[FIVE]
Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade
Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina
1100 20 October 1945
As the truck-mounted stairs were positioned at the passenger door of La Ciudad de Mar del Plata, men pushed a narrow set of stairs on wheels up to the cockpit door. As soon as it was in place, Cletus Frade quickly climbed it.
Hans-Peter von Wachtstein was getting out of the pilot’s seat when Clete entered the cockpit.
They shook hands.
“We were getting a little worried, Hansel.”
“We ran into a hell of a storm in the middle of the Atlantic, Cletus, and—”
Frade spotted Boltitz and interrupted him.
“Beth has been pawing the ground since nine o’clock. I thought we were going to have to pour a bucket of cold water on her.”
“Very funny, Cletus,” Boltitz said.
“Hansel, did Colonel Mattingly give you a package for me?” Frade asked.
“If you’re talking about two canvas suitcases, he entrusted it to the care of Second Lieutenant Cronley,” von Wachtstein said.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Say, ‘Welcome to Argentina, Jimmy,’ Clete,” Cronley said from the radio compartment.
He was wearing an olive drab U.S. Army uniform with gold second lieutenant’s bars and the crossed swords of cavalry on it—not the “civilian employee” blue triangles he had been wearing in Marburg an der Lahn. The jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a Colt Model 1911-A1 .45 ACP in a shoulder holster.
Why the pistol, Jimmy?
Who are you going to shoot on this airplane?
There were two other men in the radio compartment. The older of them looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t come up with a name. He had never seen the younger one.
Who the hell are these guys?
“What the hell are you doing here, Jimmy?” Frade asked, wrapping his arms around Cronley.
“Colonel Mattingly said because I ate my spinach I could come out and play with the big boys. I guess our side won in the civil war, huh?”
“What and where did you hear about a civil war?”
“Peter said the last time he saw you, you were taking off from here in a Lodestar with the local dictator aboard and the bad guys shooting machine guns at you.”
“Did von Wachtstein use that term, ‘local dictator’?” Clete asked, looking at Peter.
“No. He said it was a Colonel Peon.”
“Perón,” Frade said. “Colonel Juan Domingo Perón. I don’t want you ever to say, or even think, ‘local dictator’ again. Got it?”
“Got it,” Cronley said, smiling.
“Say, ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ That was an order.”
“Begging the colonel’s pardon, sir, the lieutenant is an Army officer. Army officers don’t say ‘aye, aye.’ But, that out of the way, yes, sir. I understand.”
Clete saw that all the Germans were amused. It was only with a major effort that he kept his temper under control.
If I stand Cronley tall and really let him have it, all that will accomplish is to really amuse the Germans.
How do I know these other two are German?
“Peter, who are these people?” Clete asked.
“Old comrades from the Luftwaffe,” von Wachtstein said. “Willi Grüner and Dieter von und zu Aschenburg.”
Frade’s memory banks kicked in.
The older one used to fly Lufthansa Condors into here. That’s why I recognize him.
The young one is who Peter went to flight school with and flew with in Spain.
And now that I think about it, von Whatever-his-name-is was their commanding officer.
So, what obviously has happened is that they somehow got together in Berlin, or Frankfurt, and he just loaded them on the plane.
Without of course asking me if that was okay.
And without considering it was putting Operation Ost at risk.
He felt his temper rise, and then got it under control as he wordlessly shook their hands.
Get off your high horse, Cletus.
You would have done exactly the same thing.
“Welcome to Argentina,” he said. “Getting you off the airport may pose a problem. The man who handles things like that for us isn’t here.” He looked at Peter. “When they were shooting at me in the Lodestar, they managed to hit General Martín in the leg. He’s on crutches.”
“Is he going to be all right?” von Wachtstein asked.
“Yeah.”
“And Colonel Peon?” von Wachtstein asked, smiling.
“You think that’s funny, do you?”
“Colonel Peon is a good name for a dictator, wouldn’t you say?”
“Colonel Perón’s fine. As a matter of fact, Colonel Perón and Señorita Evita Duarte were married yesterday. Martín, Father Welner, and I were the witnesses.”
“He actually married her?”
“He actually married her. And ordered Bernardo to pin copies of the wedding register to the doors of the dining rooms at the Circulo Militar and the officers’ club at Campo Mayo.”
“I thought you said Bernardo was on crutches,” von Wachtstein said.
“He was. He is. Enrico’s here—he’ll know how to get your friends past the immigration people.”
“That’s not going to be a problem. I went to Germany with Argentine passports and libretas de enrolamiento for Dieter and Willi in my pocket. Courtesy of Bernardo.”
Frade nodded.
“Cletus,” Boltitz then said, “I turned up something interesting about U-405 in Bremen. It is possible she made landfall in southern Argentina.”
“How good is your information?”
“You heard that before she sailed from Narvik, some of her crew was allowed to leave?”
Frade nodded.
“I knew one of them, her second engineer, Kurt Schrann, when he was a simple seaman. We made five patrols together. I recommended him for a direct commission. I ran Kurt down in Bremen. He wouldn’t lie to me. He said the coordinates for the landfall were also furnished, in code, to U-405. If von Dattenberg didn’t burn the contents of his safe before he surrendered . . .”
“He didn’t,” Clete said simply. “Did Willi know about this document, whatever it is, with the coordinates?” He looked at von Wachtstein. “Hansel, he damned sure didn’t say anything.”
“If Willi didn’t say anything, he didn’t know,” von Wachtstein replied.
“He was the captain of U-405 and he didn’t know?” Frade asked sarcastically.
“Where are the contents of U-405’s safe?” Boltitz asked.
“Bernardo has them,” Clete replied. “I was about to send them to Casa Montagna to see if someone there could find something of value.”
“Clete, I think if we put together what I know—or think I know—with Willi and the contents of the safe . . .”
“Okay. I’ll see what I can do to set that up,” Clete said. “I’ll call Martín from the passenger terminal and see how he wants to handle this.”
He turned to Cronley.
“Do you know what’s in those bags you brought?”
Cronley nodded.
“And, briefly, what would that be?”
“Well, in addition to thermite grenades—”
“Thermite grenades!” Frade interrupted.
“Right. Grenades, Hand, Thermite, M14—one in each suitcase. I wouldn’t tug on that nylon cord you see snaking out the side.”
“Spare me your wit, Jimmy,” Frade snapped.
“I’m not being funny, Cletus. You tug on that cord and you can say good-bye not only to what’s in the suitcases but to your airplane.”
My God, he’s serious! He has thermite grenades in there.
And what the hell else? The dossiers I asked for are not that important.
They’re useful, but not important in a keep-the-other-side-from-learning-what-they-say way.
With the exception that we g
ot them from the Gehlen people, there’s no reason they should be classified at all.
“I asked you what’s in those bags,” Frade said.
“You’re putting me on a spot, Clete. Colonel Mattingly said I’m not supposed to tell anyone but you. That was my last order and I’m going to obey it.”
“Your last order, goddamn it, Jimmy, is from me. Tell me what’s in the goddamn suitcases.”
“The way that works, Clete, and you know it, is that an order remains valid until changed by someone senior to the officer who issued the original order. Mattingly is a full bull colonel. You’re a light bird.”
“I would say, Lieutenant Colonel Frade, that the lieutenant has you,” von Wachtstein said drily.
Frade took Cronley’s arm and led him into the passenger compartment. It was already just about empty. Clete, arms crossed, impatiently waited until it was entirely empty, then turned to Cronley.
“Why are you trying to make me look the fool in front of my friends?”
“I’m not doing that. Jesus, Clete!”
“Then what’s going on?”
“Mattingly said, ‘If Frade wants to tell his German and Argentine friends what I’m sending him, that’s his business. But I’m not going to hand over this material to them, and neither are you. You’re not even to tell them what’s in the bags.’ Or words to that effect.”
“Okay, understood. So, what’s in the bags?”
“Those dossiers you asked for of the Nazis who came ashore from U-405—”
“Von Wachtstein and the others know all about that. What else is there that requires thermite grenades?”
“And the names of all the Gehlen people who are here. And all records of anything that connects the South German Industrial Development Organization to anything here. Mattingly thinks Grünau and Pullach are about to be raided.”
“Raided? By who?”
Cronley told him everything that had happened at Kloster Grünau. And of Mattingly’s session with General Greene. And of Mattingly’s belief that Greene was about to raid Kloster Grünau, Pullach, and Mattingly’s office in the I.G. Farben Building to see what he could find.
“So he got you the hell out of Dodge, huh?” Frade said when Cronley had finished.
“Me and the incriminating evidence.”
“Major Habanzo—he is probably really a colonel, anyway, he’s General Martín’s Number Two in the Bureau of Internal Security—is in the passenger terminal. He’ll know where to find Martín. While we’re waiting to get in touch with him, we’ll go to a house of mine downtown. Martín will probably come there, even if they have to carry him. He’s a good man, Jimmy. Keep that in mind.”
“Got it.”
“Okay, let’s do it. Where do you want to disarm the thermite grenades?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because no one is going to try to get at those bags here, and it would be a shame to see all that stuff go up in smoke because there was some kind of accident.”
Frade heard the sarcasm in his voice and hoped that it didn’t go too far.
It went, instead, right over Cronley’s head.
He’s going to disarm those grenades when he decides it’s safe to do so. Not when—or because—Colonel Frade tells him to.
And what Colonel Frade had better do is understand that his Little Brother Jimmy is really an Army officer now. And not your typical wet-behind-the-ears second lieutenant.
Mattingly put him in charge of Kloster Grünau. He certainly would have preferred to hand that job to a thirty-year-old major. But he gave it to Jimmy and then entrusted to Jimmy’s care documents that would, if they got out, embarrass the commander in chief, European Command, and the President of the United States.
Second lieutenants are not usually handed responsibilities like that.
Second Lieutenant Cronley made his decision: “I could do it right here. But if I screw up, there goes your airplane. What I’m going to do is get off the airplane and go fifty—better, a hundred—yards away and disarm the thermite there.”
“I’ll send Enrico with you.”
“Who’s he?”
“You saw him in Marburg. He’s a retired Argentine sergeant major. Now he’s my bodyguard.”
“You need a bodyguard, Clete?”
Frade nodded. “I’m afraid so,” he said, then added, “Bring the bags and follow me.”
Clete led Jimmy through the passenger cabin—rather than back to the cockpit—and then down the passenger stairway. Enrico, who had been waiting at the foot of the crew steps, came over to them.
“You remember Subteniente Cronley, Sergeant Major?”
“Sí, Don Cletus. Your little brother.” He smiled and thrust his hand at Cronley.
“Think of him, Suboficial Mayor, as subteniente.”
Enrico looked surprised.
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
“In the subteniente’s luggage, Sergeant Major,” Frade went on, “are two thermite grenades. I want you to go with him out there and help disarm the grenades. And then take him to the terminal and load him and the bags in one of the station wagons.”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
Frade saw Boltitz and Hansel’s old Luftwaffe buddies coming down the stairs and started to walk to the terminal.
Cletus Marcus Howell, Martha Howell, and Beth and Marjorie came out of the passenger terminal onto the tarmac.
“You better have a bucket of cold water ready, Martha,” Clete said. “Beth’s seen Karl Boltitz.”
“You sonofabitch!” Beth said, as she started to run toward Boltitz.
“That’s not funny, Cletus. You should be ashamed of yourself,” Martha replied, but she couldn’t stop from smiling.
“Who’s the man in the American uniform?” Marjorie then asked. “Walking here with Enrico?”
“Not a man you’d be interested in, Marj. Just a shallow kid who works for me.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looks like Jimmy Cronley,” Martha said.
“You do know better, Martha. And it looks like you’re going to need two buckets of ice water.”
“Beth’s right,” Marj said. “You are a sonofabitch!”
“I can’t believe my baby sister said that to me!”
“What’s Jimmy doing here?” Martha asked.
“He heard Marj was here and hopped on the next plane.”
“I mean, really,” Martha said, and then stopped when she realized Cronley was now almost up to them.
“Hey, Miz Howell!” he greeted her.
“I know you well enough to get kissed, Jimmy,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek.
“And you’re Clete’s grandfather, right?”
“The last time I saw you, you were in a Boy Scout uniform,” the old man said.
“No, sir. I think it was in my A&M pinks and greens. And it was at Mr. Howell’s funeral.”
“So it was,” the old man said.
Cronley turned to Marjorie.
“Hey, Squirt. How goes it?”
Frade smiled, thinking, Well, the shallow boy just cut the sophisticated lady off at the knees, didn’t he?
Marjorie, face flushed, was literally speechless.
Major Habanzo walked up to them.
“Don Cletus, General Martín will want to know if . . . if what he was looking for was on the plane.”
“It was. Major Habanzo, this is Subteniente Cronley, the . . . officer courier”—Marjorie, put that “officer courier” in your pipe and smoke it—“who brought it. And some other things that will be of interest to the general.”
“Teniente,” Habanzo said to Jimmy, and put out his hand.
Cronley saluted, and said, “A sus órdenes, mi Mayor,” before shaking it.
Marjie didn’t miss any of that either.
“How do we get the general and this material together?” Frade asked.
“The general has suggested that, presuming what he hoped
would be on the airplane was, that he could be at your Libertador house by the time you get there if I called him, and if that would be convenient.”
“Call him, please,” Frade said. “Martha, I’ll have to ride with Jimmy in one of the station wagons.”
“I was hoping he could ride with us. I want to ask him what he’s been up to.”
“No, you don’t, Martha. Even if he could tell you, you don’t want to know.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Frade nodded.
“We’ll see you at the house. Let’s go, Jimmy.”
[SIX]
4730 Avenida Libertador General San Martín
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1345 20 October 1945
“Don Cletus, Captain von Dattenberg and Señora von Wachtstein are in the garage,” Antonio the butler announced.
Jimmy Cronley looked up with interest.
“Well, that’s everybody then,” Frade said. “I’d say we should go in the library, but I suspect we’re going to need this table.”
Everyone was still seated around the enormous dining room table where they had just had lunch. Clete had decided to wait until von Dattenberg could drive in from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo before getting into the business at hand, so that everybody would be present.
“Antonio, would you have someone clear the table, and bring coffee?”
“Sí, Don Cletus.”
“Show Captain von Dattenberg in here, please, Antonio. Hold the lady in the foyer, where the other ladies and—I’m sorry, Grandfather—Señor Howell will join them.”
“I’m going to sit in on this, Cletus,” Dorotea announced.
“I think I will, too,” the old man announced.
“Grandfather, don’t blow a gasket, but that’s absolutely impossible.”
“How did you ever get to be a colonel,” the old man replied, “much less a senior intelligence officer, without learning that nothing is ever absolutely impossible?”
He reached into his inner pocket, came out with a small envelope, and tossed it onto the table in front of Clete.
Clete was surprised when he saw what was printed on the flap of the envelope and even more shocked when he saw what it contained:
* * *
The White House
Washington, D.C.
12 October 1945
Dear Colonel Frade:
Empire and Honor Page 36