“So we do it. What’s the problem?” Lang asked.
“We’ll have that hundred million dollars from the Russians,” Körtig said. “That should help.”
“The problem is there is no state. The Germans here have nothing to which they owe their allegiance. To put a point on that, no state of which they are afraid. If we, for example, decided to call a demonstration to protest the trials of Goering and the others in Nuremberg, I’m afraid a large number of our countrymen might decide they’d rather not participate, and all of them, I’m sure, would ask, ‘Just who are these people issuing these orders? Where do they get their authority?’”
“I’m not saying I agree with you,” Körtig said, “but for the sake of argument, what should we do in your judgment?”
“Das Deutschesvolk cheerfully and enthusiastically obeyed der Führer for two reasons. One, he was a spellbinding orator. Two, they knew if they didn’t, they’d have to deal with the SS.”
“That’s cynicism.”
“Whatever it is, it’s true, and you know it.”
“What’s your point, Ludwig?”
“If we are serious about keeping National Socialism alive, we are going to need the support of the German people here in Argentina and in Paraguay and Uruguay, and we’re not going to get that unless they respect the state.”
“You mean, are afraid of the SS?”
“Precisely.”
“And how are you going to do that when we have no more than a hundred or so SS people?”
“They don’t know how many people we have,” Mannhoffer said. “But they believe that the SS, like they do, must stay out of the public eye. All we have to do is convince them not only is the SS larger than it happens to be, but it is inflicting punishment on those disloyal to National Socialism.”
“Explain that,” Lang said.
“They know what’s going on in this country. They know, for a specific example, that von Wachtstein was a traitor to the Third Reich all the time he was serving as air attaché in the embassy. And that he is now married into one of the better families and flying an airliner. That he not only got away with his treason, but has been rewarded for it. And they have concluded, with reason, that the SS has been unable to do anything about it.”
“So you’re saying we should do something about it? Eliminate von Wachtstein?”
“What I want to do is build an image of the SS in the public’s imagination as a secret organization—a large secret organization—dedicated to the maintenance of National Socialist principles. Now, try to follow my reasoning. We eliminate von Wachtstein. No one will know who did it. But they will wonder: ‘Who did this and why?’ And they will conclude, wondering why it took them so long to understand, that the Sicherheitsdienst of the SS is alive, well, and as dangerous as ever. And here.”
“You may be onto something, Ludwig,” Körtig said. “First, von Wachtstein. And then Boltitz . . .”
“And of course von Dattenberg, who surrendered U-405 to the Argentines,” Lang chipped in.
“And most important, Don Cletus Frade,” Mannhoffer said. “His elimination will send a message not only to das Deutschesvolk, but to Juan Domingo Perón.”
“I don’t like that,” Körtig said. “Frade was standing beside him on the balcony of the Casa Rosada. Perón looks on him almost as a son.”
“We can argue about that later,” Mannhoffer said. “Right now, the first thing we do is get Kapitän Schneider and the rest of U-234’s crew back down there with enough diesel fuel so that they can move the U-boat a hundred kilometers away. The second thing we do is get enough SS men down there—thirty, thirty-five troopers—to eliminate the problem there, and—”
“Exactly what does ‘eliminate the problem’ mean?” Lang asked.
“When our men are finished, Colonel Habanzo, Major Grüner, the Storch, the fuel truck—everybody and everything that gottverdammt Martín sent down there—will have disappeared from the face of the earth.”
“I thought you wanted to eliminate von Wachtstein and Boltitz?”
“And von Dattenberg. But right now I don’t know where they are—or are going to be by the time we can form another SS Kommando unit—so where and when that will happen will depend on where they are. If they’re in Brazil or, for that matter, in the United States, terminating them will have to go on the back burner for a while.”
“The United States?” Lang asked.
“My man at the airport says they’re preparing the American Constellation for flight. They don’t know where it’s going—”
“‘The American Constellation’?” Körtig parroted.
“Frade’s grandfather’s, the Howell Petroleum Corporation airplane. A good possibility is that Frade is getting the women and the children out of Argentina until the submarine business is over. Sending them to the United States on his grandfather’s airplane would be a simple way to do that.”
“It would also get the grandfather out of the way,” Lang said.
“I should—we should—have more information fairly soon. The trouble is that I have only two people at the airport. One of them has to leave the airport and go to a telephone kiosk ten kilometers away to call me here.”
“Isn’t there a public telephone at the airport?”
“There is. Actually there’s three. And the women who operate that kiosk—and listen to every conversation—work for the BIS. As I was saying, the one who does make the calls is terrified of being caught at it.”
“Why? What could the BIS do to him?”
“The BIS, nothing. But my man believes that some ex-Húsares corporal in Frade’s Private Army would take him out onto the Pampas, slit his throat with his cuchillo criollo, and leave him there for the condors to eat.”
“With his what?” Lang asked.
“His gaucho’s knife. It’s a great big thing,” Mannhoffer explained, as he held his hands eighteen inches apart to show the length of a cuchillo criollo blade. “They carry them in the back, stuck in their wide leather belts.”
“Frade is that ruthless?” Körtig asked. There was a certain tone of professional admiration in his voice.
“Frade is,” he said, turning to Körtig. “But that wouldn’t happen if they caught him talking to me on the telephone. They would turn him over to the BIS, who would professionally interrogate him and then lock him up until this is over. I’ve often thought the one major weakness of the BIS is a certain lack of ruthlessness. My point here is that my man at the airport believes he would get his throat cut. What people believe is what counts, not the truth. What we have to do is convince the Deutschesvolk that the SS is here, strong, and prepared to be as ruthless as we ever were in Germany.”
“So where do we start?” Körtig asked.
“How’d you get to Buenos Aires?” Mannhoffer asked.
“By auto. Separately. We put them in garages. Separately. Mine’s in Recoleta.”
“Well, I suggest that one of you get back in one of them and head for Villa General Belgrano. Get Schneider and the rest of his crew back to U-234. Making sure Frade doesn’t get the uranium oxide is the highest priority, and the way to ensure that is to move the U-234.”
“You go, Lang,” Körtig said. “I’ll stay here a little longer—at least until we find out what Frade is up to at the airport.”
[TWO]
Office of the Managing Director
South American Airways
Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade
Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina
2205 20 October 1945
Cletus Frade was alone in his office with, of course, the ever-present Enrico Rodríguez. He was waiting impatiently for the crew of his grandfather’s Constellation to show up. Sparing no expense, the old man had put them up in the Alvear Palace.
That was in keeping with Cletus Marcus Howell’s philosophy of treating employees, which Clete had heard perhaps a hundred times since he was a child: “Find the best people, pay them one hundred twenty-five perce
nt of what they would be making anywhere else, and stay out of their way when they’re doing what you’ve told them to do.”
In this case he didn’t have to find the best people. When Howard Hughes sent the Connie to New Orleans, it was a given that the crew was first class. All the old man had to do was offer them a twenty-five percent pay increase to get them to change employers.
When he thought about that, Clete decided Howard, knowing what the old man was likely to do now that he owned the Connie and needed a crew for it, had sent him a good—but not necessarily the best—crew.
It didn’t matter. The crew was first class. As good as, and almost certainly more experienced than, any SAA crew.
When the crew finally showed up and filed into his office, Clete was glad that he was not wearing his SAA captain’s uniform.
Jimmy was right, he thought, the SAA uniform does make me look like a Mexican bus driver.
I would have given these guys a laugh, and that’s the last thing I can afford to do with them.
The men who came into his office were wearing, not surprisingly, American-style flight crew uniforms. That was to say, they all had blue tunics with gold wings pinned to them. There were two captains, one taller and one older, each wearing four gold stripes on their cuffs. And there were four first officers, with three stripes on their sleeves. One or two of the first officers, Clete guessed, were the flight engineers. It was wise to have flight engineers who were qualified pilots.
And there were four men with a single gold stripe. One of them—the one wearing wings, Clete guessed—was the radio operator. That meant the other three, who were not wearing pilot’s wings, were stewards.
“My name is Cletus Frade,” he began. “I guess you’ve heard Mr. Howell is my grandfather. I’m with South American Airways. I’m sorry to get you out here on such short notice, but it couldn’t be helped. I’ll tell you as much as I can—which won’t be much—starting with the fact that we need my grandfather’s airplane. I can’t tell you why, but I can tell you that you would not want to be involved. And you won’t be.
“As soon as you leave here, a Lodestar will fly you all to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, where you have first-class reservations at a hotel—I don’t know which one, but it’ll be a good one—until we can get you on one of Juan Trippe’s Panagra flying boats. . . .”
He became aware that both of the captains and one of the first officers were smiling ear to ear.
“Did I say something funny?” Clete demanded. “Or is there a piece of spinach stuck in my teeth? My fly open? What?”
“Sir,” the older of the captains said, “could Captain Ford and myself have a moment of your time in private? I think that would probably make things a little easier all around.”
Frade nodded. “Would the rest of your crew mind stepping into the outer office for a moment?”
“Outside, please, people,” Captain Ford ordered. “This probably won’t take long.”
Everybody but the two captains filed out of the office. Captain Ford closed the door after them.
“Okay,” Clete said. “What’s on your mind?”
Captain Ford took a small envelope from his tunic pocket and handed it to Frade, who opened it and read it.
* * *
The White House
Washington, D.C.
12 October 1945
To Whom It May Concern:
Commander Anthony C. Armstrong, USN, and Commander Richard W. Ford, USN, are engaged in carrying out a confidential mission for me which they are not at liberty to discuss.
All U.S. Government installations and activities are directed to provide them with any and all support they deem necessary to carry out their mission.
Harry S Truman
* * *
“I will be damned,” Clete said.
“I’m Ford,” the tall captain said, “and this ugly old man is Commander Tony Armstrong, USN. You really don’t remember ever seeing either of us, sir?”
Clete shook his head.
“But you do remember having been on what is now your grandfather’s Flying Brothel?” Armstrong asked.
“‘Tempelhof approach control, this is Navy 7077 . . .’” Commander Ford recited.
“Jesus!” Clete said, as he put together the pieces.
“And then we flew you—and Boltitz and von Wachtstein and those two German kids—from Berlin to Brazil,” Armstrong said, “to Val de Cans U.S. Air Force Base.”
“The . . . Flying Brothel . . . then had U.S. Navy markings, and the pilots were Navy officers,” Clete remembered, out loud.
“Under orders never to talk to their passengers,” Ford said. “Nice to see you again, Colonel.”
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Clete asked.
“Yeah,” Ford said. “I guess we’re going to have to. The reason we were flying Navy 7077—the Brothel—was because we worked for Admiral Souers. . . .”
“Doing what?”
“This is classified Top Secret–Presidential, Colonel Frade. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Whatever the President asked him to do.”
“Like what, for example?”
“You’re not cleared for that, generally, but, for example, picking up a jarhead light bird in New Orleans and flying him to Berlin because the President wanted to talk to him. Getting the picture?”
“Got it,” Clete, vividly recalling that surprise trip and secret meeting with Truman, replied with a chuckle.
“Apparently,” Ford went on, “the President told the admiral that your grandfather had bought the Flying Brothel from Howard Hughes, and Hughes was going to provide a crew from Lockheed to fly it down here for him. The President said the Lockheed crew was likely to see things he’d rather they not see, so why not send those nice guys who do flying jobs for the admiral—who knew how to fly the Brothel and how to keep their mouths shut—instead. And here we are.”
“Does my grandfather know about this?”
Both men shook their heads.
“But the admiral told me,” Ford said, “to tell you that you could tell him if you thought it was a good idea.”
“Anything else?”
“Cutting to the chase,” Armstrong said, “we are under orders to render any service Lieutenant Colonel Frade may ask of us.”
“So please don’t send us to Rio to catch a slow boat to China—a slow-flying boat to Miami—Colonel,” Ford said. “It looks like the fun here is just about to start.”
“What about the rest of your crew?” Frade asked. “How much do they know? How much can they be told?”
“They’re all assigned to the Naval Office of the President—we are, too, by the way—and all of them have all the exotic security clearances. I have complete trust in them.”
This is not what I expected, Clete decided.
But as my beloved grandfather is wont to say, “Don’t complain, just play whatever cards the dealer gives you.”
“I’ve got a couple of Top Secret–Presidential operations going here,” Clete said. “One of them you don’t really have to know about, but I’m going to tell you a little about it. You two only. Don’t share this with the rest of your crew. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Just before the war ended, the German general Gehlen, who was in charge of Abwehr Ost—Russian intelligence—went to . . .”
—
“Yeah, I can see why President Truman wouldn’t want that to come out,” Armstrong said, when Clete had finished.
“Is that what he wanted to talk to you about in Berlin?” Ford asked.
Frade nodded.
“What I’m doing with that is holding down the fort, all by my lonesome, until the President can set up a replacement for the OSS.”
“Under Admiral Souers,” Armstrong said. “He told us—Dick and me only—about that. They’re going to call it the Central Agency for Intelligence.”
“Central Intelligence Agency,” Ford corrected him.
Frade nodded, then said, “The second operation—it just came up—is something damned near as important. Just before the war ended, the Germans dispatched a submarine, U-234, ostensible destination Japan. Onboard were a couple of very senior SS officers, some German nuclear physicists, and five hundred sixty kilograms—about three-quarters of a ton—of uranium oxide.”
“Jesus Christ!” Armstrong said. “I heard the Germans had a nuclear program but . . .”
“They were trying to hand it to the Japs, right?” Ford asked.
“It looks that way,” Frade said.
“What’s the connection here?” Armstrong asked.
“We have some reliable intelligence that U-234 came to Argentina, and yesterday we think—operative word ‘think’—we learned where it made landfall. Very close to the Strait of Magellan.”
“That’s almost in the Antarctic, isn’t it?” Armstrong asked. “A lot of ice-covered rock?”
Frade nodded.
“You think it’s just sitting down there?” Ford asked dubiously.
“Personally, I think it unloaded its cargo and then was scuttled. But I don’t know that. What we’re going to do is look for any signs of a landing, and go from there. Play it by ear.”
“How are you going to look for it? On snowshoes?” Ford asked.
“With an airplane,” Frade said. “You ever hear of a Fieseler Storch?”
“I’ve seen pictures, but I’ve never actually seen one,” Ford said.
Armstrong shook his head.
“We have one. Great airplane. They stall at about thirty knots. That ought to be slow enough to have a good look. And the guy flying it has lots of experience in Russia.”
“How are you going to get it down there? Refuel it? Where’s it going to land?”
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