“I’m sure he will,” Perón said. “As soon as I have talked to him, I’ll call and tell you what he said.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Clete said.
“No thanks are necessary. We’re family. Not only you and I, but by extension, Claudia and Alicia as well. Your father loved them as his own.”
“I know.”
“And now, Cletus,” Perón said, affectionately putting his arm around Cletus’s shoulder. “I think we should join your guests. Your Tío Juan will do whatever he can.”
[SIX]
La Casa Grande
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo
Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province
1930 18 May 1943
Clete found Milton Leibermann, Maxwell Ashton, Tony Pelosi, and the new assistant military attaché for air standing together against the wall of the large sitting. Coronel Bernardo Martín was with them. They all held glasses of Champagne.
“Ah, our host,” Leibermann said. “I was beginning to wonder where you were, Don Cletus.”
“I was having a private word, actually, with Coronel Perón,” Clete said. “I’m so glad you could make it, Milton.” He switched to Spanish, and smiled at Martín. “And you, too, mi Coronel.”
“So good of you and Señora de Frade to have me, Major Frade,” Martín said.
“I thought we’d already had a little chat about your use of my former military title,” Clete said.
“And so we have. My apologies, Don Frade. I seem to have trouble remembering that.”
“Cletus, may I introduce Colonel Dick Almond, our new assistant military attaché for air?” Leibermann said in English.
Clete by then had had time to run his eyes over Almond—a tall, sharp-featured man he guessed was in his early thirties—and over the ribbons and insignia pinned to his tunic. There were a Distinguished Flying Cross, a Purple Heart, and ribbons indicating he had served in both the Pacific and European Theaters of Operation. There were other ribbons Clete didn’t recognize, but the star above the shield of his pilot’s wings he did.
It was the badge of an Air Corps senior pilot, awarded for flying so many years and/or for so many hours in the air. There were no comparable wings in the Marine Corps. A second lieutenant fresh from Pensacola wore the same golden wings as the two-star chief of Marine Aviation, who had been flying longer than the lieutenant was old.
Nevertheless, Clete liked what he saw.
This guy has been around.
“Welcome to Argentina and Estancia San Fedro y San Pablo, Colonel,” Clete said as they shook hands.
“It’s very kind of you to have me, Señor Frade,” Almond said in very good Spanish. “And actually, it’s lieutenant colonel.”
“I haven’t been out of the Marine Corps that long, Colonel,” Clete replied in Spanish. “And—my memory being better than my friend Coronel Martín’s—I still remember the difference between an eagle and a silver oak leaf.”
Martín laughed good-naturedly.
Clete put his arm around Ashton’s shoulders and shook Tony’s hand.
“And is one permitted to ask ‘how was the honeymoon’?” Leibermann asked.
“One is permitted to ask, Milton, but only a goddamn fool would answer.”
Leibermann laughed.
“I’m sure you have much to talk about,” Martín said. “So I will—what is it they say?—circulate?”
“Don’t let me run you off, Coronel,” Clete said.
Martín ignored the comment, shook Almond’s hand, told him he was sure they would see one another again, and walked away.
“I was telling Dick that Martín is very good at what he does,” Leibermann said.
“Oh, yes,” Clete said. “Whatever you do, Colonel, don’t underestimate Coronel Martín.”
“I try not to underestimate anyone, Señor Frade,” Almond said. “May I ask you a question?”
“As long as it’s not about my honeymoon.”
“The last place I expected to see a Lockheed Lodestar is on a dirt strip in Argentina.”
“I think you’ll be surprised by many things down here, Colonel,” Clete said. “You’re familiar with the Lodestar?”
“As a matter of fact, last month, I flew one from the States to Brazil—our air base at Pôrto Alegre. You know it?”
“I know it’s there.”
“They’re nice airplanes,” Almond said.
“Is that what you’ve been doing? Ferry pilot?”
“No, actually, I was going through the attaché course in Washington before coming here, when a brigadier general I never heard of before or since called me up, asked if I was current in the Lodestar, and when I told him I was—I’d been flying brass around the Pacific in one—told me I was going to ferry one to Brazil the next morning. So I flew one to Pôrto Alegre, parked it, and they put me on the next C-54 headed for the States. I never got an explanation.”
He either suspects that’s the Lodestar he flew to Brazil, or knows it is. But I don’t think he’s going to ask.
“You didn’t get a DFC flying brass around,” Clete challenged.
“I’ve got some P-38 time, too,” Almond said. “I like to think of myself as a fighter pilot.”
“We were getting an Air Corps P-38 squadron on Guadalcanal just when I left.”
“Then we apparently just missed each other,” Almond said. “I made three missions off Fighter One, took a chunk of shrapnel strafing a freighter, and got sent home.”
“And that’s where you got the Purple Heart?”
“And the DFC. The freighter blew up.”
Clete snatched a glass of Champagne from a tray in the hand of a passing maid. “I wonder what the boys on Fighter One are drinking?” he asked.
“Warm Kool-Aid,” Almond said. “War is hell, isn’t it?”
“I’ve got a few hours in that Lodestar,” Clete said. “But I need about twenty hours with a good IP.”
“You’re serious?”
“Absolutely,” Clete said.
“Hell, I’m available, Señor Frade.”
“I owe you, Milton,” Clete said.
“It’s nothing, Don Cletus,” Leibermann said with a smile.
XVIII
[ONE]
Office of the Director, Abwehr Intelligence
Berlin
1425 22 May 1943
“Korvettenkapitän Boltitz, Herr Admiral,” Admiral Wilhelm Canaris’s aide announced.
Canaris signaled Boltitz to enter. Boltitz took six steps inside the office, came to attention, clicked his heels, and said, “Good afternoon, Herr Admiral.”
“I expected you earlier,” Canaris replied, and pointed to the upholstered chair in front of his desk. “We are expected by Himmler at four-thirty.”
“The aircraft was delayed, Herr Admiral.”
“I didn’t ask for an explanation,” Canaris said, then: “You came here directly from Templehof? Then you missed your lunch, Boltitz?”
“It’s not important, Sir.”
“I didn’t ask if you thought it was important,” Canaris said.
“I have not had lunch, Sir.”
Canaris nodded. “Neither have I,” Canaris said. “The brain requires sustenance, a fact I frequently forget.”
Boltitz didn’t reply.
The door opened.
“Herr Admiral?” Canaris’s aide asked.
“One, I thought I asked you to remind me to eat at twelve o’clock.”
“I did, Herr Admiral. The Herr Admiral’s response was ‘Later. Not now.’”
“Two, get Boltitz and me something to eat. Sandwiches and milk and coffee will do, as long as we can have it in five minutes.”
“Jawohl, Herr Admiral.”
&nbs
p; “Three, ask Fregattenkapitän von und zu Waching to come in.”
“Jawohl, Herr Admiral.”
Fregattenkapitän Otto von und zu Waching appeared in Canaris’s office less than two minutes later. When Karl Boltitz started to get out of his chair, von und zu Waching waved him back into it.
“Have you had your lunch, Otto?” Canaris asked.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Boltitz and I have not,” Canaris said. As if on cue, a white-jacketed steward appeared with a tray of sandwiches.
The aide had them waiting outside; there’s no way they could have been prepared this quickly.
Canaris signaled for the tray to be laid on his desk in front of Boltitz, and then for Boltitz to help himself.
“Thank you, Herr Admiral.”
The first bite of the leberwurst mit sempf was in his mouth, but he had not had time to chew when Canaris ordered, “Begin with the master of the Océano Pacífico, Boltitz.”
He saw that I was chewing. Is this a reproof for thanking him?
Nearly choking with the effort, he managed to quickly swallow the liverwurst. “Kapitän de Banderano,” he reported, “stated very clearly that von Wachtstein was in his presence when von Wachtstein learned where the Océano Pacífico’s boat was to land on Samborombón Bay. And that that information came from Standartenführer Goltz, who used the phrase ‘it’s time for you to see where we’re going,’ or words to that effect, before telling him—or actually showing him on a chart.”
“Is there an implication that Goltz did not trust von Wachtstein?”
“I asked that question, Herr Admiral. Kapitän de Banderano felt that Goltz had confidence in von Wachtstein. Goltz introduced von Wachtstein to de Banderano as ‘my assistant in this undertaking,’ or words to that effect. Kapitän de Banderano felt that Standartenführer Goltz was simply being careful. He also said that it would have been impossible for von Wachtstein to communicate with the shore from the time that Goltz showed him the landing spot to the time of the landing.”
“Somebody told the Americans or the Argentines—one or the other, or both—where the landing was to be made,” Canaris said.
“Kapitän de Banderano also stated with great firmness that von Wachtstein’s behavior on the beach after the shootings was heroic. According to de Banderano, many shots were fired—this differs from von Wachtstein’s account that there were not more than four or five—and that despite this fire, von Wachtstein carried both bodies to the Océano Pacífico’s boat, and then returned for the two crates which had been put ashore.”
“How could de Banderano know this?” Korvettenkapitän von und zu Waching asked. “Could he see it? How far offshore was the Océano Pacífico?”
“Kapitän de Banderano commanded his ship’s boat himself,” Boltitz said. “He apologized profusely for the cowardly behavior of his crew for not helping von Wachtstein.”
“Then you are satisfied that von Wachtstein is not the man who informed the Argentines—or the Americans?”
“I believe, Herr Admiral, that he is less likely than Gradny-Sawz and von Tresmarck.”
“Let’s hear what you have on them,” von und zu Waching said.
“Let’s finish with von Wachtstein,” Canaris said. “He went to see von Stauffenberg?”
“Yes, Sir, he and Generalleutnant von Wachtstein.”
“A purely personal question, Boltitz. How is von Stauffenberg?”
“He’s badly injured, Sir.”
“He will live, would you say?”
“Yes, Herr Admiral. I don’t think there’s any chance of his dying now.”
“Good. Germany needs officers like him,” Canaris said. “And you would say they—he and young von Wachtstein, I mean—are close?”
“Yes, Sir. When von Wachtstein was drunk at Augsburg—”
“Tell us about that,” Canaris interrupted.
“Well, he’s apparently sort of a protégé of General Galland, Sir—the general put him up in his quarters, and told both Cranz and myself that he intends to have von Wachtstein assigned to the ME-262 project—”
“Von Wachtstein getting drunk, Boltitz, if you please,” Canaris interrupted again, somewhat impatiently.
“Yes, Sir. There was a good deal to drink, apparently, in the General’s quarters, and von Wachtstein got very drunk.”
“You were there?”
“No, Sir, but General Galland told me not to judge him harshly. He had come from Oberstleutnant von Stauffenberg, and was terribly upset by his condition. General Galland believed that was the reason he got drunk.”
“Galland is another good man,” Canaris said. “We might be a good deal better off with more very young general officers who’ve earned their rank in battle. Was there anything unusual in von Wachtstein’s behavior when he was with Hauptmann Grüner? Did he look guilty, in other words?”
“I thought his behavior was what one could expect,” Boltitz said.
“Now tell us what you have learned about Gradny-Sawz and von Tresmarck.”
“Very little, I’m afraid, Sir. Obersturmbannführer Cranz put it to me that the SS had assets in place to observe them; that I didn’t; and that to attempt to set up some sort of surveillance would not only be unnecessary but might tend to alert them.”
“And you agreed with that?” Canaris said.
“I didn’t think I was in a position to argue with Ober sturmbannführer Cranz, Sir. And in this case, I think he had a point.”
“Do you think Galland will be able to have von Wachtstein transferred to him, Sir?” von und zu Waching asked.
“If he goes to the Führer, and the Führer is in the right frame of mind, he might. And actually, that might be the best solution to the situation. I’m sure von Wachtstein would rather be flying than doing what he’s doing. I wonder…do you know, Boltitz…if having him assigned to the ME-262 project was von Wachtstein’s idea, or Galland’s?”
“I don’t know, Sir. I know he flew the ME-262, what they call a check ride, with General Galland.”
“And did he pass the check ride?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then I would tend to think that Galland really must have a high opinion of von Wachtstein’s skill as a pilot,” Canaris said. “The Führer has ordered that he be informed—by Galland—of the loss of each ME-262 in training. What is that phrase aviators use? ‘Pilot error’? I don’t think our Führer believes there is any excuse for it.”
He looked at Boltitz. “Eat your sandwich. We have to leave shortly.”
“Jawohl, Herr Admiral,” Boltitz said, and reached for the liverwurst sandwich.
[TWO]
The Office of the Reichsführer-SS
Berlin
1455 22 May 1943
SS-Obersturmbannführer Karl Cranz marched into the office, came to attention, gave a stiff-armed Nazi salute, and barked, “Heil Hitler!”
Without rising from his desk, or even straightening up, Himmler returned the salute with a casually raised palm. “I understand there was aircraft trouble,” he said.
“We had to make an unexpected landing at Leipzig, Herr Reichsprotektor,” Cranz said. “But the reason I am this late is that I have been at the Propaganda Ministry’s film laboratory.”
“What’s that all about?”
“The funeral service was filmed by Propaganda Ministry photographers. I arranged with General Galland to have it flown here in a fighter so that it could be processed immediately. It was ready—a rough cut, they called it—by the time I got here.” He exhibited a small black can of film.
“And the purpose of this?”
“You told me, Herr Reichsprotektor, that you always felt you could judge far more about an individual from studying his face than by what came out of his mouth.”
Himmler looked
at him and smiled. “It’s true, Karl.”
“I believe it is, Sir.”
“So you had a movie made? And what did you tell von Tresmarck and the others was the purpose? That I wanted to study their faces?”
“They don’t think I had anything to do with it,” Cranz said. “And neither did the photographers. It’s not very long, Sir. May I suggest you have a look at it?”
“Canaris and the others will be here at four. We have to talk before then. One of the other things I believe, Karl, is that one should go to a meeting as well prepared as possible.”
“And I have found that to be true, too, Herr Reichsprotektor.”
“As you have learned that imitation—the most sincere form of flattery—goes a long way with Heinrich Himmler?”
“I wouldn’t quite put it that way, Herr Reichsprotektor.”
Himmler reached for his telephone. “I will require a projectionist immediately,” he announced, and hung up.
The projectionist, a handsome young blond Stabsscharführer, came into Himmler’s private projection room from the corridor as Himmler and Cranz entered from Himmler’s office. He gave a stiff-armed salute with his right hand and held out his left hand for the can of film.
“As soon as you can find time, Karl, there is film of that disgusting business in the Warsaw ghetto you will probably find interesting,” Himmler said.
The private projection room was a small theater. There were two rows of chairs. In the front row were three comfortable leather armchairs, each with a table beside it holding a lamp, a telephone, a pad of paper, and a glass containing six freshly sharpened pencils.
Himmler waved Cranz into one of the chairs and raised his voice slightly. “Whenever you are ready, Stabsscharführer.”
A moment later, the room went dark and the film began to play.
The first shot showed two tracked vehicles, normally used to tow heavy artillery, but now towing trailers, moving between two lines of uniformed men, black-uniformed Waffen-SS on one side of the road and gray-uniformed soldiers on the other. They stood with their rifle butts between their feet, their helmeted heads bowed in respect. Officers with drawn swords stood in front of the ranks of soldiers.
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