“And as far as Rudy Nulder is concerned: Politics is a dirty business, Cletus, perhaps especially in Argentina. Sometimes—for good reasons—unpleasant things have to be done. I needed—I need—someone to do them for me. Nulder fills that role. I’m not proud of that, either, but that’s the way things are.
“Now, as far as my personal life is concerned, my sex life, as you put it, I’ve never been married. I knew if I was to rise in the army, I could not afford a wife and a family. It’s been a lonely life, Cletus.”
Which you dealt with by taking thirteen-year-old girls into your bed.
“I’m not proud of some of the things I did to satisfy the natural lusts of a healthy man. But that’s all in the past. I now have Evita.”
“A hooker half your age!” Clete exploded. “Jesus Christ, how do you justify that?”
“They said the same thing about Wallis Warfield Simpson. They said that she was a woman of questionable morals, and very possibly she was. Nevertheless—”
“What—or who—the hell are you babbling about now?”
“The Duchess of Windsor. King Edward the Eighth gave up the throne of England because of his love for her.”
“Oh, yeah,” Clete said, vaguely remembering.
“‘But you must believe me,’” Perón began to quote, “‘when I tell you that I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility and to discharge my duties as King as I would wish to do without the help and support of the woman I love.’”
Jesus, I remember that. I heard it on the radio.
“And I cannot lead Argentina into the problems of the rest of this century without the help and support of the woman I love. Eva Duarte.”
“You’re going to marry her?” Clete asked incredulously.
“As soon as it is politically practical.”
“After you become president, you mean?”
The sarcasm went right over Perón’s head.
“Either after I become president, or when I’m sure I will be.”
Jesus H. Christ!
There came a knock at the kitchen door.
Enrico grabbed his shotgun and went to see who it was.
He turned from the door and announced, “It’s Major Habanzo and Captain Garcia.”
“Who?” Clete said, then remembered. They were the BIS officers who had come to the Jockey Club.
“They want to see you, Don Cletus,” Enrico added.
“Tío Juan, you get behind the parrilla,” Clete ordered. “Now. Don’t show yourself.”
Clete went to Enrico and said, “Give me your pistol.”
Ashton had already taken his .45 from his holster and was racking a round into it.
“I knew they’d find me here!” Perón said.
“Shut the hell up!” Clete said in a furious whisper.
When he was satisfied Perón was out of sight, he held Enrico’s .45 behind him and opened the door.
Both officers saluted him.
They don’t look menacing.
“What happened at the airport yesterday?” Clete said.
“Where is el Coronel Perón?” Major Habanzo asked.
“What the hell happened at the airport yesterday?” Clete demanded angrily.
“I am here,” Juan Domingo Perón announced suddenly. “I am not going to hide behind a parrilla.”
Major Habanzo saluted again.
“Mi Coronel, I present the compliments of the president of the Argentine Republic. He asks that you attend him immediately. And you, too, Don Cletus.”
“Where’s General Martín?” Clete demanded.
“With the president, Don Cletus.”
“Is he all right?”
“He suffered a wound to his left leg.”
“What happened at the airport?”
“Ten minutes after you left, Don Cletus, a battalion of the Patricios arrived and placed the Horse Soldiers in the same hangar where earlier the Horse Soldiers had placed the platoon of Patricios.”
“Did the flight to Berlin get off all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How did you get here?” Clete asked.
“On the regular eight-twenty SAA flight, Don Cletus. It is now being serviced for the return flight to Buenos Aires.”
[TWO]
Headquarters, U.S. European Command
The I.G. Farben Building
Frankfurt am Main, Germany
1115 18 October 1945
Brigadier General H. Paul Greene, chief, Counterintelligence, European Command, waved Mattingly into a chair in his fourth-floor office and got right to the point.
“I’ve always believed, Colonel Mattingly, that the air between myself and my subordinates should be perfectly clear. I’m sure you can understand that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The air between us, as I’m sure you will agree, is anything but clear. The phrase ‘dense fog’ comes to mind.”
Mattingly didn’t reply.
“And you’ll understand why I can’t permit that situation to continue.”
“General, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Indulge me, Colonel, I’m getting to it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know a good deal about you, Colonel. Not as much as I would like to know, but a good deal. I know, for example, that you are—perhaps more accurately, were, now that he has left the European Command—a protégé of Major General I. D. White. Would you say that’s a fair statement?”
The way he said that implied that he believes General White left EUCOM under some sort of cloud. That he was booted out.
That’s the impression Eisenhower wanted the Russians—and the State Department and the handwringers in EUCOM—to have.
But it’s not the real story.
And it’s damn surprising that Greene doesn’t know it.
—
General White had told Mattingly that Eisenhower had called him into his office. Ike told White that not only the Russians were seriously miffed that White had taken “Hell on Wheels” into Berlin and thrown the Red Army out of the American Sector. There also was a large cabal of Americans in the Farben building, the Pentagon, and, maybe especially, in the Department of State.
They believed—or at the very least were seriously worried—that White, like General George S. Patton, was trying to start World War III, this time fighting the Russians.
That was nonsense, of course, but it had to be dealt with. And what Eisenhower had come up with proved again his diplomatic skills. He had arranged to remove White—temporarily—from the European Command. White would be given command of the Cavalry School at Fort Riley, Kansas.
White had told Mattingly: “Since neither the handwringers nor the Russians can credibly argue that I’ll start World War Three while sitting on a horse in the middle of Kansas, that will silence both.”
White went on: “What I’ll really be doing at Fort Riley will be the final planning for the Constabulary. Which is what we’re going to call the Occupation Police Force. Essentially, what we’re going to do is take most of the tanks from three armored regiments, replace them with fleets of M-8 armored cars and jeeps, then train the troopers to become sort of policemen.
“I’ll be back in Germany in about two months, and the Constabulary will be activated the day I get back. I’d offer you one of the Constabulary regiments, Bob, if I didn’t think what you’re doing with General Gehlen’s intelligence operation was more important.”
—
“General,” Mattingly said to Greene, “I was privileged to serve under General White in ‘Hell on Wheels,’ if that’s what you mean.”
“Before you went to the OSS, you mean, right?”
“Before I went to the OSS. Yes, sir.”
“And then when the OSS was dis-established—and not a day too soon, in my judgment—you found yourself as sort of a stay-behind to finish a project the OSS did not trust G-2 to take over. Is that about right, Colonel Mattingly?”
/> What is this bastard up to?
“Excuse me, sir?”
“From what I’ve been able to put together, General White went to Eisenhower’s chief of staff, General Walter Bedell Smith, and explained the problem to him . . .”
Who the hell has Greene been talking to?
“. . . and between the two of them, they decided that the best place to hide you and this secret OSS project you’re running was in my Counterintelligence Corps. So Beetle Smith went to the EUCOM G-2, Lieutenant General Seidel, and told him to arrange it. I don’t know how much General Seidel was told, but I do know him well enough to know he didn’t like it at all . . .”
He was probably told nothing. And certainly as little as possible.
For two reasons.
The fewer people who know a secret, the better.
And if Operation Ost blows up, and Seidel knows nothing about it, he probably won’t get burned.
“. . . But being the good soldier General Seidel is, he said, ‘Yes, sir,’ and came to me. And told me I was about to get a new deputy—you—and maybe a dozen people you’d bring from the former Office of Strategic Services.
“I told General Seidel I already had a very competent deputy. He told me that was fine, I should change his title and keep him, as you and your people would be fully occupied with your own project, which he was not at liberty to discuss with me. So being the good soldier I am, I said, ‘Yes, sir.’”
Greene paused, looked at Mattingly, and said, “And that was the way things were going—until yesterday.”
“Sir?”
“Yesterday, Colonel Mattingly, my inspector general, Lieutenant Colonel Tony Schumann, and a team of his men were driving either to or from Munich—I’m not sure which because when I talked to him this morning he was still pretty upset—near a little dorf called Schollbrunn . . .”
Oh, shit!
“. . . when they came across a monastery surrounded by concertina barbed wire. What caught Colonel Schumann’s attention was a number of signs attached to the concertina. They said the area was under the control of the Twenty-seventh CIC Detachment and entrance was strictly forbidden.
“Colonel Schumann found this interesting, as he had no previous knowledge of a Twenty-seventh CIC Detachment. So he thought he’d better have a look. He had of course not only the authority to do so but also the duty, as anything involving the Counterintelligence Corps is of interest to its inspector general.
“They—there were three Opel Kapitän sedans in his little convoy—were intercepted by two jeeps. The jeeps had pedestal-mounted .50 caliber machine guns, and the personnel in them were all Negro non-commissioned officers whose uniforms bore the insignia of the Second Armored Division.
“Colonel Schumann identified himself and asked to be taken to the commanding officer. He was told the area was off-limits and he would not be given access to it.
“After some fruitless discussion with the sergeant, Colonel Schumann then ordered his driver to drive past the jeeps. When he attempted to do so, the machine gun on one of the jeeps fired into the front right tire of Colonel Schumann’s Opel Kapitän. The projectile went through the tire and into the engine, shattering the block.
“Comment, Colonel Mattingly?”
Mattingly did not hesitate.
“The sergeant did what he had been ordered to do, General. That compound is classified Top Secret–Presidential, and unauthorized personnel are not allowed past the outer ring of concertina wire.”
“Ordered by whom, Colonel Mattingly?”
“By me, sir. The sergeant was authorized to take any action, including the taking of life, to prevent a breach of the area.”
General Greene took his time considering that.
“We’ll return to that extraordinary statement in a moment,” he then said. “What happened next was an officer appeared—I presume he was an officer, Schumann reported that he was a young white man whose uniform bore no insignia of rank, but the Negroes in the jeeps saluted him—and spoke with Schumann.
“After Schumann identified himself as the inspector general of the CIC in the European Command and again demanded access to the compound, this officer, after demanding and receiving proof of that, said that because Colonel Schumann was the CIC IG, he and his men would not be arrested. Then he said that any questions should be directed to you, Colonel Mattingly.”
General Greene let that sink in for a long moment.
“So here we are,” he then said. “Just what the hell are you up to, Mattingly?”
Mattingly at first thought it was more a rhetorical than a serious question, but Greene immediately made it specific.
“What are you up to at Kloster Grünau, Colonel? What exactly are you up to?”
“Sir, I must respectfully decline to answer that question.”
“Mattingly, you’re not in a position to decline, respectfully or not, to answer my questions.”
“Sir, with respect, I’m afraid I must.”
“I’m the chief of Counterintelligence for the European Command. Before that, I was chief of Intelligence for Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force. I have security clearances you never even heard of. I even knew about the Manhattan Project. And you’re telling me I don’t have the proper clearance to learn what you’re doing?”
“Yes, sir. That unfortunately seems to be the case.”
“Colonel, you are ordered to answer my questions. If you refuse to do so, you will consider yourself under arrest.”
“General, I respectfully request sixty seconds to address this issue.”
“So long as you understand you’re under arrest, you can have sixty minutes to address this issue.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You understand you’re under arrest?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. Go ahead.”
“What happened yesterday at Kloster Grünau was the one thing I didn’t foresee when I set it up. That the one person—one of two persons, the other being you, sir—in the European Command with the authority to go past a barrier erected by the CIC would show up at a mountaintop monastery and try to go past that barrier.
“I’m sorry it happened, and I accept full responsibility. What you’re going to have to do now, sir, as I doubt if Colonel Schumann would accept this from me, is tell him to forget he and his men were ever at Kloster Grünau.”
“You’re out of your mind, you know that? Your sixty seconds are up. Report under arrest to your quarters, Colonel Mattingly.”
“Request to make one telephone call, sir, to report that I’m under arrest and the circumstances.”
“Denied.”
“If I don’t make this call, sir, members of my staff will make it for me. It would really be best if I made the call.”
“Who are you going to call, Colonel, General Eisenhower?” Greene asked sarcastically. “Okay. Make your goddamn call, then get out of my sight.”
Mattingly leaned over Greene’s desk and dialed a two-digit number.
“Colonel Mattingly for General Eisenhower,” he said to whoever answered.
General Greene slammed his hand on the base of the telephone, breaking the connection.
“Now, just a moment!” he said, staring down Mattingly.
“I respectfully suggest, General, that there is no reason for me to involve General Eisenhower in this, providing you release me from arrest and deal with Colonel Schumann as I outlined.”
After a long moment, Greene, tight-lipped, nodded.
“Permission to withdraw, sir?” Mattingly asked.
Greene nodded again.
Mattingly came to attention, saluted, did an about-face movement, and marched toward the door.
He had almost reached it when General Greene called out to him.
“You ever hear, Mattingly, that he who laughs last lasts best?”
Mattingly turned, said, “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir,” then marched out of the office.
The problem, he though
t, is that I understand why he’s furious.
In his shoes, I would be.
He didn’t get to be chief of Counterintelligence by being slow.
This is not over.
[THREE]
Tempelhof Air Base
Berlin, Germany
0915 18 October 1945
Instead of the gray skies and drizzle—or worse—that South American Airways First Officer Hans-Peter von Wachtstein expected to find in Berlin, there was bright sunshine and not a cloud in the sky.
He could see Flughafen Berlin-Tempelhof from a long way off.
So could SAA Captain Paolo Lopez, who was in the co-pilot’s seat of the Lockheed Constellation.
“My God, that’s enormous!” Lopez said.
“Until the Americans built their Pentagon, it was the largest building in the world,” von Wachtstein said.
There was a downside to the unexpected good weather. The ruins of the German capital—stretching for miles—could be seen just as clearly as could the graceful curved terminal of what was now U.S. Army Air Force Field Berlin (Tempelhof).
“Get on the radio, please, Captain,” von Wachtstein ordered. “In English.”
“Tempelhof, South American Zero One Zero.”
“Go ahead, Zero One Zero. I read you five by five.”
—
As von Wachtstein taxied La Ciudad de Mar del Plata under the soaring arch of the airport, he saw a Horch like the one Colonel Robert Mattingly had in Frankfurt. He wondered who owned this one, then saw Mattingly himself leaning on it.
Former Kapitän zur See Karl Boltitz, now wearing what Peter thought of as the OSS uniform, an insignia-less U.S. Army officer’s uniform, stood beside Mattingly. On the other side of the Horch were two huge black sergeants, one cradling a Thompson submachine gun in his arms.
He had expected to see Mattingly in Frankfurt. Frade had told him Mattingly would have General Gehlen’s and the Americans’ dossiers on the Nazis who had come off U-405 as well as some other intelligence they would bring back to Argentina. And he had not expected to see Boltitz, who he last heard was in Denmark trying to learn both what had happened to his father in the last days of the war and something about the fleet of U-boats that had supposedly left Germany and Norway just before the surrender.
Peter believed that Boltitz’s mission had to be a wild-goose chase. He thought Admiral Boltitz, who knew what the Nazis had done to officers involved in the bomb plot, had chosen a quick end by drowning in the frigid waters of a Norwegian fjord—a sailor’s death—over the humiliation and death by torture he knew he would receive if the Schutzstaffel could get their hands on him.
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