But it was. Marjorie was slight, delicate, and feminine, and looked somehow out of place at the huge wheel of the gigantic car.
And Clete thought that now that her father was dead, the responsibility for protecting her—and Beth—was now his, and he was going to have a hard time doing that when he was here and she was back in Texas.
Ten minutes later, Marjorie gestured out the windshield toward a half-acre-size clump of pine and eucalyptus directly ahead of them.
“There it is,” she announced.
The clump of trees looked no different from any of the countless other clumps of trees scattered all over the gently rolling pampas. The trees had been put there as windbreaks. And there were perhaps twenty-five similar clumps of trees scattered all over Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. They contained cattle ramps, usually, and corrals, and houses for the gauchos and their families, and what would have been called toolsheds on Big Foot Ranch. They were in essence miniature ranches, self-sufficient enough that the gauchos usually didn’t have to make more than a couple of trips a month to the main buildings.
In other words, a windbreak offered ideal concealment for a shortwave radio station and its antennae.
But she was right. That was what they were looking for.
She slowed the car, and three hundred yards farther down the road found a dirt road leading off to the right. She down-shifted skillfully and turned off the macadam onto it.
As they got closer to the clump of trees, the outlines of four buildings could be seen inside it.
The first person they saw as they approached the larger of the four buildings was a large, florid-faced man in his middle forties wearing the billowing black trousers, broad-sleeved white shirt, wide-brimmed hat, and leather boots of a gaucho. He was leaning on the fender of a Model A Ford coupe.
Two other automobiles were parked against the larger of the four buildings: a Model A Ford pickup truck and a 1940 Chevrolet coupe. The Chevrolet carried both the special license plates issued by the Argentine government to diplomatic personnel and an egg-shaped insignia with the letters CD.
As the gaucho walked up to them, two other men emerged from the building. Both were wearing business suits. The first was small, slim, mustachioed, and dark-skinned, with a long, thin cigar in his teeth. The other was young and muscular, his chest straining the buttons of his shirt.
“Buenas tardes, Señorita Marjorie,” the man in gaucho costume said in fluent Spanish. “Señorita Beth. Mi Mayor.”
“How are you, Chief?” Clete replied in English.
“Hi, Chief,” Marjorie called cheerfully.
Chief Radioman Oscar J. Schultz was carried on the rolls of the United States Navy as being on “Temporary Duty (Indefinite Period) with OSS.” He had been drafted—together with a large stock of radio room supplies, including the all-capital-letters radio room typewriter—into the OSS off the destroyer USS Alfred Thomas, DD-107, when she had called at Buenos Aires two months before. Schultz had been her chief radioman (and cryptographer). In addition to his communication skills, Schultz was fluent in Spanish (after two tours at the U.S. Navy base at Cavite, in the Philippines).
“Where did you get those wheels, honey?” the chief asked admiringly. “They’re really something.”
“Clete’s giving it to me for my birthday present,” Marjorie said.
“The hell I am,” Clete said, and got out of the car.
“Welcome again to our happy little home away from home,” the small man with the cigar in his mouth said.
His name was Maxwell Ashton III, and he was carried on the rolls of the War Department as “Ashton, Maxwell III, Captain, Signal Corps, AUS (Detail OSS),” and on the rolls of the OSS as “Commander, OSS Western Hemisphere Team 17.”
“I was about to send somebody over to the main house,” he said to Clete in Spanish. “You see the Fieseler fly over?”
Spanish was Ashton’s mother tongue. He was the son of a Bostonian father and a Cuban mother, and had spent the first fourteen years of his life in Cuba, before going to the United States to attend Saint Andrew’s School in Maryland, the preparatory school alma mater of his father.
“We did, and so did my grandfather,” Marjorie said. “Swastikas and all. He gave Clete his ‘I hate the OSS’ speech.”
“I keep forgetting you speak Spanish,” Ashton said.
“Tex-Mex, anyway,” Marjorie said. “But don’t worry.”
When he looked at her, she put both hands over her eyes, then over her mouth, and finally covered her ears.
Ashton chuckled.
“He flew pretty low over here,” the muscular young man said, “But both the Chief and I were outside, and if he dropped anything, we didn’t see it.”
Pelosi, Anthony J., 1st Lt., Corps of Engineers, AUS, was carried on the rolls of the War Department as “Detail U.S. State Department”; on the personnel assignment charts of the State Department “as Assistant Military Attaché U.S. Embassy, Buenos Aires”; and on the rolls of the OSS as “Executive Officer, OSS Western Hemisphere Team 14.”
Team 14 had originally consisted of Cletus Frade, Tony Pelosi, and Staff Sergeant David Ettinger. Chief Schultz had been drafted into it. Ettinger had been murdered in Uruguay. Ashton’s Team 17 had been infiltrated into Argentina with a radar set.
“In that case, he’s probably just going to Estancia Santo Catalina to see his girlfriend,” Clete said. “In any event, my uncle is there for lunch; and if he has anything for us, he’ll bring it when he comes for dinner tonight.”
Pelosi grunted. Ashton shook his head in agreement.
“Anything for me? Clete asked.
“Uncle Milton said to say hello,” Pelosi said.
Milton Leibermann (who in fact looked like a fond uncle: he was plump, balding, and forty-nine) was accredited to the Republic of Argentina as the Legal Attaché of the United States Embassy. It was technically a secret that he was also the special agent in charge of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Argentine operations.
“Tell him to keep next Saturday free for my wedding,” Clete said.
“The Archbishop came through, huh?” Tony Pelosi asked.
“I wish you two could be there,” Clete said to Ashton and the chief, “but you don’t exist, and there will be a lot of Argentine brass there. I even invited el Coronels Perón and Martín. Or I invited Martín and Father Welner, and Claudia invited Perón.”
“I don’t see how you could have not invited Perón,” Ashton said.
“Et tu, Brutus?” Clete said.
“I won’t be here anyhow,” Ashton said.
“Oh?”
“There’s one message,” Ashton said, inclining his head toward the house.
“Tony, will you entertain the girls while the chief and Ashton and I have a look at it?” Clete said.
“Yes, sir,” Pelosi said.
Clete walked into the larger building, and the chief and Ashton followed him.
In the center of the room were a sturdy table and simple chairs; two identical tables were against the walls. One of them held a communications receiver, a transmitter, and a battered Underwood typewriter. The other held an assortment of radio technician’s tools and test equipment.
An ancient safe was under this table. Sitting neatly on top of it were two thermite grenades, to be activated in case of unwanted guests. The safe contained the radio codes.
The chief knelt by the safe, worked the combination, and handed Clete a single sheet of paper.
* * *
URGENT
TOP SECRET LINDBERGH
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
FROM AGGIE
MSG NO 133 1915 GREENWICH 30 APRIL 1943
TO TEX
BACARDI
BACARDI AT FIRST OPPORTUNITY WILL EXFILTRATE BY ROUTE OF HIS CHOICE TO CARIOCA REPORT
ING UPON ARRIVAL THERE-AT TO MILITARY ATTACHÉ US EMBASSY FOR FURTHER ORDERS.
POLO WILL ASSUME COMMAND DURING BACARDI ABSENCE.
INTEREST AT VERY HIGHEST LEVEL IN IDENTITY OF GALAHAD AND IN ALL DETAILS OF LINDBERGH CONTINUES.
NO ACTION REPEAT NO ACTION WILL BE TAKEN WITH INTENT TO DISRUPT LINDBERGH WITHOUT SPECIFIC AUTHORITY FROM AGGIE ONLY REPEAT AGGIE ONLY.
ACKNOWLEDGE
AGGIE
* * *
Aggie was Colonel A. F. Graham, USMCR, Deputy Director of the Office of Strategic Services, who was a graduate of the Texas Agricultural and Technical Institute at College Station, Texas. Tex was Major Cletus H. Frade, USMCR, whose home of record was Big Foot Ranch, Midland, Texas. Bacardi was Captain Maxwell Ashton III, AUS, whose roots were in Cuba, known for its fine rum. Carioca was Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Polo was 1st Lieutenant Madison R. Sawyer III, AUS, who had graduated from Yale University, where he had been captain of the polo team; he was now Executive Officer of OSS Western Hemisphere Team 17. Galahad was Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein. Lindbergh was the code name chosen to refer to the German ransoming of concentration camp inmates.
“What do you think your orders from the attaché in Rio will be?” Clete asked.
“If God is in his heaven, there will be a letter from the War Department telling me the war will be lost unless I return to Bell Labs, and I will proceed there immediately.”
Before entering the service, Ashton had been an engineer at the Bell Telephone Laboratories.
Chief Schultz laughed. “What it says is ‘during Bacardi absence,’” he said. “To a simple old sailor like me, Captain, sir, that means you’re coming back.”
“Taking a man’s dreams is worse than taking his life, Schultz,” Ashton pronounced solemnly. “And very, very cruel.”
“What I think they’re going to do is hand you a diplomatic passport and a ticket on the next Panagra flight to Buenos Aires,” Clete said.
“After, probably, the Attaché works you over to find out who Galahad is,” Clete.
“Who?” Ashton said.
“I’ll bet that’s on Donovan’s agenda.”
“In words of one syllable, fuck him. Don’t worry, Clete.”
“Max, how do you feel about Sawyer taking over your team?” Clete asked.
“Frankly, I was hoping it would annoy you more than it looks like.”
“Chief, send Aggie a message saying that as senior officer present for duty, I will assume command of Team 17 while Ashton is gone.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“It would be easier just to not tell Sawyer. That’s liable to get you in trouble,” Ashton said.
“What are they going to do? Send me back to the Marine Corps? Send the message, Chief.”
“And if I refuse, will you send me back to the Navy?”
“Good try, Chief,” Clete said. “Just send the message.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“Now the question is, how do we get you to Brazil?” Clete asked.
“There’s two ways,” Ashton said. “The way I came in, black. Go back to Santo Tomé and somehow get across the river.”
“I could fly you there, in a Cub,” Clete said. “First refuel at my estancia in Corrientes, and then fly you across the river.”
“Hey, you’re getting married next Saturday. You don’t want to be in a Brazilian jail.”
“What’s your second way?”
“If I could get into Uruguay, I have a Uruguayan passport. How risky would it be to rent a boat or something and get into Uruguay?”
“I could also fly you across, up by El Tigre, and put you out in a farmer’s field someplace. Or, for that matter, I could fire up the Lockheed and fly to the airport in Carrasco—”
“Where, Mr. Frade?” Chief Schultz asked.
“The airport outside Montevideo,” Clete said. “No one there would search that airplane.”
“I’ll come back to that wishful thought,” Ashton said. “Who would you get to help fly the Lockheed?”
“I flew it to Santo Tomé by myself, you will recall.”
“And safely only because God takes care of fools and drunks, and I qualify on both counts. Forget the Lockheed, thank you very much just the same.”
“There’s one other way that might work,” Clete said. “Just get on the overnight steamer.”
“How would I get through immigration? I’m in Argentina black, Clete.”
“Black means secret. Nobody knows,” Clete said.
“What?”
“Put yourself in Martín’s shoes,” Clete said. “He knows you’re here. He knows your whole team is here. He’s a good intelligence officer. Good intelligence officers don’t make waves. If he arrests you, that would make big waves. If I were Martín, I would much prefer to watch you leave the country, bye, bye, gringo, with no waves.”
“You really believe that?”
“I believe it, but it’s your choice, Max.”
Ashton thought it over for a full thirty seconds, which seemed longer.
“You really think you could fly the Lockheed to Montevideo all by your lonesome?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Whenever you want.”
“Tomorrow? In the morning?”
“Come for breakfast, meet my family, and I’ll have you in Montevideo in time for lunch.”
“What’s a nice young Cuban boy like me doing in this business?” Ashton said. “You really want me to come for breakfast?”
“Absolutely. I want you to meet the rest of the family.”
“I’ll be there,” Ashton said.
VI
[ONE]
Zoological Gardens of Buenos Aires
Plaza di Italia, Buenos Aires
1530 1 May 1943
As the blue Dodge approached the Plaza di Italia, Coronel Bernardo Martín leaned forward and touched the shoulder of Sargento Manuel Lascano. Martín was wearing a brown tweed sports coat, gray flannel slacks, and a yellow polo shirt; Lascano was wearing a business suit. “Drop me at the main entrance, please, Manuel, and then wait for me at the entrance on Libertador.”
“Can I stop there, mi Coronel?”
“I think, Manuel, if a policeman did come to the car, and you showed him your credentials, he would understand.”
“Sí, Señor.”
“And I can open the door myself when we stop, Manuel. The impression we are trying to give is that we are not in the Army.”
“Sí, Señor.”
Manuel pulled the Dodge to the curb and Martín stepped out. He walked toward the ticket booth, but stopped first at a kiosk and bought a copy of the tabloid newspaper Clarin. He opened it and stood for a moment looking over the paper to make sure that he was not being followed.
He was not about to do anything he wanted to hide. He wanted to know simply if he was under surveillance. General Obregon was entirely capable of wanting to know how he spent his weekends, and he had many friends in the Policía Federal who would be willing to do a favor for the new Director of the Bureau of Internal Security.
He saw no cars that could belong to the Policía Federal, but he waited until the traffic signal changed and the line of traffic moved off (no car had remained behind, or was moving unusually slowly). Then he folded the newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and went to the ticket window to purchase a ticket.
He walked slowly down the winding path until he came to the elephant enclosure, where several children and their parents were doling out peanuts to a pair of elephants. A somewhat ruffled middle-aged man was also there, doing the same.
“Buenas tardes, Milton,” Martín said to him. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Ah, Bernardo,” Milton Leibermann said, and offered
both his hand and the bag of peanuts.
Martín took several peanuts and held them out to the elephant.
“So what’s new, Bernardo?” Milton Leibermann asked.
“I have a new boss,” Martín said.
“Oh, really?”
“General Obregon. You know the name?”
“I’ve heard it. When did that happen?”
“It hasn’t been announced officially yet, but that should come in the next few days.”
Leibermann grunted.
“Actually, a little bird told me that he might drop by his new office, unofficially, of course, this afternoon,” Martín said.
“Where no doubt he will find you with your nose to the grindstone?”
“You know, Milton, first impressions?”
“Of course.”
Leibermann’s Spanish was fluent, but his accent marked him as neither a Porteño (a native of Buenos Aires) nor an Argentine. His Spanish was in fact Puerto Rican—more precisely, the modified Puerto Rican Spanish spoken in Spanish Harlem.
“And I have learned something else that has not yet been made public, and which I tell you in confidence,” Martín said. “The Cardinal Archbishop has granted permission for the Anglican priest…what’s his name?”
“Cashley-Price?”
“…Cashley-Price to participate in the wedding of our friend Cletus Frade.”
“Ah, young love!” Leibermann said. “I’m really impressed, Bernardo. I wish my budget were large enough to have someone in the Cardinal’s office. I’ll bet all sorts of interesting things go on there.”
Martín laughed. “Actually, it’s my wife’s sister. And I learned that quite by accident.”
“That happens to me a lot, too,” Leibermann said.
“Recently, for example?”
“You do know that Mr. Graham has left Argentina?”
“I knew the day the Colonel left,” Martín said.
Secret Honor Page 16