Empire and Honor

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Empire and Honor Page 22

by W. E. B Griffin


  “I realized this would be difficult—virtually impossible—for several reasons, including that I hadn’t yet found a solution to get the dossiers of these scoundrels Colonel Frade asked for to Argentina.

  “The problem, as I’m sure you all have realized, was twofold. First of all, the dossiers should really never leave our control, even to accommodate Colonel Frade. All we can do in this situation is make new files from the material you pluck from General Gehlen’s originals.

  “The only way around this problem would be if we had the capability to copy all of USFET G-2’s, and General Gehlen’s, files. And there is no such capability. Right?”

  “No, there is not,” Dunwiddie said with finality. “Maybe we could use the Corps of Engineers’ blueprint machines. That’s sort of a photocopy. But that would take forever.”

  “It would take forever,” Mattingly agreed. “And if we made copies using the Army’s ‘Certified True Copy’ procedure—typing everything, or hand-drawing maps, et cetera, and then having each page signed by a commissioned officer swearing on his honor as an officer and a gentleman that the page is a true copy—that would not only take forever, but I doubt if General Martín would be very impressed with that, even if signed by our very own Second Lieutenant Cronley.”

  He paused long enough to let that sink in, and then said, “Two days ago, I somewhat reluctantly attended a briefing in the Farben building. It was presented by the Signal Corps Intelligence Service. That is the official euphemism for the unit charged with seeing what of a technical nature can be stolen from one’s defeated enemy.

  “They demonstrated a number of devices, including a gadget that permits recording on wire. It is fascinating. I requisitioned three of these devices, and when Major Wallace and I are finished playing with them—Wallace is, you will recall, Signal Corps and presumably knows how to deal with such things—we will send one here for your edification and amusement.

  “The last device they showed us was at the very end of their presentation—so late that it was only by the grace of God that I was still awake, proving once again that the Lord looks fondly upon the pure in heart. You may wish to write that down, Cronley. It may keep you out of brothels.”

  What? Cronley thought.

  The only way he could have known about that is Sergeant Freddy Hessinger told him.

  And that fat little sonofabitch probably also told him I asked for, and he gave me, Elsa’s dossier!

  “This device,” the Mattingly lecture continued, “was developed by the Ernst Leitz people—they make those wonderful Leica 35-millimeter cameras—in conjunction with the Zeiss people, who used to make the lenses for Leica cameras in what is now the Russian Zone of Germany. It is a copy machine. I have absolutely no idea how it works—how they work. The Signal Intelligence people had four of them, two of which are as we speak en route here in the care of Major Wallace—but what they do is copy documents, make photos of them, so to speak, on special paper with astonishing speed.

  “The only problems with it are: One, the factory making the paper was blown up in the closing days of the late unpleasantness. I requisitioned all of the paper they liberated and would let me have, and several trucks loaded with it—it comes in huge rolls, like newspaper printing paper—are also en route here.

  “Two, documents fed to it have to be flat, without creases. That means anything that is not flat or has creases will have to be ironed. I have acquired the necessary irons and ironing boards. They are in the trucks.”

  “Ironing?” Dunwiddie said. “Who’s going to do the ironing?”

  Mattingly did not immediately answer the question.

  He instead said, “The machines will be accompanied by technicians I have pressed into service. You, Ludwig, will have to impress upon them that there will be dire consequences if they run at the mouth after we let them go several months from now.”

  “They will be so impressed,” Mannberg said. “I have several people very skilled in that sort of thing.”

  “Nevertheless, these technicians should not be permitted to read what is being copied, either when it is being fed into the machine, or should it require pressing before insertion. That means, to answer your question, Tiny, that we are going to have to do the pressing.”

  “We”? Cronley thought. In a pig’s ass!

  The last person I expect to see standing at an ironing board is Mattingly, dressed up like Clark Gable, ironing documents.

  Well, face it, Jimmy. All those movies where Clark Gable and Alan Ladd, et cetera, are intelligence officers, spending their time in romantic saloons exchanging soulful looks with Ingrid Bergman or some other erotic tootsie—they’re all bullshit.

  In the real world, intelligence officers such as myself stand at an ironing board flattening bent sheets of paper and getting their romance in a whorehouse.

  “What we will do is make two copies of everything Herr Mannberg and Sergeant Hessinger have found,” Mattingly said. “One set of copies will go to Colonel Frade in Argentina and the other be held for incorporation into the files of whatever the reborn OSS is called, whenever that occurs.”

  “If that occurs,” Tiny said.

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” Mattingly said. “I believe it will, perhaps not soon, but inevitably. But as I was saying before I was interrupted: We can guarantee the safety of these files by transferring them only amongst us. For example, from Lieutenant Cronley, who will take them under heavy, but inconspicuous, guard in one of our ambulances to Rhine-Main, where he will personally place them in the hands of Colonel Frade, and Colonel Frade only, just before Frade takes on fuel to fly to Lisbon on his way back to Argentina.

  “After all the files Colonel Frade has requested, and those others I think he ought to have, are copied, we will begin to copy the files of Abwehr Ost so they can be incorporated into the files of the reborn OSS. We will continue to do that until the available copying paper is exhausted. By then I hope to have an additional supply of the special paper. Samples have been sent to the United States for analysis, and to determine how we can make it ourselves.”

  The translation of that is that I will be here ironing paper for the next three to four years.

  “I think that about covers everything,” Colonel Mattingly said. “Are there any questions?”

  Silence ensued.

  “In that case, I have to get back to the Farben building. Keep your seats, please, gentlemen.”

  Then Mattingly marched out of the room.

  [TWO]

  Estación Retiro

  Plaza San Martín, Buenos Aires, Argentina

  2030 15 October 1945

  SS-Brigadeführer Ludwig Hoffmann—whose new libreta de enrolamiento identified him as Ludwig Mannhoffer, born November 5, 1899, in Dresden, Germany, and as a citizen of the Argentine Republic since 1917—walked down the platform of what was officially the Ferrocarril General Bartolomé Mitre railway station. He was thinking that the way he was dressed, compared to the other passengers in the first-class car, made him look like a failed door-to-door toilet-brush salesman.

  His annoyance turned to concern as he got closer to the terminal building and began to worry that something had gone wrong and that no one was here to meet him. The concern grew when he considered his options if no one had.

  He would have to get into a taxi and go to a hotel. He was reasonably sure his new libreta would stand scrutiny.

  But then what?

  If something happened to keep Raschner from coming to the station—and he knew how important meeting me was—does that mean that gottverdammt Martín is going to be waiting for me here? That’s a credible scenario. . . .

  Thank God, there he is!

  A short, squat, bald-headed man in his late forties was coming down the platform, smiling.

  Look how he’s dressed! No one’s going to mistake him for a toilet-brush salesman!

  “Let me take your bags, Señor . . . ?” the man said in Spanish.

  “Mannhoffer,” he provided. “L
udwig Mannhoffer. And you are?”

  “Richter, Señor Mannhoffer, Erich Richter. And Señor Konrad Fassbinder is outside at the curb with a car.”

  The last time Mannhoffer had seen Richter had been in the SS Headquarters on Prinz Albrechtstrasse in Berlin. He had then been SS-Sturmführer Erich Raschner.

  —

  A light gray 1941 Plymouth was standing at the curb outside the railroad station. When the driver saw them coming he quickly got from behind the wheel and opened the rear door. The last time Mannhoffer had seen the driver was also at the SS headquarters. SS-Hauptsturmführer Konrad Forster, now known as Konrad Fassbinder, had been wearing his black uniform.

  “This is Señor Mannhoffer, Fassbinder,” Richter said in Spanish.

  “It’s good to see you again, sir,” Fassbinder said.

  Their Spanish is fluent; they sound like they’ve been here all their lives.

  I do not sound as if I’ve been here since 1917.

  Richter put Mannhoffer’s suitcase in the trunk of the Plymouth and then got in beside him. The car pulled away from the railroad station.

  “This is Avenida Libertador,” Richter said, gesturing. “Which we are now going to cross, pass through Plaza San Martín, and then turn right until we come to Avenida 9 Julio, where we will turn left. About halfway down 9 Julio we will come to the Colón Opera and the Obelisk. The Obelisk was built in 1936 by us—Siemens, working with Grün & Bilfinger—in thirty-one days.”

  “Fascinating,” Mannhoffer said sarcastically. “And the apartment?”

  “The apartment we’re going to is behind the opera on Calle Talcahuano.”

  “Is it safe?” Mannhoffer asked.

  “The embassy rented it for years. Its last occupants, before he deserted his post, was commercial attaché Wilhelm Frogger and his wife—”

  “What do we know about them?” Mannhoffer interrupted.

  “As far as I know, Herr Brigadeführer—”

  Mannhoffer interrupted him again, this time angrily.

  “That was the last time you will ever refer to me by my rank! You understand?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  After a significant, and icy, pause, Mannhoffer asked, “The Froggers?”

  “As far as I know, señor, they are still at Frade’s estancia in Mendoza.”

  “Isn’t Mendoza near the Andes?”

  “Yes, sir. It is.”

  “I was under the impression Frade’s estancia was somewhere near Buenos Aires.”

  “He has more than one estancia, sir. This one, the one in Mendoza, Estancia Don Guillermo, is where he is holding the Froggers.”

  “Estancias? How many estancias does Frade have?”

  “I don’t know, sir. At least five. Probably more than that. Oberst Frade, the father, was a very wealthy man.”

  “And this gottverdammt American son of his inherited them all?”

  “Yes, sir. And all the veterans of the Húsares de Pueyrredón.”

  “Explain that to me.”

  “Oberst Frade, and his father before him, commanded the Húsares de Pueyrredón cavalry regiment. Most of the men in the regiment were from one of his estancias. When they completed their conscript service, or retired, they went back to their estancias. They have transferred their allegiance to the son. The result is what people are calling Frade’s Private Army. They protect him, his family, and all of his properties, including Estancia Don Guillermo.”

  “These ex-soldiers are armed?” Mannhoffer asked incredulously.

  “Very well armed.”

  “And the government permits this?”

  “It’s not illegal, sir.”

  “You just said these people were armed. The government permits this?”

  “The people here have the right to be armed, to go about armed.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “That’s how it is, sir.”

  “Weapons in the hands of people cannot be tolerated. The Führer forbade private citizens to have arms.”

  “They have them here, sir.”

  “Tell me more about the Froggers.”

  “Yes, sir. Frade has them—Herr Frogger and his wife, and their son, Oberstleutnant Frogger—at his estancia in Mendoza.”

  “Their son? He was captured in North Africa.”

  “Yes, sir. Frade brought him here from the United States.”

  “You’re saying the son is also a traitor?”

  “It seems obvious, sir.”

  “Well, that’s one more that has to go,” Mannhoffer said. “Tell me about this apartment.”

  “Sir, when Herr Frogger deserted his post, I realized that it would be useful if the Final Victory . . . didn’t come as quickly as we hoped . . . and I stayed behind. So I suggested to Ambassador von Lutzenberger that the apartment lease be allowed to expire. It was then rented by a man named Gustav Loche, an Argentine of German ancestry, whose son, Günther, was an employee of the embassy.”

  “Can this man be trusted, in the changed situation?”

  “He is a great admirer of the Führer and National Socialism. More important, he is a devout Catholic who believes that National Socialism is the last defense against the Antichrist, the Communists. And finally, I have kept him and his son on the payroll.”

  “Tell me about von Lutzenberger. Where is he now?”

  “He and his wife—and just about all the diplomats—have been interned in the Club Hotel de la Ventana, in the south of Buenos Aires Province.”

  “Graf von Lutzenberger is one of two things, Richter,” Mannhoffer said. “He is either an incredibly stupid diplomat who never understood that his naval attaché and his military attaché for air were traitors, or he is a traitor himself.”

  “I never thought von Lutzenberger was stupid, Señor Mannhoffer,” Richter said.

  He looked out the Plymouth’s side window.

  “That’s the opera, Herr Mannhoffer. One of the largest in the world. Larger than Vienna and Paris.”

  “And Berlin?”

  “And Berlin. The apartment is almost right behind it. There is an underground garage, so no one will see us go in.”

  “Except perhaps agents of General Martín,” Mannhoffer said. “One should never underestimate one’s enemies, Richter.”

  “I try very hard not to, Señor Mannhoffer.”

  [THREE]

  Apartment 4-C

  1044 Calle Talcahuano

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  2105 15 October 1945

  “Do we have a tailor we can trust?” Mannhoffer asked.

  He was sitting in an armchair by a window through which the Colón Opera House could be seen across a park.

  “Excuse me?” Fassbinder asked.

  “That was a simple question, Fassbinder. Do we have a tailor we can trust? Answer yes or no.”

  “A tailor! I thought you said a tailor. Yes, sir. We do.”

  “Get in your car and bring him here.”

  “I don’t understand, Herr Mannhoffer.”

  “Look at me, Fassbinder. I look like a Bible salesman. I need new clothing, and I need it now.”

  “Sir, I can get on the telephone and ask—”

  “We don’t know, do we, Fassbinder, whether or not General Martín’s agents are listening to calls made on that telephone? Go get him! And bear in mind I don’t like having to explain my orders.”

  “Yes, sir. Immediately, Herr Mannhoffer.”

  As soon as the door closed behind Fassbinder, Mannhoffer turned to Richter.

  “He’s not one of Wernher von Braun’s rocket scientists, is he?”

  “He’s a good man, Herr Mannhoffer. Reliable.”

  “I sent him away because I need new clothing, and I need it now . . .”

  “That will not be a problem, sir.”

  “. . . and I didn’t want him here when we have our little chat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s start with money,” Mannhoffer said. “I am presuming we have sufficient
cash for all Operation Phoenix requirements?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what, if anything, is left of the Confidential Special Fund assets?”

  “You do know what happened to them?”

  Mannhoffer nodded. “Señor Moreno of the Banco Suisse Creditanstalt told me that Brigadeführer von Deitzberg went to Montevideo, where he had Sturmbannführer von Tresmarck transfer all of the assets of the Confidential Special Fund to him. Is that your understanding?”

  “Yes, sir. I heard he permitted von Tresmarck to retain approximately one million U.S. dollars, which was to finance von Tresmarck’s disappearance.”

  “That was to get him out of Uruguay without his making a fuss. The second part of that scenario was to later run him down in Paraguay, eliminate him and his boyfriend, and reclaim that money. Obviously, that did not happen.”

  “I never heard of the plans for him in Paraguay, sir.”

  “No reason that you should have. The fewer people who know something, the less chance the wrong people will learn of it.”

  “I’ve heard that, sir.”

  “Frau von Tresmarck also disappeared at the same time. She appeared in San Martín de los Andes, as Señora Schenck. Inasmuch as von Deitzberg was now using that name, I’m afraid we have to presume—he was notorious for this—that the late brigadeführer once again was careless with his zipper.

  “Moreno also told me that after von Deitzberg was murdered by parties unknown—any thoughts, Richter, on them?”

  “I believe he was murdered by someone in Abwehr Ost, one of those Frade brought to Argentina.”

  “Why would they want to murder him?”

  “Either at Frade’s order, or simply because he could recognize one of them and get word back to Germany that some of Gehlen’s people were in Argentina. The war was still on.”

  Mannhoffer grunted.

  “In any event,” he went on, “von Deitzberg died. Moreno told me that a court—or at least judges—favorable to Oberst Perón quickly granted the former Frau von Tresmarck all of her husband’s—Señor Schenck’s—assets. In other words, the Confidential Special Fund. And that she almost immediately transferred half of them to Señorita Evita Duarte, Oberst Perón’s good friend, as an expression of her gratitude for their friendship and support in her time of grief. Is that your understanding, Richter?”

 

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