“I’m glad I caught you at home, Clete,” Nestor said, thrusting the package at him. “A little housewarming gift.”
The package gurgled. It was booze of some kind.
“Thank you,” Clete said. “I’m a little disappointed, though, frankly.”
“How’s that?”
“From Humphrey Bogart movies, I had the idea that spies met in an alley in the tough part of town at midnight, not at someplace like the Belgrano Athletic Club. And I certainly didn’t expect the Spymaster to show up bearing a housewarming gift.”
He’d intended to be witty. From the strained smile on Nestor’s face, Clete saw he hadn’t been taken that way.
I will henceforth go easy on the humor.
“We’re not spies, Clete,” Nestor said after a moment. “We’re gentlemen. The FBI are the spies.”
“And not gentlemen?”
“Rarely, Clete, rarely. There is always an exception.”
Clete shook the package.
“Would you like a little of whatever this is? Or something else?”
“I would prefer one of those,” Nestor replied, indicating Clete’s beer. “If that would…”
Clete pushed the call button. They were all over the house. Granduncle Guillermo knew how to live.
Señora Pellano appeared immediately.
“Would you bring the Señor a beer, please? And a glass. Señor is a gentleman.”
“Actually, on a hot day, I rather like to drink from the bottle,” Nestor said, smiling, and then turned and gestured off the balcony. “Beautiful view from here.”
“It’s a beautiful house,” Clete said.
“And how kind of your father to make it available to you.”
“I thought so.”
“There are other advantages as well.”
“Such as?”
“It establishes you as the beloved son of el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade,” Nestor said. “That could prove very valuable.”
Clete nodded.
“Have you thought about calling Señora Frade? You seemed to be getting along splendidly with her last night. A—I almost said ‘affair’—relationship with her might be valuable to us.”
“She called me,” Clete said. “The phone rang the minute I walked in the door last night.”
“And will you see her?” Nestor asked, then caught the look on Clete’s face. “Really? Good boy.”
“Is that why I was at the dinner? You wanted me to meet her?”
“I wanted you to meet David in a credible situation,” Nestor said. “Señora Frade, so to speak, was an unexpected bonus. Letting it travel around town that she has added you to her list of admirers—her long list of admirers—will paint the sort of picture about you we want.”
Her long list of admirers? Incredible!
“Inasmuch as you elected to ignore your instructions vis-à-vis your cover,” Nestor went on, “that may prove quite valuable. More gossip-worthy, so to speak.”
“Sir, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your father proudly introduced you to a number of important officers as ‘my son, late Teniente of the air service of the U.S. Marine Corps, who served at Guadalcanal.’”
“How did you hear about that?” Clete asked, surprised.
“I have a number of friends in the Argentine military. I presume you had reason to ignore your instructions about your cover?”
“I suppose I could tell you that it just slipped out. But the truth of the matter is, I was a little drunk at the time, and didn’t want my father to think I was shirking my duty to God and country.”
“From what I hear, the both of you were three sheets to the wind. I’m sure meeting him was emotional for the both of you, but you might consider the ill-wisdom of excessive alcohol.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Señora Pellano came onto the balcony with a bottle of cerveza and a glass on a tray.
Nestor stopped her when she started to pour, took the bottle from her, and put it to his lips.
Is he doing that because he really likes to, or to play “I’m just one of the boys” with me?
“I hope I haven’t disturbed anything?” Nestor asked.
“No. Not a thing. I was sitting here catching the breeze and feeling sorry for myself.”
“Why sorry? Don’t tell me Señora Frade didn’t turn out to be as advertised.”
“I miss flying. I even miss the goddamned Marine Corps. I’m a much better Naval Aviator than I am a saboteur.”
“Perhaps your father will let you fly his airplane. Or one of them.”
“I didn’t know he had an airplane.”
“He has a Beechcraft biplane, and at least one Piper Cub.”
“You mean a stagger-wing Beechcraft?”
“Your father’s has the top wing behind the lower…yes, I suppose it would be a ‘stagger-wing.’ And as I say, at least one Piper Cub. The use—on the larger estancias—of small aircraft is quite common.”
“They were getting into that in Texas and Oklahoma, too,” Clete said.
If my father has a Beech stagger-wing, he’ll probably let me fly it.
“We considered, of course, that you might not find your father to be the ogre Mr. Howell paints him to be. And in time, that you might manage to get close to him. We didn’t think it would happen so quickly.
“Do you think he’ll turn out to be useful to us?”
“How do you mean, useful?”
“Tilt this country toward us, and away from Mr. Hitler and Company.”
“My initial impression of my father is that he’s a strong, intelligent man, who will tilt the way he decides to tilt, completely unaffected by his son’s nationality, or by what his son thinks or asks him to do. Incidentally, I’m quite sure he’s figured out that I’m not down here to make sure Mallín isn’t diverting crude to the Germans.”
“What makes you think so?”
“He as much as told me. It was by shading, innuendo, not in so many words.”
“What were the circumstances?”
“There was an Internal Security officer. A lieutenant colonel named Martín…”
“Not just ‘an Internal Security officer,’ Clete,” Nestor interrupted him. “Colonel Martín is Chief of the Ethical Standards Office of the Bureau of Internal Security. He reports only to the Chief of Internal Security, an admiral named de Montoya. A very competent, and thus dangerous, man.”
“My father said he’d been to see him, asking about me. As a matter of fact, he said that’s how he learned I was in Argentina.”
“That was quick work on Martín’s part,” Nestor said admiringly. “They apparently made the connection between you and your father more quickly than we thought they would. Go on.”
“Anyway, this Colonel Martín was in the Alvear Palace when I met my father.”
“Possibly surveilling your father. But that’s unlikely. He’s too important for something like that.”
“My father introduced us,” Clete went on, aware he was growing annoyed at Nestor’s frequent interruptions. “Later he told me who Martín was. And this is the innuendo I meant: He told me that I have nothing to worry about since I’m down here only for Howell Petroleum—to make sure Mallín is not diverting petroleum products.”
Nestor grunted.
“And does Mallín have any idea that you’re not down here to do that?”
“No. Or at least he didn’t. My father said Martín would probably go to see him. And that would arouse his suspicions.”
“Worst possible scenario: You will be expelled from Argentina despite your father, or possibly because your father will arrange it. You would probably have time to go underground, but that would be sticky.”
I can think of a worse scenario: The same thing will happen to me, to all three of us, that happened to the last OSS team.
“Alternative scenario,” Nestor went on. “Even if Martín has questions about your cover, he won’t connect you with the repleni
shment-ship problem yet, and you will not be expelled from Argentina.” He paused a moment, then finished that thought. “Both Martín and Admiral de Montoya are obviously reluctant to anger your father. But he will keep you under surveillance.”
“I understand.”
“You will have to be extra careful when you go to Uruguay. Which brings us to that.”
“Uruguay?”
“How soon do you think you can tear yourself away to go to Uruguay?”
“What will I do in Uruguay?”
“You and Pelosi are going to Montevideo, where you will hire a car and drive to Punta del Este. It is a rather charming little town on the Atlantic coast, quite popular with Argentineans escaping the heat of Buenos Aires. After you take the sun on the beach at Punta for a day or two, you will drive north—I’ll furnish a map—to near the Brazilian border. A quantity of explosives and detonators will be air-dropped to you there.”
“Air-dropped from where?”
“From Brazil, onto a rice field we have used before.”
“How do I get the explosives past Argentine customs when we come back? Or past Uruguayan customs leaving Uruguay?”
“The explosives themselves should pose no problem. They have been molded into a substance that looks exactly like wood, and precut to form the parts of a wooden crate. You will assemble the crates—there will be two of them, with a total weight of just over twenty-two pounds—and fill them with souvenirs of your holiday…not too heavy souvenirs; the explosives only look like wood and don’t have wood’s strength. They make some rather attractive doodads of straw, in the shape of chickens, horses, cows, et cetera. These would be ideal. You will quite openly carry the crates onto and off the ferry and through Argentine customs.”
Now this is more like Errol Flynn battling the Dirty Nazis. The problem is, although I know Nestor is dead serious, I’m having trouble believing that I am about to go to some field near the Brazilian border and have explosives air-dropped to me.
“The detonators will pose a problem. There will be a dozen of them. They’re quite sensitive. Probably the best way is for one of you to tape them to your body. Argentine Customs is very unlikely to submit you to a body search.” He paused and smiled. “Or perhaps you could wear your cowboy boots. I’m sure you could conceal them in your boots.”
And blow my goddamned leg off!
“Is there any way I could take Ettinger instead of Pelosi?” Clete asked. “Pelosi is young. Excitable. And doesn’t speak Spanish well.”
“But knows about explosives and airdrops,” Nestor said, shaking his head no. “Besides, I want Ettinger to continue what he’s doing with the Hebrew community here.”
“We’ve discussed that. He knew only one family on that list of names, and they told him to bug off.”
“He’s going to have to go back to Klausner and try again.”
“He’s convinced me that would be a waste of time, and that Klausner would very possibly turn him in. Or at least report to Internal Security that Ettinger has contacted him.”
“He’ll have to go back.”
“You tell him.”
“I have information that may change Klausner’s attitude,” Nestor answered, ignoring Clete’s last remark.
He took what looked like several sheets of folded yellow paper from the inside pocket of his seersucker jacket and handed them to Clete. When Clete started to unfold them, he saw it was really one long sheet of paper, and recognized the carbon copy from a radio-teletype machine.
“This will be released to the Argentinean press in the morning. Even if they run it, Herr Klausner might not see it,” Nestor said as Clete started to read it.
* * *
FROM SECSTATE WASHINGTON 0645 28 NOVEMBER 1942
VIA PANAMA TO ALL AMEMBASSIES SOUTHAMERICA FOR IMMEDIATE PERSONAL ATTENTION AMBASSADORS
(1) SECSTATE DESIRES IMMEDIATE TRANSMITTAL AT AMBASSADORIAL LEVEL TO HIGHEST POSSIBLE LEVEL HOST GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL, FOLLOWED BY WIDEST POSSIBLE DISSEMINATION TO ALL CHANNELS OF PUBLIC INFORMATION.
DECLARATION BEGINS:
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
THE DEPARTMENT OF STATE
WASHINGTON, DC
28 NOVEMBER 1942
FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT, THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA; HIS MAJESTY GEORGE VI, KING OF ENGLAND AND EMPEROR OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE; JOSEF STALIN, CHAIRMAN OF THE SUPREME SOVIET OF THE UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS; AND GENERAL CHARLES DE GAULLE, CHAIRMAN OF THE FRENCH NATIONAL COMMITTEE, ON BEHALF OF THEIR GOVERNMENTS, AND IN THE NAME OF THEIR PEOPLE, HEREWITH DECLARE:
THE GERMAN GOVERNMENT, NOT CONTENT WITH DENYING TO PERSONS OF JEWISH RACE IN ALL THE TERRITORIES OVER WHICH THEIR BARBAROUS RULE HAS BEEN EXTENDED THE MOST ELEMENTARY HUMAN RIGHTS, ARE NOW CARRYING INTO EFFECT HITLER’S OFT-REPEATED INTENTION TO EXTERMINATE THE JEWISH PEOPLE IN EUROPE.
FROM ALL THE OCCUPIED COUNTRIES, JEWS ARE BEING TRANSPORTED, IN CONDITIONS OF APPALLING HORROR AND BRUTALITY, TO EASTERN EUROPE. IN POLAND, WHICH HAS BEEN MADE THE PRINCIPAL NAZI SLAUGHTERHOUSE, THE GHETTOS ESTABLISHED BY THE GERMAN INVADERS ARE BEING SYSTEMATICALLY EMPTIED OF ALL JEWS EXCEPT A FEW HIGHLY SKILLED WORKERS REQUIRED FOR WAR INDUSTRIES.
NONE OF THOSE TAKEN ARE EVER HEARD OF AGAIN. THE ABLE-BODIED ARE SLOWLY WORKED TO DEATH IN LABOR CAMPS. THE INFIRM ARE LEFT TO DIE OF EXPOSURE AND STARVATION, OR ARE DELIBERATELY MASSACRED IN MASS EXECUTIONS.
THE NUMBER OF VICTIMS OF THESE BLOODY CRUELTIES IS RECKONED IN MANY HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF ENTIRELY INNOCENT MEN, WOMEN AND CHILDREN.
THE GOVERNMENTS OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA; THE KINGDOM OF ENGLAND AND THE BRITISH EMPIRE; THE UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS; AND THE FRENCH NATIONAL COMMITTEE CONDEMN IN THE STRONGEST POSSIBLE TERMS THIS BESTIAL POLICY OF COLD-BLOODED EXTERMINATION.
DECLARATION ENDS.
(2) SECSTATE DESIRES NOTIFICATION BY MOST EXPEDITIOUS MEANS OF COMPLIANCE, TO INCLUDE NAME AND TITLE OF FOREIGN OFFICIAL TO WHOM DECLARATION DELIVERED, AND DATE AND TIME.
CORDELL HULL
SECRETARY OF STATE
* * *
“Jesus H. Christ!” Clete said.
“Rather nauseating, isn’t it?” Nestor said.
“Hundreds of thousands of people murdered?” Clete asked incredulously.
“The ambassador said he’s been led to believe it’s many more than that,” Nestor said evenly. “He thinks there was probably quite a discussion in Foggy Bottom…”
“What?”
“…at the Department of State,” Nestor explained somewhat condescendingly. “They call it ‘Foggy Bottom’ in Washington. The ambassador thinks there was probably quite a discussion—with the decision made at the highest levels, perhaps by the Secretary himself—before they came up with the ‘hundreds of thousands’ language. Even that boggles credulity. One’s mind can accept the death of one person, a hundred persons, even a thousand. Credulity is strained at tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands. The death, much less the murder, of millions is simply—beyond human comprehension.”
“In other words, you believe this?”
“We know it to be a fact; our people have seen the death camps.”
“Jesus!”
“Give me a call when you return from Punta del Este. Have a good time. I’ve been there. The women on the beach are stunning; made me wish I was a bachelor.”
He put his beer bottle down on the banister.
“I can find my way out,” he said.
XI
[ONE]
La Boca
Buenos Aires
1630 3 December 1942
Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, Corps of Engineers, Army of the United States, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and dark-blue cotton trousers, was wet with sweat when the bus finally arrived in La Boca. The bus was old, battered, noisy, and as crowded as the El at the Loop during rush hour—more crowded; I feel like a goddamned sardine.
Lieutenant Frade had ordered him to spend as much time as possible riding the buses, “to get an idea
of the terrain.” The mentors in New Orleans had suggested the idea, and it was a good one, but Pelosi couldn’t help but notice that Frade wasn’t riding around in fucking buses himself; he was either getting chauffeured in one of Mallín’s cars or catching cabs.
Pelosi stepped off the bus, took half a dozen steps, and then pulled the sweat-soaked shirt away from his chest and back.
Lieutenant Frade had also ordered him to start “laying in whatever you think you’re going to need to blow a hole in a ship. No explosives, no detonators, they’ll be provided. Everything else.”
What the fuck is everything else? You need five things to blow something: explosives, detonators, wire, damping material—sandbags are usually best—and a source of juice to blow the detonators. A proper magneto controller is best. You hook up the wires, give it a crank, and boom!
I’m not as dumb as Lieutenant Frade—and for that matter, Ettinger—think I am. Laying in everything else does not mean I should find some engineer supply store and walk in and announce, “Hola! I’m interested in a good high-explosives controller. A Matson and Hardy Model Seven would be nice. What am I going to do with it? Why, I’m going to blow the bottom out of a ship in your harbor, that’s what I’m going to do.”
I don’t really need a controller. I can get by with a couple of six-volt dry-cell batteries; Christ knows I’ve done that often enough. So what I’m doing here is looking for wire and a half-dozen dry-cell batteries. Big fucking deal.
What I really need is a magnet, a great big fucking magnet, so I can make something like the thing Lieutenant Greene, Chief Norton, and Bo’sun Leech showed me at the shipyard in Mississippi.
That device really impressed Tony. It was designed to pierce armored steel, like on a tank; and it was improvised from a limpet mine the Navy had gotten from the English, Chief Norton told him. It was constructed of magnetized steel. Its bottom was flat and was attached to the steel of a ship’s hull. The top was of much thicker steel, and dome-shaped. The explosive went inside the dome; but the dome also served as a damper, directing the explosive force inward. Even better, the charge itself was molded—Chief Norton called it a “shaped charge”—so that it really directed all the force inward.
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