Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

“The Colonel?”

  Martín smiled and shook his head.

  “I was thinking, when I heard that our friend Cletus was going to be allowed to marry, that it would really be a shame if something happened to…what shall I say? Interrupt his newlywed bliss.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “I don’t know how much General Obregon knows about Cletus and his friends, but I’m going to have to tell him what I know. And I have no idea what he’ll decide to do about it. Or them.”

  “I, of course, have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course not. I was speaking hypothetically. And, speaking hypothetically, I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about his plans? That he might, for example, wish to take his bride to the United States?”

  “I don’t think that’s very likely to happen, Bernardo.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Speaking hypothetically, what is it that you know about Cletus that you have to tell General Obregon?”

  “There is a rumor that there is both a radio station and a radar station operating illegally on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.”

  “I wonder how a rumor like that got started?”

  “Who knows? But it is the sort of thing that I’m going to have to tell General Obregon, and it’s the sort of thing he’ll probably want to look into.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Bernardo. A radar station? I can’t think of any reason why there would be a radar station operating out there, except perhaps to look for German submarines being supplied in Samborombón Bay, and my government has your government’s assurance that has never happened.”

  “From what General Rawson tells me, that sort of thing will never happen under his administration.”

  “Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that. Neutrality is so important, isn’t it?”

  Martín put out his hand. “So nice to run into you like this, Milton.”

  “And it’s always a pleasure to see you, Bernardo,” Leibermann said. “Are you sure you won’t have another peanut?”

  “No, but thank you.”

  They smiled at each other, and then Martín walked away, more quickly now, down the winding path to the other end of the zoo, and pushed through the turnstile onto Avenida Libertador.

  Next Saturday, he thought, we will meet in Recoleta Cemetery. And the week after that in the Café Colon.

  He spotted the Dodge. It was parked, illegally, twenty-five meters down Avenida Libertador. A sergeant of the Corps of Mounted Police had just parked his motorcycle and was advancing on it with a look of righteous indignation on his face.

  Martín stopped and took the Clarin from under his arm.

  The policemen bent down to look at the driver, and a moment later straightened up, saluted, and walked back to his motorcycle. Martín waited until he had kicked it into life and ridden off before folding the newspaper again and walking up to the car. He got in the backseat.

  “Any problems, Manuel?”

  “No, Sir,” Manuel said.

  “Let’s go to the office,” Martín said. “With a little bit of luck, we can both go home in about an hour.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  [TWO]

  Office of the Chief, Ethical Standards Office

  Bureau of Internal Security, Ministry of Defense

  Edificio Libertador, Avenida Paseo Colón

  Buenos Aires

  1620 1 May 1943

  Coronel Bernardo Martín had just finished putting his uniform on and was examining himself in the full-length mirror on the back of his private rest-room door when there was a knock at his office door.

  The uniform consisted of a brown tunic, a white shirt, a black necktie, light tan gabardine riding breeches, highly polished riding boots, a leather-brimmed high-crowned uniform cap, and a Sam Browne belt. The branch of service insignia was that of cavalry. He had once been a cavalry officer, and frequently wished he still was. The colonel’s rank badges on the tunic’s epaulets were brand new. He had been promoted to colonel only two weeks before, and had had the good luck to pick up the uniform with the proper insignia from the officer’s sales store just in time to have it ready for General Obregon.

  He hoped that good luck was an omen.

  He went into his office, crossed to the door, and opened it to find Mayor Gonzalo Delgano, Argentine Army Air Service, standing there.

  He motioned him into the office and closed the door. He didn’t want anyone to hear their conversation.

  Delgano was a short, muscular man in his early forties, and he too was in uniform. Martín saw that his insignia of rank was new, too.

  “I just put this on,” Martín said, indicating his uniform. “How does it feel to be back in uniform, Gonzo?”

  “Good,” Delgano said, meaning it.

  Delgano was also an intelligence officer, who had been working undercover for Martín, charged with keeping an eye on el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, the power behind the GOU. Frade had hired the ostensibly just-about-to-retire Capitán Delgano to pilot his Staggerwing Beechcraft.

  The job had been personally difficult for Delgano. He liked el Coronel Frade—whom he had served under when Frade had been deputy commander of the 2nd Cavalry Regiment in Santo Tomé. Deceiving him, spying on him, had not come easy. Yet he had done his duty.

  After el Coronel Frade’s assassination, he had stayed on at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo to surveille Frade’s son—not only a Yankee gringo, but worse, an agent of the American OSS. However, Frade had learned during the revolution that Delgano was in fact a serving intelligence officer, and that of course ended his usefulness, insofar as keeping an eye on Cletus Frade was concerned.

  Since the cover story about Delgano’s retirement was now useless, Martín had arranged for the first postrevolution Daily Army Journal to announce that Captain Gonzalo Delgano had fully recovered from an unspecified illness and had been recalled to active duty in the grade of major.

  Since that particular issue of the Daily Army Journal had consisted of sixteen pages of small type, most of it announcing the retirement of officers who had supported the deposed government, no one would pay much attention to an apparently routine personnel action for a lowly captain.

  “The President telephoned me yesterday to say that, on the advice of General Ramírez and Coronel Perón, he has decided to name General Obregon as Director of BIS,” Martín said. “He also suggested that the General might drop in for an unofficial visit. A friend told me when he planned to come. Hence, the uniform.”

  Martín knew that Delgano shared his opinion of General Obregon, but neither his large dark eyes nor his face suggested that he was surprised or disappointed.

  Or anything, Martín thought with approval. Intelligence officers should be like poker players. None of their feelings should show.

  “And I thought we should have a talk before you officially report for duty,” Martín went on. “So I called you.”

  Delgano nodded and smiled. “May I say, mi Coronel, that the coronel’s insignia looks very nice on your epaulets?”

  “As does the mayor’s insignia on yours, Mayor.”

  Their eyes met for a moment, and they smiled at each other.

  “We are going to have to be very careful, Gonzo.”

  Delgano nodded. “I would like to know if some sort of deal was struck,” he said. “Or whether Rawson was unwilling to resist a suggestion from Ramírez.”

  “Ramírez and Perón.”

  “I really thought Perón wanted the job,” Delgano said.

  “I think he has greater ambitions,” Martín said.

  Delgano nodded. “As does Ramírez,” he said.

  “And the ambitions of both require their man in here,” Martín said. “They learned from Castillo’s mistake in trusting Admiral Montoya.
”

  “And how do they regard you? For that matter, us?”

  “With a little bit of luck, they will regard us as technicians without ambition.”

  Delgano nodded his agreement.

  “With your permission, Gonzo, I will suggest to General Obregon that you become his personal pilot.”

  “I would be honored with such an assignment, mi Coronel,” Delgano said.

  There was no sarcasm in Delgano’s reply. Martín understood why: Delgano was honored that he trusted him to surveille General Obregon, thus serving Argentina.

  “Thank you, Gonzo,” Martín said.

  “It’s nothing,” Delgano said.

  The red telephone—one of three—on Martín’s desk buzzed, and he picked it up.

  “Coronel Martín,” he said, listened, then said, “Muchas gracias,” and hung up.

  He met Delgano’s eyes. “El General Obregon has just driven up downstairs,” he said.

  “And what do you want me to do?”

  “I would rather he didn’t know we’re friends,” Martín thought aloud. “So stay here, in the outer office. I’ll try to avoid your meeting him right now, but that may not be possible.”

  Delgano nodded.

  Martín walked quickly down the corridor to the bank of elevators, and was standing there when the door opened and General de Division Manuel Federico Obregon stepped off.

  He was a large, heavily built man whose dark skin and other features made it quite clear that Indian blood was in his veins. That was unusual in the Argentine officer corps, almost all of whom belonged to the upper class, if not the aristocracy. Almost by definition, that meant they were of European stock, unmixed with Indian.

  Obregon was accompanied by his aide-de-camp, a major whose features also suggested mixed blood. Martín had seen him before but could not recall his name.

  Martín came to attention and saluted. “Coronel Martín,” he said. “A sus órdenes, mi general.”

  Obregon returned the salute. “You knew I was coming, Coronel?” he asked, but it was a statement.

  “I didn’t know, Señor. But I am not surprised. President Rawson telephoned to tell me of your appointment, and mentioned he thought you would come by for a quick visit to your new command.”

  Will it hurt for him to know I have a connection with Rawson? It can’t be helped. I do. And it would come out anyway.

  “You’ve been waiting for me on Saturday afternoon?”

  “No, Sir. Actually, Sir, I came in to see if I could still fit in my uniform. I thought perhaps you might prefer that I work in uniform.”

  Obregon grunted noncommittally. “You know Hugo, of course?” he asked, nodding at his aide.

  “Of course,” Martín said. “It’s good to see you, Mayor.”

  “And you, Señor,” the aide said.

  The name came: Molina, Hugo, Class of 1934. Infantry.

  “May I show you your office, mi General?”

  “You’re very kind, Coronel.”

  Martín motioned the two of them down the corridor to the double doors of the Office of the Director, Bureau of Internal Security, where he stepped ahead of Obregon and pushed on the left door. Despite its enormity and weight, it opened effortlessly.

  The Edificio Libertador had been designed and constructed under the supervision of a team of architects and engineers sent as a gesture of friendship to the Republic of Argentina by the German Reich.

  And also, Martín believed, to demonstrate German engineering genius and efficiency. They had made their point with the Edificio Libertador. Everything was massive, impressive, and smooth-functioning, including the Seimens telephone system and the elevators. And the hinges on the massive doors.

  Suboficial Mayor José Cortina, who had the duty, was sitting at the ornate desk ordinarily occupied by Señora Masa. He stood up quickly and popped to attention when he saw Obregon.

  It was obvious that Cortina did not expect to see the General. His tunic was unbuttoned, his tie was pulled down, and a half-eaten piece of chocolate cake and a coffee thermos were on the desk beside his holstered pistol and the Thompson .45-caliber submachine gun that served almost as the insignia of whoever had the duty.

  “This is Sergeant Major Cortina, General,” Martín said. “He has the duty.”

  “Stand at ease, Sergeant,” Obregon said, and offered his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “I apologize for my appearance, Sir,” Cortina said.

  “I don’t suppose you get many visitors here on Saturday afternoon, do you?” Obregon said.

  “Almost never, Sir.”

  “Do you suppose, Cortina, that you could find some coffee for our new director?” Martín said.

  “Immediately, Sir,” he said as he hastily buttoned his jacket.

  Martín walked to the doors leading to the Director’s office, pushed it open, and waved Obregon inside.

  The windows of the large, high-ceilinged office provided a splendid view of the River Plate.

  With the exception of a leather desk pad, a double pen holder, and three telephones, the large, ornately carved desk was bare.

  “Will you miss this splendid office, Coronel?” Obregon asked.

  “Sir? Oh. General, I knew my interim appointment was just that. I never moved in here.”

  “President Rawson told me he had offered you the position,” Obregon said.

  “With all possible respect, sir, may I suggest that the offer was made in the excitement immediately following the success of Outline Blue? I respectfully suggest General Rawson was carried away momentarily in the euphoria of the moment.”

  “Well, his—what did you say, ‘euphoria’?—wasn’t all bad. It got you that coronel’s badge, didn’t it, Martín?”

  “Yes, Sir, it did.”

  “Let me say, Coronel, that I feel your promotion was entirely deserved, both for your contributions to the success of Outline Blue, and also—perhaps primarily—because it was deserved. General Rawson is not the only one who has told me you’re a fine intelligence officer.”

  “The General is very kind, even if he has been misinformed.”

  Obregon laughed. “I’m going to have to depend on you for a good deal until I get my feet on the ground around here,” he said.

  “I’m entirely at your service, mi General.”

  “Is there anything—Let me rephrase: What, in your judgment, Coronel, is the immediate pressing problem BIS faces?”

  I should have anticipated that question, and I didn’t.

  “Señor, I can’t speak for the entire BIS.”

  “The President said, as far as he’s concerned, you’re the only man here who really knows what he’s doing,” Obregon said.

  “I’m sorry the President feels that way, mi General. There are a number of very competent officers here.”

  “Answer the question, please, Coronel.”

  “Yes, Sir. As far as Ethical Standards, which is my responsibility, is concerned, I would say our priority is to make sure that the officer corps poses no threat to President Rawson and the government. I know of no problem with the serving officer corps, and those officers who were retired when the new government took office will remain under surveillance.”

  “Including el Almirante Montoya?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Do you think he poses a problem?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “What is the major problem facing BIS as a whole, in your judgment?”

  “The violation of Argentine sovereignty by the belligerent powers, Sir.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “The major problem is the Americans and the Germans, Sir, in my judgment.”

  “Do you believe the Germans were responsible for th
e assassination of el Coronel Frade?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “El Coronel Perón does not agree with that conclusion.”

  “Then I think Coronel Perón is not adequately informed of the circumstances, Sir.”

  “One of the first things I want to do is have a look at your file about that.”

  “I can get it for you now, Señor, if you wish.”

  “Not right now, thank you. But it is available?”

  “Yes, Sir, it is.”

  “And presumably there is a file about the alleged smuggling attempt by the Germans at Puerto Magdalena?”

  “Yes, Sir. But there’s not much concrete in it.”

  “I’ve heard a story that two of the three German officers on the beach were killed. Have you heard that?”

  “Yes, Sir, and I believe it to be true.”

  “And who do you think killed them?”

  “I have an opinion, Señor, but no proof.”

  “In your opinion, then, who killed them?”

  “I believe they were killed at the direction of el Coronel Frade’s son, Señor. Cletus Frade.”

  “Who is an agent of the American OSS?”

  “Yes, Sir. I believe that to be true.”

  “The senior OSS man in Argentina?”

  “I’m not sure about that, Sir. The senior OSS man may be the Military Attaché at the U.S. Embassy.”

  “The President is very taken with young Frade. He was apparently very useful to him during the execution of Outline Blue. Are you familiar with that?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And he is not only an Argentine citizen, but el Coronel Perón’s godson, which poses certain problems in his regard, does it not?”

  “Yes, Sir. Many problems.”

  “I’d like to hear what you think those problems are, Coronel.”

  Martín had mixed feelings about Cletus Frade.

  In other circumstances, he knew they could have been friends. He liked him personally and admired him professionally. One of the very few errors he had made in judging opponents was to conclude that Frade was an amateur intelligence officer, who could easily be controlled by a professional such as himself. Frade had quickly shown him that he had a natural flair for the clandestine.