“The father arranged the assassination of Clete’s father and the several failed attempts to kill Cletus,” Peter added.
“And he’s a friend of yours?” Mattingly asked softly.
Peter shook his head. “Not the father. But Dieter and I went to flight school together and flew as corporals in the Condor Legion in Spain. Hauptmann von und zu Aschenburg was our squadron commander. We were pretty close.”
“You have some reason to think they survived the war?”
“I have a lot of reasons to think they probably didn’t,” Peter said.
“What happened to the father?” Mattingly asked. “Is he now interned in Argentina?”
“Enrico Rodríguez shot him on the beach of Samborombón Bay,” Peter said. “While he was trying to unload crates of money from a Spanish freighter.”
“And if you find either one of them, then what?”
“Then I take them to Argentina,” Peter said.
Which brings us back to that, Mattingly thought, just before the kitchen door opened and one of the Second Armored Division sergeants entered.
“What is it, Sergeant?” Mattingly asked impatiently.
“Colonel, I thought I should tell you about this before I just ran him off.”
“Ran who off?”
“There’s a Kraut out there asking if we have a Kraut named Wachheim or something like that working here. . . .”
“Wachtstein?” Peter asked.
“Right. Working here. This guy was hanging around yesterday and the day before.”
“Please show the Kraut in, Sergeant,” von Wachtstein said.
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied.
The sergeant turned and ordered, “In here, Fritz!”
A moment later, he motioned into the kitchen a tall, gaunt, balding, blond, fair-skinned man in his forties who was dressed in the ragged remains of an insignia-less Luftwaffe uniform.
Von Wachtstein and then Boltitz stood.
“I think this is where I get to say, ‘Speak of the devil,’” von Wachtstein said in English.
“So it is you, Peter,” the gaunt man said, and added, looking at Boltitz, “The both of you.”
“Colonel Mattingly,” von Wachtstein said, “may I introduce former Oberstleutnant von und zu Aschenburg? Dieter, this is Colonel Robert Mattingly.”
Von und zu Aschenburg came to attention, clicked his heels, and bobbed his head in a bow. “Herr Oberst.”
“You can forget all that, Dieter,” von Wachtstein said. “The war’s over.”
“And we survived,” von und zu Aschenburg said.
“And Willi?” von Wachtstein asked softly.
“He’s out there,” von und zu Aschenburg said, gesturing toward the street, “waiting to see what was going to happen to me when I asked for you.”
“I’ll go get him,” Peter said. He looked at Mattingly, then asked, “With your permission, of course, Colonel?”
“Of course,” Mattingly said.
Was that sarcastic?
Keep in mind that von Wachtstein does not work for you.
With you, but not for you. You can’t give him orders.
Von Wachtstein walked quickly out of the kitchen.
Von und zu Aschenburg looked at Mattingly. “May I ask how well you speak German, Herr Oberst? My English—”
“Your English is fine, Colonel. But I speak German.”
Von und zu Aschenburg then said, “When we found the notes on the Gedächtniskirche fence”—he waited to see if Mattingly understood, and when Mattingly nodded, went on—“I recognized the address, the home of Admiral Canaris. . . .”
“How did you know it?”
“I’ve been here many times,” von und zu Aschenburg said.
“Bob,” Boltitz began, “when Dieter was flying Condors to Buenos Aires—”
“Doing what?” Mattingly interrupted.
“Are you familiar with the Focke-Wulf Condor?”
“No,” Mattingly said simply.
“It was a Lufthansa transport airplane,” von und zu Aschenburg explained. “It looked something like your DC-3 except it was slightly larger, had four engines, and on short hauls could carry twenty-six passengers. Considerably fewer than that of course when flying across the Atlantic.”
“And you flew one of these airplanes to Buenos Aires?” Mattingly asked.
I never heard about that.
One more massive cavity revealed in the intelligence database of Colonel Robert Mattingly.
“I flew a lot of those airplanes to Buenos Aires,” von und zu Aschenburg said.
“He flew diplomatic pouches back and forth between Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop and Ambassador Lutzenberger,” Boltitz said, “and brought Admiral Canaris’s orders to me. Fortunately, he was never caught.”
Okay. So that makes this guy one of the good guys.
Why does that make me unhappy?
Because when I take von Wachtstein into a corner and tell him I’m sorry but I just can’t allow you to try to smuggle your pals into Argentina, that such an act will add another risk we can’t afford, von Wachtstein will say, “Fuck you. I don’t work for you. I work for Cletus Frade. And since he’s not here, that makes the Constellation my airplane. And besides, my pals have earned themselves a seat.”
“How long did Lufthansa fly to Buenos Aires?” Mattingly asked.
“Until Hitler decided the Condors would be more valuable serving the Eastern Front,” von und zu Aschenburg said drily.
“So you flew in Russia, too?”
“Until there were no more Condors. And then I flew Auntie Ju’s—Junkers JU 52s, a tri-motor like your Ford. Until there were no more of them. And then I was allowed to fly Fw-190 fighters until we ran out of fuel for them. I was then impressed into the Volkssturm, from which I deserted.”
I like this guy.
But that doesn’t alter the fact that I can’t allow von Wachtstein to try to smuggle him and his pal into Argentina.
Presuming of course that von Wachtstein pops to attention and says, “Yes, sir!” when I tell him he can’t, which is about as likely as me being taken bodily into heaven.
And what am I going to do with the two suitcases in the back of the Horch?
“Mattingly, I can’t believe that you just handed over to a German—a German who is still listed as an escapee from Fort Hunt—intelligence material of that importance. What the hell were you thinking?”
Well, turning the bags over to Major Harry Wallace and telling him to get on von Wachtstein’s Constellation and personally hand them over to Cletus Frade in Buenos Aires would be an option.
Except that I need Harry to finish setting up the South German Industrial Development Organization in Pullach.
And I can’t have Cronley take that over so that Major Harold Wallace can go to Argentina. He’s a second lieutenant—a smart one, okay—but he just doesn’t have the knowledge or experience to supervise the setting-up of Pullach. . . .
Jesus Christ, why didn’t I think of this before?
Cronley takes the suitcases to Argentina!
“Why did you turn the suitcases over to a second lieutenant, Mattingly?”
“Because he was the only intelligence officer I had for the assignment.”
Now all I have to do is keep the Condor pilot and von Wachtstein’s other buddy off the Constellation. That shouldn’t be hard. I’ll tell von Wachtstein they’ll have to wait until we can arrange passports for them.
Von Wachtstein came back into the kitchen, his arm around the shoulder of a short, muscular, blond man about his age and also wearing remnants of a Luftwaffe uniform.
“You remember Willi, Karl?”
“Of course. How are you, Grüner?”
“Alive,” Willi said as they shook hands. “And a little confused. What’s going on here? What was that uniform Hansel was wearing when he came here earlier?”
“That’s my Mexican bus driver’s uniform. If you play your cards right, we can probably get yo
u—and of course Dieter—ones just like it in Buenos Aires.”
What? Mattingly thought.
“Buenos Aires?” Dieter asked incredulously. “And how do we get to Argentina?”
“You get on my bus, and twenty-five, twenty-six hours later you’re in Buenos Aires.”
I’ve got to somehow stop this!
“So you are involved with that Argentine airplane,” Dieter said. “What the hell is that all about?”
“Involved? I’ll have you know I’m the pilot-in-command of that airplane. On which you will shortly—tomorrow morning—be flying to Buenos Aires.”
“Just like that?” Dieter asked.
No!
“Not quite just like that, I’m afraid,” Mattingly said. “It’ll take a little time to get the documentation, passports, et cetera. Have you been through a De-Nazification Court?”
“We were never POWs,” von und zu Aschenburg said. “We were both in Silesia when the war ended. If we’d entered a Russian POW cage, they would probably have sent us to Siberia. And we’d already been there and didn’t want to go back.”
“You were together in Silesia?” von Wachtstein asked.
“First in the fighter squadron and then in Volkssturm.”
“And when you were run over by the Red Army you hid out?” Boltitz asked.
Von und zu Aschenburg nodded. “We’re still hiding out.”
“Well, we’ll work something out,” Mattingly said. “It shouldn’t take long, no more than a week or two.”
But long enough to keep you off von Wachtstein’s Constellation tomorrow.
“Not necessary,” von Wachtstein said. “I just happen to have both the passports and the libretas de enrolamiento of these Argentine gentlemen in my luggage. All I have to do is glue their photographs onto them.”
Mattingly saw on von Wachtstein’s face that he did, in fact, have passports and identity cards requiring only the addition of photographs for his friends.
Okay. I give up.
There’s nothing I can do to stop von Wachtstein from taking them with him tomorrow.
That means all I have to do between now and then is drive to Kloster Grünau, pick up Cronley, then get him and the two suitcases to Rhine-Main by oh-nine-hundred tomorrow.
That sounds fairly simple. So why does an experienced, senior intelligence officer such as myself think that I am somehow, in some way, going to royally fuck it up?
[FIVE]
Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade
Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina
1605 18 October 1945
“Jorge Frade, SAA Six One Six,” Cletus Frade called from the cockpit of the Lodestar.
“Six One Six, Jorge Frade.”
“Get General Martín on the radio,” Frade ordered.
Martín’s voice came over Frade’s headset almost immediately, which told Frade that he was in the control tower.
“This is General Martín. Who is this?”
“Christopher Columbus. Who else could it possibly be?”
“My God, Cletus, are you never serious?” Martín asked. It was impossible to tell from his tone if he was amused or grossly annoyed.
“Right now, I’m as serious as I get.”
“Is your Tío Juan with you?”
“He’s in the back, wearing one of my father’s suits and looking very nervous. I’m over Pilar, about five minutes out. What am I going to find when I land there?”
“A battalion of the Patricios Regiment and an ambulance.”
“What’s the ambulance for?”
“Your Tío Juan.”
“He’s not that badly injured. He doesn’t need an ambulance.”
“How badly injured is he?”
“Not badly enough to need an ambulance.”
“President Farrell is waiting for him, for you and him, at the Argerich Military Hospital. The safest way to get him there is in an ambulance. Guarded by the Patricios, of course.”
“General Martín,” Perón’s voice came over the earphones. “This is the vice president of the Argentine Republic speaking.”
Startled, Clete looked over his shoulder. Perón was standing just inside the cockpit door and wearing a headset.
“Yes, sir?”
“I will of course meet el Presidente wherever he chooses,” Perón announced. “But before I go to meet him, I have to go to my apartment for a uniform. And I am not going there, or to the military hospital, or anywhere, hiding in an ambulance. I will not give the bastards who are trying to kill me the satisfaction of suggesting that I’m afraid of them.”
“Can I put my two cents in?” Cletus asked.
Perón looked at him in annoyance, considered the question, and then said, “Of course.”
“The SAA guards at the airport are all ex-Húsares—”
“Known, I believe, as Frade’s Private Army,” Perón interrupted.
Frade nodded, then went on: “They can protect you as well as the Patricios. There are probably reporters from El País and La Nación at the gates to the airport right now trying to find out what’s going on out here. If you try to leave—protected by a battalion, even a company, of the Patricios—you will be recognized and it will be all over Buenos Aires in an hour that the civil war you’re worried about has started.”
Perón considered this for a moment, then asked, “What are you suggesting?”
“There’s always a couple of station wagons on the field. They take pilots home, pick them up, that sort of thing. We can have a couple meet the airplane when I park it. You and the Húsares we have with us get in, and we drive to your apartment. Which is where, by the way?”
“The sixteen hundred block of Arenales,” Perón replied absently.
“And then when you’re in uniform, we get back in the station wagons and take you—again without attracting attention—to the military hospital. Enrico knows how to sneak in the back way.”
“I’m not going to sneak in or out of anywhere,” Perón said.
“You’d be discreet, Tío Juan, not cowardly.”
There was a long moment of silence, then Perón asked, “I presume you heard what Don Cletus said, General?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have the station wagons and the men he speaks of meet the airplane when we land.”
“El Coronel—”
“That was an order, General, not a suggestion. Have the Patricios return to their barracks, where they will stand by in case they’re needed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We will meet you at the hospital, General,” Perón said, and then ordered, “You may land now, Cletus.”
[SIX]
Apartamento 5B
Arenales 1623
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1645 18 October 1945
“Thank God you’re alive!” Señorita Evita Duarte said when Perón let himself into the apartment.
She ran to him and they embraced.
A moment later, she said: “My God, what happened to your face?”
And a moment later: “What are they doing here?”
The latter question was in reference to Don Cletus Frade and Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodríguez. They had followed Perón into the apartment.
“Cletus, I don’t believe you know my fiancée, Señorita Duarte. Darling, this is my godson, Cletus Frade.”
“Actually, we’ve met,” Cletus said, and the moment the words were out of his mouth, he thought, Well, that was fucking stupid, Stupid!
“I don’t think so,” she said icily, offering her cheek to be kissed. “I would remember.”
Oh, but you do remember, don’t you, señorita?
You probably even remember rubbing my crotch when you said you hoped we would meet again.
He smiled at her warmly.
“Whatever you say, señorita.”
“I said,” she flared, “that I have never met you.” Then she turned to Perón. “I asked you, Juan Domingo, what this rude person is doing here.”
>
“One,” Perón said icily, “don’t use that tone when talking to me. Two, Cletus is here (a) because I asked him to be here and (b) because he saved my life yesterday. Three, since he is going to play a large part in my life in the future, you had better learn to get along with him.”
“You sonofabitch!” she screamed. “I’m going to make you president!”
Perón slapped her, hard enough to make her stagger backward until she encountered the wall, whereupon she slid down it. She started to cry.
Perón walked to her and stood over her, looking down.
“I don’t know what is bothering you, Evita, and I don’t care. I don’t have time for whatever it is right now. Now, either behave yourself or get the hell out of my apartment!”
He turned away from her, raised his voice, and called, “Rudy!”
“Here, Juan Domingo,” Rodolfo Nulder replied from an inner doorway.
Nulder looks, Clete thought, like a cheap copy of Juan Domingo Perón.
There’s something about him that is the opposite of confidence-inspiring.
Nulder walked to Perón, embraced him, and asked, “Your face?”
“As we took off from the airfield yesterday, the goddamned Horse Rifles fired machine guns at us. I was struck by a piece of broken window.”
“But you’re all right?” Nulder said.
Perón nodded and went on: “I bled quite a bit. Ruined an almost new uniform. Cletus had to give me a blood transfusion.”
Nulder for the first time acknowledged Frade’s presence.
“Don Cletus,” he said.
What do I call this guy? He’s a cashiered pervert.
My father threatened to kill him if he ever put foot on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo again.
“Mi Coronel” is not an option.
Frade nodded wordlessly at Nulder.
Nulder turned to Juan Domingo and announced: “Fernando Lopez will bleed more when we stand him against a wall!”
“No one is going to stand Fernando Lopez or anyone else against a wall,” Perón said.
“Trying to assassinate the vice president of the Argentine Republic is high treason in anyone’s book, Juan Domingo. You have every right to have him shot. To have every one of the bastards involved shot.”
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