pouch—two or more pouches, he hoped, heavy ones that he could look at with great concern as Goltz watched—to take to Buenos Aires and put aboard the Condor when it returned to Germany tomorrow afternoon.

  He taxied to the terminal, and Uruguayan Customs and Immigration officers came out to the plane. There was no problem. They had diplomatic status and were immune to all local laws.

  ‘‘Your orders, Herr Standartenführer?’’ Peter asked as he waited for Goltz to take off the flight suit.

  ‘‘What do you normally do, von Wachtstein?’’

  ‘‘Ordinarily, Herr Standartenführer, I exchange packages with whoever comes out here from the Embassy, refuel the aircraft, and fly back to Buenos Aires.’’

  ‘‘So you will need someplace to stay tonight, is that it?’’

  ‘‘Oberst Grüner suggested I stay at the Casino Hotel here in Carrasco, Herr Standartenführer.’’

  ‘‘And the diplomatic pouch, what do you plan to do with that?’’

  ‘‘Ordinarily, Herr Standartenführer, someone from the Embassy is here to take it off my hands.’’

  ‘‘I wish I had given thought to that damned pouch before this,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘Arranged for someone to meet you here.’’

  ‘‘Is there a problem, Herr Standartenführer?’’

  ‘‘I hadn’t planned to visit the Embassy. My business here is with the Security Officer of the Embassy, an old friend. My plan was to conduct our business at his home, and then spend the night with him.’’