Blood and Honor

The only way to handle the problem was to give Dieter the card with the bank names and account numbers, and then try to make him understand what Humberto Duarte, without complete success, had tried to make him understand.

He picked up the filing card, looked at it for a long moment— there is absolutely no way Dieter could memorize all this; he'll have to carry it with him and hope he doesn't find himself searched by the Gestapo before he can burn it or swallow it—and then put it in his pocket and picked up the Buenos Aires Herald.

He had just settled himself comfortably—pulled down his necktie and rested his crossed feet on an open desk drawer—when Standartenf?hrer Josef Goltz, in civilian clothing, walked in without knocking.

Peter immediately began to untangle his feet and rise.

"Oh, keep your seat, von Wachtstein," Goltz said.

"How may I be of service, Herr Standartenf?hrer?" Peter asked, getting to his feet anyway.

"I just dropped in to ask you your plans for the day," Goltz said.

"Nothing specific, Herr Standartenf?hrer, until four this afternoon, when I will take the diplomatic pouches out to El Palomar and give them to the Condor pilot."

"Curiosity prompts me to ask if you always begin your duty day by reading the English newspaper."

"The English newspaper, Herr Standartenf?hrer, and La Nacion and La Prensa and . . ." He pointed to the newspapers and magazines G?nther had laid on his desk. "I go through them to find information of interest to Oberst Gr?ner."

"Of course, I should have thought of that. What have the English to say today?"

"That they have achieved glorious victories on all fronts, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"Oh, really?"

"The war will be over sometime next month, Herr Standartenf?hrer, and we will lose. If one is to believe the Herald."

"I suppose that is to be expected," Goltz said, smiling. "Do you ever find anything—anything you can believe—that is of interest?"

"Every once in while, Herr Standartenf?hrer, there is something. Most often in the personals, oddly enough. The assignment of Anglo-Argentines to various British units, for example, which often furnishes the location of the unit. I believe Oberst Gr?ner forwards them to the Abwehr for the use of their Order of Battle people."

"The Condor is leaving . . . when?"

"Probably at about six, or a little later."

"When we left Berlin, we left very early in the morning."

"Did you?"

"I'm curious why the Condor is leaving at nightfall. Why not early this morning? Or tomorrow morning?"

"In this case, Herr Standartenf?hrer—and I don't know this—I would think it is so they can fly off the coast of Brazil in the hours of darkness."

"Why is that?"

"The Brazilians now have Maritime Reconnaissance aircraft, Herr Standartenf?hrer. They are looking for our submarines, but they would be pleased to come across the Condor."

"Could they shoot it down?"

"It's unlikely. The Condor is faster than the Brazilian aircraft—they're using Catalinas, American Navy aircraft—but under the right circumstances—"

"The 'right' circumstances, or the 'wrong' ones?"

"I suppose, Herr Standartenf?hrer, that I was thinking as a fighter pilot. I am trained to shoot planes down, not avoid a confrontation."

"Yes, of course you were," Goltz said with a smile. "The reason I asked for your schedule, von Wachtstein, is that I promised your father to have a little chat with you—you are apparently not much of a letter writer . . ."

"I'm afraid not, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

". . . and relay his paternal disapproval."

"Paternal disapproval duly noted, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"I'm thinking now—it would fit in with my schedule—that I will ride out to the airfield with you. It will give us a chance to chat on the way, and perhaps we could have dinner . . ."

"The Argentines don't even begin to think of dinner, Herr Standartenf?hrer, until nine o'clock."

"Well, then, a drink or two, and if we're still able to think of food at nine o'clock, perhaps we can think of dinner then."

"I am entirely at your disposal, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"Well, then, why don't you come by First Secretary Gradny-Sawz's office when you have the pouches and are ready to go out there? That would be about four?"

"Whenever it would be convenient for the Herr Standartenf?hrer, of course, but I was planning to leave at half past four."

"At half past four, then," Goltz said. "I'll look forward to it."

He raised his hand in the Nazi salute.

"Heil Hitler!"

Peter snapped to attention and returned the salute.

"Heil Hitler!" he barked.

[FOUR]

The Director's Room

The Anglo-Argentine Bank

Calle Bartolome Mitre 101

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1315 14 April 1943

"Gentlemen," Humberto Valdez Duarte announced from the far end of the twenty-five-foot-long ornately inlaid table, "I'm afraid Se?or Frade and I have an appointment that cannot be broken or delayed, and we'll have to stop right where we are."

Thank God! I can't take much more of this!thought Se?or Frade, who had been seated at the other end of the twenty-five-foot-long ornately inlaid table since half past nine.

Between the two were seven assorted accountants and attorneys, two escribanos, and a secretary. The function of the escribanos, Clete had finally figured out, was something between that of a notary public and a lawyer. The table was littered with paper, much of it gathered together in sheafs, tied together with what looked like shoelaces.

The only thing that Clete had really understood was that his father's business interests were even more extensive than he had suspected, and more complicated. He understood that he would have to come to understand what it was all about.

More than once, he heard the Old Man's voice: "What you never can forget, Cletus, is that for every dollar a rich man has, there are three clever sonsofbitches trying to cheat him out of it."

And that, of course, had caused him to wonder how the Old Man was going to react when he got the letter telling him he was going to marry an Argentine.

It had been difficult to concentrate on anything that was explained to him. His mind kept wandering from details of finance and real estate to the problems of making a cross-country flight in an airplane in which he had a total of maybe five hour's time—and that in the copilot's seat. And he was doing it at night, navigating by unfamiliar radio direction signals—and thus most probably by the seat of his pants—all the time avoiding detection by both Brazilians and Argentines.

"Perhaps," Humberto went on, "we can meet tomorrow . . ."

No way!

". . . or the day after. I will get word to you."

With a little luck, the day after tomorrow I will be in Brazil. And what am I going to tell Humberto about that?"Sorry I can't make the meeting, I have to smuggle an aircraft into Corrientes Province"?

It took five minutes to shake the hands of all the participants in the conference, five of whom said, "We can't really discuss all the details in a conference like this; we will have to meet privately just as soon as possible," or words to that effect.

But finally he and Humberto walked together out of the Anglo-Argentine Bank Building onto Calle Bartolome Mitre, where Enrico was waiting at the wheel of Clete's Buick.

Clete moved quickly to climb in the back, to give Humberto the front seat.

"Claridge's Hotel, por favor, Enrico," Humberto ordered.

The streets in Buenos Aires' financial district were lined with banks, and the narrow sidewalks were crowded with well-dressed men, most of them carrying briefcases. As the car moved slowly through the narrow, traffic-jammed streets—Enrico sat on the horn—Clete looked up and saw the American flag flying from an upper story of the Bank of Boston Building, where the U.S. Embassy had its offices. He saw buildings housing the National City Bank of New York; La Banco de Galacia; and the Dresdener Bank.

Just as Clete noticed a brass sign reading "Claridge's Hotel" on a building, Enrico turned off the street in the drive and stopped.

"Here we are!" Humberto announced.

The restaurant was on the ground floor. The paneled walls, heavy furniture, and long bar reminded Clete of the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas.

Humberto was greeted, in English, by the headwaiter. Picking up on that, Clete noticed that the snippets of conversation he overheard as they were led past the crowded bar to the dining room were also in English.

EnglishEnglish, not American.

Seated at a table, waiting for them, were Se?orita Dorotea Mallin; her mother; Se?ora Claudia Carzino-Cormano; and three gentlemen of the cloth, only one of whom, Father Kurt Welner, he could identify by name.

Dorotea was in her demure mood, he saw immediately. He was not surprised, when he went through the Argentine kissing ritual, that she moved her head in such a way as to absolutely preclude any accidental brushing of their lips.

"Beatrice sends her regrets," Humberto announced. "She has a migraine."

Pro formaexpressions of regret were offered, but Clete saw relief on everyone's face.

The clergymen were introduced. The tall, thin, balding one was the Very Reverend Matthew Cashley-Price of the Anglican Cathedral, and the jovial Irishman was Monsignor Patrick Kelly, who was one of the squad of clergy participating in his father's funeral at Our Lady of Pilar.

The look the Very Reverend Mr. Cashley-Price gave Clete made it quite clear that while God might have forgiven a repentant Cletus Howell Frade for despoiling one of the virgins of his flock, he was not quite ready to do so.

"There is very good news—" Father Welner said, then interrupted himself. "Would you like something to drink?"

"I think a little whiskey would go down nicely," Clete said.

"'When you hear the good news," Monsignor Kelly said, "you might wish to have champagne."

"Whiskey now, champagne later?" Clete asked.

"'Poor Cletus has had a bad morning," Humberto said. "Business, you understand."

He raised his hand with two fingers extended.

"So have we all," Dorotea said.

"You spoke to the Cardinal Archbishop, Father?" Humberto asked Father Welner.

"'His Eminence has graciously granted permission for the Very Reverend Cashley-Price to assist me in the nuptial mass," Monsignor Kelly answered for him.

"It will be necessary for you, Cletus—" the Very Reverend Mr. Cashley-Price began, and interrupted himself. "You don't mind if I call you 'Cletus,' do you?"

"No, Father," Clete said, deciding it was five-to-one Cashley-Price was High Church and would prefer that form of address.

"It will be necessary, of course, Cletus, for you and Dorotea to go through our premarital counseling. The Bishop was quite firm about that."

A waiter delivered two glasses dark with whiskey and set them before Clete and Humberto.

"I'll have one of those, please," Claudia Carzino-Cormano said. "If you don't mind. Pamela?"

"I think I'll wait for the champagne," Pamela Mallin said.

"Bring some champagne," Humberto ordered. "Something very nice."

Clete held up a hand to keep the waiter from adding ice or soda to his glass, picked it up, and took a deep swallow.

"With the ... uh ... how shall I put it?" Cashley-Price went on, "time constraints placed upon us by the situation, we shall have to take care of that right away. I have an hour free tomorrow at three. We could have our first session then. Would that be convenient, Cletus? Dorotea?"

"I'll be out of town tomorrow," Clete said.

"You can't be out of town tomorrow," Dorotea said.

"It's unavoidable, Dorotea," Humberto said. "He really has to go. Business, you understand, that just can't be put off."

Thank you, Uncle Humberto!

"Where is he going?" Dorotea demanded.

"Posadas," Clete said.

"To Estancia San Miguel," Humberto added. "Business."

"And when will you be returning, Cletus?" Cashley-Price asked.

"Why don't I call you the minute I get back?" Clete said.

"We are going to be very pressed for time," Cashley-Price said.

Waiters appeared with Claudia's drink and champagne.

The first waiter held back until the second waiter had poured the champagne before passing out menus.

Humberto ordered a second bottle of champagne.

Two of Humberto's acquaintances stopped at the table to shake his hand.

Clete glanced at Dorotea, who was scowling at him.

"Cletus, I know what you're thinking," she said. "We have to meet with Father Cashley-Price."

"I know that," Clete said, and smiled at her.

"They do a very nice rack of lamb in here," Humberto announced.

"May I toast the happy couple?" Father Welner said, raising his glass.

"If we have a morning ceremony," Pamela Mallin said, "people won't expect to be asked to stay over."

"Well, some people will have to stay over anyway," Claudia argued. "And afternoon ceremonies are so much nicer."

"I'm not hungry at all" Dorotea said.

"You have to eat, dear," Pamela Mallin said.

"I'm eating for two, is that what you're saying, Mother?"

"That's not what I meant at all."

"The lamb sounds good to me," Clete said.

"There is one question, Cletus, I have to ask," Monsignor Kelly announced. "You have been baptized as a Christian, haven't you?"

"You're missing the whole point, Father," Father Welner said. "Of course he has. The Church regards him as one of ours. There is no question about that. Actually, I really think that the reason His Eminence granted the dispensation was because he agrees—as do many people in Rome—with the idea that Anglican Holy Orders, and certainly those of Father Cashley-Price—are valid. If that is the case, then—"

"Will you excuse me, please?" Clete said. "I have to wash my hands."

There were caricatures of Emperor Hirohito, Adolf Hitler, and Benito Mussolini inside the white china urinals in the men's room.

Clete wondered idly if there were caricatures of Franklin Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, and Charles de Gaulle in the urinals of the Kempinski Hotel across town.

"Giving Adolf a good Spritz, are you?" a somewhat familiar voice asked behind him. "Or did that double scotch you just tossed down so fast affect your aim?"

Clete looked over his shoulder and saw Milton Leibermann.

"Take your time, Tex," Leibermann said. "When a man's got to go. he's got to go."

Clete's initial annoyance disappeared. He had to smile.

Leibermann, moving very quickly, pushed open all the doors to the toilet stalls in the men's room to make sure they were empty, then walked to the men's room door and jammed his furled umbrella into the chrome pull-handles. He tested it to make sure the doors could not be opened, then turned and smiled at Clete.

"What did you do, Sherlock, follow me?"

"You wouldn't believe I eat here all the time?"

"Of course I would. Would anybody in your line of business lie?"

"So what's new, Tex?"

"Not much, Milton."

"Strange, I thought that over the weekend you might have heard something I'd like to know."

"Not a thing."

"Not even that they're going to have their little revolution? I keep hearing things that make me think it's going to be damned soon."

"I didn't hear a thing. Maybe they're trying to keep it a secret."

"And maybe you wouldn't tell me if you knew," Leibermann said. "Tell you what I'm going to do, Tex. I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt."

"Thank you."

"I'll even tell you something I heard that you will want to know."

"What's that?"

"That SS colonel we were talking about? He put out a contract on your man Ettinger."

"What's a contract?"

"Murder Incorporated? Lewis 'Lepke' Buchalter? Ring a bell? Nice Jewish boy who went bad?" Buchalter was an infamous assassin for hire in New York City.

"I've heard the name."

"I used to spend a lot of time with his income tax records," Leibermann said. "Anyway, a contract means you pay somebody to murder somebody else. Colonel Goltz put out a contract on your man Ettinger."

"Is that so?"

"Either you don't give a damn or you already heard."

"I already heard," Clete said. "But. . . honest, Leibermann, thank you."

"I thought it very interesting. Just Ettinger. Not you and the paratrooper who blows things up. Just Ettinger. Was that because Ettinger's a Jew, do you think? Or do you have him doing something the Germans don't like, Jew or no Jew?"

"The latter," Clete said. "Or that's what I think."

"You want to tell me what?"

Clete shook his head, "no."

"Maybe I already know about what he's looking for," Leibermann said.

"I can't. I'm sorry."

"Maybe I could tell him something that would keep him alive," Leibermann said. "You were lucky, what happened to you. They got people down here who could give lessons to Buchalter."

"I met a couple," Clete said. "Not nice people."

"Tell him to be careful."

"I have."

"Your friend von Wachtstein flew Goltz to Montevideo yesterday, and flew him back today. You don't happen to know what that's all about?"

" 'My friend von Wachtstein'?"

Christ, I'm supposed to meet Peter tonight at The Fish. I'll be on my way to Santo Tome instead.

"He was a guest of honor at your father's requiem mass at your estancia."

"You must have friends all over," Clete said. "Von Wachtstein was there for good manners. He's running around with one of the Carzino-Cormano girls."

"So I heard. You ever think of trying to make friends with him?"

"He's a German officer, for Christ's sake."

"You see Boys' Town? Spencer Tracy said 'there's no such thing as a bad boy,' meaning Mickey Rooney. I figure maybe that all Germans aren't bad. As a matter of fact, I know a couple of good ones. Maybe von Wachtstein's one of the good ones. You ever hear the phrase 'turning an agent'?"

"No. But I can guess what it means."

"Think about it, Tex," Leibermann said. "And think about telling me why the Germans, the bad ones, they call them 'Nazis,' want Ettinger dead."

He walked to the door and pulled his umbrella free.

"Oh. I almost forgot. Mazeltov. That means congratulations, good luck."

"What for?"

"Isn't that a happy bridal party out there? Should be a hell of a wedding, with three priests."

He pushed the door open and walked out.

Clete washed his hands and then rejoined the happy bridal party.

Chapter Seventeen

XVII

[ONE]

El Palomar Airfield Buenos Aires, Argentina 1725 14 April 1943

Standartenf?hrer Goltz and Peter von Wachtstein came to be on a—one-way— first-name basis moments after they stepped into Oberst Gr?ner's Mercedes at the Embassy. Peter thought it interesting that Goltz did not make the overture of friendship—if that's what it was—while they were in Uruguay.

"Which do you prefer your friends to call you, von Wachtstein?" Goltz asked with a smile, " 'Hans-Peter' or 'Hans' or 'Peter'?"

" 'Hans,' Herr Standartenf?hrer."

That was not true. From the age of six, he had learned to increasingly loathe the connection people seemed too frequently to make between Hansel— the affectionate diminutive of Hans—von Wachtstein, and the sweet little boy in the "Hansel and Gretel" fairy tale. Since it proved impossible to punch the nose of everyone who, after fair warning, called him "Hans," he adopted the reverse philosophy. Since only assholes would call him "Hans," he would encourage all assholes to do so.

"You wouldn't mind if I called you 'Hans,' would you, von Wachtstein?"

"Not at all, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"There is a time, wouldn't you agree, when a certain informality between officers is not only permissible but desirable?"

"I have often thought so, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"The secret, Hans, is for the junior in such circumstances to correctly predict when the senior is not in the mood for informality. I speak from experience. I once made the mistake—when I myself was a Sturmbannf?hrer, ( The SS rank equivalent to major) by the way—of calling Brigadefuhrer (The SS rank equivalent to brigadier general) Max Ruppert ... Do you know him, by the way?"

"I have not had that privilege, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"Fine chap. Splendid officer. For a time, he commanded the Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler. Anyway, he was not at the time in a mood to be addressed as 'Max' by a lowly Sturmbannf?hrer, even one he'd known for years. He gave me a dressing-down I still recall painfully."

Peter laughed dutifully.

If that little vignette was intended to caution me not to call you by your first name, it was unnecessary.

Goltz chatted amiably all the way out to the airport, saying nothing important. But also nothing, Peter realized, that seemed in any way unusually curious or threatening, just idle chatter.

But from the moment Goltz suggested "they have a little chat" with drinks and dinner to follow, Peter felt uncomfortable. Not only was the very idea that Goltz would go along with him to El Palomar unnerving—it would almost certainly interfere with the talk he must have with Dieter—but there was certainly a reason for Goltz's charm, and Peter wondered what it was, what Goltz wanted from him.

As they approached the passenger terminal, the Condor came into view.

"There it is," Peter said. "It's a beautiful bird, isn't it?"

The Condor was sitting, plugged into fuel trucks and other ground-support equipment, on the tarmac in front of the passenger terminal.

"You miss flying, Hans?" Standartenf?hrer Goltz asked.

"Very much, Herr Standartenf?hrer," Peter replied.

G?nther pulled the car into one of the spaces reserved for the Corps Diplomatique, jumped out, and pulled the door open for Goltz.

"I'm going to have a word with Nabler, Hans," Goltz said when Peter had gotten out of the car. "A personal matter. Is there somewhere we could have a coffee while you're dealing with the diplomatic pouches?"

"There is a small restaurant in the terminal, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"Well, then why don't you see if you can find Nabler for me, and tell him where I'll be?"

"Of course, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

What's the connection between him and Nabler? When Dieter warned me to watch out for Nabler, I thought it was simply because he was an enthusiastic Nazi- If Goltz wants a word with him, he's more than that. What? Is he keeping an eye on Dieter specially, or is it just that the SS likes to keep an eye on everybody who's able to spend time out of Germany? What Dieter said when he couldn't get away from Nabler was that Nabler was following him around like a horny dachshund chasing a Great Dane in heat. Was that coincidental, or is Nabler watching Dieter? And if so, why?

He watched Goltz walk toward the terminal and then went to the back of the car to help G?nther with the diplomatic pouches. There were four. Three were mailbag-type pouches and the fourth was a steel box.

"I can manage these, Herr Major Freiherr," G?nther said.

"Your offer is tempting, G?nther, but unfortunately I'm not supposed to let them out of my sight."

He grabbed two of the pouches and started dragging them to the gate in the fence. When he was through it, he saw Dieter and Karl Nabler walking around under the Condor, doing the preflight.

He walked toward them, looking over his shoulder to see that G?nther was following him, staggering under the weight of the third pouch and the steel box.

"Christ," Dieter said, "that's all I need. What the hell is in that steel box, Peter?"

"They don't confide in me."

"What do you figure all that crap weighs?"

"I know precisely what it weighs. A hundred forty point two kilos," Peter said. "Hello, Nabler."

"Herr Major," Nabler replied.

"That's going to put me, with fuel aboard, about three hundred kilos over max gross," Dieter said.

"You should have thought about your intended cargo before you loaded your fuel," Peter said. "We of the Luftwaffe call that 'flight planning.'"

"Thank you so much for the advice," Dieter said sarcastically. "Kiss my ass, Peter."

"Standartenf?hrer Goltz wants a word with you, Nabler," Peter said. "He's in the ... G?nther, would you take First Officer Nabler to Standartenf?hrer Goltz?"

"Jawohl, Herr Major Freiherr!"

"Let's get these pouches into the bird," Peter said as Nabler started to follow G?nther.

"We of Lufthansa have something called 'preflight inspection,'" Dieter said. "Won't your goddamned pouches wait?"

Clete shook his head, "no."

Dieter picked up the steel box and pouch G?nther had set on the ground and announced, "I can pick this crap up, but I damned sure won't be able to climb the ladder with it."

He put everything down, picked up the third pouch, and started up the ladder to the passenger compartment. Peter looked at the ladder and picked up only one of the two pouches, then climbed the ladder.

Dieter stopped just inside the door and raised his voice.

"Willi?"

Peter looked down the cabin to the cockpit, where a man was sitting at the flight engineer's position.

"Kapitan?" the man asked.

"There's a box and a pouch under the wing. Would you get them for me, please?"

"Jawohl, Herr Kapitan!"

"Put them in the aft storage," Dieter said, then turned to Peter and softly said, "Willi's very obliging. He doesn't want to be sent back to the Luftwaffe. Luftwaffe Condor flight engineers spend a lot of time in Russia."

"Are there many Condors left?"

"Not many. Our beloved F?hrer has four for his personal use. I suppose, all over, there's another four or five. Maybe six. But not many. I wonder how long they'll be able keep up this charade. You know how many passengers are on the manifest? Five."

"If they cancel these flights, what will you do?"

"Spend a lot of time in Russia, I suppose."

"I have something to go over with you," Peter said. "It's important."

He took the file card with the bank names and account numbers from his pocket. Dieter didn't ask many questions, and Peter wondered how much he understood and could reliably pass on to his father.

"Are you running any risk carrying that card around?" he asked as Dieter slipped the filing card into his shirt pocket.

"The risk I'm worried about is, say four hours from now, looking out the window to find a B-24 pilot waving at me."

He made a gesture of pointing down, an order to land.

"A B-24?" Peter asked, surprised.

"The Americans gave the Brazilians a Navy version of the B-24. They're as fast as the Condor, and they have multiple half-inch Browning machine guns in turrets. Four turrets, if memory serves, plus a couple of single gun positions in the fuselage."

"If that happens, what will you do?"

"Try to keep Nabler from trying to ram the B-24 while I head for the nearest Brazilian airfield—waving a white flag."

"What's Nabler's connection with Goltz?"

"I used to think he was watching me, and Christ knows, he does that, but now I think there's something more than that."

"Any idea what?"

"You're the intelligence officer, Peter. I'm just a simple airplane pilot."

Peter heard a noise, and looked at the door to see Karl Nabler starting up the ladder.

"Have a nice flight, Dieter," Peter said.

"The station manager, Herr Kapitan, asks when you plan to make your departure," Nabler said.

"Just as soon as we can wind up the rubber bands," Dieter said. He offered his hand to Peter. "I'll tell your father how bravely you are holding up in this hellhole far from the comforts of home," he said. "That is, presuming I can get this overloaded sonofabitch off the ground."

He held his right arm up vertically from his belt elbow.

"Heil Hitler!" he said.

Peter returned the salute.

"Good flight, Dieter," he said. "Heil Hitler!"

[TWO]

The Horse Restaurant

Avenida del Libertador

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1905 14 April 1943

As they passed the Argentine Army Polo Fields on Avenida del Libertador across from the Hipodromo, Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein slid forward on the seat of Gr?ner's Mercedes.

"G?nther, just this side of the bridge," he ordered. "The Horse. The parking lot is in the back."

"Jawohl, Herr Major Freiherr!"

"What's this, Hans?" Standartenf?hrer Josef Goltz asked.

"A bar I sometimes come to, Herr Standartenf?hrer. It has been my experience that fast horses attract beautiful women."

"Ah-ha!" Goltz said.

Peter originally planned to take Goltz to the men's bar at the Plaza Hotel for a drink. The decision to go to The Horse was impulsive.

He wondered if he was being clever. He didn't know how closely he was being watched by either the Argentine BIS or Oberst Gr?ner’s agents, but there was no doubt that he was frequently under surveillance. Given that, if someone had seen him enter The Horse with Cletus Frade, or saw him do that again with Cletus tonight, or at some other time in the future, there would be some confusion if he was also seen entering The Horse with Standartenf?hrer Goltz.

The more likely reason for his change of mind, he decided, was that he suddenly needed a drink. Maybe two drinks. Not more than two, which would be foolish in Goltz's company. But he wanted a drink, and right then, not fifteen minutes later when they would reach the Plaza Hotel.

What happened at El Palomar had disturbed him. For one thing, though Kapitan Dieter von und zu Aschenburg was as good and experienced a pilot as Peter knew, he had a very hard time getting Lufthansa flight 666 off the ground. For several very long seconds before the Condor finally staggered into the air, it looked as if he would run out of runway.

There was no wind; the wind sock hung limply from its pole atop the control tower. Dieter, he had reasoned, was probably counting on some wind for his takeoff roll, and there was none.

That was bad enough, but when Peter got in the Mercedes beside Goltz he remembered Dieter's gesture, the hand signal to land or be shot down he was likely to get if the Condor was intercepted by one of the B-24s the Americans had given to the Brazilians.

And that triggered a sudden very clear memory of Hauptmann Hans-Peter von Wachtstein of Jagdstaffel 232 making the same gesture from the cockpit of his Focke-Wulf 190 to a B-17 pilot near Kassel.

The B-17 had almost certainly been hit by antiaircraft either before or after he dropped his bombs on Berlin. The damage to his fuselage and wings did not come from machine-gun fire. He had lost his port inboard engine—the prop was feathered—and his starboard outboard engine was gone. The starboard wing was blackened from an engine fire.

He was staggering along at less than a thousand feet, trying to keep it in the air until he was out of Germany. He probably knew that he wasn't going to make it home, but was hoping he could make it to-Belgium or the Netherlands, where there was at least a chance the Resistance would see him go down and take care of him and whoever was still alive in his crew.

Peter throttled back and pulled up beside him and gave him the land or be shot down signal. By then he had no desire to add one more aircraft to his shot-down list by taking out a cripple.

The pilot looked at him in horror, then very deliberately shook his head from side to side, asking either for an act of chivalry on Peter's part, or mercy. Peter repeated the land or be shot down signal, and then the question suddenly became moot. The B-17's starboard wing burst into flame and then crumpled, and the B-17 went into a spin. Twenty seconds later, it crashed into a farmer's field and exploded.

Until Dieter made the land or be shot down signal, Peter had been able to force from his mind the memory of the B-17 pilot slowly shaking his head from side to side. Now it came back.

The B-17 pilot, he thought, was probably a young man very much like Cletus. Well, maybe not exactly. Cletus was a fighter pilot, but a pilot. A pilot like himself, and Dieter. He had no doubt that Dieter would like Clete if he knew him, and vice versa.

Why the hell are we killing each other?

G?nther jumped out from behind the wheel and held the door open for Standartenf?hrer Goltz. Peter stepped out of the other side of the Mercedes and led Goltz into The Horse.

"One has the choice, Herr Standartenf?hrer: One can sit at the bar, or at a table; or one can go into the balcony. The view is better from the balcony, but at the bar one might have the chance to strike up an acquaintance with one of the natives."

Goltz thought that over.

"1 think the balcony, Hans," he said. "I want to have a word with you that won't be overheard."

Peter followed him up the stairs to the balcony, where Goltz selected a table by the railing. A waiter appeared immediately and took their order. Resisting the temptation to order a whiskey, Peter ordered a beer. After a moment's indecision, Goltz ordered whiskey.

When the waiter left them, Goltz looked unabashedly at the women at the bar below.

"The sometimes painful cost of duty," he said. "Look at that one!" "The natives are attractive, aren't they?"

"Spectacular! I could spend the next three days with my nose buried in those breastworks!" Peter laughed.

"If it makes you feel any better, Herr Standartenf?hrer," Peter said, "it has been my experience that ninety-nine percent of the native females carry a sign you don't at first notice around their necks reading, 'Look, But Do Not Touch!'"

"Really?" Goltz replied, sounding genuinely disappointed. "It may be their Spanish heritage," Peter said. "I always thought we were on the wrong side in Spain. I have been reliably informed that the Spanish Communists believed in free love. That was not true of the ladies who supported El Caudillo. ( *General Francisco Franco, the Spanish fascist leader, was known as "El Caudillo," "The Leader," much as Adolf Hitler was known as "Der F?hrer.) Like their Argentine cousins, they believed in saving it for the marriage bed."

"And you couldn't overcome that unfortunate situation?"

"The competition to fly a Fokker on a supply run to Germany was ferocious, Herr Standartenf?hrer. The girls who hang around the bar at the Hotel am Zoo, or the Adlon, are far more appreciative of, and generous to, dashing airmen resting from the noble war against the communist menace."

"I've noticed that. Some of the girls I've seen in the am Zoo and Adlon even seem to prefer shallow young Luftwaffe lieutenants to more senior, and better-looking, SS officers."

"I am sure the Herr Standartenf?hrer is not speaking from personal experi ence, about the ladies of the Adlon preferring shallow Luftwaffe lieutenants to senior officers of the SS."

"'Oh, but I am, Hans." He paused, then asked, "Is that where you previously had the pleasure of Frau von Tresmarck's acquaintance?"

Well, I guess I was wrong again. He is not a faggot after G?nther’s firm young body. So what is that scholarship in the Fatherland all about?

"My experience, sadly, was the opposite," Peter said. "The one thing wrong with those bars—I hope the Herr Standartenf?hrer will forgive me—is that senior officers frequent them. The young ladies prefer senior officers to junior ones."

"My question was, was it at the Adlon or the am Zoo that you knew Frau von Tresmarck?"

"I was hoping that the Herr Standartenf?hrer would forget he had asked the question."

"That, meine lieber Hans, confirms what I suspected from the smiles on your faces when you met again at the airport," Goltz said.

"I hope Sturmbannf?hrer von Tresmarck—"

"I wouldn't worry about him," Goltz said with a smile. "Unless, of course, he smiles warmly at you."

"I'm not sure I understand the Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"Oh, I think you do, Hans. You're a man of the world. Von Tresmarck's reaction, I'm sure, is better someone like you, who presumably knows and will follow the rules of the game, than someone else." Then, reacting to the look on Peter's face, he added, "Don't look so surprised. I came to know our Inge rather well myself in Berlin before she married von Tresmarck," Goltz said. "You might even say that I was their Cupid."

"Excuse me?"

"A man in Werner's position needed a wife," Goltz said. "And I was very much afraid that our Inge would be caught in one of the periodic sweeps the police made through the Adlon, and places like it, looking for those who could be put to useful work and who don't have permission to live in Berlin. Our Inge would not be happy in jail, I don't think, or, for that matter, running a lathe in some factory."

"You don't consider improving the morale of lonely officers useful work, Herr Standartenf?hrer?"

"A commendable avocation, Hans. One I suspect our Inge continues to practice here. How did you pass your time waiting for me?"

"May I respectfully request that we change the subject, Herr Standartenf?hrer?"

"After one final word," Goltz said. "A word to the wise. Don't let your . . . friendship with Inge get out of hand. Moderation in all things, meine lieber Hans."

"I hear and obey, Herr Standartenf?hrer," Peter said with a smile.

"I'm not at liberty, at this time, to tell you how, but von Tresmarck is engaged in quite important work, and nothing, nothing can be allowed to interfere with that."

"Jawohl, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"Now, we can change the subject," Goltz said. "What shall we talk about?"

"G?nther said something about a scholarship at Daimler-Benz?" Peter said. "Is that a safe subject?"

"Oh, he told you about that, did he?"

Peter nodded.

"I'm going to arrange that, Hans, to show my appreciation to his family."

"I don't think I understand, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

Goltz looked around the balcony to assure himself that no one was close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"One of the reasons I'm here, von Wachtstein, is that Admiral Canaris wants to bring the officers from the Graf Spee back to Germany. It is a matter of personal importance to him. You know, of course, that the Admiral was himself interned here during the First World War and escaped?"

"Yes, I do, Herr Standartenf?hrer. When we learned I was coming here, my father told me that story."

"Your father and the Admiral are quite close, I understand?"

"I don't think close, Herr Standartenf?hrer. They know each other, of course, but I don't think they could be called close friends."

Why do I think that question wasn't idle curiosity?

"Anyway, the preliminary thinking—Oberst Gr?ner and I were talking about this earlier today—is that the repatriation of the Graf Spee officers will be accomplished in three stages. First, get them out of their place of imprisonment, which should not pose much of a problem. Second, find a location where they can be kept safely until transportation can be arranged for them. And, of course, third, getting them from their refuge out of the country and to the Fatherland."

"There's a lot of them," Peter said. "That will have to be quite an operation."

"There's something near two hundred of them. That's the second problem. Obviously they can't all be moved at once. So we're thinking right now that we will move them in groups of, say, twenty or twenty-five. A single truckload, in other words."

"Herr Standartenf?hrer, excuse me, but my understanding is that the officers have given their parole. They were offered the choice: They would be confined under guard. Or they would give their parole that they would not attempt to escape, and thus would undergo their internment in a hotel, without guards."

"That was in 1939, von Wachtstein," Goltz responded. "The situation is different in 1943."

"I understand, Herr Standartenf?hrer. But once the first group of officers disappears, I was wondering whether the Argentine authorities will then place all the others under greater restrictions."

"We'll have to deal with that when it happens," Goltz said impatiently. "Oberst Gr?ner did not seem to consider that an insurmountable problem."

"I was trying to be helpful, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"I understand, Hans," Goltz said.

We're now back to "Hans," are we?

"I had a long chat with our friend G?nther over the weekend. I learned that not only is he a good National Socialist, but that his father and many of his father's friends are also."

"That has been my impression, too, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"I also learned that his father has a small estancia near a place called San Carlos. Are you familiar with San Carlos?"

"No, Herr Standartenf?hrer, I am not."

"San Carlos de something . . ."

"San Carlos de Bariloche. Yes, Herr Standartenf?hrer, I know it. It is commonly called simply 'Bariloche.' It's in the foothills of the Andes."

"Near the Chilean border," Goltz said.

"There's a very fine new hotel there," Peter said. "Strange name: Llao Llao. But a first-class hotel. I had a chance to visit there. Hauptmann Duarte's father has an interest in it, and he—"

"I want to talk to you about your relationship with the Duarte family, Hans, but right now—"

"Excuse me, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"The Loche family has a small estancia near San Carlos de Bariloche. They manufacture some of their sausage products there. The sausage is transported to Buenos Aires, and elsewhere—"

"In their truck, which could carry, say, twenty or twenty-five people without attracting any attention at all?"

"Oberst Gr?ner said you were a bright and perceptive young officer," Goltz said approvingly, and then went on: "If Herr Loche is willing to assist the Fatherland, his estancia would offer a good refuge for the Graf Spee officers until arrangements for their movement to the Fatherland can be arranged. Perhaps through Chile."

"Fascinating."

"Since this operation has approval at the highest echelons—I have been told the F?hrer is personally aware of it—there is no question regarding money. We will generously compensate Herr Loche for the use of his truck, and for the room and board of the officers while they are under his care."

"And also arrange a scholarship for G?nther to Daimler-Benz," Peter said.

"And G?nther’s presence in Germany might reinforce Herr Loche's patriotism, if you take my meaning. Gr?ner tells me the Argentine counterintelligence people . . . What do they call themselves?"

"The BIS. Bureau of Internal Security."

". . . the BIS is not as incompetent as generally believed. If they should ask questions of Herr Loche, it is important for him to give the right answers. Or the wrong ones, which would depend on your perspective, as we talked about this morning."

"Excuse me?"

"You said, 'under the right' circumstances the Brazilians might actually be able to shoot down the Condor. The semantics are interesting, wouldn't you say?"

"I'm sure the Standartenf?hrer took my meaning correctly this morning."

"Of course," Goltz said, smiling. "Now, you're going to have a role in this . . ."

"I would be honored, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

". . . but just what role has not been decided. I'm having dinner with Herr Loche tomorrow, and I'll broach the subject to him then. If that goes well, perhaps it would be a good idea for you to visit Bariloche. . . . You said you've been there. How did you travel?"

"By train, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"Well, perhaps you might drive to Bariloche, reconnoiter the road, examine the facilities at the Loche farm. . . ."

"I understand, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"As I say, I have not yet had a chance to make firm decisions."

"I will hold myself in readiness, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"If things work out well with Herr Loche . . .," Goltz said carefully. "What I'm driving at, Hans, is that it might be very useful to us to have a place, perhaps more than one place—I'm talking about somewhere in the country, what do they call their farms?"

"Estancias, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"If we had an estancia, several estancias, I can see where that would be very useful to us in the future. Not only in connection with the repatriation of the Graf Spee officers, but in connection with other operations. There are two operations, which I'm not at liberty to discuss, which come immediately to mind. And I'm sure there will be others."

"Is the Herr Standartenf?hrer talking about buying an estancia?"

"Should we decide to acquire an estancia or two—and perhaps even the controlling interest in a business, a trucking firm, for example—it would be absolutely essential that our ownership be kept secret."

"I understand, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"The legal owner could be someone like Herr Loche or one of his friends, Argentine nationals who are good Germans. People we can trust."

"I see."

"But questions might be asked if Herr Loche were suddenly to start acquiring property. His business, as I understand it, while successful, is not successful to the point where he can buy another estancia."

"I see the problem."

"Bankers would be curious, is what I'm driving at. Which brings us to your relationship with the late Hauptmann Duarte's father. One would think that someone who had lost his son at Stalingrad would be interested in helping Germany in any way he could. But on the other hand, Herr Duarte is the Managing Director of the Anglo-Argentine Bank. How would you judge Herr Duarte's feeling toward Germany?"

"His nephew is an American, Herr Standartenf?hrer," Peter said. "And I think he believes we were connected with the death of his brother-in-law."

"That's unfortunate. You know, of course, the nephew is an American OSS agent."

"So I have been told."

"It may be necessary for him to join his father," Goltz said. "Which would, in your judgment, further tilt Herr Duarte toward the Allies? He is close to the nephew?"

"Frade is going to be married shortly . . ."

"Oh, really?"

". . . to the daughter of the man who runs SMIPP, Enrico Mallin."

"What?"

"It stands for Sociedad Mercantil de Importacion de Productos Petroliferos. They import petroleum and petroleum products from the Howell Petroleum Company, which is owned by Frade's family."

"How did you learn this?"

"I've spent a good deal of time with the Duarte family, Herr Standartenf?hrer. One hears things."

"And Frade is marrying the daughter of this firm?"

"One of the things I heard this weekend, Herr Standartenf?hrer, was that Herr Duarte—rather emotionally—feels that since God has taken both his son and his brother-in-law, God is now making things right by giving the family a baby."

"You did not hear what I said a moment ago about young Frade joining his father, Hans. And from this moment on, you will not hear another word about it. If that becomes necessary, I want you to be outraged."

"Excuse me?"

"Let me try to explain. We have right now a situation in which they regard you with a certain fondness. We want to encourage that."

The waiter appeared at the table, interrupting Goltz.

"I think we should have one more," he said, nodding at the waiter, "and then think about dinner."

He waited for the waiter to leave.

"What I'm thinking is this, Hans. At some point in the future, you approach Herr Duarte and tell them you are not only disenchanted with Germany—"

He interrupted himself.

"The more I think of this, the more it seems to be a splendid solution to our problem," Goltz said.

"I'm afraid, Herr Standartenf?hrer, that I'm not following you."

"Even beforesomething unfortunate happens to young Frade, you approach Herr Duarte and tell him that you are disenchanted with Germany, that you are convinced Germany will lose the war, and that you wish to invest your family's money in Argentina. Naturally, this would have to be done in the greatest secrecy. . . ."

"Herr Standartenf?hrer, the von Wachtstein family doesn't have any money to invest anywhere. And if we did, sending money out of Germany is considered treason."

"And rightly so. Hence the reason for secrecy. It's all very credible," Goltz said. "The money you would invest here—in an estancia, or estancias, or to acquire the controlling interest in a trucking firm, for example—would be from the funds available to me for the Argentine operations I alluded to a moment before. Someone like Herr Duarte would be able to keep such activities very quiet, and certainly no one would suspect the Anglo-Argentine Bank would be conducting secret operations on behalf of the German Reich!"

"I don't know what to say," Peter said.

"You have your choice between a simple 'Jawohl, Herr Standartenf?hrer,'" Goltz said, smiling broadly, obviously very pleased with himself, "or, if you agree, 'what a clever line of thought, Josef.' Either will suffice."

"It does seem like a brilliant idea, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"Sometimes the best ideas"—Goltz snapped his fingers—"come from out of the blue like that," Goltz said. "Our F?hrer has often said that impulsive action is often better than anything else."

"Permission to speak, Herr Standartenf?hrer?"

"Permission granted, Major."

"The possibility must be considered, I respectfully suggest, Herr Standartenf?hrer, that the elimination of young Frade might cause Herr Duarte to dislike all Germans, including me."

"No, Hans. . . . No, don't you see, if you went to Duarte immediately and allied yourself against the Third Reich now, then when Frade is eliminated, and you are outraged, it will make it all the more credible that you wish to disassociate yourself from Germany."

Peter nodded, thoughtfully, as if accepting Goltz's reasoning.

"Another thought," Goltz said. "What is your relationship with Frade? You must see him from time to time."

"Correct, Herr Standartenf?hrer. We are officers of belligerent powers on neutral soil."

"While there is still time, it might be a good idea for you to cultivate him. Doing so would make your indignation at his passing more credible."

You slimy, amoral, miserable sonofabitch!

"I see your reasoning, Herr Standartenf?hrer," Peter said. "I don't know how—"

"If the situation comes up where you can, Hans," Goltz said, "don't be too obvious about it."

The waiter appeared with their drinks.

"I'm sorry now that I ordered this," Goltz said. "I would really like champagne."

"Well, we can have champagne with our dinner, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"Hans, about dinner . . ."

"Yes, Herr Standartenf?hrer?"

"The point is, we have actually covered all the matters I wanted to discuss with you over dinner. In point of fact, a good deal more. And Gradny-Sawz has promised a diversion, if you take my meaning, if I could conclude our business at an early hour. Could I renege on my offer of dinner? Save it for another time?"

"Of course, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"Do I detect a tone of relief in your voice, Hans?"

"Perhaps regret, Herr Standartenf?hrer. I was looking forward to having dinner."

"What I meant was that I thought perhaps after how you spent yesterday afternoon and evening, you might wish to make a very early night of it. Our Inge can be exhausting."

"I don't think I will be up until the wee hours tonight, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"Can I drop you somewhere?"

"I can find a taxi, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"You're sure?"

"I live in the opposite direction from Herr Gradny-Sawz's house, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"Well, then. The least I can do is pay for the drinks," Goltz said. He laid money on the table and put out his hand to Peter.

"Bon chasse, Herr Standartenf?hrer," Peter said.

"And the same to you, Hans. After you regain your strength, of course."

Goltz walked to the balcony stairs. Peter watched him descend and leave The Horse. He caught the waiter's eye and signaled that he wanted the check. When he had paid it, he left The Horse and walked up Avenida del Libertador past the polo field.

When he was satisfied that he wasn't being followed, he flagged down a taxi and gave the driver the address of Humberto Valdez Duarte's mansion on Avenida Alvear.

[THREE]

1420 Avenida Alvear

Buenos Aires, Argentina

2025 14 April 1943

Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein was kept waiting in the foyer of the mansion while the butler went to determine if Se?or Duarte was at home.

Humberto, in his shirtsleeves, appeared immediately through the door Peter had learned led to the dining.

"I'm sorry to come like this. . . ."

"Don't be silly," Humberto said. "I'm always glad to see you."

"Something has come up that I thought I should tell you about right away," Peter said. "And I really need to talk to Cletus."

Humberto looked at his watch.

"Cletus is taking the ten-o'clock train to Corrientes," he said. "He's probably at the Avenida Coronel Diaz house. I'll call."

"Thank you."

"I'm just having a little dinner," Humberto said. "My wife is ... indisposed. Can I offer you something?"

"I don't like to impose."

Humberto took him into the dining room, ordered a maid standing there to set a place for Peter—only one place was set at the huge table, which Peter thought was sad—and then dialed the telephone.

Peter could hear only one side of the conversation.

"Cletus, I think it's important that we have a word before you board the train," he said. "Could you come here?"

"It's not that at all. I promise."

"The sooner the better."

"Thank you."

He hung the telephone up.

Peter's curiosity got the better of him.

"What's 'it's not that at all, I promise'?"

"Cletus had a very bad day," Humberto said, smiling. "Business all morning, then a long, long lunch discussing wedding plans, followed by a long, long afternoon doing the same thing. He told me that he had all the wedding plans he could stand for one day. I had the feeling he has had a couple of recuperative drinks."

"Why's he going to Corrientes?"

"He didn't say, Peter," Humberto said. "Let me get you a glass of wine."

"Can I offer you something to eat, Cletus?" Humberto asked when Clete walked into the dining twenty minutes later, trailed by Enrico.

"Enrico said the food is pretty good on the train," Clete said. "But yes, I will have a little whiskey and soda, thank you for asking." He turned to Peter. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, amigo, but if we keep meeting like this people will talk."

Humberto was right. Cletus has been drinking.

"I wasn't followed," Peter said. "I wanted you to hear about Standartenf?hrer Goltz, and I wasn't sure you would be at The Fish—The Horse—tonight."

"I wouldn't have been," Clete said. "Duty calls. I'm on my way to Corrientes."

"Why?"

"I could say I am going to inspect Estancia San Miguel, but I'm at the point where I am forgetting which lie I told to which person," Clete said. "Actually I'm going to bring a C-45 in from Brazil."

"What's a C-45?" Peter asked. "An aircraft?"

"A light twin," Clete said. "Liaison, it has six or eight seats in the back. They also use it as a trainer for navigators."

"How are you going to bring it into the country?" Humberto asked.

"Fly it across the border into a strip at Santo Tome," Clete said, "and from there to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo."

"Cletus, isn't that dangerous?" Humberto asked. "They patrol the border."

"I made a deal with the BIS," Clete said. "They help me bring the airplane into the country, and I make it available to them in case they don't get away with their coup d’?tat."

He looked at his watch.

"I don't have much time," he said.

"Two things," Peter said. "I want to tell you both about a conversation I just had with Standartenf?hrer Goltz. And I want to tell you, Cletus—it might be better if Humberto didn't know about this—what I found out when I was in Montevideo."

"Perhaps it would be best if I was familiar with everything," Humberto said.

"I think maybe Peter's right," Clete said. "You probably shouldn't, for your own good, know about—"

"For the common good," Humberto said, very seriously. "The more I know, the better." When neither Peter nor Clete seemed convinced, he added, "When I became involved in this business, I knew it was going to be like pregnancy."

"Excuse me?" Peter asked.

"One cannot be a little bit pregnant," Humberto said. "So if there is not some valid reason not to tell me everything . . ."

"The two are connected, Cletus," Peter said.

"OK, Humberto," Clete said. "Your choice. Let's have it, Peter."

"I've heard rumors," Humberto said after Peter finished, "about money being paid to help people immigrate here, or to Uruguay, from Germany. I didn't hear much, and this is the first I've heard that they were being released from concentration camps. I thought it was simply bribe money, paid to obtain visas."

"There's one more thing," Peter said, "now that I think about it. Inge said that her husband was 'making himself rich' getting Jews out of concentration camps. That sounds personal—I'm sure she meant it that way—so how does that fit in with the money in Uruguay being used to buy property, et cetera?"

"Perhaps your friend's husband," Humberto said, "is taking a small commission for himself."

"Wouldn't that be more than a little dangerous?" Clete asked.

"Illicit moneys have a way of sticking to people's fingers," Humberto said.

"The SS is full of thieves," Peter said matter-of-factly. "When I think about it, I think Humberto's probably right."

"You're sure about what your lady friend said?" Clete asked.

Peter nodded.

"When are you going to see her again?" Clete asked.

"Never, I hope," Peter said.

"Maybe she can tell us something else," Clete said, then looked at his watch again. "I've got to get out of here."

"There's plenty of time for you to make your train," Humberto said.

"I can't risk missing it," Clete said. "We drove here. Can I leave my car in your garage?"

"If you'd like, Cletus, I can have my chauffeur take you to the station. Either in my car, or yours, in which case he could take it to Avenida Coronel Diaz."

"You use your car to take Peter to his apartment," Clete said. "Enrico and I will take a taxi."

"Whichever you prefer," Humberto said.

"Thanks, Humberto," Clete said. "For everything."

Humberto hugged him.

"I will pray for your safe return," he said.

Clete looked at Peter.

"What are you going to tell Alicia about—what's her name? Inge."

"You sonofabitch!" Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein said.

At the Central Train Station, Clete called Tony from a pay telephone, gave him that number, and ordered him to call him as soon as possible from any other telephone.

"And bring paper and a pencil with you. You're going to have to write down my message."

It took Tony fifteen minutes to call back. By that time four indignant people were lined up to use the pay telephone, and there were only six minutes left to board the train.

"Sorry," Tony began. "I had a hell of a time finding a phone."

"I want you to send this off to Washington as soon as possible. Can you drive out there tonight?"

"Sure."

"You ready?"

"Shoot."

"This goes as Lindbergh."

"Got it."

"One. Galahad confirms absolutely Lindbergh exists."

"No shit?"

"Two. Montevideo operation run by SS Major Werner von Tresmarck, security officer of German Embassy."

"You're going to have to spell that for me."

"Whiskey Easy Roger Nan Easy Roger," Clete spelled quickly. "You know how to spell 'von.' Tango Roger Easy Sugar Mike Able Roger Charley King."

"Got it."

"And when you get to the estancia, stay there and make sure Dave doesn't go anywhere until I get back."

"Where are you going?"

Clete hung up without replying and ran to catch the train.

When Antonio informed Clete that he "had been packed," it didn't enter Clete's mind to see what had actually gone into his suitcase. Antonio would certainly, he reasoned, include his toilet kit, plus several changes of underwear, a couple of fresh shirts, maybe a spare jacket and trousers, and whatever else necessary for a three- or four-day trip.

Thus, when he went into his compartment aboard the train, he was a little surprised—and a little amused—to see that Antonio's idea of clothing for a trip of no more than four days filled two large suitcases. The identical saddle leather suitcases were nearly new. He was not surprised to see a burnished spot on both cases where he could just make out what was left of his father's initials.

They had two adjoining compartments in what Clete recognized from movies as the English version of an American Pullman car. He remembered his father telling him that the English had built Argentina's railroads. He wondered idly if this car was made here from an English pattern or imported.

When he went into his luggage for his toilet kit, he found a complete riding outfit.

"No wonder he needed two suitcases," he mused aloud. "I wonder where he expects me to wear the riding costume?"

"Se?or Clete," Enrico said. "I told Antonio to pack that. We are going to the Second Cavalry." ,

"We're going riding at the Second Cavalry?" Clete asked.

My God. If he heard me wonder out loud where I'm going to wear this costume, I must have been speaking in Spanish!

"I feel sure the Coronel Commanding will ask you to ride with him as he shows you the regiment. Excuse me, Se?or Clete, but I must say this: It would not be fitting for you to accompany him in your Texas Aggie boots."

"I stand corrected, Suboficial Mayor," Clete said. "I will even shave in the morning, and close my fly, so I will not embarrass you."

"In the morning, Se?or Clete, it would be best if you put on the appropriate clothing."

"You mean this?"

“S?, Se?or Clete."

Chapter Eighteen

[ONE]

Bureau of Internal Security

Ministry of Defense

Edificio Libertador

Avenida Paseo Colon

Buenos Aires

0930 15 April 1943

El Teniente Coronel Alejandro Bernardo Mart?n answered the red security telephone on his desk before it had a chance to ring a second time.

"Martin," he said.

"Bernardo," the familiar voice of el Almirante Francisco de Montoya said, conversationally, "just as soon as you have a free minute, would you step in, please?"

"Immediately, mi Almirante."

"Thank you," Montoya said, and the line went dead.

Mart?n was familiar enough with Admiral Montoya to know when the Admiral was deeply upset—despite an outward aura of calm. "That tone" was in Montoya's voice just now.

He pulled open the center drawer of his desk and slid into it everything he had been working on, making no attempt to organize it. Then he locked the drawer carefully and left his office.

"El Almirante expects you, mi Coronel," Montoya's secretary said when he entered the outer office. "Go right in."

Montoya was peering through his Royal Navy binoculars when Mart?n entered the office. He continued to peer through them for another thirty seconds after Mart?n politely wished him a good morning.

Mart?n understood this action, too. It signaled three messages. First, it reminded the caller that he was a subordinate—seniors kept subordinates waiting. Second, it gave the caller the impression el Almirante was not upset—otherwise he would not be looking out the window. And finally, it gave el Almirante time to consider how he would begin the interchange to follow.

Mart?n waited patiently, his hands folded in the small of his back, until el Almirante turned around.

Montoya looked at Mart?n for ten seconds and then nodded, as if in approval.

"El Presidente of the nation sent for me this morning, Coronel," he announced. "I have just returned from the Casa Rosada."

Mart?n didn't reply.

"Presidente Castillo has been informed by a source he considers very reliable," Montoya said, "that the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos is not dissolving, as he hoped they would, following the tragic death of el Coronel Frade. They are in fact planning the overthrow of his government."

Does that mean what it sounds like— that we have been betrayed— or did Castillo finally wake up ? And does Montoya's careful choice of words— suggesting this is the first he has heard the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos is planning the coup— mean that he has chosen sides against us?

"Mi Almirante, did el Presidente identify the source of his information?"

"Of course not."

"Do you believe el Presidente's source to be reliable, mi Almirante?"

"I would think so. Among other things, el Presidente's source provided him with a complete list of the officers who were at Estancia Santo Catalina over the weekend. According to that source, General Arturo Rawson has replaced el Coronel Frade as President of the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos."

So we do have a traitor in our midst. Or, from Castillo's perspective, a patriot. And I have no idea at all who it could be.

"I hadn't heard that, but I am not surprised. I thought it would be either Rawson or General Ramirez."

"Apparently, you were not able to place anyone at Estancia Santo Catalina?"

"At the estancia, of course," Mart?n said. "You will recall that on Monday morning I furnished you with a list of the officers who were at Estancia Santo Catalina. . . ."

For precisely this purpose, in case someone else out there was counting noses and making lists.

"Fortunately, I was able to present el Presidente with your list. If it wasn't for that list, I would have looked—we would have looked—more incompetent than otherwise."

"I was unable, mi Almirante, to place a source inside the meeting of the G.O.U., if there was such a meeting."

"Of course there was a meeting. At which Rawson was elected, or appointed, to replace Frade."

"Appointed by whom, mi Almirante?"

"I was thinking Ramirez."

"General Ramirez was not at Estancia Santo Catalina over the weekend, mi Almirante."

"Juan Domingo Per?n was. He was almost certainly Ramirez's proxy."

"That is a possibility."

"Putting together all the intelligence you have gathered, Coronel, what is your assessment of the chances that the G.O.U. will succeed if they attempt to depose Presidente Castillo?"

"I think they will succeed, mi Almirante," Mart?n said.

Although he looked carefully, Mart?n could not see any reaction to that on Montoya's face.

But if I told him I thought the coup would fail, the next time he opened his mouth he would have ordered me to arrest everybody on the list, and probably Ramirez as well.

"And when do you think they will try?"

What they did talk about at that damned meeting was when they would executeOutline Blue. And they didn't make a decision. The foot draggers triumphed. "Let's wait until there is the absolute minimum chance that something will go wrong!" It is one thing to talk about, even plan, a coup d’?tat, and entirely something else to vote to try it. And if whoever among them knew that Rawson was elected president of G.O.U.— and who is that sonofabitch?— he also knew that no date was decided upon. Does Montoya know that?

"I can only guess, mi Almirante."

"Guess."

"Once the decision was reached to try to overthrow the government, I would think it would take a minimum of two weeks to coordinate everything and issue the execution order."

"That quickly?"

"That is my opinion, mi Almirante. It could be longer. Three weeks or a month. Any coup would require that all military and naval bases all over the country be part of the coup, or that they be neutralized."

"For the sake of argument, Bernardo, let's say the decision to proceed was made at the Estancia Santo Catalina meeting. You're saying that the attempt could not be made before"—he consulted his desk calendar—"the twenty-eighth of this month?"

"At the absolute minimum, mi Almirante. If such a decision was made over the weekend. And I would really think it would take longer than two weeks, which would move any such action into the first week in May."

"You would stake your professional reputation on that?"

"I stake my professional reputation whenever I present something I know to be a fact. What I just said is an opinion, nothing more."

"Calling in all your sources, Coronel, could you find out, as a fact, if the decision to attempt to overthrow the government was made at the Estancia Santo Catalina meeting, and if so, when?"

"That's two questions, mi Almirante. Within, say, three or four days, I should be able to tell you, as a fact, if the decision to go ahead has been made or not. I would have had that information in that time frame in any case. The second question, when, is more difficult. My sources may not be privy to that information. If they are not, it would certainly take more time to obtain it. Presuming it could be obtained at all."

Montoya obviously was not pleased with the reply.

"That's the best you can do?"

"'I'm afraid so, mi Almirante."

"Presidente Castillo won't be pleased when I tell him that," Montoya said. "If you had additional funds, would that speed things up?"

"Additional funds probably would."

"Spend whatever you have to," Montoya said. "The country is in a crisis. This is no time to economize. But bring back information I can take to el Presidente!"

"Did el Presidente give you any idea how he plans to deal with the situation, mi Almirante?"

"He didn't discuss that with me, Coronel. Possibly because he believes I am familiar with the penalties the law provides for treason."

"What I meant to ask, mi Almirante, is whether Presidente Castillo plans to alert the Army—or certain Army officers he believes loyal to him—to the possibility of a coup. Or the Polic?a Federal."

"He did not discuss any of that with me," Montoya said. "But there are a number of officers whose loyalty to el Presidente is beyond question, and I'm sure he has had discussions along these lines with them."

"If that's all, mi Almirante?"

"That's all. I expect to be kept fully abreast of any developments, Bernardo."

"S?, Se?or," Mart?n said, saluted, and left Montoya's office.

[TWO]

Office of the Minister of War

Edificio Libertador

Avenida Paseo Colon

Buenos Aires

0950 15 April 1943

“The question, Martin, it seems to me," Teniente General Pedro P. Ramirez said, "is whether Montoya accepted your claim that it would take two weeks to executeOutline Blue from the time we give the order." "I believe he did, Se?or," Mart?n answered.

The door opened and el Coronel Juan Domingo Per?n passed through it, saluted Ramirez, and then stood at attention.

"Have a chair, Juan Domingo," Ramirez said. "You're probably going to need one."

"Mi General?"

"Let's wait until the others arrive, then we won't have to say everything twice," Ramirez said.

General Arturo Rawson; his aide, Capitan Roberto Lauffer; and Mayor Pedro V. Querro, Ramirez's aide, entered the room a moment later.

"O'Farrell?" Ramirez asked.

"General O'Farrell is not in the building, mi General," Querro said.

"Then we'll have to do without him," Ramirez decided aloud. "El Coronel Mart?n has just come from el Almirante Montoya. Castillo called Montoya into the Casa Rosada this morning, where he told him: first, that he was disappointed that the G.O.U. did not fold its tent when Jorge Frade was killed; second, that the G.O.U. is planning to depose him; and third, that he knows this because someone at the meeting where Arturo was elected G.O.U. president told him."

"Who?" Per?n said.

"I have no more idea than you, Coronel Per?n," Ramirez said. "But I suspect an olive branch was concealed in Castillo's message: we fold our tent, and all is forgiven. Which gives us two options, as I see it. We either fold the G.O.U. tent; or we don't fold it, which means we issue the Blue Sky message this morning, right now, and carry outOutline Blue."

"Do we have time?" Per?n asked. "If Castillo had someone at the meeting, and it's clear that he did . . ."

"Mart?n believes he has convinced Montoya that it will take at least two weeks to take action from the time we order it."

"And if Castillo decides to act today?" Per?n asked. "For all we know, there may be Polic?a Federal on their way right now to arrest us."

"I don't see where we have any choice but to issue Blue Sky," Rawson said. "We should have issued it over the weekend."

"We were seeking unity," Per?n said. "We can't afford for people to have second thoughts at the last minute."

"If the order is issued, there won't be time for anyone to have any second thoughts," Rawson said. "Unless there is objection from you, mi General, I will order Blue Sky issued."

"We are never going to be any more ready than we are now," Ramirez said. "Issue Blue Sky, Mayor Querro."

Ramirez's diminutive aide came to attention, said, "S?, Se?or," and dialed a number from memory on one of the telephones on the desk.

"Querro," he said when someone answered. "Blue Sky. Blue Sky."

Then he hung up.

Ramirez looked at his watch.

"If things go according toOutline Blue —and if they do it will be the first time in my military career that anything has gone as planned—in a hundred and twenty hours, this distasteful duty will have been accomplished, Castillo will be gone, and Arturo will be running the country. May God forgive us all if we are doing the wrong thing."

"Martin," General Rawson asked. "Where's that airplane we were talking about?"

"Young Frade went to Corrientes last night on the train. We have made arrangements for him to land it at the airstrip on the Second Cavalry Reservation in Santo Tome. With a little bit of luck—"

"My experience," General Ramirez interrupted, "is that it is better not to plan on anything going right. We better proceed on the assumption that if we fail, we will not have an airplane to fly us to Paraguay."

"Does the General wish to call off the arrangements vis-a-vis the airplane?" Mart?n asked.

"That's not what I said, Coronel. What I said was that we should not count on the airplane. By all means, continue that operation."

"I have a man in Santo Tome, mi General," Mart?n said. "When he receives the Blue Sky message, he will understand the need for quick action."

"Presuming I can leave this building without being arrested," Rawson said, "you know where I will be for the next ninety-six hours."

"The moment Castillo learns we have all disappeared," Per?n said, "he will know what we're up to."

"With a little bit of that luck Coronel Mart?n seems to have such faith in, Castillo may decide that the message he gave Montoya has reached us, and that we have decided not only to fold the tent, but to take the precaution of fleeing the country," Ramirez said. "But in any event, I don't think he will be looking for Arturo and Lauffer in the Italian Rowing Club in El Tigre."

"Unless, mi General," Mart?n said. "Unless the person who was there when General Rawson was elected president of the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos was also there when it was decided where General Rawson would go once Blue Sky was issued."

Ramirez considered that thoughtfully.

"If Arturo is arrested, that will considerably reduce the number of people who could be betraying us, won't it?" he asked. "Where did you say O'Farrell was?"

"I was told he was inspecting the First Infantry Regiment," Querro said. "I don't think Castillo's source is General O'Farrell," Mart?n said.

Ramirez shrugged, then asked, "And where will you be, Coronel Martin, for the next ninety-six hours?"

"I'll be in touch by telephone, of course,"" Mart?n said. "I really don't know-where I'm going to be. But I don't think I'll be missed."

"Why not?"

"It will be presumed I'm out looking for you, mi General," Mart?n said. "May I suggest that we all leave now—you, General Ramirez, fifteen minutes after General Rawson, and you, Coronel Per?n, fifteen minutes after that?"

"And you, Martin?" Per?n asked.

"I'll make sure you are all gone before I leave," Mart?n said. "If you are arrested, I may be able to have you turned over to me."

[THREE]

The Office of the Military Attach?

The Embassy of the German Reich

Avenida Cordoba

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1005 15 April 1943

Oberst Karl-Heinz Gr?ner did not rise to his feet when Standartenf?hrer Josef Goltz walked into his office. He raised his right arm from the elbow in a casual Nazi salute, which Goltz returned as casually.

"Have you a minute for me?" Goltz asked.

"Of course. Would you like some coffee?"

He waved Goltz into a brown leather couch against the wall.

"Thank you," Goltz said. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I would. I think I'm going to get coffee nerves. I'm still taking advantage of drinking all the coffee I want."

"They truck it in from Brazil. It's not only good, but it's cheap," Gr?ner replied. He raised his voice: "G?nther! Would you bring the Herr Standartenf?hrer and me some coffee, please?"

"Jawohl, Herr Oberst!" his driver called from the other office.

"I presume you have heard about the Comerciante del Oceano Pacifico, Gr?ner?"

"Not officially," Gr?ner said.

"Excuse me?"

"When the radio came in, it was classified 'Most Urgent For Ambassador Only.' Since the cryptographic officer was at the dentist, I was pressed into service decoding it."

Goltz chuckled. "Herr Oberst, you may now presume you have the Right to Know what you already know."

"Thank you, Herr Standartenf?hrer," Gr?ner said, smiling.

"I would, of course, like her to discharge the cargo we're interested in as soon as possible after she drops anchor in Samboromb?n Bay. If that is in six or seven days . . ."

"I think I can be ready for that. I've already done a little preliminary planning,'" Gr?ner replied, indicating the papers on his desk. "There's one bit of information I'd love to have."

"Which is?"

"In the ideal situation, the Oceano Pacifico carries aboard a boat suitable for our purposes."

"I'm not sure I understand you. You're talking about lifeboats?"

Gr?ner shook his head, "no."

"She will anchor over the horizon from the shore. The horizon is approximately eleven kilometers. If I were her captain, I would probably at least double that distance, which would mean she will anchor somewhere between twenty and thirty kilometers offshore. The engines in lifeboats—where in fact they have engines—propel them at no more than five or six kilometers per hour. That's a very long voyage from ship to shore. At thirty kilometers offshore, five to six hours."

"And acquiring a much faster boat here would pose problems?"

"I know where I can get a boat," Gr?ner said. "In a little town called Magdalena. One capable of about thirty-five kilometers per hour. But we don't gain much time."

"Explain that, please."

"For the sake of argument, say the Oceano Pacifico is anchored thirty kilometers offshore, the boat would have to put out from Magdalena to the Oceano Pacifico."

"That would take an hour," Goltz said.

"Presuming the Oceano Pacifico was thirty kilometers offshore from Magdalena. She may not be so conveniently anchored. She may be further down in Samboromb?n Bay. Another twenty-five or thirty kilometers distant."

"I see what you mean."

"So if I utilize the boat in Magdalena, we have at least an hour's trip to the Oceano Pacifico —probably more. Then a trip of approximately the same length to the place where we will discharge the cargo—which I think you will agree should not be at Magdalena—and then however long it takes to travel from the discharge point to Magdalena. Unless, of course, there are other potential problems."

"Which are?" Goltz asked, forcing himself to smile. He was torn between impatience at Gr?ner's methodical listing of all problems, and admiration for his methodical mind.

"The boat I have available in Magdalena has a captain," Gr?ner said. "He would of course know how we have used the boat. He'll have seen us take the cargo from the Oceano Pacifico and land it under suspicious conditions. He might talk, of course."

"That could be dealt with, couldn't it?"

"Of course, but dealing with the captain might attract attention in itself. And there's another problem tied in with that: Who will physically unload the cargo at the discharge point?"

"Seamen from the Oceano Pacifico," Goltz said impatiently.

"In that event, they would have to be carried back to the Oceano Pacifico before the boat returned to Magdalena."

"How would you deal with these problems, Oberst Gr?ner?"

"They would all be solved if there was a suitable boat already aboard the Oceano Pacifico. Failing that, I would suggest that we acquire a boat which could be taken aboard the Oceano Pacifico —if only temporarily. Then that boat, loaded and crewed by Oceano Pacifico seamen, would go directly to the discharge point, unload the cargo into our waiting truck, and return directly to the Oceano Pacifico, greatly reducing the chance of interception."

"You want to buy the boat in ... where was it?"

"Magdalena. But no. I would suggest keeping that in reserve."

"You want to buy another boat? Buy another boat."

"That raises the question of the captain again. Who would command the boat?"

"Von Wachtstein," Goltz said. "If he can navigate an airplane across the River Plate, he certainly should be able to navigate twenty or thirty kilometers in a boat."

"He would need a crew."

"He can get a crew from the Oceano Pacifico."

"Afterhe initially gets the new boat to the Oceano Pacifico, he could," Gr?ner said. "Pursuing that line of thought: We acquire a boat here. In El Tigre. Using a minimum crew—G?nther comes immediately to mind—von Wachtstein takes it out to the Pacifico. A crew from the Oceano Pacifico then takes von Wachtstein and G?nther ashore, and returns the boat to the Oceano Pacifico, where it will be taken aboard."

"Fine," Goltz said, his patience worn thin. "Buy the boat."

Gr?ner was not through.

"Then, when you decide the time has come to bring the cargo ashore, the boat in Magdalena will take you out to the Oceano Pacifico, and then return—"

"Why do I have to do that?"

"I had the impression only you could authorize her captain to release our cargo," Gr?ner said.

"Correct," Goltz said, just a little embarrassed. "And then I would come ashore with the cargo to the discharge point, correct?"

"'Right. I will be there, of course," Gr?ner said. "And once the cargo is discharged, the boat will return to the Oceano Pacifico and be taken aboard for later use in connection with the Graf Spee officers."

"Well, that should solve everything, shouldn't it?"

"We don't know if von Wachtstein knows anything about boats," Gr?ner said. "And then, of course, there is the problem of funds to purchase a boat. And someone to purchase it. I don't think it wise for someone connected with the Embassy to buy a boat. There would be questions."

"I'm having dinner with G?nther’s father tonight. I will suggest that he purchase the boat. Do you know where you can find one?"

"I'm sure I can find one in El Tigre," Gr?ner said.

"How much money will be required? In American dollars or Swiss francs?"

"In dollars or francs?" Gr?ner asked dubiously.

"In dollars or francs," Goltz said.

Gr?ner did the necessary arithmetic on a sheet of paper.

"Fifteen thousand dollars," he said. "In francs . . ."

"I will give you fifteen thousand dollars this afternoon," Goltz said. "From my special funds."

"Fine."

The fifteen thousand dollars was not in fact from any official special fund. It was part of the just over fifty thousand dollars—(in U.S., English, and Swiss currency)—he had brought back from Montevideo. It represented his 60-40 share of the commission Sturmbannf?hrer Werner von Tresmarck had waiting for him. Before depositing the balance to the Special Fund Reichsprotektor Himmler and Partieleiter Bormann knew about, Von Tresmarck had deducted a 10 percent commission from the money he received from those who wished their relatives to be permitted to immigrate to Uruguay.

Goltz thought it was possible he could be reimbursed from the Special Fund. But even if he couldn't, it wasn't a major problem. There would be more money as his share of the commission von Tresmarck was charging.

"I'm relying on you, Oberst Gr?ner, to take care of all this."

"I understand, Herr Standartenf?hrer," Gr?ner replied. "When you have the time, I would like your opinion of the preliminary plans I have drawn up concerning the Graf Spee officers."

"For the moment, the priority is to transport our special cargo safely ashore. We can deal with the Graf Spee officers afterward."

"Of course."

[FOUR]

Second Cavalry Regiment Reservation

Santo Tome

Corrientes Province, Argentina

1145 15 April 1943

As the son of the late el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, Se?or Cletus Frade was given the position of honor beside el Coronel Pablo Porterman, Colonel Commanding the Second Cavalry, as they rode out to inspect the landing strip. Coronel Porterman was in a pink and green uniform. A cavalry saber in a sheath was attached to his saddle. His saddle blanket carried gold-thread-embroidered representations of his rank and the regimental crest.

Behind them, alone, rode Capitan Gonzalo Delgano, Air Service, Argentine Army, Retired, who was dressed almost identically to Se?or Frade in riding breeches, boots, a tweed jacket, an open-collar shirt with a foulard, and a woolen cap.

Behind Capitan Delgano, Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodriguez, Cavalry. Retired, similarly dressed, rode beside Suboficial Mayor Annarana of the Second Cavalry, who wore a khaki-colored woolen uniform, was also armed with a saber, and who could have been Enrico's brother.

Though Se?or Frade was raised on a West Texas ranch and was once a member of the horse-mounted Corps of Cadets at the Texas Agricultural and Mechanical College, he had never seen so many horses in one place in his life.

Earlier, he had asked Coronel Porterman, a tall, good-looking man who looked uncomfortably like Clete's father, how many troopers there were. Approximately 1,200, Coronel Porterman told him, and, he added, approximately 1,600 horses, following the Argentine Army standard of 1.3 mounts per officer and trooper.

As they rode out to the landing strip, which was about two miles from the barracks and stables, Clete watched for a time the troopers of the Second Cavalry at their routine training.

Some were doing mounted drill, moving their horses in precise parade-ground maneuvers. Some were going through what looked like an obstacle course for horses, jumping over barriers, and moving the animals through mazes of stakes. Some were actually engaged in saber practice, riding past what looked like blanket-wrapped stakes and taking swipes at them.

They were, Clete decided, magnificent cavalrymen. He wondered if any of them knew that the magnificent cavalry of the Polish Army, with dash, ?lan, and courage, sabers flashing, had charged the tanks of the German Army and were wiped out in a matter of minutes by machine-gun and cannon fire.

He wondered if they were aware that at that very moment, at some place in the world, tanks were fighting each other, and that horse cavalry as a viable tool of warfare was a thing of the past.

The landing strip was, of course, dirt. At Clete's suggestion, their little cavalry detail formed a line and rode the length of it six or eight feet apart, looking for holes or rocks that would take out landing gear.

Though there were only a few holes, and no rocks, there were a number of cattle skeletons, some of them posing, in Clete's judgment, a bona fide threat to aircraft operation.

Coronel Porterman promised to send a troop of his cavalry out that very afternoon to fill the holes, remove the cattle skeletons, and examine the field with greater care.

"You can land here, Se?or Frade?" Delgano asked. "More important, can you take off from here?"

"I don't see any problem landing or taking off," Clete said. "The problem will be finding this place at night."

"Mi Coronel?" Delgano asked.

Coronel Porterman rode up beside them on his magnificent horse, and standing at the threshold of the dirt strip, the three of them discussed where the locating fire would be located—it would burn all night as a beacon—and the precise location of the gasoline-in-sand-in-clay-pots "runway lights."

Then they rode past the troops of the Second Cavalry, who were practicing using their sabers and bolt-action carbines on enemy cavalry, and back to the barracks and stable area. From there they proceeded to the officers' mess.

The mess was crowded with the regiment's officers, and Se?or Frade was introduced to each of them as the son of the late el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, onetime Deputy Commander of the Second Cavalry.

Se?or Frade was shown the trophy cases, containing silver cups won by his father for one equitational competition or another. These began with his first assignment to Second Cavalry as a Sub-Teniente fresh from the Military Academy, and ended with trophies won during his assignment to the regiment as a Teniente Coronel.

On the wall were framed photographs of a young Teniente Frade and his peers, among whom Se?or Frade recognized Teniente Juan Domingo Per?n and a chubby smiling character who was probably Capitan Arturo Rawson.

El Coronel Porterman led the procession into the dining room, where Se?or Frade again was given the position of honor and seated beside Porterman.

The table was elaborately set with silver bearing the regimental crest, and fine china and crystal. There were three glasses for every place, and waiters promptly began to fill glasses with wine.

Clete thought of the "officers' mess" on Guadalcanal. It consisted of crude plank tables. The tableware was steel mess trays; the "silver" was knives, forks, and spoons from mess kits; and the china was heavy Navy-issue mugs.

An officer appeared and whispered in el Coronel Porterman's ear. He rose, excused himself, and left the dining room. A minute or two later, the same officer appeared and whispered in Capitan Delgano's ear, and he rose and left the dining room.

Then they returned, without explaining why they had left. The five-course luncheon continued for another thirty-five minutes. And then el Coronel Porter-man rose to his feet, excused himself again, motioned to Delgano, and turned to Clete.

"Will you come with me, please, Se?or Frade?"

They went to a corner of the bar.

Porterman looked at Delgano as if he wanted him to begin.

"Word has just reached us that makes it very important to have the airplane here as quickly as possible," Delgano said.

Well, that can only mean they've ordered the execution ofOutline Blue.

"It will be available to me in Brazil as of noon the day after tomorrow," Clete said.

"There's no way you can have it any earlier?"

"I'm not even sure I can get where I have to go by noon of the day after tomorrow," Clete said.

"You have made no plans to reach Porto Alegre?" Delgano asked, incredulous and annoyed.

"I have to see someone here," Clete said.

"Who?"

Clete shook his head, "no."

"When do you have to see this person?"

"Whenever I can."

"You know where to find this person?"

"Yes, I do. I'll need a car."

Delgano looked at el Coronel Porterman, who nodded.

"Not an Army car," Clete said.

"Of course not an Army car," Delgano said. "When can you see this person?"

"Now."

"You will see him, and then return here?"

"If possible."

"You believe he will have instructions for you? How to travel to Porto Alegre?"

"I thought you were going to get me across the border?"

"We are prepared to do that," el Coronel Porterman said.

"Where is Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez?"

"At the suboficiales' mess."

"Where's the car?"

"I will borrow a car from one of my officers," el Coronel Porterman said. "You wish Rodriguez to drive you?"

"No. I don't want to take him with me. Now, or when I cross the border. That may pose problems."

"I will deal with Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez," el Coronel Porterman said. "It will not be a problem."

"Would you get me a car, please?"

[FIVE]

The Automobile Club of Argentina Hotel

Santo Tome, Corrientes Province

1430 15 April 1943

Finding the Automobile Club Hotel was simply a matter of asking an old woman walking along the side of the road to Santo Tome where it was. Feeling somewhat foolish, he took the borrowed car—a 1939 Ford Fordor—on a trip up and down the streets of Santo Tome until he was sure he wasn't being followed, then drove to the hotel.

It wasn't what he expected. The name had suggested an Argentine version of a motel built on the side of a road, with both economy and easy automobile parking as the design criteria. This was a new building on the outskirts of town, overlooking a sweeping curve of the Rio Uruguay. It was surrounded by a large lawn studded with tall palm trees. It looked, more than anything else, like one of the small, exclusive, oceanfront resorts north of Miami.

It had two wings extending from a central core housing a restaurant and bar. Each was two stories tall, with a palm-shaded parking lot. To the right were tennis courts, and when he entered the lobby, he saw that on the far side a large swimming pool surrounded by umbrella-shaded tables sat overlooking another gardenlike area extending down a slope to the river.

His eye was caught by a statuesque olive-skinned woman whose more than ample breasts and rear end were barely concealed beneath a bathing suit whose brevity would have certainly caused her arrest in the United States.

He took a chance that Ashton was using his own name, and asked the desk clerk for the room number of Se?or Maxwell Ashton.

Se?or Ashton and Party, the desk clerk told him, were in Apartment 121.

"And Party"? What the hell is that all about? Delojo said he was alone.

Clete found 121 —what looked like a three-room suite, with a private patio, overlooking the swimming pool—without difficulty; but there was no answer to his knock. He knocked louder, and when that failed to get a response, looked around for someone who might be an OSS agent.

There was no one at the pool except a diminutive mustachioed cigar-smoking Latin in bathing trunks and a flowered shirt who was unabashedly watching the statuesque olive-skinned woman in the scant bathing costume climb the diving board ladder.

Neither was there anyone who remotely looked like an American among the half-dozen men he saw in the restaurant, bar, or on the tennis courts. Just to be safe, he asked a dour-faced man in his late forties if his name happened to be Ashton, and received a curt "No, Se?or" in reply.

What the hell do I do now? Where the hell could he be9If he has his team with him, where the hell are they?

He made one more sweep of the place, then returned to the borrowed 1939 Ford sedan.

The diminutive mustachioed Latin who had shared his fascination with the statuesque lady in the revealing swimming costume walked up to the car as Clete was unlocking it.

"Why do I have this feeling that you are looking for me?" he asked in English.

Clete stared at him in utter surprise.

"Excuse me, Se?or," the little man said in Spanish. "I obviously have made a mistake."

"You're Ashton?" Clete asked.

"Major Frade?"

Clete nodded.

"Why don't we have a beer by the pool?" Aston said. "I don't think I'm being watched, but you may be."

Clete followed him to one of the umbrella-shaded tables by the pool.

Clete had no sooner settled himself in one of the chairs than the statuesque lady, smiling invitingly, walked up and sat down.

"Consuelo," Maxwell Ashton said in Spanish, "this is Se?or Smith, the business associate I told you I would probably meet."

"I'm very happy to know you, Se?or," Consuelo said, almost coming out of the bathing suit as she leaned over to offer Clete her hand.

"The pleasure is entirely mine, Se?orita," Clete said.

"Why don't you go take another dive, Consuelo," Maxwell Ashton said, "while Se?or Smith and I transact our business?"

She smiled and stood up and strolled toward the diving board. As she walked, she rearranged as well as she could her bathing costume over her left buttock, which had escaped.

"Fantastic ass," Maxwell Ashton said, switching to English. "And all muscle!"

A waiter appeared, and Ashton ordered beer in Spanish.

“You're not what I expected, frankly," Ashton said. "You don't look old enough to be either a major or a hotshot pilot."

"You're not what I expected, either," Clete said. "Is she the 'party,' as in 'Se?or Ashton and Party'?"

"You have a problem with that, mi Mayor? "

"I thought maybe you had your team here."

"They're in the transient officers' BOQ in Porto Alegre, unless Colonel Wallace has confirmed his suspicions that three of them are enlisted swine and he has them in his stockade awaiting trial for impersonating officers and gentlemen."

"I somehow don't think you're kidding."

"You know el Coronel Wallace?"

"I know who he is. He's my contact at Porto Alegre."

"You're a pilot, right? When you're wearing a uniform, do you carry a riding crop?"

"No," Clete said, chuckling.

"Wallace does. Getting the picture? Regular Army. Very starchy. He made it very clear to me he wishes he'd never heard of the OSS. He can't find any regulation in his book on how to deal with us."

"You told him everybody on your team was an officer?"

"He somehow got that impression, after he told me that the officers would be billeted in a hotel off the base, and the enlisted swine in barracks on the base."

"How many enlisted swine?" Clete asked, chuckling.

"Three. Good guys. One's a German Jew. Seigfried Stein. Buck Sergeant. He's my explosives expert. Tech Sergeant Bill Ferris is our weapons and parachute guy, and Staff Sergeant Jerry O'Sullivan is the radar operator. Plus, of course, the gorilla. My executive officer. First Lieutenant Madison R. Sawyer the Third. He went to the parachute school at Fort Benning before he came to OSS. At Benning, they tell people that parachutists are tougher than anybody else, and being a Yalie, Sawyer believes it."

Ashton looked at Clete, saw that Clete was smiling, and went on.

"Truth to tell, mi Mayor, you've been wondering what somebody who looks like me is doing with a name like Maxwell Ashton, haven't you?"

"You look more like a Pedro type," Clete said. "Or maybe a Pablo."

"Actually, it's Maxwell Ashton the Third, Captain, Signal Corps, Army of the United States. What's your date of rank, Major?

"Two months ago."

"If I were a betting man—and unfortunately, betting's another of my serious vices—I would lay five to one I outranked you before you got promoted. You got promoted, right, because of that John Wayne-type stunt you pulled on the first submarine-supply ship?"

"I was promoted because I am an absolutely perfect officer," Clete said, chuckling. "They wanted to make me a general, but I am also modest to a fault and declined. Is who ranks who going to be a problem between us?"

"Not unless you start giving me or anybody on my team orders to do something like you and that Army paratrooper did. Heroism is not my strong suit. I want you to understand that."

"Mine either," Clete said.

"Bullshit," Ashton said. "I got into your file at the National Institutes of Health, and I know all about you. Most of what I read I scares me, frankly."

"Why?"

"So far you've been shot down twice in the Pacific and once here," Ashton said. "And the Germans tried to kill you—and damned near did—in Buenos Aires. And your father was killed. Assassinated. Graham told me. It looks to me like you're a dangerous man to be around. I don't want to be an innocent bystander."

"My middle name is Coward, all right?" Clete said, and added, "You don't look old enough to be a captain yourself."

"I'm twenty-nine," Ashton replied, "which I know is considerably older than you. But let's get this personal history business out of the way. Tit for tat."

"Why not?" Clete said.

"I'm half Cuban and half American. Educated in the States. Choate and then MIT, where I took a degree in electrical engineering. Good schools, and people were very kind there to the poor mixed-blood kid from Cuba—"

"You don't have to tell me all this!"

"I think I do. I think it's important that we understand one another. Anyway, with the draft board breathing down my neck, I applied for a commission. I was working for Bell Laboratories in New Jersey, and that was good enough to get a captain's commission. I thought I would spend the war at Fort Monmouth, doing what I was doing at Bell Labs." The Army's Signal Corps Center was at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey.

"Which was?"

"Radar. You know what radar is?"

"Yeah, we had radar on Guadalcanal. It usually didn't work."

"The stuff you had in the Pacific was garbage, probably designed by the Limeys," Ashton said. "The stuff we have now is a hell of a lot better."

"That's encouraging," Clete said. "Presumably, you have one of the good ones with you?"

"Por favor, mi Mayor, don't interrupt me when I'm talking."

"I am overwhelmed with remorse for my bad manners."

"You should be," Ashton said. "As I was saying, two bad things happened to me at Fort Monmouth. The first was that my wife left me. She didn't want to live on what they pay captains. I really couldn't blame her."

""And the second bad thing?"

"A Navy guy came to see me. A lieutenant commander. A fellow Latino. By the name of Frederico Delojo."

"I know the gentleman," Clete said.

"I figured if you can't trust a fellow Latino, who the hell can you trust, right?"

"Right,” Clete said.

The waiter delivered three large bottles of beer.

Ashton poured beer into their glasses.

"You can handle a beer, right? You're not going to start doing something heroic? And/or start making eyes at Consuelo?"

"I will do my best to control myself," Clete said.

"So Delojo hands me this line of bullshit, in Spanish, of course: His 'organization.' about which he can't talk but which is in Washington, has been looking for someone just like me, an electrical engineer at the cutting edge of radar technology, who also speaks Spanish. I can make significant contributions to the war effort, et cetera, et cetera. So I volunteer, which was about the dumbest thing I have ever done."

"Why was that?"

"You know goddamn well why was that," Ashton said. "The next thing I know, I'm at the Country Club, where a bunch of crew-cutted gorillas got their rocks off throwing me over their shoulders and bouncing me off walls and teaching me all sorts of things I didn't want to know, like how to blow things up and stick knives in people. How the hell did you manage to escape going through the Country Club, by the way?"

"I'm a Marine. All Marines know how to stick knives in people and blow things up."

"The piece de resistance of all this was taking me up, not once, but five fucking times, and throwing me out of an airplane."

"You and Lieutenant Pelosi will have a lot to talk about," Clete said. "Before he found a Se?orita in Buenos Aires, that's how he got his rocks off, jumping out of airplanes."

"Or getting shot down in one, like he did with you, right?"

"He really liked that. The first thing he said when we pulled him out of the water was 'Jesus, that was fun! Can we do that again?'"

Ashton smiled at Clete.

"Then Delojo shows up and says he's got good news for me. I have been given command of a team. And they are going to parachute us into Argentina with a radar set."

"Did he tell you why?"

"Yeah. To find a ship that's supplying German submarines. He told me the first team they sent down here disappeared, and that the second team got shot down while they were locating the ship for a submarine. So the next thing I know we're on an airplane headed for Brazil, three very nice guys and the gorilla. I finally figured out what the gorilla is supposed to do. I think he has orders to shoot me the minute he sees me pissing my pants, providing I've got the radar up and working. You know where it goes, right?"

"Yeah, we have figured that out," Clete said. "How did you get here, Ashton? I mean, to this place?"

"I came down here to see if there wasn't some other way besides by parachute to get the radar set across the border." Ashton said. "If I never jump out of an airplane again, it will be too soon."

"By 'other way' you mean by rubber boat?"

"Just when I was beginning to think that maybe you weren't as dumb as I thought, you ask a question like that," Ashton said. "Come with me, por favor, mi Mayor."

He picked up his beer glass and led Clete to the far side of the swimming pool. From there they could look down at the Rio Uruguay.

"That sonofabitch is at least three-quarters of a mile wide, and the current is at least six knots," Ashton said. "The radar set is broken down into four crates, each weighing two hundred pounds. Maybe the Marine Corps can paddle something like that across that river in little rubber boats, but I have no intention of trying."

"How did you get here?" Clete asked.

"On the ferry," Ashton said.

"No trouble getting across the border?"

"They gave us all phony Brazilian passports," Ashton said. "No problem."

"Tell me about Consuelo," Clete said.

"The Brazilian town on the other side of the river is Sao Borja. I went to a bar there, and in the interests of international friendship struck up a conversation with Consuelo. We had a couple of drinks, and I asked her where a poor lonely businessman could go for a good time. Consuelo said she knew just the place—she meant here; this is the NoTellMotel of choice for the local sportsmen on both sides of the border—but it was expensive. I asked her how expensive. You would be surprised, Major, how far the American dollar goes down here."

"How far?"

"Twenty dollars a day for Consuelo—plus rations and quarters, of course, say another fifteen bucks—and another fifteen a day for her cousin's Fiat."

"That sounds like a bargain," Clete said. "And aside from watching the diving demonstrations, how have you passed the time?"

"I passed the word, very discreetly, that I had four crates of tractor parts I would like to get into Argentina without anybody official noticing."

"And?"

"The only nibble I got was from a character who might as well have had ‘Cop’ written on his forehead. You have any ideas, mi Mayor?"

"There's an airplane waiting for me at Porto Alegre," Clete said.

"Were you paying attention before when I said I am not about to parachute me, or the radar, or anybody on my team except the gorilla—you're welcome to him—into anywhere?"

"I just came from checking out the airstrip where I'm going to land the airplane," Clete said.

"On this side of the border?"

Clete nodded.

"You're an officer and a gentleman, so you don't lie, right?" Ashton said.

"Not about this."

"On the other hand, Delojo is a Regular Navy officer and gentleman, and look what happened to me when I trusted him."

"He took advantage of your innocence," Clete said. "I wouldn't do that."

Ashton looked at him thoughtfully.

"How'd you arrange for someplace to land?"

"That I can't tell you. It's arranged."

"How are you going to get across the border into Brazil?"

"That's arranged, too."

"And from Sao Borja to Porto Alegre?"

"How much do you think Consuelo would want to take me, maybe take the both of us, to Porto Alegre?"

"I don't think that's such a good idea," Ashton said. "I think the 'smuggler' will be watching us. He's a little too obliging."

"Is there a train, or a bus, from Sao Borja to Porto Alegre? Or could I rent a car there?"

"It's not much of a town. I'm not sure you could rent a car at all, and even if you could, it would attract attention. And how would you get it back, if you fly back here?"

"Then it's a train or a bus?"

"Unless you can think of something else," Ashton said. "When do you want to go?"

"As soon as possible."

"The last ferry leaves at six-thirty, unless it's full. If it's full, then it leaves whenever it's full after five. Can you make that?"

Clete looked at his watch.

"I'll give it a hell of a try. If I can't make it tonight, I'm sure I can be on the first ferry in the morning. I suggest you go to Porto Alegre, tell Colonel Whatsisname that I'm on the way, and get your people ready."

Ashton looked at him thoughtfully again.

"You're sure you'll have an airplane when you get there?"

Clete nodded.

"Jesus, I hate to tell Consuelo to put her clothes on," Ashton said. "But I guess I have to."

Clete looked at his watch.

"It's not quite three," Clete said. "That gives us two hours to make the ferry. I'll try to be on it."

"I was really looking forward to tonight," Ashton said. "You understand what a sacrifice you're asking of me? Sweet girls like Consuelo don't come down the pike very often—Consuelo means 'consolation,' by the way."

"Neither does an offer that will keep you from jumping out of an airplane or paddling across that river."

"That's true," Ashton said.

"Where do I go when I arrive in Porto Alegre?"

"The Gran Hotel de Porto," Ashton said. "That's now the Air Corps BOQ. It's not far from the Navy base. I think it would be better to check in with me before you go see Colonel Wallace."

"OK. As soon as I can get there, I'll see you there."

Ashton nodded.

"One thing, mi Mayor. I think you should know that I got a Gold Star to take home to Mommy when I went through the knife-fighting course," Ashton said. "If we reach Porto Alegre and you tell me 'Sorry, there's been a change a plan' and we have to do the parachute bit, I will, mi Mayor, with my razor-sharp instrument of silent death, turn you into a soprano."

"I'll bear that in mind," Clete said. "My very best regards to Se?orita Consuelo, Capitan."

[SIX]

The Port

Montevideo, Uruguay

1430 15 April 1943

Although he was in fact an agent of the Office of Strategic Services—and before that an agent of the U.S. Army Counterintelligence Corps—David Ettinger rarely thought of himself as a real-life version of the secret agents Humphrey Bogart, Alan Ladd, and other film stars portrayed in the movies.

Earlier, he was assured that his employment at the RCA Laboratories was "essential to the war effort" and would thus exempt him from the draft. Even so, he enlisted in the Army because putting on the uniform of the country that had given him and his mother refuge seemed the right thing to do.

At the time, however, he thought there was very little chance he would be handed a rifle and sent off to fight the Nazis and the Germans in the trenches.

Indeed. David Sarnoff, the head of RCA, for whom he worked, had used that argument when he tried to talk him out of enlisting:

"One of two things will happen to you, David. They will make you a rifleman and you will get killed, which would be a terrible waste and not nearly as great of a contribution to the war as you can make here; or they will send you to the Signal Corps Laboratories at Fort Monmouth, where they will have you doing the same thing you're doing here, except with a good deal less freedom, and on a private's pay." •

At the time Sarnoff tried to dissuade him from enlisting, Sarnoff was himself about to become Colonel David Sarnoff of the Signal Corps, so David concluded that Sarnoff's arguments to him were pro forma at best. Meanwhile, other sources told him that a man with his background and experience would qualify for a commission. Thus he imagined that after he went through the horrors of basic training, he would be commissioned a lieutenant. And then, more than likely—as Colonel Sarnoff suggested—he would be assigned to the Army's Signal Laboratory to work in his specialty—high- and ultrahigh-frequency radiation.

He applied for both a direct commission and for Officer Candidate School during his second week of basic training at Camp Polk, Louisiana. By the time both applications returned—within days of each other in his seventh week of basic training—he had decided that being an enlisted man was not the most pleasant way to serve one's newly adopted country. Unhappily, the returned applications stated that inasmuch as he was a Spanish National, he was not qualified to be commissioned as an officer in the Armed Forces of the United States.

A week later he was summoned from the Live Hand Grenade Range to meet a gentleman from the Counterintelligence Corps—he still remembered holding a bomb, fuse ticking, as the most terrifying aspect of his basic training. It had come to the attention of the CIC, the gentleman in civilian clothing told him in a thick Munich accent, that he spoke both German and Spanish. Was this true?

"Auch Franzosisch," Private Ettinger replied.

They chatted for ten minutes, long enough to convince the CIC agent—also a Jew who had escaped from Nazi Germany—that he wasn't a Nazi spy. And then the CIC agent told him that the CIC needed someone like him. A large number of Germans lived in the Yorktown district of New York City—and elsewhere. And the Army wished to keep an eye on them. And Private Ettinger seemed to have the necessary linguistic and educational qualifications for that.

Private Ettinger volunteered for the Counterintelligence Corps for several reasons. For one thing, it would keep him from being sent to the then forming Ninety-fifth Infantry Division for training as a radio operator. For another, he would probably be assigned to New York City, where his mother lived. And finally, he was told that after graduation from the CIC School in Baltimore, he would be designated a Special Agent of the CIC, which carried with it the pay of a staff sergeant. CIC agents, he was told, worked in civilian clothing, and their rank was not made public.

That seemed to be the next-best thing to getting the commission he was denied because of his Spanish nationality.

After graduating from the CIC School at Camp Holabird in Baltimore, Special Agent Ettinger was retained there as an instructor in shortwave radio telephony. This allowed him to travel to New York City to see his mother just about every other weekend. The Pennsylvania Railroad's tracks went past Cherry Hill, New Jersey, where, had he not been overwhelmed with patriotic fervor to serve his adopted country, he would still be employed by RCA at a vastly greater compensation than he was now being paid.

While he was stationed at the CIC Center, another civilian with interesting credentials visited him. This man was an agent of the Office of Strategic Services, an organization about which Special Agent Ettinger had heard very little.

This interview was conducted in a dialect of Spanish Ettinger recognized as Tex-Mex—in other words, spoken by people of a Mexican background who lived in Texas. In this interview the OSS agent told him that the OSS needed someone qualified to set up and operate a clandestine shortwave radio station in a not-then-identified South American nation, and that Ettinger seemed to have the qualifications they were looking for. It was some time later that Ettinger learned that he had been interviewed by a man who was not only a full colonel of the U.S. Marine Corps, but Assistant Director for Western Hemisphere Operations of the OSS.

A week later, Ettinger found himself in a place that before the war had been the Congressional Country Club in Virginia, not far from Washington. The training there was something like a repeat of basic training and CIC training— in a sense, ludicrous, considering what he had been told was planned for him. He was going to Argentina, by Pan American Airlines, ostensibly an expert on oil-industry tank farms, to operate a radio station. He thought it highly unlikely that he would ever be called upon to parachute from an airplane, or engage in a knife fight, or follow someone down city streets without being seen, or pick a lock.

Once he was in Buenos Aires, Argentina, he did find himself on the fringes of warlike acts, but only on the fringes. He wore civilian clothing and lived in an apartment. He ate in restaurants. He even had a maid to do his laundry, and an automobile to get around town and to drive out to the radio station. His role in the sinking of an ostensibly neutral merchant vessel engaged in the clandestine resupply of German submarines was indisputably noncombatant.

Nevertheless, he took a private pride in knowing that without his radio station, there would have been no way to tell the submarine where to find the ship it would torpedo.

Although he sensed that if he gave either of them the slightest hint of this, they would be embarrassed, David Ettinger was thrilled to be closely associated with men like Cletus Frade and Anthony Pelosi.

More than that, they had given him the resolve—he didn't think of it as courage—to do what he was doing now. He realized that in a manner of speaking he was indeed now in the trenches, facing the Nazis personally.

And he was doing work that Cletus Frade and Tony Pelosi could not do, no matter how courageous they were, or how skilled at things like flying airplanes or rigging explosive charges. They didn't have his background or, frankly, his intelligence. Nor did they speak German, nor were they Jews.

There was no telling what the Nazis were up to with their ransoming operation. He had no idea whether it was simply one more turn of the screw to squeeze more money out of Jews inside, or outside, Germany, or a far more complex operation. But whatever it was, it had certainly attracted the attention of Colonel Graham back in Washington.

And this problem—this, if you will, contribution to the war effort, to the war against the Nazis—was his to solve. His alone. He had been ordered not to even mention anything about it to Milton Leibermann. At first he thought this was preposterous. Leibermann was after all FBI, and thus presumably skilled in investigation and interrogation. But then he wondered about that. If Leibermann was so skilled in investigation and interrogation, then why was it David Ettinger, and not FBI agent Milton Leibermann, who uncovered the Nazi ransom operation?

While of course he wasn't doing any of this for credit, if Leibermann was brought into it, the "investigation," if that's what it could be properly called, would have become Leibermann's—the FBI's—investigation. David Ettinger, after all, was officially only a staff sergeant radio technician detailed to the OSS.

Furthermore, it was entirely possible that the very presence of Leibermann, or one of his FBI agents, would be counterproductive. It had taken him a good deal of time, and all of his psychological insight, to persuade any of the people involved to talk to him at all.

The sudden appearance of someone else asking questions would very likely result in all the just-beginning-to-open doors being very firmly slammed shut again.

And he was getting close to finding out how the money was being moved. The fact that the Sicherheitsdienst colonel had ordered his assassination was clear enough proof of that.

He was, of course, concerned about that. But the time of greatest danger for him was when he was still on the estancia. It was possible, if not very likely, that the German hired assassins would try to do to him what they had done to Cletus Frade's father, ambush him on the road to Pila.

Not only was that unlikely, but he was being protected on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo—and as far as that went, anywhere in Argentina—by two men from the Bureau of Internal Security. He had heard Pelosi telling the Chief about that.

And so, feeling rather clever about the whole thing, he made sure that once he had sneaked away from the house, with lights in the Chevrolet turned off so that neither Pelosi nor the Chief would wake up, he turned the lights on, so that the BIS men would see him and follow him.

Which they did. All the way into Buenos Aires. There they stationed themselves on Calle Monroe outside his apartment. If any assassins were lying in wait on the estancia, or at his apartment, the sight of two men in an obviously official car was enough to discourage them from trying anything.

In the apartment he took a shower and shaved, then called the ferryboat terminal and reserved space for the 8:30 departure. Then he dealt with the problem of his gun. He had two holsters for the Smith and Wesson .38 Special snub-nose, a shoulder holster and one that strapped on his belt. It was, of course, illegal to take any firearm across the border. It was unlikely, he thought, that he would be searched passing through Uruguayan Customs, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

He decided he didn't need the holster. The Smith and Wesson was small enough to carry in his pocket. He wrapped the pistol in a small face towel, then put the package in his toilet kit under his razor and other toilet articles. He put the toilet kit itself in the small suitcase he was taking with him, carrying only a change of linen and a spare set of trousers. He didn't plan on being in Uruguay long.

At 7:45 he left his apartment, got in the Chevrolet, and, trailed by his BIS protectors, drove to the port. He was early—on purpose—which meant that his early on-loaded car would be off-loaded early in Montevideo.

When the ferry moved away from the pier, he saw the men from the BIS standing on the quay, and resisted the temptation to wave at them. They would not, of course, follow him across the border.

He paid some attention to his fellow passengers on the ferry, but none of them looked like assassins for hire. They looked like businessmen off to Montevideo for the day—in other words, he hoped, much like he did.

Uruguayan Customs and Immigration officials performed their function aboard the ferryboat. An Immigration officer took a quick glance at his passport, saw that it bore the stamps of a dozen or more short trips back and forth between Buenos Aires and Montevideo, added one more stamp, and waved him on to the Customs officers standing at the ramp.

They asked him to open the trunk, and after finding nothing in it but a spare tire and a jack, didn't even ask him to open his one small suitcase.

He drove off the boat, then drove to the Casino in Carrasco by the Rambla, the road that follows the coastline.

He was completely unaware of the somewhat battered and rusty 1937 Graham-Paige sedan that followed him to Carrasco, possibly because it never came closer than two cars behind him, and possibly because he wasn't looking for it. He did not expect to be followed in Uruguay.

He had not telephoned the Casino Hotel for a reservation, to obviate the possibility that the desk clerk, the concierge, or someone else in the hotel hierarchy had been paid to notify someone if he should again come to Montevideo.

He felt just a little smug about this, too. It seemed to prove that he had paid attention to the instructors in Camp Holabird and at the Country Club.

The Casino Hotel had a room for him, a nice two-room suite on the second floor. He went to the room, left his bag, and then went back downstairs and to the car. He drove it into the basement garage and went back up to the room.

If there was any basis to think that the Germans, or Uruguayans in German employ, had arranged to be notified if he appeared again, then obviously they had already been notified, or would be shortly.

He took the Smith and Wesson snub-nose from his toilet kit and checked it for operation. He even went so far as to put a match head in his jar of Vaseline and lubricate the wear points.

He had confidence in the pistol and in his ability to use it. He was not, of course, a shot like the Chief and Tony Pelosi were shots. He used to watch them a little enviously as they shot their .45 automatic pistols on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. They would shoot at tin cans, more to kill time than anything else, burning up case after case of Argentine Army ammunition provided by Frade's father through his sergeant.

They just didn't shoot the tin can. The object was to make it jump in the air, and keep jumping, as long as any ammunition was left in the pistol.

Ettinger knew that no matter how much he practiced, he could never become that sort of pistol shot. But he had paid attention at the pistol ranges at Camp Holabird and the Country Club. They shot at life-size silhouette targets at seven yards. The object was to fire rapidly and hit what were called "vital" areas on the silhouette targets.

Using a pistol identical to one he had now, over time he became rather proficient. Three times out of four, firing five shots as rapidly as possible, he put four bullet holes in the vital areas of silhouette targets.

When he was really feeling good about his shooting, he aimed all shots at the silhouette's head. Two or three times, he put all five shots in the head.

He didn't telephone the man he wanted to see. You couldn't dial the number directly. You had to give it to the operator, who did the dialing for you. If you accepted the possibility that-the concierge was paid to telephone someone that he was in the hotel, then it followed that the telephone operator was probably keeping a record of the numbers he called.

It wasn't really a problem. He knew where the man he wanted to see was going to be at seven-thirty. He stopped in for a going-home glass of beer at a bar on Avenida Foster, less than a dozen blocks from the Casino Hotel. Ettinger had met him there three times before. The bar was crowded at that time of day, and it was relatively easy to exchange a few words about how and where they could meet in privacy.

Ettinger hadn't had much to eat in the restaurant on the ferryboat, and it was possible that dinner might be delayed by the business he had to do tonight.

There were a half-dozen cafes and restaurants within easy walking distance of the Casino Hotel. The restaurants would probably not yet be open, but you could generally find a small steak at any cafe.

He experimented with the best place to carry the Smith and Wesson, finally deciding that the right rear hip pocket offered the most concealability.

He had a bottle of beer, a small steak, and a small salad. For dessert, there was a very nice egg custard, called "flan."

Then he walked back to the hotel and went down into the basement.

It took him several minutes to find the light switch to illuminate the cavernous basement garage. He walked to the Chevrolet and slipped behind the wheel.

David Ettinger's last conscious thought before the man in the back of the Chevrolet twisted his neck and shoved an ice pick through his ear into his brain was that he remembered locking the car when he parked it.

Chapter Nineteen

[ONE]

The Santo Tome-Sao Borja Ferry

Corrientes Province, Argentina

0730 16 April 1943

A long line of vehicles, trucks, pickup trucks, motorcycles, and even two two-wheeled horse-drawn carts were waiting on the dirt road to the ferry when the official Mercedes of el Coronel Pablo Porterman drove up. Colonel Porterman's car was followed by a well-polished 1937 Buick Limited four-door convertible sedan, its Kp down. In the backseat of the Buick rode, somewhat regally, el Patron of Estancia San Miguel, Se?or Cletus Frade, and Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodriguez, Retired.

Both cars drove past the vehicles waiting their turn to pass through Customs and Immigration to the head of the line.

The senior Customs officer and the senior Immigration officer on duty came out of the Customs and Immigration Building to present their respects to the Commanding Officer of the Second Cavalry. They then walked to the Buick, where they were introduced to Se?or Frade.

One of them announced that he had been privileged to know the late el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade both as el Patron of Estancia San Miguel and when el Coronel was assigned to the Second Cavalry. Both expressed their condolences for Se?or Frade's recent tragic loss.

Se?or Frade then shook el Coronel Porterman's hand and expressed his gratitude for all the courtesies the Coronel had rendered. The Buick was then passed to the head of the line of vehicles, without troubling Se?or Frade with the routine Customs and Immigration procedures. From there it rolled onto the ferry.

The Buick was Enrico's solution to the problem of getting from Sao Borja to Porto Alegre. A telephone call was placed to Estancia San Miguel, and the Buick, kept at the estancia for the use of el Patron, was dispatched to Santo Tome.

After that, of course, Clete was unable to tell Enrico that he wanted him to stay in Santo Tome. He thought he might be able to talk him into returning to Santo Tome with the car when it returned, but he was aware that was probably wishful thinking.

Before the ferry left the shore, the driver took a rag from the trunk and wiped the dust from the Buick.

Clete left the car and stood in the bow of the open ferry as it moved away from the shore.

With something close to alarm he saw there was no more than ten inches of freeboard. The river was smooth but the current was fast-running, and it looked to him as if it wouldn't take much—running against a sandbar, for example—to cause water to come on board and send the ferry to the bottom.

Ashton was right. Trying to paddle across this in a rubber boat carrying boxes that weighed two hundred pounds apiece would have been idiocy.

Ten minutes later, when the Buick rolled off the ferry on the Brazilian side of the Rio Uruguay, the Brazilian Customs and Immigration officials who came to the car also elected not to trouble the passenger of such an elegant chauffeur-driven vehicle with routine administrative procedures.

The road on the far side of Sao Borja was wide, well-paved, and straight. The driver proceeded down it at a steady forty miles per hour.

"Enrico," Clete said, "I would like to drive."

"It would not be fitting, Se?or Clete."

"Can you ask him to drive any faster?"

"Ernesto wishes to impress you with his reliability, Se?or Clete."

"I'm impressed," Clete said, and raised his voice. "A little faster, Ernesto, por favor."

“S?, Patron," Ernesto replied, and raised the speed no more than two miles per hour.

"Much faster, por favor, Ernesto."

“S?, Patron," Ernesto said, and shoved the accelerator to the floor.

[TWO]

Big Foot Ranch

Midland, Texas

0945 16 April 1943

While it was not the custom of Mrs. Martha Williamson Howell—who was, among other things, Chairman of the Ladies' Guild of Trinity Episcopal Church—to partake of spirituous liquors often—rarely before the cocktail hour, and never before noon—today was to prove an exception.

The Old Broad,she thought as she sat down to eat her breakfast at the kitchen table, needs a little pick-me up. Martha's got a bad case of the I-Feel-Sorry-For-Poor-Old-Martha.

She had, she thought, justification for her low spirits. Primarily, of course, she missed Jim. Everybody told her—and it seemed logical—that time heals all wounds, and that her grief over the loss of her husband would pass.

It didn't pass. It changed. Though she no longer wept herself to sleep, the realization—a black weight on her heart—that Jim wouldn't be back seemed to grow by the day.

She had originally been angry, at God primarily, for doing that to Jim, taking him when he was still a relatively young man, depriving him of a long and full life. Now she was angry at God for taking Jim from her, for leaving her alone. She was too young to lose her man.

And that wasn't all that was wrong with her life. Every time—this morning included—she walked into the kitchen, she was flooded with memories of the kitchen full with Jim and Clete and the girls, of spilled orange juice, pancakes laid carefully atop fresh fourteen-year-old coiffeurs, French toast seasoned with Tabasco in the maple syrup, and all the rest of it.

The girls were gone, too. Beth was twenty-one and about to graduate from Rice. There was more than that, too. The way Beth and the latest Beau behaved when she saw them just before Clete went off to South America again, Martha knew that Beth and Whatsisname were more than just good friends. Phrased delicately, Beth was now a woman, and Whatsisname, whose father was in the drilling business in East Texas, was the one to whom she had given the pearl beyond price.

She was reasonably sure that Marjorie was still a girl, but she wouldn't have laid heavy money on that, either. Marjorie had always been precocious. If she hadn't been with some boy, it was because she hadn't met one she really liked. And one she really liked was likely to be the next one through the door.

So they were gone, too, as Clete was gone.

The family would never have breakfast again in the kitchen.

Never.

She was alone, and it looked as if she was going to be alone from now on. Getting married again seemed absurd. Jim had been one hell of a man, and it was damned unlikely that she would find anyone who came close.

So when Juanita—who didn't really have a hell of a lot to do herself anymore with everybody gone—went in the back of the house to make up the bed, Martha poured herself a tall glass of tomato juice, then added horseradish and Tabasco and salt and a large hooker of gin.

Then she went out on the porch to wait for Rural Free Delivery. The mail would probably be all bills, she thought. Or invitations she wouldn't want to accept. Or another communication from the Texas Railroad Board or the Internal Revenue Service, or more likely both, to cause her trouble. The odds against a letter from Marjorie or Beth were probably a hundred to one, and the odds against a letter from Clete were astronomical.

The astronomical long shot came in.

"Got a special-delivery letter for you, Miss Martha," Henry the Mailman announced. "From some Navy chief petty officer."

What the hell can that be ?

"Are you sure it's for me?" she asked as she took the envelope. It was indeed addressed to her. She tore it open.

"It's from Clete," she said.

"Back in the Pacific, is he?" Henry asked, and stayed around until she had read it.

"Not bad news, I hope, Miss Martha?"

"No. Not bad, Henry."

"You tell him I was asking for him, you hear?"

"I surely will, Henry," Martha said.

She waited until Henry's old Ford had disappeared from sight, then picked up the letter and read it again.

Estancia San Pedro Y San Pablo

Midnight, 11/12 April 1943

Dear Martha:

I don't have much time, so this will get right to the point.

The Old Man will get a letter, about the time you get this, in which I told him that in two weeks, more or less, I'm getting married.

I think you will take me at my word when I say that I am doing the right thing, and that when, sometime in the future, you meet her—she's Dorotea Mallin, Henry and Pamela's daughter—you will wonder how in the world a nice girl like that got stuck with a bum like me.

I will probably have a big favor to ask of you, but not right now.

What I'm worried about now is the Old Man. He hates all things Argentine, and you know what kind of a hater he is. I don't want him to start hating me, or Dorotea, before he even gets a chance to meet her. And I don't want him trying to stop me for my own good, or anything like that. And I don't want him to have a heart attack, and that's not a joke.

I will really appreciate anything you can do. I'll leave telling the girls about this up to you. If you don't want to tell them, I'll understand.

Let me know how he reacted. You have the address, Box 1919, National Institutes of Health, Washington, D.C.

Love,

Clete

"It's Mrs. Howell for you, Mr. Howell," Mrs. Portia Stevens announced, putting her head into the door.

Cletus Marcus Howell was standing at the plate-glass window of his twenty-sixth-floor office atop the Howell Petroleum Building, looking out at the traffic on the Mississippi River. Without turning to look at her, he replied, "Please tell her that I'm tied up and will call her later."

Mrs. Stevens, who had been Mr. Howell's personal secretary for thirty-two years and had known Cletus Howell Frade for most of his life, did not feel the slightest reluctance when slicing open the morning's mail to take out and read the letter bearing the return address C.H. Frade, Box 1919, National Institutes of Health, Washington, D. C. She was quite sure she knew why her employer did not wish to talk to his daughter-in-law.

She entered the office, picked up one of the telephones on his desk, walked to the window, and handed it to him.

"I told you to tell her I would call her later."

"So you did," Mrs. Stevens said, and walked out of the office.

"Good morning, Martha," the Old Man said. "How are you? The girls?"

"I just got a letter from Clete," Martha said.

"Did you?"

"And from the tone of your voice, so did you."

"As a matter of fact, I did," the Old Man said.

He walked to his desk, put the telephone base on it, and picked up the letter.

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Midnight, 11/12 April 1943

Dear Grandfather:

I hope you're sitting down when you open this.

In about two weeks, I'm getting married. To Henry Mallin's daughter, Dorot?a.

That's the bottom line. It's not open for discussion. I'm doing what I think is the right thing, and that's it.

I don't expect you to understand. And I don't want you calling Henry and threatening him. He's about as unhappy about this as you will be when you get this letter, and there's nothing he can do about it either.

I'm telling you because I love you, and figure you have a right to know.

If you haven't already figured this out, you're going to be a great-grandfather.

Somebody told me yesterday that a newborn melts stone hearts. I really hope he's right.

Love,

Clete

"It came special delivery," the Old Man said. "Mrs. Stevens apparently read it, and then laid it on my desk. Cletus has apparently lost his mind. A genetic defect, I suppose, dormant all these years."

"I suppose I should have known you would say something like that."

"What did you expect me to say?"

"I told myself when I put in the call that I wasn't going to get into a fight with you, and I won't. I called because I need something."

"What do you need?

"I called Pan American Airlines and they told me there's a waiting list with three hundred names on it of people who want to fly to Buenos Aires and don't qualify for a government priority."

"Martha, do you think you can talk some sense to him if you go down there?"

"I need three tickets, Marcus, and I don't want to wait my turn on the waiting list."

"Who's going with you?"

"Who would you guess?"

"You're not taking the girls down there? Whatever for?"

"So they can see Clete getting married."

"Did he tell you why he feels he has to marry this Argentine female?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He didn't tell you, then. He was too ashamed to tell you." "He told you that she's ... in the family way?"

"The way he put it was that I am about to be a great-grandfather," the Old Man said. "I can't believe you would want to humiliate the girls, my granddaughters, by forcing them to—"

"Not one more goddamned word, Marcus!" Martha flared. "Are you going to get me three tickets or not?"

"And if I don't?"

"Then it will be a cold goddamned day in hell before me, or my daughters, ever talk to you again."

"That sounds like a threat! Nobody threatens me!"

"I just did," Martha said. "Oh, go to hell, you nasty old bastard! I'll get the tickets myself!"

There was a click as the line went dead.

The Old Man hung the telephone up and then stood looking down at it for a long moment.

"Mrs. Stevens," he called, "would you see if you can get Mrs. Howell back for me, please?"

"All right."

"And then see if you can get Juan Trippe on the line for me."

"Where is he?"

"I have no idea. Call Pan American Airways, tell them you're calling for me, and ask."

Two minutes later, Mrs. Stevens reported the telephone at Big Foot Ranch was busy, but that she had a Mr. Walpole at Pan American Airways on the line. The Old Man snatched up the telephone and demanded, "Who's this?"

"Ralph Walpole."

"My name is Cletus Marcus Howell. Does that mean anything to you?"

"We've met, Mr. Howell. Good to hear your voice, Sir."

"I was trying to talk to Mr. Trippe."

"He's not available at the moment, Mr. Howell. Is there any way I can be of service?"

"You're connected with Pan American?"

"Yes, I am," Mr. Walpole said, somewhat stiffly. "As a matter of fact, I happen to be Vice-President, Operations."

"Well, Mr. Walpole, I need four seats on your Buenos Aires flight the day after tomorrow."

"Well, that may be somewhat difficult, Mr. Howell. Those planes are invariably full."

"I'm not concerned with how difficult it is, Mr. Walpole."

"Well, let me take your priority information, and I'll be happy to look into it for you, Mr. Howell. I'm sure that something can be worked out, if not—being completely honest with you—as soon as the day after tomorrow."

"I don't have a priority," the Old Man said.

"Excuse me, Mr. Howell? Did I understand you to say you haven't arranged for your priority yet?"

"What I said was, 'I don't have a priority,'"

"In that case, may I suggest you call me back when you do have the priority? And then we'll see what we can work out for you."

"Listen to me carefully," the Old Man said. "One of your airplanes is going to take off from Miami the day after tomorrow, bound for Buenos Aires. Unless I am mistaken, it will make its first fuel stop at Caracas, Venezuela."

"That is correct, Mr. Howell."

"If there are four people named Howell—myself; my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Martha Howell; and my granddaughters, Miss Elizabeth and Miss Marjorie Howell—on that airplane when it lands in Caracas, then Howell Petroleum Venezuela will furnish you whatever quantity of 110-130-octane aviation gasoline you require. If we all are not on that airplane, then you had better be prepared to paddle it to Buenos Aires, because I won't pump one drop of aviation gasoline, and neither will anyone else in Caracas."

"I can't believe you're serious, Mr. Howell."

"Find Mr. Trippe and ask him if I have ever made an idle threat," the Old Man said, and hung up.

[THREE]

Office of the Director

The Office of Strategic Services

Washington, D.C.

1105 IB April 1943

"This just came in." Colonel A. F. Graham, USMCR, handed OSS Director William J. Donovan a large manila envelope with TOP SECRET stamped on it. Donovan took it wordlessly and read it.

TOP SECRET

LINDBERGH

URGENT

FROM AGGIETW0 AGGIE 0400 GREENWICH 15APR43

MSG NO 0003

TO ORACLE WASHDC

EYES ONLY FOR DDWH0 GRAHAM

1. IN RE LINDBERGH

A. GALAHAD CONFIRMS ABSOLUTELY LINDBERGH EXISTS.

B. MONTEVIDEO OPERATION RUN BY SS MAJOR WERNER VON TRESMARCK, SECURITY OFFICER OF GERMAN EMBASSY HEREAFTER BAGMAN.

2. AGGIE EN ROUTE BIRDCAGE AS OF 1700 GREENWICH 14APR43.

AGGIETW0 END

TOP SECRET

LINDBERGH

"Interesting," Donovan said.

"Somehow I thought you would be pleased," Graham said. "Am I missing something here, Bill?"

"Well, for one thing, we don't know who Galahad is," Donovan said. "It would really be helpful to me if I could tell the President that the reason we really believe there is an ongoing operation down there ransoming concentration-camp inmates is that we are getting our information from somebody who knows what he is talking about for the following reasons, one, two, three, and is motivated to tell us all this for the following reasons, one, two, three. Galahad won't cut the mustard, Alex. FDR has a very droll sense of humor. If I go to him and tell him what we have learned from Galahad, he'll ask me what we have heard from King Arthur and the rest of the Knights of the Round Table."

"I messaged Frade to identify Galahad and Cavalry," Graham said.

"And he has decided he doesn't want to tell us," Donovan said.

"We don't know that," Graham said.

"Oh, but we do," Donovan said, and went into the side drawer of his desk and came up with two other messages.

"The one from Frade came in while you were in Havana," Donovan said.

TOP SECRET

LINDBERGH

URGENT

FROM STACHIEP AGGIE 0830 GREENWICH 15 April 1943

MSG NO 0003

TO ORACLE WASHDC

EYES ONLY FOR DDWHO GRAHAM

REGRET THAT TO OBTAIN ABSOLUTELY RELIABLE INTELLIGENCE PROM GALAHAD AND CAVALRY IT WAS NECESSARY TO GIVE MY WORD OP HONOR THAT THEIR IDENTITIES WILL NOT BE FURNISHED TO THIRD PARTIES.

STACHIEF END

TOP SECRET

LINDBERGH

Donovan waited until Graham had a chance to read it before he spoke:

"I can't believe that word-of-honor business," he said. "What the hell does Frade think the OSS is? The Boy Scouts?"

"I don't have any trouble with it," Graham said. "I think they call that 'honor.'"

"Jesus!" Donovan said. "You don't really think he thinks he doesn't have to tell us, do you, because he gave his 'word of honor'?"

"I think that's exactly what he thinks," Graham said.

"And he gets taken out, which is a real possibility, we then lose both Galahad and Cavalry because nobody else knows who they are. Did you think about that?"

"No, but I'm sure Frade took that into consideration," Graham said.

Donovan shook his head in disbelief.

"The second one just came in. Take a look at it, Alex, and then tell me you still think you were right to leave who gives orders to who down there a little vague."

Graham took the message and read it.

TOP SECRET

URGENT

FROM STACHIEP BUENOS AIRES 1315 GREENWICH 15APR43

MSG NO 0007

TO ORACLE WASHDC

1. IN RE YOUR 545. TEX INFORMED BY UNDERSIGNED THAT ORACLE DESIRES IDENTIFICATION OF GALAHAD AND CAVALRY. TEX STATED HE HAD ALREADY INFORMED ORACLE HIS UNWILLINGNESS TO DO SO.

2. TEX STATED HE IS DEPARTING BUENOS AIRES TONIGHT FOR PORTO ALEGRE PURPOSE FERRYING AIRCRAFT PLUS PERSONNEL AND MATERIEL AT PORTO ALEGRE BLACK. ATTEMPTED TO EXPLAIN THAT ENORMOUS RISK OF BLACK FLIGHT BEING DETECTED UNDER THESE CIRCUMSTANCES INDICATED NECESSITY OP AUTHORIZATION BY ORACLE AND UNDERSIGNED REQUESTED SEVENTY-TWO HOUR DELAY PURPOSE DOING SO. TEX DECLINED TO DELAY DEPARTURE.

3. TEX DECLINED TO FURNISH UNDERSIGNED DETAILS OP BLACK INFILTRATION, STATING UNDERSIGNED DOES NOT HAVE NEED TO KNOW AND FURTHER STATED HE DOES NOT CONSIDER HIMSELF OBLIGED TO HAVE APPROVAL OP UNDERSIGNED FOR ANY OP HIS OPERATIONS.

4. UNDERSIGNED RELUCTANTLY PROVIDED TEX LOCATION OF TEAM CHIEF ALREADY IN COUNTRY. BLACK INFILTRATION OF TEAM PERSONNEL AND MATERIEL PROM PORTO ALEGRE TO ARGENTINA WILL THUS PROCEED AS DESCRIBED UNLESS ORDERS TO CONTRARY FURNISHED STACHIEP PORTO ALEGRE.

5. UNDERSIGNED STRONGLY PEELS THAT EFFICIENCY OF ALL ARGENTINA OPERATIONS WOULD BE GREATLY ENHANCED IF COMMAND STRUCTURE MADE ABSOLUTELY CLEAR TO ALL PERSONNEL.

STACHIEP END

TOP SECRET

Colonel Graham handed the message back to Donovan and met his eyes.

"I still think that leaving who gives orders to who down there a little vague was the right thing to do," he said.

"You do?"

"And this proves it. If I told Frade that he took his orders from Delojo, he would not be on his way to take the airplane, and Ashton, and Ashton's team and the radar, into Argentina. He would be sitting with his thumb up his ass waiting for Delojo to think of some way to do the same thing in a manner that would absolutely guarantee that if something went wrong, he couldn't be held responsible."

"You must be angry, Alex. The only time you're vulgar is when you're angry."

"I don't like Delojo going over my head to you to complain about Frade."

"This may come as a big surprise to you, Alex, but neither did I," Donovan said, and went into his desk drawer again and came out with another message.

TOP SECRET

URGENT

PROM ORACLE WASHDC

MSG NO 2602 060B GREENWICH 16APR43

TO STACHIEF BUENOS AIRES

REFERENCE YOUR NO. 0007

1. REGRET COMMAND STRUCTURE AND MISSION PRIORITIES NOT MADE CLEAR. HIGHEST PRIORITY OF BUENOS AIRES STATION IS TO SUPPORT TEAM AGGIE. STACHIEF AGGIE AT HIS SOLE DISCRETION WILL DETERMINE STACHIEF BUENOS AIRES'S NEED TO KNOW DETAILS OF ANY MISSION.

2. INASMUCH AS STACHIEF AGGIE IS UNDER DIRECT, CONTROL OF ORACLE FURTHER COMMENTS FROM YOU

CONCERNING HIS ACTIVITIES ARE NOT DESIRED.

COPY TO STACHIEF AGGIE

DONOVAN END

TOP SECRET

"I don't think I quite understand," Graham said.

"That looks pretty clear to me," Donovan said. "That just went out. I wanted to have my reply to show you at the same time I showed you Delojo's message."

"You messaged Delojo to find out who Galahad and Cavalry are?" Donovan nodded. "Isn't that my job?"

"I don't need your permission to message anybody," Donovan said. "But I don't—and you know I don't—if there's not a good reason. In this case, you were in Havana when I sent that to Delojo."

Graham considered that, nodded, and then asked, "And then you jump all over him for asking Frade?"

"I didn't tell him to ask Frade. I told him I wanted to know who they are. That's all. He—perfectly naturally, as far as I'm concerned; he does outrank Frade—misconstrued that into thinking he had authority over Frade. And when Frade told him no, he considered it insubordination. I had to straighten that out, Alex. You were wrong to be 'a little vague.'"

Graham didn't reply.

"I'm meeting you more than halfway, Alex," Donovan said. "I need Galahad and Cavalry identified. Galahad in particular. I have to go to the President with Lindbergh."

"All I can do is order him again," Graham said.

"No. That's not all you can do."

"You want me to go down there?"

"I want to know who Galahad and Cavalry are. I don't care how you find out."

"It's that important?"

"Yeah, it is," Donovan said simply. "If J. Edgar Hoover beats me to the President on this, it will hurt us badly."

"And the reverse is true, right? That's what this is all about? Your little war with Hoover?"

"Just find out who Galahad and Cavalry are, Alex. OK?"

Graham looked at him for a moment, then walked out of the office.

[FOUR]

Bachelor Officers' Quarters

2035th U.S. Army Air Corps Support Wing

Porto Alegre, Brazil

1930 IB April 1943

"I'm really going to miss her," Captain Maxwell Ashton said as Consuelo drove off in her cousin's Fiat, leaving Ashton, Clete, and Enrico standing on the sidewalk in front of what before the war had been The Gran Hotel de Porto.

"I can understand that," Clete said.

"I seriously considered asking her to spend the night. With a little bit of luck, you would have been caught sneaking across the border and tossed in a cell. I hope you realize, mi Mayor, what a sacrifice I am making for the common good."

"Your devotion to duty is inspiring, Capitan Ashton," Clete said.

"I know, I know. It's another character flaw I can't seem to get rid of. Come on in, mi Mayor, we'll get you a room, and then you can meet the team. The gorilla's all excited about meeting a genuine hero face-to-face."

"Por favor, Capitan, kiss my ass."

The Army Air Corps technical sergeant who was the Bachelor Officers' Quarters manager was polite but firm; he could not assign a room to anybody who didn't have orders.

"These gentlemen are with me," Ashton said. "Colonel Wallace arranged for our quarters."

"They still have to have orders," the Air Corps sergeant said.

A telephone call was made to Colonel Wallace's office. He had gone for the day, and it was necessary to establish contact with him at the bar of the Officers' Club on the Navy base.

"Colonel Wallace."

"This is Major Frade, Sir."

"I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow, Major."

"I got in a little early, Sir."

"Come to my office at twelve hundred tomorrow."

"I'm at the BOQ, Sir. Two of us are."

"Come to my office at twelve hundred tomorrow," Colonel Wallace repeated somewhat impatiently.

"I'm having a little trouble getting a room, Colonel."

"How is that?"

"The problem seems to be my orders."

"What's wrong with your orders?"

"I don't have any orders, Sir."

"You don't have any orders?" Colonel Wallace asked incredulously.

"No, Sir."

"That's very unusual, you understand."

"Yes, Sir. I realize that. I was hoping, Sir, you would have a word with the sergeant."

"Very well," Colonel Wallace said after giving the subject a full thirty seconds of thought. "Put him on."

"Thank you very much, Sir."

The price of each room was one dollar and twenty-five cents, United States currency only. Major Frade had to borrow the money from Captain Ashton.

First Lieutenant Madison R. Sawyer III did not physically resemble a gorilla. He was a good-looking, large, well-muscled young man wearing a well-cut tweed jacket and a button-down-collar shirt and gray flannel slacks. His blond hair was closely cropped in a crew cut.

"It's a privilege to meet you, Sir," he said enthusiastically, shaking Clete's hand in a bone-crushing grip.

"Easy on the hand, Lieutenant!"

"Sorry, Sir."

Staff Sergeant Jerry O'Sullivan, who was dressed in a cotton zipper jacket and a turtleneck shirt, was a wiry little man with sharp features and intelligent eyes. Sergeant Siegfried Stein, who wore a rumpled suit, was almost as large as Lieutenant Sawyer, but did not look muscular. Technical Sergeant Ferris was average-size, with a lithe build.

"I've explained to Lieutenant Sawyer and the men, Major," Ashton said, for the first time sounding like an officer, "that you believe that the infiltration can be best accomplished by flying us across the border into Argentina in your aircraft."

"It's a C-45," Clete said, looking at the team. "The Air Corps uses them as liaison aircraft, and to train navigators. I've flown one a couple of times, and I have seen the strip where we can land in Argentina . . ."

"Permission to speak, Sir?" the gorilla asked. Clete nodded.

"Parachute infiltration has been decided against, Sir?"

"You're asking the wrong man, Lieutenant. I don't command your team."

"But you are the senior officer of the line present, Sir," the gorilla argued.

Clete's glance fell on the enlisted men. From their faces it was clear they shared the opinion of their executive officer held by their commanding officer.

"Let the major continue, Lieutenant Sawyer," Ashton said. "Perhaps he will be good enough to hold a question-and-answer period when he's finished."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir," the gorilla said, then looked at Clete and added, "Excuse me, Sir."

"As I said, I just had a look at the landing strip where I'll land. I don't see any problem in getting a C-45 in there."

"Excuse me, Sir," Lieutenant Sawyer said. "It's not a C-45, Sir, it's a C-56—"

"Shut up, Sawyer!" Ashton snapped.

"Going by plane would solve a lot of problems," Clete said. "Starting with getting everybody and all the equipment across the Rio Uruguay. And then from Corrientes Province to—" Clete interrupted himself and looked at Ashton.

"Have you discussed your destination?"

"No, but this is as good a time as any."

"Your radar will be installed on the shore of Samboromb?n Bay. My men have already selected the site. If we travel by plane, we can fly directly there from Corrientes. Otherwise, obviously, you'd have to get a truck to carry the radar. There would be a damn good chance of running into trouble at a police or military checkpoint if you moved by truck."

"Are we being given a choice here?" Sergeant Stein asked.

"Of course not," Lieutenant Sawyer said incredulously.

"Yeah, Siggie, you are," Captain Ashton said.

"I vote for the airplane," Stein said.

"Anybody have any objections?" Ashton asked.

There were no objections.

"Are there any questions?" Clete asked.

"When would we go?" Sergeant Stein asked.

"The aircraft is supposed to be available to me as of noon tomorrow," Clete said. "If that happens, they've promised me an hour's cockpit familiarization and an IP to ride with me while I shoot some touch-and-goes. Unless something goes wrong, we could break ground right after nightfall tomorrow. It's about a three-hour flight, maybe three-thirty, to Santo Tome."

"What's a 'touch-and-go'?" Sergeant Stein asked.

"Practice landing. You touch down, but instead of stopping, you apply throttle and take off again."

"Am I allowed to ask where we're going to land where we'll set up the radar?" Technical Sergeant Ferris asked.

"On an estancia, a ranch. The radar will be installed on property belonging to the estancia."

"Whose ranch?" Ferris pursued.

"Actually, it's mine," Clete said.

There was no response to that.

"Permission to speak, Sir?" Lieutenant Sawyer inquired.

"Granted."

"Firearms and explosives, Sir?"

"How are you armed, Captain Ashton?" Clete asked.

"Side arms. We also have Thompsons. Is that a problem?"

"We're not invading Argentina. We'll be landing at an Argentine Army base. I don't want them to see armed men."

"Ferris, is there room in the radar crates to hide the weapons?" Ashton asked.

"Yes, Sir."

Ashton looked at Clete. "OK?" he asked.

"What kind of explosives?"

"Are you familiar with plastic explosive, Major? C-3?" Clete nodded. "I have fifty pounds."

"Can you put it with the submachine guns?"

Stein nodded.

"Do that," Clete said. "I'd be happier if the side arms were also out of sight."

"Ferris, you and Stein go out there now and put all the weapons and all the plastic explosive in with the radar."

"Yes, Sir."

"Sergeant, do you think you could load the crates aboard the aircraft tonight'?" Clete asked.

"I'd have to talk somebody out of a truck to move the stuff from the warehouse to the hangar and talk somebody into letting me into the hangar. I think it would probably be better if I had an officer with me."

"I'll go with Sergeant Ferris," the gorilla said.

"No." Ashton said. "You will stay here and see that the Major and Mr. Rodriguez get their dinner. I'll go with Ferris and Stein."

[FIVE]

Headquarters

2035th U.S. Army Air Carps Support Wing

Porto Alegre Naval Base, Brazil

1205 17 April 1943

Colonel J. B. Wallace, U.S. Army Air Corps, who commanded the 2035th Training Wing, was informed at 1155 hours by the Brazilian Navy officer in charge of base security that two Argentinian gentlemen—a Se?or Frade and a Se?or Rodriguez—were at the main gate, seeking permission to enter the base for the purpose of visiting Colonel Wallace.

"I'll send a car for them," Wallace replied.

"They have a car, my Colonel. Shall I pass them in?"

"Please."

Colonel Wallace then made a note in his pocket notebook: 1159 17 Apr43 — Major Frade, accompanied by an Argentine named Rodriguez., admitted to Base.

The notes he had been keeping would be later typed in draft, and edited, and then retyped. Colonel Wallace had every intention of keeping a detailed record of everything that happened with regard to these OSS people. Irregular as a monumental understatement. There was no question in his mind that questions would be asked about this whole mess, and he wanted to be prepared.

Colonel Wallace's office was on the ground floor of a single-story building that reminded him very much of the buildings at Maxwell Air Corps Base in Alabama. Obviously, since Brazil drew its culture from Portugal, it was "Portuguese-style" architecture, but Colonel Wallace could not help but think of it as Spanish. The buildings at Maxwell were always thought of as Spanish-style.

He walked to the window and peered around the edge of the heavy curtain for his first look at Major C. H. Frade of the Office of Strategic Services. It was always helpful to have a look at someone with whom one was to deal before actually meeting them.

A 1937 Buick Limited convertible touring sedan, which looked as if it had rolled off the showroom floor that morning, came down the street and pulled into the curved drive in front of the building. It was chauffeur driven, and when it came to a stop, it was close enough for Colonel Wallace to read the license plate. It was an Argentine plate, reading "Corrientes 11." It was obviously the property of some prominent Argentine.

The chauffeur ran around the rear of the car and opened the rear door. A very young man stepped out. Colonel Wallace thought he was no older than twenty-two or twenty-three. He was wearing a tweed jacket, a yellow polo shirt with a red foulard filling the open collar, riding breeches, and glistening boots.

He did not look like a field-grade Marine Corps officer detailed to the Office of Strategic Services, Colonel Wallace decided. The older man with him, who had a pronounced military bearing, was probably Major Frade. The young man—Se?or Rodriguez—was probably somehow connected with the chauffeur-driven Buick with the low-numbered licensed plate.

The more he thought about it, the more he was pleased. Not only was Major Frade obviously competent in what he was doing—establishing a good relationship with prominent natives was obviously both useful and difficult to accomplish—but Frade would likely be very interested to learn that Captain Maxwell Ashton had such contempt for military customs that he had installed his enlisted men in officers' quarters.

And Frade would very possibly, at least unofficially, tell him what this whole irregular operation was all about.

Two minutes later, Colonel Wallace's sergeant knocked at the door and informed him that Mr. Frade and another gentleman wished to see him.

"Show the Major in, Sergeant," Colonel Wallace said as he walked from the window toward the door.

"Welcome to Porto Alegre, Major Frade," Wallace said, offering his hand to Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodriguez, Cavalry, Argentine Army, Retired.

"I'm afraid Enrico doesn't speak English, Colonel," Clete said. "I'm Major Frade."

"Who is he?" Wallace blurted.

"My friend," Clete said.

Enrico came to attention.

"A sus ?rdenes, mi Coronel," he said.

"What did he say?" Wallace asked.

"It's the Argentine military custom when a junior meets a superior to say that," Clete said. "It means, 'at your orders.' Enrico spent some time in the Argentine Cavalry before he became a pilot."

"May I see your identification, Major Frade?" Wallace asked.

"I've got an Argentine passport," Clete said. "But I was told that I was to identify myself by giving you a telephone number."

"Quite right, quite right," Wallace said, and took out his notebook and found the number he was told would identify the OSS agent to whom he was going to turn over the C-56.

"Ready, Major," he said.

"CANal 5-4055," Clete said.

"Correct," Colonel Wallace said.

"I was also told that someone would be here who could give me an hour's cockpit familiarization in the C-45, and then let me shoot a few touch-and-goes."

"Yes. That is correct. Under the circumstances, Major, I thought it would be best if I performed that service. But it's a C-56, not a C-45."

What the hell is a C-56?

"I stand corrected, Colonel."

"What I thought we could do, Major, is have luncheon in the Officers' Club, a working luncheon, so to speak, to make sure all the paperwork is in order, and then go to the flight line."

What paperwork?

"That's very kind of you, Sir."

"How much time do you have in the C-56?"

I don’t even know what the hell a C-56 is. Maybe it's like that business with the Bell fighter the Air Corps had on Guadalcanal. The one Sullivan was flying when he went in was a P-39. Another model of the same airplane, for reasons known only to God and the Army Air Corps, was called the P-400. It has to be something like that. Graham wouldn't have sent a plane down here he knew I couldn't fly.

"Not very much," Clete said. "I'm a fighter pilot by trade. But there were a couple of them at Ewa, in the Hawaiian Islands, and two at Henderson Field. We used them as sort of aerial taxis, and I got to fly a couple of them."

"As aerial taxis?" Colonel Wallace asked incredulously.

"Yes, Sir."

"You have not gone through a standard C-56 transition course?"

"No, Sir."

"That's very unusual. Presumably, this gentleman will function as your copilot?"

I never had any trouble flying a C-45 by myself, but I suspect that is something I should not confide in this guy.

"Yes, Sir."

"Well, let's go have our lunch. They do a very nice luncheon steak."

"Thank you, Sir."

There were a half-dozen Marines having their lunch in the Officers' Club, four of them wearing wings. None of them looked familiar. In other circumstances, this would not have bothered Clete; he would have walked over to them and said hello, and played Who Do You Know?

Going over to them now was obviously out of the question. What would happen ran through his mind:

"Hey. Clete Frade's my name. Used to fly Wildcats with VMF-221 on Guadalcanal."

"Really? What are you doing here? And how come you 're in civvies? "

"Well, I’m in the OSS, and Fm here to pick up a C-56 Fm going to smuggle into Argentina so we can find a neutral ship that's supplying German subs, and/or, depending on how the coup d’?tat goes, maybe to fly some Argentine generals out of the country. You don't want to wear a uniform when you're doing stuff like that. People would ask questions."

"What are the Marines doing here, Colonel?" Clete asked.

"They're probably either Naval Air Transport Command pilots, IPs for the Catalinas we've given the Brazilian Navy, or they're ferry pilots who've brought aircraft down from the States."

"Colonel, I want you to do something for me," Clete said.

"What is it?"

"I want to have a word, in private, with the Marine Captain. You're going to have to identify me as a Marine major; I don't have an ID card."

Colonel Wallace looked at him, uncomfortably, for a long moment and then stood up and walked to the table where the Marines were sitting. He spoke to the Marine Captain, who rose to his feet and followed Wallace far enough from the table so they couldn't be overheard, and spoke to him again.

The Captain looked at Clete with suspicion, but after a moment walked to the table.

"You wanted to speak to me?"

"My name is Frade, Captain. I used to fly Wildcats with VMF-221 on Guadalcanal."

"That Air Corps Colonel said you were a Marine major," the Captain said, his tone of voice making it clear he thought that highly improbable.

The Captain,Clete thought, was in his thirties.

“That's right."

"Who was the MAG"—Marine Air Group—"Commander when you were on the 'Canal? Colonel Stevenson?"

"No," Clete said, almost as a reflex action. "Dawkins, Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W., was skipper of MAG-21. I never heard of a Colonel Stevenson."

"Neither did I, Major. Excuse me. I was just checking you out. You don't expect to find a VMF-221 Wildcat pilot in riding clothes in a Navy Club in Brazil. I knew 'The Dawk'; I used to fly R4Ds into Henderson from Espiritu Santo. How can I help you, Sir?"

"What's a C-56?"

"It's the Lockheed Lodestar," the Captain said.

"Oh, shit," Clete said.

He was familiar with the Lockheed Lodestar. It was a seventeen-passenger transport aircraft with a sixty-nine-foot wingspan powered by two 1,200-horse-power Wright Cyclone engines. It had a top speed of 250 m.p.h., a range of 1,600 miles, and a takeoff weight of 17,500 pounds.

"Excuse me, Sir?"

"I was hoping it was another number for the C-45," Clete confessed.

"Pardon me?"

"Remember the Bell fighters the Army had on Guadalcanal?"

"Yes, Sir. Some of them were P-39s and some were P-400s. I never understood that," the Captain said, adding, "I guess you were on the 'Canal, Sir."

"Right at this moment, I almost wish I still was," Clete said. "Do you know how to fly a C-56, Captain?"

"Before I came into the Corps, I flew Lodestars for Transcontinental and Western Airways. Los Angeles to Dallas."

"Are they hard to fly?" Clete asked. "Let me put that another way. How much time would it take you to teach someone who's never even been in one how to fly one?"

"Give me someone with a thousand hours, including a couple of hundred hours' twin-engine time, say, in the C-45, three, four days, including six hours or so in the air."

"How much could you teach me between now and dark?" Clete asked.

"I don't understand."

"And I can't explain very much, except that I'm here to pick up a C-56. I thought I was supposed to pick up a C-45, which I can fly. If that Air Corps colonel who's supposed to give me an hour of touch-and-goes sees that I don't know my way around the cockpit, much less how to fly one, he's going to give we trouble. I can't blame him. But a lot depends on me taking off out of here in that airplane as soon as it's dark."

The Captain looked at him for a good thirty seconds.

"You're OSS, right?"

"If I was, do you think I would say so?"

"There's a Lodestar in a guarded hangar freshly painted red with Argentine numbers. There's four guys in the BOQ. three of whom look suspiciously like sergeants, that don't talk to anybody but themselves. And the first thing I heard when I landed here in my R5D was that the OSS was here."

R5D was Navy nomenclature for the Douglas DC-4 (Army C-54), a four-engine, fifty-passenger transport aircraft with a range of 3,900 miles and a takeoff weight of 63,000 pounds.

"Maybe they are. I just wouldn't know."

"What makes you think that Air Corps colonel is going to let me try to teach you how to fly the Lodestar?"

"I'll just tell him you are," Clete said.

"If I were a suspicious man, I would think that you must be OSS. Most majors don't get to tell full bull colonels anything but 'Yes, Sir.'"

"Don't put me on a spot, please. And I'm sorry, but I have to tell you that if anyone hears you saying you think somebody's in the OSS, or about how this C-56 is painted, or who is flying it, you'll probably spend the rest of the war in the Aleutian Islands."

"In four hours, Major, maybe I can teach you to make a normal takeoff and a normal landing under perfect conditions. That's all."

"What would you say if I said I have to put that airplane into a dirt strip?"

"I would say don't try it."

"What I said was 'I have to put that airplane into a dirt strip.'"

"In that case, I think we should get to the flight line just as soon as we can."

"What's your name, Captain?"

"Finney."

Clete raised his hand and signaled Colonel Wallace to join them.

"Colonel," Clete said, "it turns out that Captain Finney is a C-56 IP. If you have no objection, I'll shoot my touch-and-goes with him."

"Whatever you wish, of course, Mr. Frade."

Chapter Twenty

[ONE]

Bachelor Officers' Quarters

2035th U.S. Army Air Carps Support Wing

Porto Alegre, Brazil

1730 1G April 1943

Clete found Captain Maxwell Ashton III at the bar of the hotel. Ashton was in a tieless shirt and sweater, sipping a beer and examining with interest and obvious approval the long legs of a waitress as she bent over to deliver a round of drinks to a table across the room.

"We have a problem," Clete said as he slipped onto a bar stool beside him.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Ashton said. "You want a beer, or is it the kind of bad news you would rather tell me sober?"

Clete looked around the room and found a table where there was less chance to overhear their conversation than at the bar.

"Let's go over there," he said.

"You want to take a beer with you?" Ashton pursued.

"No, I'm flying," Clete said automatically.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ashton said, sliding off his stool. "I was hoping the bad news was that something was wrong with the airplane and the operation was called off."

"Nothing wrong with the airplane," Clete said. "The problem is with the pilot."

"What does that make you? The only modest Marine pilot in the Naval Service?"

They sat down at the table. The long-legged waitress appeared. Clete ordered hot chocolate.

"And I, my dear, will have another of this very excellent beer," Ashton said.

He waited until she had walked out of hearing, then said, "Let's have it, mi Mayor."

"I don't know how this happened, but the airplane they sent down here is a C-56, not a C-45."

"What's the problem?"

"The C-45 is a small twin. I know how to fly one. The C-56 is a Lockheed Lodestar. . . ."

"And you don’t know how to fly a Lodestar?"

"I just spent three hours in this one with a guy who used to fly them for Transcontinental and Western Airlines. He taught me how to start it, how to taxi it, how to get it in the air. No real problem there. Landing it, however, it something else. This is a great big airplane, Ashton. Almost all of my time is in small airplanes."

"Which means?"

“That I had one hell of a time getting the Lockheed onto the ground. I missed three approaches."

"I don't know what that means," Ashton confessed.

"Three times I came in either too fast, or too high, or both—and it was daylight; I could see the runway. I could not get it onto the wide, long runways here and had to go around."

"Why?" Ashton asked.

"I just told you. I don't have any experience in airplanes like that; I'm a fighter pilot."

"So what are you telling me?"

"The strip in Santo Tome is dirt and short. For one thing, I'm not sure if it will handle the weight of the Lockheed. Equally important, since I had trouble here, I'll probably have more trouble at Santo Tome. Where I'll be landing at night, with jury-rigged runway lights."

" 'Jury-rigged runway lights'?"

"When they hear me flying over the strip, a couple of guys on horses are going to ride down the sides of the runway and light the landing lights, which are clay pots filled with sand and gasoline."

Ashton stroked his mustache with his index finger, then met Clete's eyes.

"I don't know what the word is, maybe 'practice.' If you had more practice, could you learn to land the airplane the way you're supposed to?"

"That's not possible."

"What's not possible? Getting any better at landing it?"

"Getting more practice."

"Why not?"

"Colonel Wallace has set up a meeting at 0900 tomorrow with the appropriate Brazilian Customs officials to handle the paperwork for an international flight. There cannot be a record of this flight; therefore, I have to get out of here tonight."

"You can't fix that? Get Graham to fix it?"

"It would take at least twenty-four—more likely forty-eight—hours to explain the problem to Colonel Graham and have him tell Wallace to butt out. I've got to get the airplane out of here tonight."

"So what happens?"

“There's a couple of possibilities. The basic problem is that there is maybe a fifty-fifty chance that I'll wreck the airplane trying to land it. . . ."

"If that's the odds, why are you going to try it?"

"I have to try. I can't just chicken out. I told some people I'd get them an airplane."

"If you crash it, it won't do anybody any good."

"I will have tried. And I may get lucky."

"You are a dangerous man, mi Mayor."

"And we now know that the submarine-supply vessel will be in Samboromb?n Bay in five or six days."

"And if you wreck the airplane with the radar on it, where will that leave us?"

"No worse off than we are now, unless you can come up with some way to get your team and the radar into Argentina and to Samboromb?n Bay by yourself."

Ashton considered that a moment, then shrugged.

"One option," Clete went on, "would be to drop the radar—and maybe you and your team—by parachute onto the Santo Tome airstrip. Then I would try to land it."

"Would getting rid of that much weight make landing it any easier?"

"I've been thinking about that. The simple answer is yes. The less weight, the better. But you've got five people. That's a thousand pounds, tops. You told me you've got five crates . . ."

"Four," Ashton corrected him.

Clete nodded.

". . . weighing about two hundred pounds each. Call that another thousand pounds. Weight of team and radar, two thousand pounds total. This is a seventeen-passenger aircraft, plus a crew of three—"

Clete interrupted himself: "That's something else. I will not have a copilot. That will make landing it even harder."

"OK," Ashton said. "What was that about a seventeen-passenger aircraft?"

"Seventeen passengers, plus a crew of three. You usually figure weight and balance using two hundred pounds per man. Twenty times two hundred is four thousand pounds. In other words, with everything aboard, we'll have about half a normal load. Less, if you take into consideration that we'll have zero pounds of cargo. I don't really think that dropping you and the crates—in other words, getting rid of two thousand pounds—is going to make a hell of a difference in an airplane with a takeoff weight of about eighteen thousand pounds."

"Parachutes sometimes don't work," Ashton said. "And we're dealing with delicate radio equipment. Aside from my massive cowardice, one of the problems I had with parachuting the radar in was subjecting it to the shock of landing. I need all four of my crates."

"What I said was you and your guys can jump, and I will land with the radar on board."

“I’ve got a problem with that," Ashton said. "I have no intention of jumping out of an airplane unless the sonofabitch is on fire. If I don't jump, and tell the other guys to jump, they're going to wonder why—except, of course, the gorilla. He would love to jump out of your airplane. Screaming, 'Geronimo!'" Clete chuckled. "the problem with that," Ashton went on, "is that he'd probably break his leg, and we'd have to carry him wherever the hell we're going."

"Well, I can leave you all here," Clete said. "And you figure out some way to get you and the radar across the river—without using a rubber boat. That doesn't seem like such a bad idea, really."

"Was your attention entirely focused on Consuelo's magnificent ass, or did you hear me when I said gambling was among my many vices?"

"Meaning you want to take a chance with me?"

"Look at it this way, mi Mayor," Ashton said. "Unless we get all the crates—in other words, the radar in a functioning condition—and everybody on my team where we are supposed to go, there's no point in the whole operation. Three crates won't work, and I can't afford to do without any member of my team. Let's give Colonel Graham the benefit of the doubt and accept that getting that radar in operation is important; that maybe down the line, if we carry this off, we'll save more lives than the six people who'll be on the airplane. . . ." "Seven," Clete thought out loud. "I'll have Enrico with me."

"So I don't see where we have any choice but to roll the dice and see what happens. You agree?"

"It's not my decision," Clete said.

"Meaning what?" Ashton asked.

"On Guadalcanal, when I saw the rifle platoon leaders, I was glad I was an aviator. I didn't have to tell people to do something that was likely to get them killed."

"You want to know what I've been thinking?" Ashton asked.

Clete nodded.

"First I thought, 'This goddamned Marine hero is dumping this decision on me. Why doesn't the sonofabitch just have the balls to say, "Captain, get your men on my airplane"?'"

"Because this sonofabitch is not good at telling people to do something that's liable to get them killed," Clete said.

"But you're going, right? Whether or not we go with you?"

"I don't have any choice," Clete said.

"Neither do I, mi Mayor," Ashton said. "I don't want to get on that airplane, and I don't like having to order my team to get on it. And you are a three-star sonofabitch for spelling out everything that can go wrong."

Clete met his eyes and shrugged.

"But if you get us on the ground at Santo Tome in one piece, mi Mayor, I may forgive you."

"For what this is worth, Ashton, when my ass is exposed I am a very careful airplane driver."

"You better be, mi Mayor," Ashton said. "When do we go?"

"That's another problem," Clete said.

"Oh, shit! What?"

"I didn't know whether you would be going with me or not," Clete said. "So I told Colonel Wallace I wanted to shoot some more touch-and-goes tonight—at night, in other words. The plane's being serviced, and is supposed to be ready at twenty-one hundred."

"So?"

"Colonel Wallace wants to do this by the book. Clear everything with the Brazilians. And he's not stupid. If he sees me loading you and your team aboard the Lockheed tonight, he'll suspect that I have no intention of meeting the Brazilians Customs people tomorrow morning."

"So what would he do?"

"Possibly he would give me a formal order not to leave the local area. . . ."

"Fuck him. Let him write Graham a letter after you've gone. Subject: Disobedience of Direct Order by Frade, Major Cletus, USMCR."

"More likely he would either 'volunteer' to go with me, or send some other pilot with me, to make sure I came back."

"Fuck him again. Take him with us. Let him walk back here."

"That just wouldn't work," Clete said, smiling. "He can stop me from loading the team on the Lockheed. There's two problems. Getting the airplane without Wallace or one of his pilots in it, and getting you and your people on it without Wallace finding out."

"You're not suggesting, are you, mi Mayor, that two intrepid OSS agents, in the noble tradition of Errol Flynn and Alan Ladd, such as you and me, cannot outwit one chickenshit Air Corps colonel?"

"I would really feel more comfortable, Major Frade," Colonel J. B. Wallace, U.S. Army Air Corps, said, "if I went along with you and Colonel Rodriguez."

"What did he say?" Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodriguez, Cavalry, Argentine Army, Retired, asked in Spanish.

"The Colonel wishes us a safe flight," Clete replied in Spanish, then switched to English: "Colonel Rodriguez feels that it would be best if he were given the opportunity to ride in the right seat while we shoot some landings."

"But he doesn't have any C-56 time," Wallace argued.

"The Colonel has several thousand hours' multiengine time, Colonel,"

Clete said. "Mostly in Ford Tri-Motors, to be sure, but he really has more experience than I do."

"What did you say, Se?or Clete?" Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez asked.

"I told the Colonel you thanked him for all his courtesies to us," Clete said in Spanish.

Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez saluted.

"Muchas gracias, mi Coronel," he said.

Colonel Wallace knew that much Spanish.

"You're welcome, I'm sure," he said, returning the salute.

"Get in the airplane, Enrico. Walk up in front and sit down in the right seat," Clete said in Spanish, and then switched to English: "I don't think we'll need more than a couple of hours, Colonel. Is there someplace I can reach you if I get some warning lights on the panel and need a mechanic?"

"I'll either be at the Club or in my quarters," Colonel Wallace said as he watched, in obvious discomfort, Enrico climbing into the Lockheed. "Two hours, you say?"

"No more than three, certainly, Sir," Clete said.

He climbed into the Lockheed and closed the door. With the door closed, it was absolutely dark inside the fuselage. He painfully banged his knees twice and his shoulder once as he made his way through the cabin to the cockpit.

There was a little more light in the cockpit—enough for him to see Enrico's bafflement with his seat and shoulder harness—but not enough to be able to read the switch labels anywhere.

With the aid of his Zippo, it took him thirty seconds to findcockpit interior lights. When he threw the switch, nothing happened. It took another fifteen seconds to find themain buss switch. When he threw that, the panel lit up and the cockpit lights came on.

He put the earphones on his head. There was no hiss. Neither was there a hiss when he flipped theradio/intercom switch toradio. He left the seat, went to the engineer's station and turned on the radio, selected the tower frequency, and returned to his seat.

He leaned over and showed Enrico how the seat and shoulder harness went together, then put the earphones on. He could hear the tower.

He looked out the window and saw Colonel Wallace, standing uncomfortably by the ground crewman and his fire extinguisher. Clete smiled at both of them, and, raising his voice, shouted, "Clear!"

The left engine started immediately and quickly smoothed down. The right engine didn't seem to want to start at all, and didn't, until Clete noticed themain fuel switch and moved it fromleft toboth, whereupon the right engine backfired, shot orange and blue flame a good six feet out the nacelle, and caught.

He picked up the microphone.

"Porto Alegre tower, Lockheed Zebra Fiver Eight Four Three." "Go ahead, Eight Four Three."

"Eight Four Three in front of Hangar Seven, permission to taxi to the active runway."

"Eight Four Three, cleared to the threshold of Runway One Four."

"Roger, understand One Four."

He gingerly advanced the throttles, then retarded them, took off the brakes, and gingerly advanced the throttles again. The Lockheed began to move.

Clete waved cheerfully at Colonel Wallace, who smiled unhappily back.

Clete switched tointercom and ordered, "Enrico, go back and get ready to open the door."

Then he reached over, showed Enrico where to put his earphones, and repeated the order. Enrico started to unbuckle himself.

Ground visibility from the cockpit of the Lockheed was unbelievably bad. He had to swing the airplane from side to side to see where he was going.

He stopped at the threshold of Runway One Four.

The tower saw him.

"Zebra Eight Four Three, you are cleared for local area operation only. The winds are negligible. Ceiling and visibility unlimited. The altimeter is two niner niner, the time is five past the hour. You are cleared as number one for takeoff on Runway One Four."

"Tower, Eight Four Three. I'm going to run a mag check."

He put the brakes on, unstrapped himself, left the seat, and went quickly down the cabin aisle, colliding en route with one of the goddamn crates, and made it to the door. Its operation was beyond the mechanical comprehension of Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez.

As soon as he had the door open, Maxwell Ashton's team came running out of the darkness and jumped aboard, Captain Ashton last.

Clete went as quickly as he could back to the cockpit, strapped himself in, and put the earphones on.

"Zebra Eight Four Three, tower."

"Tower, Four Three. Mags check OK."

"Zebra Eight Four Three, do not take off. I say again, do not take off. Return to Base Operations."

It wasn't hard to figure out what happened. Colonel Wallace went up into the control tower and watched Clete taxi, possibly through binoculars. And in the bright lights of the runway threshold, he saw Ashton and his team come running out of the dark and climb aboard.

"Tower, Zebra Eight Four Three rolling," Clete said, advancing the throttles as he lined up with the runway.

"Zebra Eight Four Three, abort takeoff, 1 say again, abort takeoff, and return to Base Operations."

"Tower, Four Three is rolling. Say again your last transmission. You are garbled."