“Which would have given German submarines a radio contact,” Habanzo offered.
“And given the Tenth Mountain an excuse to regularly dispatch truck convoys down there to supply their troops at Estancia Condor,” Frade put in.
“And who would think to search trucks returning from a supply mission?” Martín asked rhetorically.
“I don’t suppose there’s an airstrip on the estancia?” von Wachtstein asked. “Or, for that matter, anywhere down there where it would be useful to us?”
“No, I don’t think there is,” Martín said.
“If there was,” Habanzo said, “the aircraft that periodically fly over the coast would have seen it.”
“It’s kind of hard to hide an airstrip,” Frade said.
“Tangential scenario,” Martín said. “If you were a Tenth Mountain officer, either a senior officer or maybe a major or even a captain, who knew about something involving a German submarine down there, what would you have done with the Signals people on the estancia after Colonel Schmidt was shot, and el Coronel Wattersly was en route with his broom to clean things up?”
“Left them there,” Cronley said. “This Wattersly didn’t know about U-234, and as long as those Signal Corps guys were on ice down there—how’s that for a metaphor?—it was not going to come out by mistake.”
Martín shook his index finger approvingly at Cronley.
“God, Bernardo, don’t encourage him,” Frade said. “He’s been enough of a wiseass.”
Is Clete going to ream me again? Jimmy thought.
“He’s right about what he just said, Cletus,” Martín said. “We’re going to have to get someone—Habanzo, maybe—down to Estancia Condor to see what he can find out.”
“But do it without my Tío Juan hearing about it,” Frade said. “We don’t know what he knows about U-234, and he’s liable to tell you—on general principles—to back off.”
“You think he might know about U-234?”
“I don’t know,” Clete said. “I do know that he and Schmidt were pals for a long time.”
“Then we’ll have to get Habanzo down there quickly,” Martín said.
“Do they have Piper Cubs down here?” Cronley asked.
The question silenced everybody as everybody looked at Cronley.
“Piper Cubs?” Frade then asked incredulously.
Oh, shit, Jimmy thought. Here it comes.
But what the hell . . .
“Yeah, Piper Cubs. J-3s. Or something like them.”
Frade glanced at Martín and said, “See what the hell you started by encouraging him?” then looked at Jimmy and added coldly, “Overwhelming curiosity causes me to ask: Why do you want, at this moment in time, to know if there are Piper Cubs, J-3s, down here?”
Fuck you, Clete.
“Sir, are there Cubs or not?” Cronley asked.
“Yes, there are. As a matter of fact, I have six of them. Why do you ask?”
“Take the wings off one—better, off two—load them on a flatbed trailer and send them down to Estancia Condor.”
“To use, I presume, to look for signs of a submarine having landed?” Frade asked sarcastically.
“Yeah.”
“You heard what General Martín said. There’s nothing down there but ice and snow. You can’t fly a Cub in those conditions.”
“You know better than that,” Cronley said.
“What did you say?” Frade snapped.
“I said you know better than that.”
“I do? Tell me, hotshot, how do you know what I know?”
“Get off my back, Clete.”
“What did you say?”
“Back off, Clete. I’m right on the edge of telling you to go fuck yourself.”
“Stand to attention, Lieutenant!”
“Okay,” Jimmy said, not moving except to give Clete the finger. “Go fuck yourself, Colonel.”
Frade leapt to his feet.
“I ordered you to come to attention!”
“And I didn’t. So now what?”
“And apologize to my wife for that obscenity!” Frade shouted.
“That I’ll do,” Cronley said. “Sorry, Dorotea.”
“I’ve heard the word before,” Dorotea said, and then added, “Sit down, Cletus.”
“What did you say?” he asked incredulously.
“I said sit down,” Dorotea said. “And be grateful these people know this childish behavior is between you as brothers, not officers.”
He looked at her but said nothing.
“You heard her, Cletus,” Cletus Marcus Howell said. “Sit down!”
Cletus slowly took his seat.
The old man was not through.
“And get off Jimmy’s back, Cletus,” he went on. “I don’t know and don’t care what set this off between you, but I do know that if it wasn’t for Jimmy, none of us would be sitting here. He’s earned the right to be heard.” He let that sink in, then said, “What’s on your mind, Jimmy?”
“No,” Dorotea said. “Let’s clear this up right now. Otherwise it’ll fester. What has Jimmy done, Cletus?”
Clete glared at Jimmy. “He knows.”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“The hell you don’t.”
“What has he done, Cletus?” Dorotea asked again, her tone exasperated.
“Okay, but you asked. He’s been in Argentina—what?—maybe five hours. And I walk into the wardrobe and he’s hitting on Marjorie.”
“That’s bullshit!” Jimmy exploded.
“She told you that, Cletus?” Dorotea asked.
“She didn’t have to. You should have seen her face. His face. It was written all over both of them.”
Dorotea laughed out loud.
“Cletus Frade,” she proclaimed, “protector of the family virgin!”
“Goddamn it, it’s not funny!”
“Absurd is what it is,” she said, her tone now disgusted. “And, more important, none of your business, Cletus. She’s not twelve years old.”
“I did not hit on Marjie,” Jimmy announced righteously. “My God, he’s out of his mind.”
“And people who live in glass houses should not throw stones,” Dorotea said. “Especially about other people chasing virgins.”
“Meaning what?”
“I don’t think, my darling, that you really want me to explain that in the hearing of all your friends, do you?”
She turned to Cronley.
“You were saying something, Jimmy, about Cletus knowing better than that. Better than what?”
Jimmy looked at Clete. Clete gave him the finger.
Jimmy returned the gesture with both hands.
He then said, “Years ago, Clete and I flew his father’s Cub up to Rapid City, South Dakota, to shoot pheasant. We landed on a dirt road near the farmer’s house. You can do that in a Cub. We hunted, went to bed, and during the night there was an early snowstorm. Eight, ten inches of snow—it was up over the Cub’s wheels. I figured we’d be stuck there for at least a week. But Clete went out on the road with a pickup truck and drove back and forth and packed the snow. . . .”
“I remember,” Clete said. “And you’re suggesting we could do that at Estancia Condor?”
Frade was now smiling. Jimmy smiled back.
“I think it’s worth a shot. We flew away from Rapid City, didn’t we?”
“Cletus,” von Wachtstein said. “We already have an airplane that’s better suited to arctic conditions than a Piper Cub, and someone with a hell of a lot of experience doing that.”
“You’re volunteering to go to Estancia Condor?” Frade replied.
“I was thinking about Willi Grüner.”
“Your old Luftwaffe buddy?”
“My old Luftwaffe buddy. He’s got a lot of experience flying, and not only in the Storch—on the Eastern Front in near-arctic conditions.”
“I don’t know, Hansel,” Frade said.
“Would this man be willing to help?” General Martín sa
id. “And I have to ask this, too: Can he be trusted?”
“I’m sure he would help, General,” von Wachtstein said. “And I trust him completely.”
“Where is he now?” Martín asked.
“Upstairs,” von Wachtstein said, then smiled and added: “He and Dieter von und zu Aschenburg—the other man for whom you were so kind to provide identity documents—are consoling my sister-in-law in the absence of von Dattenberg.”
“Very funny, Peter,” von Dattenberg said.
Jimmy saw his face.
What he’s pissed about is not that von Wachtstein is teasing him.
He’s pissed because the other two Krauts are making passes at Elsa, which means he thinks she’s his girl.
Well, it apparently didn’t take Elsa the Great very long at all to replace the American stud with a German one.
Or two German studs.
“Go get him, please, Hansel,” Frade ordered. “Actually, get both of them in here.”
And—what the hell—bring Elsa, too.
We can have a party!
—
“Dieter, Willi,” von Wachtstein said, “this is General Martín, through whose good offices you have your identity documents. General, my former commanding officer, Dieter von und zu Aschenburg, and my old friend Willi Grüner.”
“I am very grateful to you, sir,” von und zu Aschenburg said.
“I have always been impressed with your flying skill, Señor Aschenburg,” Martín said, “as well as your personal courage. When Peter came to me about bringing you to Argentina, I had no problem at all bending a rule here and a regulation there. I have no doubt that you will make a fine Argentine citizen.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Señor Grüner’s situation,” Martín went on, “unfortunately did not lend itself—does not lend itself—to my making a quick decision.”
“Sir?” Willi Grüner asked, confused.
“Please let me finish, Señor Grüner. And Colonel Frade, I would be most grateful if you would keep any thoughts you might have on this subject to yourself until I’m finished. Actually, I’m going to have to insist on that.”
“A su órdenes, mi General,” Frade said, jovially sarcastic.
“Like your brother, Cletus,” Martín said, “I have had just about all of your sarcasm that I’m going to take. Just sit there and shut up.”
“Or leave the room,” Cletus Marcus Howell added. “I don’t know what the hell is the matter with you, but like everybody else, I’ve had enough of it.”
Frade appeared on the edge of saying something but didn’t.
Martín waited ten seconds, which seemed longer, and then started.
“I knew your father, Señor Grüner,” he said, “and a good deal about him. I detested him for a number of reasons, ones general and specific. Generally—this should surprise no one—because he was not only a coronel—an oberst—in the Sicherheitsdienst of the Schutzstaffel but was very good at what the SD-SS did. Which here in Argentina meant the corruption of our officer and diplomatic corps and the murder of anyone who got in your father’s way.”
“General, my father is dead,” Willi Grüner said.
“Do not interrupt me again, please, Señor Grüner,” Martín said evenly, then went on: “And, specifically, I hated him because he ordered the assassination of an officer who was a dear friend and destined to be president of the Argentine Republic.
“I refer of course to late el Coronel Jorge G. Frade. Cletus’s father. Your father also tried on several occasions to assassinate Cletus. The most memorable of those occurred in this house. In the room we just left on the top floor, Cletus killed two of the murderers hired by your father, but not before they had slit the throat of the housekeeper, a middle-aged woman, in the kitchen.”
My God, Jimmy realized, genuinely shocked, this is all true.
“You said a moment, ago, Señor Grüner, that your father is dead. Are you aware of the circumstances of his death?”
“I have heard—”
Martín held up his hand to silence Grüner.
“Permit me to tell you the circumstances, Señor Grüner. I think it important that you know them. Your father was shot on the beach of Samborombón Bay. He was engaged at the time in the off-loading from an ostensibly neutral merchant ship crates of currency and other valuables. These were to purchase sanctuary here in Argentina for senior Nazi officials once they lost the war. The vessel was also intending to smuggle into Argentina a detachment of SS officers and other ranks to guard the vast valuables.
“While assisting in this smuggling operation, your father was shot in the head by a retired Argentine army sergeant major in defiance of his orders from then-Major Frade to observe only and take no action. Sergeant Major Enrico Rodríguez was aware of your father’s role in the attempted assassination here of Cletus Frade, and the brutal murder of the housekeeper. She was his sister. Rodríguez was also aware of your father’s role in the assassination of el Coronel Frade. He had been at Colonel Frade’s side—as he had been for twenty years during their active duty—when the assassination took place. He had been so seriously wounded himself that the assassins presumed him dead. El Colonel Frade’s death was caused by a twelve-bore shotgun loaded with double-aught buckshot fired twice into his face—”
“Good God! I never heard that!” Cletus Marcus Howell exclaimed. “In the face? Cletus, you never told me that!”
Cletus looked at him and said, “Now it’s your turn to just sit there and shut up, Grandfather. Let’s see where Bernardo is going with this.”
As if he had heard neither, Martín went on: “The assassins were never arrested. Your father, Señor Grüner—as I said, he was very good at what he did—arranged for them to be murdered when they arrived in Paraguay expecting to be paid the second half of their fee. ‘Dead men tell no tales,’ it is said.
“And there are other examples of your father’s ruthlessness. But those should suffice.
“We have a saying in Spanish—and, if I’m not mistaken, there’s one in German as well—to the effect that the apple never drops far from the tree. . . .”
Willi nodded.
“‘Der Apfel fällt nicht weit vom Stamm,’” he quoted softly. “I thought that’s what this was going to be about.”
“And now that you know, Señor Grüner, your reaction?”
“I hope you didn’t expect me to apologize for my father. I didn’t order the assassination of Cletus’s father, or hire anyone to kill Cletus. He was an SS-SD officer. I think he saw what he did as his duty. I think—and I don’t offer this as an extenuation for his behavior, but possibly an explanation for it—that that obscene personal oath of loyalty to Adolf Hitler had a lot to do with it.”
When Martín didn’t reply immediately, Grüner asked, “Do you know what I’m talking about, General? That holy oath of personal loyalty?”
Martín nodded. “Didn’t you yourself take it?”
“Hansel and I took it, and so did Dieter”—he nodded toward von und zu Aschenburg—“when we were with the Condor Legion in Spain. Hansel and I thought it was one more example of Nazi nonsense.”
He paused.
“I never knew,” he went on, his tone suggesting that he wondered why he had never considered it, “and he certainly never said anything about it, how Dieter, who was then our squadron commander, thought about it.”
It was more a question than a statement, and von und zu Aschenburg answered it.
“I was ordered, General, as squadron commander, to administer that oath to those under my command. It never entered my mind to refuse that order. But I never felt bound by it.”
“I did,” von Dattenberg said. “It wasn’t until I came here that I realized it was, as somebody just said, obscene.”
“Willi,” Boltitz said, “as a U-boat commander, did you ever surface and machine-gun the sailors in the lifeboats of vessels you had just sunk?”
“You know better than that, Karl!” von Dattenberg said.
>
“The first time either of us, as honorable officers, refused to do that, we broke our holy oath of personal loyalty to the Führer. . . .”
“I really would like to have a lengthy discussion about this subject,” Martín said. “But we’re pressed for time and have to deal with the basic questions.”
“Which are?” Cletus Marcus Howell said, admitting his confusion.
“Will Señor Grüner be willing to risk his life in the service of the Argentine Republic? His new country—”
“Doing what, General?” Willi asked.
“Anything we ask you,” Martín said.
“Yes,” Grüner said.
“Why?”
It took Grüner a long time to put his thoughts into words.
“Because it’s the only country I have, and I don’t want it taken over by either Nazis or Communists.”
“That’s not the answer I expected,” Martín said.
“What did you expect me to say?”
“I don’t know, but it wasn’t that. Now the second question. And this one is for you, Cletus, as both the son of your father and as Lieutenant Colonel Frade of the OSS: Can we trust him, the son of the man who ordered the killing of your father?”
Frade stood. For a long moment, he couldn’t find his voice.
Finally he did, and it all came out in a burst: “Stupid fucking question, Bernardo. Of course we can.”
There was an awkward moment’s silence before Martín matter-of-factly broke it.
“Señor Grüner, Lieutenant Cronley and von Dattenberg have determined what they believe is the landfall U-234 made. It’s at the southern tip of Argentina, close to the Strait of Magellan. In other words, the weather conditions there are much like those of the Antarctic, or Russia in the worst of winters. If we were to truck an airplane down there—”
“What kind of an airplane?” Grüner interrupted.
“A Storch, Willi,” von Wachtstein furnished.
“Could you somehow make a landing strip and operate from it?”
“Sure,” Grüner said without hesitation, and turned to von Wachtstein. “Hansel, where the hell did you get a Storch?”
“It is a long story for later,” von Wachtstein said.
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