“Where the hell have you been, Rudy?” Perón flared. “Didn’t you listen to anything I said?”
Nulder didn’t reply.
“This time, pay attention, Rudy, because this is the last time I’m going to tell you. The objective is for me to become president—peacefully, without a single shot being fired or making any more enemies than we already have. And the last thing we want to do is give anyone—our friends or our enemies—any excuse whatever to do anything that could result in civil war.”
He turned and looked at Cletus and announced, “I will now change into a uniform.”
Perón then walked across the room, opened a door next to where Evita was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, her skirt pulled high above her knees, wiping tears from her eyes. He ignored her and went through the door.
He didn’t even look at his beloved Evita, Clete thought.
All of my life I was taught, and believed, that men don’t hit women.
So why didn’t I have the slightest inclination to rush to that poor woman—as I know I should have both, as an Eagle Scout and as a Marine officer—wrap her in my manly arms and tell my Tío Juan if he wanted to belt her again, he’d have to come through me?
Why don’t I have the slightest inclination now to go to her and help her to her feet?
What the hell is happening with me?
All the questions became immediately moot as Evita suddenly leapt to her feet with surprising agility and followed Perón through the door and pushed it closed after her.
If she screams at him again, calls him a sonofabitch again, he’s really liable to hurt her.
He walked quickly to the door.
Maybe just seeing me will be enough, and I won’t have to hit him.
When he opened the door, Clete saw that Evita was in Perón’s arms. She was running her fingers over the bandage on his face and referring to him as her “poor precious darling.”
“I’ll be with you shortly, Cletus,” Perón announced.
Clete hurriedly closed the door and turned.
“I’ll be a sonofabitch” he said, softly but aloud.
He glanced at Enrico, who quietly stood guard at the front door, then looked around the room and found Perón’s cigar case. When he opened it, it was empty.
“I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Clete said again.
“May I offer you a cigar, Don Cletus?” Nulder asked, extending his cigar case.
No, thanks, you perverted sonofabitch.
I don’t want anything to do with you, including taking one of your fucking cigars.
“Yes, thank you. Very kind of you.”
“Not at all.”
When Clete had finished the ritual of cutting and then lighting the cigar, Nulder said, “That sort of thing happens from time to time.”
—
When Perón came out of the bedroom five minutes later, he was in an immaculate uniform.
“Evita has a suggestion, Cletus, that I’d like your opinion of,” Perón said.
“What’s that?”
“I thought, Cletus,” Evita said, “that if I put some of my makeup base on that dreadful bandage it would make it less conspicuous. What do you think?”
The first thing I think, from your tone of voice, is that somehow we’ve become pals.
“Well, I’m sure it would, but what’s the point?”
“When we appear on the balcony of the Casa Rosada, the bandage might cause comment,” Evita said.
What the hell is she talking about?
“When are you going to appear on the balcony of the Casa Rosada?”
“Just as soon as we have our chat with President Farrell,” Perón said. “Evita says there are somewhere over two hundred thousand descamisados . . .”
“My shirtless ones,” Evita said with quiet pride.
“. . . in the Plaza de Mayo already, and that once she gives the word, which she will do as soon as you and I leave for the hospital to meet with Farrell, at least another hundred thousand will be there by the time we get to the Casa Rosada.”
Evita smiled. “What do you think about my makeup base covering Juan Domingo’s bandage, Cletus?”
I think it’s an absolutely stupid idea!
But this is not the time to disturb the new, and fragile, peace between us.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Clete said quickly, then asked, “Does President Farrell know you’re going to speak from the Casa Rosada?”
“Of course he does. What I want to speak with him about is making sure he doesn’t do anything foolish with Fernando Lopez and the others involved in the assassination plot.”
“How are you going to get from the hospital to the Casa Rosada?” Clete asked. “Do you want me to take you in the station wagon?”
Perón considered that for a moment, and then said thoughtfully, “No.”
Good. Then after the meeting with Farrell, I can go home.
By now, Dorotea is climbing the walls wondering where the hell I am. And I don’t even want to think what my grandfather is doing.
“I think two Ejército Argentino staff cars would be better,” Perón went on. “Martín, President Farrell, and—presuming the sonofabitch is at the hospital—Fernando Lopez in the first, and you, Father Welner, and me in the second.”
“Why do you want me to go to the Casa Rosada?”
Perón’s face showed that he was surprised at what he considered a stupid question. But he answered it nevertheless.
“Because the people—especially Evita’s descamisados—will see that the president is taking me to the Casa Rosada. The army will see that Lopez is not in a cell somewhere making his peace with God before getting shot. When they see Father Welner and you riding with me through the descamisados, the army and the people will all see that the Church is behind me and that the son of Argentina hero el Coronel Jorge G. Frade and I have made our peace. That there is unity, not the threat of civil war.”
Goddamn it, he’s got this all figured out.
“We should be going, Juan Domingo,” Nulder said.
“You and Evita go in two cars,” Perón ordered. “I don’t want you to be seen with her. I don’t want you to be seen at all.”
“I understand, Juan Domingo,” Nulder said.
[SEVEN]
Apartment 4-C
1044 Calle Talcahuano
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1835 18 October 1945
Señor Erich Richter—formerly SS-Sturmführer Erich Raschner—watched as Señor Ludwig Mannhoffer—formerly SS-Brigadeführer Ludwig Hoffmann—hung up the telelphone. Richter then waited patiently for Mannhoffer to collect his thoughts, then repeat what had just been discussed on the call.
Finally, he did.
“That was of course Schwartz reporting from the military hospital,” Mannhoffer began. “From which two staff cars have just departed, suitably escorted by the police, for the Casa Rosada. Accompanying President Farrell are Colonel Perón . . .”
He stopped and corrected himself.
“Actually, what I should have said was ‘Accompanying Oberst Perón’—as he is obviously in charge—are President Farrell, General Martín, that priest, the Jesuit, what’s his name?”
“Father Welner?” Richter suggested.
“And Father Welner and Oberst Lopez of the Horse Rifles Regiment. And Señor Cletus Frade. The latter two surprise me. I would have thought that Perón would have had Lopez shot out of hand, or at the very least have him locked up at Campo Mayo awaiting court-martial. And what is Frade doing there?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
“I didn’t think you would. That was a rhetorical question.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Apparently, they are going to put a face of ‘we’re all friends, we all support Perón’ in his little coup. We already know there are a quarter of a million people waiting at the Casa Rosada to hear Perón speak.
“What we don’t know is where the colonel’s paramour, Se�
�orita Duarte, is. We do know that she and that deviate Nulder are responsible for the quarter-million shirtless ones, which is why Farrell is going along with Perón. So she may be expected to play an important role in this. There is even talk that Perón is so confident that he will have her at his side when he speaks.
“We don’t know what role Frade will play in this. But he has just moved to the top of the list of candidates to be eliminated in order to make the point to Perón, the Argentine people, and of course our own that National Socialism—and its enforcement mechanism, the SS—is alive and functioning in Argentina.
“We could eliminate Nulder. That has a certain personal appeal, as I find him offensive. But who would care? Perón might be glad to be rid of him. After tonight, he doesn’t need him as much as he did, if at all.
“We could eliminate Señorita Duarte. Perón might be glad to be rid of her, too. But he might be thinking with his crotch.
“That leaves Frade. Eliminating him would not only make our point, but also would remove an American with the ear of Perón from the scene.”
He stopped, paused, and then looked at Richter.
“You may comment.”
“I can’t find a flaw in your reasoning, sir.”
“All right. Get started on a plan, multiple plans, to eliminate Cletus Frade. And as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
IX
[ONE]
Rhine-Main Airfield
Frankfurt am Main, Germany
0835 19 October 1945
Colonel Robert Mattingly, Second Lieutenant James D. Cronley Jr., Technical Sergeant Abraham L. Tedworth, and Staff Sergeant Paul D. Miller were all crammed in Mattingly’s Horch when La Ciudad de Mar del Plata taxied up to the terminal.
The car was filthy. Its passengers looked both tired and scruffy.
Mattingly and the sergeants had left Berlin just after noon the day before, headed directly for Kloster Grünau in Bavaria, a distance of approximately 360 miles. They paused only for fuel and coffee and bologna sandwiches at Quartermaster POL (for Petrol, Oil, and Lubricants) stations, and for roadside breaks for draining their bladders and taking turns at the wheel.
En route, they had been forced three times to pull off the autobahn after having been caught by Military Police speed traps driving in excess—far in excess—of the rigidly enforced 35 m.p.h. speed limit. Once, at a speed trap south of Kassel, an MP sergeant, who appeared more impressed than indignant, told Mattingly that he had clocked him at 105 m.p.h., which was three times the limit.
The normal procedure called for the detention of both driver and vehicle until, in the case of enlisted men, the miscreant could be turned over to his first sergeant or, in the case of officers, an officer of superior grade from his unit.
The detention procedure was waived for Mattingly. He was a colonel; Rank Hath Its Privileges.
He and the Horch were released after he signed an acknowledgment that he had been speeding. A report detailing his misbehavior would be sent through channels to his commanding officer. The MP sergeant also told him that the violation, speeding, was automatically upgraded to reckless driving when the speeder was caught going ten miles over the 35 m.p.h. limit.
At Kloster Grünau, Mattingly raised Second Lieutenant James D. Cronley Jr. and First Sergeant Tiny Dunwiddie from their more or less innocent sleep. He told the latter he was going to have to hold down the fort for a couple of weeks as the former was going to Argentina.
He then proceeded to brief Lieutenant Cronley as to what was expected of him, including the means of protecting the two canvas suitcases that he was not to let out of his sight until he placed them into the hands of Lieutenant Colonel Frade.
They then drove the approximately 226 road miles from Kloster Grünau to the Rhine-Main airfield outside Frankfurt am Main, acquiring en route two more citations for far exceeding the speed limit.
The citations, Mattingly knew, were going to delight General Greene when they came down through channels and landed on his desk requiring that he reply as to what punitive action he had taken. Greene would salivate when he got the one reporting that Mattingly had been clocked at triple the speed limit and cited for reckless driving.
While there were a number of punitive possibilities the speeding could cause, ranging from a verbal reprimand to a court-martial, the most likely thing that could happen was that Mattingly would find himself standing at attention before Lieutenant General Seidel—the EUCOM intelligence officer and General Greene’s boss.
Seidel would ask him what the hell the speeding was all about, and Mattingly would reply with the truth: “I had to get an officer onto the Buenos Aires plane, sir. The weather precluded the use of a light airplane, so the only way I could do that in the time available was by car, and ignoring the speed limit. Sir.”
It was possible—unlikely but possible—that General Seidel would give him a pass on that alone. He had worked if not for, then around, Seidel in London and Paris. And Seidel had raised no objections when he had—with, to be sure, the blessings of both I. D. White and David Bruce, head of OSS in London—been named chief of OSS in Germany.
More likely was the probability that Seidel would ask, “What officer? Buenos Aires? Why?”
Questions that Mattingly could not answer, which would annoy Seidel even more than his refusal to answer Greene’s questions had annoyed Greene.
And that would see him standing before Ike’s chief of staff, General “Beetle” Smith. Smith knew about OPERATION OST, so Mattingly could explain to him why he had acted as he had, but Smith was not likely to give him a pass. Eisenhower would have to be told of the problem.
The problem of course was not Colonel Robert Mattingly’s five citations for reckless driving, but the compromise of OPERATION OST, which carried with it the absolutely unacceptable embarrassment of both Eisenhower and President Truman.
It was possible, once Mattingly told Eisenhower that the files he had sent to Argentina were the ones—the only ones—that, should they fall into the wrong hands, could embarrass the President, that Eisenhower would tell Seidel to back off, what was going on at Kloster Grünau was none of his business. Or bring Seidel into the picture—he was, after all, the EUCOM G-2—and have him tell Greene to back off.
More likely, however, Eisenhower’s reaction to the situation would be: “Shut down Operation Ost.”
That order could mean what it implied: Shut the whole damn thing down, including the South German Industrial Development Organization in Pullach.
But more likely, Eisenhower would order that no more Gehlen people be allowed to go to Argentina, and to wait and see if shutting down Pullach would be necessary. Ike knew how important the intelligence was that would be coming from Pullach.
In either—in any—event, Colonel Robert Mattingly would have to go. When the rumors inevitably got out that the United States was not only complicit in permitting Nazis to escape to Argentina, but actively involved in getting them there, his name would come up.
If the speeding resulted in his appearing before Eisenhower, Mattingly had decided to propose that Major Harry Wallace be put in charge of the South German Industrial Development Organization and that he himself be immediately returned to the United States for separation from the service. Not released from active duty. Separated. He would resign his commission and go back to the University of the South.
If somehow they ran him down in Suwanee, he could credibly protest that the suggestion he was smuggling Nazis into Germany was absurd. He was an academic, not a spy. A professor of history and languages. He had been a technician—one of many—in the OSS. Nothing more. What he had been doing at Kloster Grünau was sorting through captured enemy records.
This would derail his plans to apply for a Regular Army commission and stay in the Army, and close forever the door to service in the New OSS—if there actually was going to be one.
But this scenario would protect the President, Eisenhower, and Gehlen’s Germans in Argentin
a, and ensure that the flow of intelligence from OPERATION OST was not cut off.
It was a gloomy forecast for the future, but that was the way—the only way—the ball seemed to be bouncing.
As far as Second Lieutenant James D. Cronley Jr. was concerned, the future looked so bright he was afraid the other shoe would fall at any moment. Something would keep him from boarding the aircraft with Colonel Mattingly’s two suitcases and flying off to be reunited with Elsa.
She had been in his thoughts constantly since Mattingly had told him he was going to Argentina. In just about all the mental images of Elsa that flooded his mind, she was wearing the see-through black brassiere and panties he had bought for her in the PX.
[TWO]
Aboard SAA Flight 2231
Altitude 20,000 feet Above Luxembourg City
0945 19 October 1945
La Ciudad de Mar del Plata had been on the ground at Rhine-Main just long enough to top off its fuel tanks and load five passengers, plus brown paper sacks containing egg sandwiches and two large thermos jugs of coffee. The passengers were two priests and two nuns traveling on Vatican passports, and of course Second Lieutenant James D. Cronley Jr., who boarded last with two canvas suitcases.
Cronley had been seated by the steward at the very rear of the passenger compartment beside a plump and balding mustachioed man who began their relationship by demanding, “Why didn’t you check those bags? They’re going to be in the way all the way to Buenos Aires.”
“Sorry,” Jimmy replied in his Texican Spanish, “I don’t speak Spanish.”
Fifteen minutes later, right after the shift in the roar of the engines told him they had reached cruising altitude, the steward came and announced, “Sorry, sir, but we must change your seat.”
Jimmy, dragging the two canvas suitcases, followed the steward up the narrow aisle to the front part of the passenger compartment. It was curtained off from the rear.
The steward held open the curtain for Cronley, and then closed it after him when he had passed through.
Cronley found himself in an area made up of the foremost two rows of double seats and—beyond an open door—an area holding a small table on one side and a rack of radios on the other. He could see all the way into the cockpit.
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