Kurhotel Marburg
Marburg an der Lahn, Germany
0925 8 October 1945
There were four men in the enormous Horch touring car but only a driver in the Opel Admiral that followed the Horch up to the entrance of the Kurhotel.
Enrico Rodríguez was driving the Horch. Von Wachtstein sat beside him. Frade and Mattingly were in the back.
The driver of the Opel Admiral, Harold N. Wallace, was wearing an insignia-less uniform. Wallace was in fact a major of the Signal Corps, but functioning as a field officer of the Office of Strategic Services. He was present because Colonel Mattingly thought it possible that he or the car or both might prove useful in some unforeseeable circumstance.
The cars stopped before the entrance of the Kurhotel and everybody got out and marched inside.
“Harry, go in there,” Colonel Mattingly ordered, gesturing toward the dining room, “and order up breakfast for everybody plus two. Frau von Wachtstein has a CIC lieutenant sitting on her, and they’ll have to be fed, too. Tell the waiter to snap it up. We’re pressed for time.”
“Yes, sir,” Major Wallace said.
Mattingly marched to the reception desk, picked up the telephone, and ordered in perfect German that he be connected with Frau von Wachtstein.
—
Elsa picked up the telephone on the third ring, and to do so she had to lean across Jimmy, which movement caused her breast to brush his face. Jimmy took advantage of the situation by taking her nipple in his mouth.
“Hello?” she said.
“Frau von Wachtstein?”
“Yes.”
“This is Colonel Robert Mattingly, Frau von Wachtstein. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
Jimmy could hear the conversation, and let go of Elsa’s nipple.
“No, I was awake,” she said, meeting Jimmy’s eyes.
“I’m downstairs in the lobby, Frau von Wachtstein,” Mattingly said. “I realize this is rude, but we’re really pressed for time. How soon do you think you could come down?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Fine. I’ll explain what’s going to happen over breakfast.”
“That would be nice of you.”
“I don’t suppose you know where Lieutenant Cronley is at this hour?”
“Probably in his room. Next door.”
“Well, I’ll call him there.”
“I’ll call him. I can just knock on the connecting door. He’s a sound sleeper.”
“That would be fine,” Mattingly said. “I’ll expect you in ten minutes.”
Mattingly hung up and Elsa followed suit.
“Oh, shit!” Jimmy said.
“You knew this was going to happen,” Elsa said.
“That doesn’t make it any better.”
“It’s probably better. Quick.”
“Like having a tooth pulled?”
“Yes,” she said. “Get up and get dressed, sweet Jimmy.”
—
Elsa kissed him in the elevator.
“Write me,” he said. “Promise?”
“If I can.”
She’s not going to write me.
—
The elevator door slid open.
“Oh, my God!” Elsa suddenly said. “Hansel!”
“Am I glad to see you!” Hans-Peter von Wachtstein said, his voice breaking.
He put his arms around Elsa.
“You presumably are Lieutenant Cronley?” Colonel Mattingly asked.
“Yes, sir,” Jimmy said, then his eyes went to the others.
After a long moment, Jimmy said, “Don’t give me that funny look, Cletus. You’re the one wearing that ridiculous Mexican bus driver’s uniform! What the hell are you up to?”
“Jimmy!” Cletus Frade said. “You little sonofabitch!”
Mattingly looked between them.
“May I presume from that exchange, Colonel Frade, that you are acquainted with Lieutenant Cronley?”
Neither replied. They moved closer and hugged each other.
When they finally broke apart, Frade said, “Jimmy, this is Colonel Bob Mattingly of the OSS. Colonel, not that I wanted it this way, he happened to live next door, this is Jimmy Cronley, the next thing I have to a little brother.”
“He’s been corrupting my morals since I was in short pants, Colonel,” Cronley said.
Hans-Peter von Wachtstein then put in: “Elsa, this is my best friend, the best man at my wedding, Cletus Frade.”
“And godfather to his child,” Frade added, offering his hand. “Has my little brother been taking good care of you, Frau von Wachtstein?”
“Oh, yes,” Elsa said. “He’s been very kind and thoughtful. I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”
“Then thank you, Lieutenant,” Hans-Peter von Wachtstein said. “Thank you very much.”
“My pleasure,” Cronley said, suddenly aware of his choice of words.
“Into the dining room,” Mattingly ordered. “If you plan to take off before noon, Cletus, we’re running a little late.”
“Take off for where?” Cronley asked.
“Lieutenant, you don’t have the need to know,” Mattingly said, almost as a reflex action.
“Argentina,” Frade said.
Mattingly gave him a dirty look.
Frade was not cowed.
“I told you, Bob. He’s my little brother.”
“With a Top Secret security clearance and everything,” Cronley said.
“You’re not cleared for this, Lieutenant,” Mattingly snapped.
“What are you doing in Argentina, Clete?” Cronley pursued, ignoring Mattingly. “The last I heard you were flying Marine fighters on Guadalcanal. And what’s this ‘colonel’ business?”
“Bob, for Christ’s sake, he’s on our side,” Frade said.
“He also has a flip lip, and you’re as aware as I am, Colonel Frade, we can’t afford people with flip lips. Subject closed.”
“Sorry, Bob. But there’s a problem with that. I know Jimmy well enough to know that if I don’t tell him enough to satisfy him—and shut him up—he’s liable to open the whole can of worms. And that we can’t afford.”
“I’m telling you, Clete—all right, I’m ordering you—to tell him nothing.”
“The problem with that, Bob, is that you can’t give me orders. I work for Allen Dulles, not you. And Dulles gave me the authority to do just about whatever I want to do. And you know that.”
Cronley thought: What the hell is going on here?
Then Cronley looked at Elsa. She was following the confrontation with frightened eyes.
Her brother-in-law seemed to think it was funny.
Mattingly threw up his hands in disgusted resignation and glared at Cronley.
“Okay, Jimmy,” Frade said. “What I’m going to tell you is all that you’re going to get. Not subject to discussion. And you are to tell no one—including your commanding officer or anyone else—what you see or hear here. Understand?”
“Understand.”
“When I came back from Guadalcanal, I was recruited for the OSS and sent to Argentina. Did you know my father was an Argentine?”
“I heard something about it. Your grandfather certainly hated him.”
“That’s a long story, and there’s no time to get into it now. So we’ll leave it that I went to Argentina in 1942, and have been there ever since. Don’t ask me what I was doing during the war, or what I’m doing now. Colonel Mattingly is right about that—you don’t have the need to know.”
“Okay,” Jimmy said. “Whatever it was, you must have done it right. If you’re a colonel.”
“Lieutenant Colonel,” Frade said.
“What’s going to happen to . . . Frau von Wachtstein in Argentina?” Jimmy asked.
“Still the Boy Scout, are you, Jimmy?” Frade said, chuckling. “‘Let me help you across the street, Poor Little Old Lady’?”
“So what?”
“You’re talking to a senior officer, Lieutenant!” Mattingly sn
apped. “Watch your mouth!”
“Frau von Wachtstein will be well taken care of,” Frade said. “Hansel here”—he pointed to him—“and I became friends in Argentina. The circumstances are none of your business. He married an Argentine girl, who was sort of a daughter to my father. She’s my wife’s best friend.”
“You’re married?”
“With two children. Hansel and Alicia have one, a boy . . .”
“And yours?”
“Two boys,” Frade said. “Jimmy, the point of this is that Frau von Wachtstein will be part of the family. Hansel, his bride, and mine will see that she’s taken very good care of.”
“Good,” Jimmy said, looking at Elsa.
Jimmy thought he saw her tears forming.
“And that’s all you get, Jimmy,” Frade said. “Maybe sometime down the pike . . .”
“Yeah.”
Mattingly interjected: “You fully understand, I presume, Lieutenant, what Colonel Frade said, that you are to tell no one, no one, what you saw or were told?”
“You didn’t see any of us here, Jimmy,” Frade added, his tone deeply serious, “except Colonel Mattingly. Keep your mouth shut, Jimmy. It’s really important.”
“I got it,” Jimmy said.
“Well, let’s go have our breakfast,” Mattingly said.
“I don’t want any breakfast,” Jimmy blurted.
“Well, in that case, Lieutenant,” Mattingly said, “why don’t you go to Frau von Wachtstein’s room, bring her luggage down, and put it in my car? Then, you’re relieved of your duty here and can report to Major Connell for duty.”
“No,” Frade said, looking from Mattingly to Cronley. “Come have breakfast, Jimmy. We’ll send someone for Frau von Wachtstein’s luggage.”
“Please,” Elsa said softly.
Jimmy met her eyes, then nodded.
—
Fifteen minutes later, standing outside the Horch, Elsa kissed Jimmy on the cheek, and told him she would never forget how kind he had been to her.
Then she climbed in the Horch, and the others followed.
Jimmy, hands on hips, stood and watched as, tires spinning and throwing gravel, the Horch raced away with the Opel Admiral in pursuit.
[FIVE]
“You have a problem, Cronley?” Major Connell asked, waving him into his office.
“No, sir. Sir, Colonel Mattingly came to the Kurhotel this morning and took Frau von Wachtstein away.”
Connell waited for Cronley to go on. When he didn’t, Connell asked, not pleasantly, “Well, what happened?”
“Sir, I just told you. Colonel Mattingly took Frau von Wachtstein away and told me to report to you for duty.”
“Where did he take her?”
“Sir, I can’t tell you.”
“What do you mean, you can’t tell me?”
“Sir, Colonel Mattingly ordered me to tell no one anything I heard or saw at the hotel just now.”
“Certainly he didn’t mean to include me in the ‘no one’ category, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, Colonel Mattingly made it clear I was to tell no one, including you.”
“Did you have any problems with Frau von Wachtstein? Was she satisfied with the way you took care of her?”
“I believe she was, sir.”
“And Colonel Mattingly gave you no message to deliver to me?”
“No, sir. Except that I was to report back to you for duty.”
Connell studied Cronley for a long moment.
“If anything went wrong, Cronley, now is the time to tell me.”
“Nothing went wrong, sir.”
Connell nodded.
“Okay. You might as well go back on the roadblock.”
“Yes, sir. Now?”
“Yes, now, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
[SIX]
The Ministry of Labor and Welfare
Avenida Leandro N. Alem 650
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1405 8 October 1945
The building housing the Ministerio de Trabajo y Seguridad Social of the Argentine Republic was at the western end of Avenida 9 Julio, which was said to be the widest avenue in the world.
It was a large building, but not as large, luxurious, or impressive as the Edificio Libertador.
El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón—vice president, secretary of War, and secretary of Labor and Welfare of the Argentine Republic—maintained an office in the Labor Building, as well as offices in the Edificio Libertador and in the Casa Rosada.
Two identical Ejército Argentino Mercedes-Benz sedans and an Army Ford ton-and-a-half stake-bodied truck came up Avenida 9 Julio to the building. The first Mercedes stopped in front of the Labor Building. General de Brigada Eduardo Ramos and Capitán Ricardo Montenegro got out and stood on the sidewalk as if waiting for someone.
The second Mercedes and the truck—which carried twenty helmeted soldiers, each holding a Mauser rifle between his knees—turned into the alley beside the building, and then turned around so they faced Avenida 9 Julio.
When they had done so, a third Mercedes, a black sedan with civilian license plates, which had been parked on Avenida 9 Julio, started its engine and drove up behind the Mercedes stopped in front of the building.
A tall, fair-haired, light-skinned thirty-seven-year-old in the uniform of a general de brigada de caballería got out of his car and walked up to Ramos and Montenegro. He was Alejandro Bernardo Martín, chief of the Ethical Standards Office of the Argentine Ministry of Defense.
Montenegro saluted, and Ramos and Martín shook hands, somewhat stiffly.
Then the three of them entered the building, walked directly to the elevator bank, and went to the fifth floor, where the secretary of Labor and Welfare had his office. They walked down the corridor until they came to a lieutenant and a sergeant—obviously guards—sitting outside the office, but neither challenged them.
Ramos entered the outer office first. A secretary rose from behind her desk.
“Be so kind, señora,” Ramos ordered, “as to inform el Coronel Perón that Generals Ramos and Martín wish to see him.”
“Does the secretary expect you?”
“I don’t know,” Ramos said simply.
The woman went to the door, through it, closed it behind her, and then reappeared a moment later. She held the door open.
“The secretary will see you, gentlemen,” she said.
Ramos entered Perón’s office first, with Martín on his heels.
“Well, another unexpected pleasure,” Perón said, not rising from behind his desk. “We don’t often see you in uniform, General Martín.”
Martín ignored that, then announced: “Colonel Perón, by order of his Excellency, the President of the Argentine Republic, you are under arrest.”
“Et tu, Brutus?” Perón said to Ramos.
“For the love of God, Juan Domingo, don’t make this any more difficult than it already is.”
“What are the charges?” Perón asked.
“Violations of the Code of Honor of the officer corps of the Ejército Argentino,” Martín said. “You will be apprised of the specifics at a later time.”
“You knew this was coming,” Ramos said. “I warned you it was coming.”
“Colonel, I will require your sidearm,” Martín said.
“And, as soon as I draw it from my holster, will you—with the greatest reluctance, of course—shoot me for resisting arrest?”
“And I told you this was for your protection,” Ramos said. “You may yet get shot, Juan Domingo, but not by General Martín or me.”
Perón didn’t reply.
With exaggerated delicate motions to show he had no intention of grabbing the weapon, Perón took a gleaming Luger 9mm Parabellum pistol from a shiny, form-fitting black leather holster and, using only his thumb and forefinger, held it in front of him.
“Take that, Montenegro,” Martín ordered. “See to it that there is no round in the chamber and give it to me.”
&n
bsp; “That is a personal, rather than an issued, weapon,” Perón said. “It was a gift from el Coronel Jorge Frade. When we were at the Kriegsschule, we were given a tour of the Deutsche Waffen und Munitionsfabriken in Berlin. You remember, Eduardo?”
“I remember, Juan Domingo.”
“And they offered to sell us special Lugers, highly polished like that one, as presentation pieces.”
“And Jorge, who had been at the schnapps over lunch, said he would take a dozen,” Ramos said. “I remember. I have one just like that.”
“I wonder what happened to the others,” Perón said.
“They’re probably at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo,” Ramos said.
“The weapon is now safe, mi General,” Montenegro reported.
“Give it to General Ramos, please,” Martín said. “He can return it to el Coronel Perón when this issue is over.”
“An unexpected courtesy, General,” Perón said. “Thank you.”
“Colonel, I take no pleasure in this,” Martín said. “I am here at the direct personal order of the president.”
“Of course you are,” Perón said sarcastically.
“Colonel,” Martín then began, “we now come to the question of transporting you to your place of confinement—”
“Indeed?” Perón interrupted. “And where is that going to be?”
Martín ignored the question.
“Parked outside, next to the building,” Martín went on, “is a staff car in which are two officers, both senior to you. There is also a truck with a platoon of riflemen of the Patricios Infantry Regiment in it. One option is that I send for the officers and place you in their custody. They would then take you out of the building, visibly under arrest, and transport you to your place of confinement.
“The second option is that you give General Ramos and myself your parole. If you do that, you, General Ramos, and Capitán Montenegro can walk out the front door of this building and get into General Ramos’s staff car, giving the impression, I would suggest, that you are all going to lunch.”
“You would not, under your second option, be joining us for lunch?”
“Colonel, my orders from the president are to see you safely to your place of confinement.”
“My mysterious place of confinement, you mean?”
“For Christ’s sake, Juan Domingo,” Ramos flared. “Martín is going far out of his way to spare you the humiliation of being taken from here under arrest. If I have to tell you this—that would be all over the front pages of La Prensa and La Nacíon!”
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