Blood and Honor

"Zebra Eight Four Three, abort takeoff, I say again, abort takeoff."

The airspeed indicator jumped from zero to forty knots and began climbing. Clete felt life come into the controls.

"Zebra Eight Four Three, by order of Colonel Wallace, you will abort takeoff and return to Base Operations."

He eased the wheel forward and felt the tail come off the ground. The airspeed indicator climbed to ninety, then one hundred.

He eased back on the wheel. The rumbling stopped. The nose turned to the left, and he made the necessary corrections.

He reached to the quadrant and raised the gear.

"Zebra Eight Four Three, you are directed to land immediately."

Clete took the earphones off his head and reached up and turned thenavigation LIGHTS switch of OFF.

Porto Alegre passed under him.

He looked at Enrico, who had his eyes closed and was making the sign of the cross.

He flew to the edge of the city, then set a course for Santo Tome.

[TWO]

Above Rio Grande do Sul Province

Brazil

2145 IB April 1943

Captain Maxwell Ashton, Signal Corps, Army of the United States, got out of his seat and walked to the cockpit door of the Lockheed, opened it, and stood behind the pilot's seats.

"Presumably, mi Mayor, you know where we are," he said to Major Cletus H. Frade, USMCR. "I can't see a goddamn thing down there."

Clete turned to look at him.

"Enrico," he ordered, "let el Capitan have your seat."

Enrico unbuckled himself and got out of the copilot's seat. Clete had the feeling he was glad to go. He motioned Ashton into the seat and gestured for him to strap himself in, and to put on his headset.

"Not entirely," Clete said. He handed Ashton an aeronautical chart. "The last X shows where we should be."

"Should be?"

"We are navigating by what is known as dead reckoning," Clete explained. “-Which means that I know that we're making about 220 knots indicated about 10.000 feet above sea level and on a heading of 310 true. I also know that we left Porto Alegre about thirty-seven minutes ago. That, presuming there are no winds aloft, should put us—two minutes ago—where I marked the X on the chart."

"OK," Ashton said, after a moment to consider this. "What's the hook?"

"There are always winds aloft," Clete said. "The problem is one never knows what sort they are. They may be coming straight at us at, say, twenty knots, which would mean that we've been making 200 knots—not 220—over the ground. Or they may be coming from behind us, which would mean that we are making 240 knots over the ground. Most likely, they are coming from one side or the other, as well as from the front or back. When there are winds, so to speak, from the side, they will push us off course, to one side or the other."

"I came up here to be reassured, thank you, very much, mi Mayor," Ashton said. "When you got this thing into the air, I thought there might be a slight possibility that you actually knew what you're doing."

"What I'm actually trying to do is find the town of Carazinho," Clete said. "It's about a hundred and sixty miles northwest of Porto Alegre. You see it?"

Ashton found it on the map.

"Yeah," he said. "And there's nothing around it for miles. What happens if we miss it?"

"Becausethere's nothing around it, that increases our chances of finding it. We'll look for a glow on the horizon, starting about now. If, since there is nothing else for miles, there is a glow, it will probably be Carazinho."

"Then what?"

"Then we change course to 270 true—due west—and start looking for another glow, which, with a little bit of luck, will be either a village named Ijui or a town called Sao Angelo. If we hit Carazinho, it will probably be easier to find Ijui and/or Sao Angelo because there is a highway between them, down which, I devoutly hope, there will be a stream of cars, trucks, and buses, headlights on high."

"Is this the way airplane pilots normally steer?" Ashton asked.

"No. Normally, there's a radio direction finder. There's a loop antenna—it looks like a doughnut—which can be turned. You look at a meter, and when the strength of the radio signal is strongest, you can tell the antenna is pointed at the transmitter. So you just steer toward the transmitter."

"We don't have such a clever device? We have to look for buses with their headlights on?"

"The airplane has the antenna. What I don't have is the frequency of any radio station, or its location. When I asked for what are cleverly called 'Aids to Navigation,' Colonel Wallace said he would have them for me by the time I finished clearing Brazilian Customs."

"Do you think Wallace was born a chickenshit sonofabitch, or did he have to go to school?"

"I guess if you spend a lot of time in uniform you get used to doing things by the book, and learn to spend a lot of your time covering your ass."

"When should we be seeing this glow we're looking for?" Ashton asked.

"That may be it," Clete said, pointing with his finger straight ahead.

"Right where it's supposed to be."

"That's almost certainly an accident," Clete said. "Either that, or it isn't Carazinho."

"What else could it be?"

"Dallas, maybe," Clete said. "I'm not too good at dead reckoning."

He put the Lockheed into a shallow turn to the west.

"You're not going to fly over it to make sure?" Ashton asked. "Don't they paint the name of the town on roofs down here?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if the Brazilian Army Air Corps is looking for us," Clete said, growing serious. "By now I think it's entirely possible that Wallace has had time to both decide I'm not going back there and to consider the best way to cover his ass. Telling the Brazilians that we're overdue and probably lost would do that."

"So would telling the Brazilians a crazy Argentine stole one of his airplanes," Ashton said thoughtfully.

"With a little bit of luck, we should find the highway," Clete said. "If I stay a couple of miles to one side, we see them, and they can't see us."

"I'm impressed, mi Mayor," Ashton said.

Five minutes later, Clete spotted lights moving slowly across the terrain. When he got closer, the lights divided into two, and he could just pick out the red glow of running lights.

"I think we just found Route Sixty-six," he said.

Once the glow of Ijui faded, it was possible to pick up another glow. But as he approached this, it was obvious that it came from the lights in a far smaller town than Ijui. Sao Angelo was larger than Ijui; the glow it gave off should be larger.

Don't panic. Don't start running around looking for bright lights. You didn't do anything wrong. There is an explanation for this.

The explanation came ten minutes later, when a glow appeared on the ground past the lights he thought had to be Sao Angelo.

That's almost certainly Sao Angelo. What the other lights were was a small town, a village, not marked on the chart.

Final proof came thirty minutes later, when he saw a large glow where his chart showed him Sao Luis Gonzaga should be.

And then the glow dimmed, and then brightened, and then dimmed again and vanished.

Christ, there's a low-level cloud cover down there!

"Shit!" he said.

"Something wrong, Frade?" Ashton asked.

"Obviously, we're getting into the soup," Clete said. "Which means I have to drop down so that I can see the ground. The lower I go, the less distance I can see. and that chart doesn't have altitudes on it. I don't want to run into a rock-filled cloud."

"I'm sorry I came up here," Ashton said. "Sitting in the back, I could pretend I was on Eastern Airlines, about to land in Miami. Are we really in trouble?"

"That depends on what we find at five thousand feet," Clete said as he pushed the nose of the Lockheed down into a shallow descent.

They broke out of the soup at 6,000 feet, but into rain, not the clear. The ground was again visible, if not as clearly as before. The problem now was how far the area of rain extended; if it was part of an electrical storm; and—if it was raining in Santo Tome—what the rain would do to the dirt landing strip.

He leaned forward and looked out and upward through the cockpit window, then confirmed what he suspected by banking steeply and looking out the window by his side.

The three-quarter moon, which had been clearly visible from the time they took off, was no longer clear. They were entering some kind of soup, perhaps even bad weather. He was flying in the clear above clouds at 4,000 or 5,000 feet, and below a layer of clouds at maybe 15,000 feet.

The glow that had to be Sao Luis Gonzaga appeared again, faintly.

I have two options. I can stay on this course, dropping down to see if I can get under that cloud layer at 5,000, and follow the road— turning onto it—from Sao Luis Gonzago to Sao Borja. But to do that, I need the headlights on the road. If I can't see them, I won't know where the hell I am.

Or I can continue on this course, fix past Sao Luis Gonzaga, and try to find the Rio Uruguay. If I can find the river, I can drop down to 500 feet and fly down the river until I hit Sao Borja and Santo Tome. And if I get lucky, and there is, say, 1,500-feet visibility under the cloud layer, I can probably find that glow of their lights and just steer toward it until it breaks in two. The glow on the right will be Santo Tome.

The decision was made for him. As he dropped down, visibility worsened and the glow of Sao Luis Gonzaga vanished.

Rain began to beat against the cockpit windshield.

There was nothing to do but lose more altitude and pray that the clouds he was flying through were not rock-filled. The needle crept past 5,000 feet to 4,000 to 3,500.

A quick glance at the Hamilton confirmed his suspicion that by now he had flown past Sao Luis Gonzaga without seeing it.

He did not to have to remind himself that he was 3,500 feet above sea level, which was not the same thing as 3,500 feet above the ground; a chilling experience in the Hawaiian Islands—a pineapple plantation on Maui had suddenly appeared out of the soup fifty feet below him with his altimeter indicating 2,500 feet—had burned that detail of aviation lore permanently in his brain.

According to Delgano, the field in Santo Tome was 950 feet above sea level. Call it a thousand. He was actually 2,500 feet above the ground.

Very, very slowly, he lost more altitude, until the altimeter indicated 2,500 feet. It was now getting turbulent, and, if anything, darker.

And then the cloud cover above him opened for a moment, and the light from the moon provided just a little more visibility. For a moment he could make out a light on the ground.

There was nothing to do but see what it was.

I will not go lower than a thousand feet! If I can't get through this, I'll just do a one-eighty and head back for Porto Alegre.

With the altimeter indicating a little less than 2,000 feet, the light he was approaching became clearer and then divided into two lights: red and green.

Navigation lights.

A boat! Or a ship!

It didn't matter. If it was a boat or a ship, it has to be the river!

What he could not afford to do was lose those navigation lights. He dropped lower.

There was no longer any reason to look at the altimeter. Altimeters worked on atmospheric pressure, and there was a built-in dampening system. The altitude indicated on the dial was the altitude the aircraft had held two, three seconds—he had heard as many as seven seconds—before.

He could now make out the outline of the vessel he was approaching. It was a freighter, a vessel capable of sailing the high seas. He flashed over it no more than 200 feet over its masts.

"I think you probably scared hell out of whoever was steering that," Ashton said dryly.

Clete considered that.

Hell, yes, he had scared whoever was at the wheel of the freighter. He had turned off his navigation lights as soon as he broke ground at Porto Alegre. The people on the ship certainly heard his engines, but they couldn't see anything, and it is virtually impossible to determine the direction of an airplane at night by the sound of its engines.

And then, all of a sudden, this great big sonofabitch with 2,400 unmuffled horsepower roars overhead at 220 knots.

"Serves him right," Clete said idiotically, and then started to chuckle, then giggle.

"I'm glad that someone finds this situation amusing," Ashton said, and for some reason Clete found that hilarious too.

He was laughing uncontrollably.

One part of his brain told him that what was happening wasn't at all funny, that he was experiencing a nerve overload. But that was not enough to make him stop laughing. His eyes started to water.

He lost vision, and that frightened him, and as suddenly as it had begun— the instant he pulled back on the wheel to pick up altitude—the hysterical laughter stopped.

And in that moment he saw a glow ahead. First it was a single, wide glow, and then, a moment later, it separated into two separate glows.

"We'll be landing in just a few minutes, ladies and gentlemen," Clete said. "Please put your seats in the upright position and check your seat belts."

"That's Santo Tome?" Ashton asked.

"I think so."

"You are an amazing man, mi Mayor!"

"Tell me that again when I get us on the ground," Clete said.

He steered to the right of the glow on the right, and two minutes later saw a small, very bright glow.

"I think that's the outer marker," he said. "The bonfire."

He leveled off at an indicated altitude of 2,000 feet and flew directly over the fire. He punched the button on his Hamilton and watched as the sweep second hand made its way around the dial. When the smaller dial showed that he had flown four minutes, he made a one-minute, 180-degree turn.

He could now see a faint line of small glowing spots stretched off at right angles to the wooden bonfire. He turned and carefully lined up with the "runway." He flipped on thelanding light switch, retarded the throttles, and lowered the flaps to twenty degrees.

Where the hell is the little fire that's supposed to tell me where the wind is?

There it is! I'm flying into the wind!

This final approach looks perfect.

That's probably wishful thinking.

What I should do is fly around again and make sure I know what I'm doing.

But on the other hand, I'm not likely to make another accidentally perfect approach like this one if I do.

He reached up to the quadrant and pulled down the lever with the representation of a wheel on it.

He felt the additional drag immediately.

The greengear down and locked indicator light did not go on.

Christ, I'm going tohave to go around!

I got this far, and now the gear's going to give me trouble?

The greengear down and locked indicator light came on as he flashed over the bonfire, his hand preparing to shove the throttles forward.

He took his hand off the throttles and put it on the wheel.

The wheels touched, and bounced him back into the air.

He flared again, and this time the wheels stayed on the ground.

He applied the brakes and felt the Lockheed start to skid.

He corrected, but not before he had left the "runway." Both lines of pots filled with gasoline burning in sand were to his left.

The rumble from the landing gear was frightening.

He tried the brakes again. They seemed to work for a moment, and then the Lockheed started to skid again.

He looked at the airspeed indicator. As he watched, the needle dropped abruptly to zero.

That doesn't mean we've stopped; it means we're going less than forty miles an hour.

He pushed on the brakes again, and this time they worked.

The Lockheed lurched to a stop, at the last moment turning slightly to the left.

"I'll be damned!" Captain Maxwell Ashton III said.

"Oh, ye of little faith!" Clete said, and started to shut the engines down.

"What this means, you understand, mi Mayor," Ashton said, "and I will never forgive you for this, is that I can never again make a long-shot bet. I have used up my lifetime's allocation of long-shot luck in the last two hours."

Clete felt a sudden chill.

He put his hand on his chest and found that he was sweat-soaked. And then his hands and knees began to tremble uncontrollably.

You 're a brave and intrepid Marine Aviator? Bullshit!

"What happens now?" Ashton asked.

"I'm afraid to get up," Clete said. "There is a strong possibility that I have pissed—or worse—my pants."

He became aware that he had not turned off either the landing lights or the main buss. As he reached for the switch he saw a dozen or more horsemen, in rain-slick ponchos, approaching the airplane from the right.

He turned off the main buss, unstrapped himself, and left his chair.

"Wait here a minute," he said. "The people who expect me here do not expect you, and I'll have to come up with some sort of explanation."

When he opened the cabin door, he saw Capitan Delgano walking up to the plane. He was hatless, his hair plastered to his head by the rain, and wearing a

poncho.

"I had just told Coronel Porterman that you probably couldn't fly through this," Delgano said, gesturing toward the sky.

"Well, I made it," Clete said.

"This is not a Beechcraft C-45," Delgano said.

"This is a Lockheed C-56," Clete said. "Something got screwed up."

"I see," Delgano said, visibly displeased.

"I have passengers aboard," Clete said.

"Passengers?" Delgano parroted.

"People I am going to fly to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo," Clete said.

"You said nothing about passengers!"

"No. I didn't."

"You smuggled people into Argentina?" Delgano asked, but it was an accusation, not a question. "An OSS team, no doubt?"

"I have five civilians with Brazilian passports aboard," Clete said.

"I consider that a breach of our agreement," Delgano said. "They will, of course, have to be interned."

"If you intern them," Clete said, "this airplane will not leave the ground again."

"Colonel Mart?n told me you were dangerous, and that I should not trust you," Delgano said, and then, as if he had just made up his mind, added: "I will intern them."

"The presence of my passengers in no way changes our arrangement. I will teach you how to fly the aircraft. . ."

That's bullshit. That would really be a case of the blind leading the blind.

". . . and make it available to the G.O.U. as I promised."

That's bullshit too. There's no way he could fly this airplane by himself. If the G.O.U. wants this airplane, I'll have to fly it.

"Nevertheless, your 'passengers' will have to be interned," Delgano said. "Or if not interned, sent back across the Rio Uruguay. That would be probably be best, for all concerned."

"I think you're overstepping your authority, Capitan. I don't think you have the authority to do anything that will keep this airplane from flying to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo tomorrow."

Delgano considered that.

"What am I to tell Coronel Porterman?" he asked.

Clete decided Delgano was thinking out loud.

"I suggest you tell him that there has been an unexpected development," Clete said. "That it will be necessary to quarter five people overnight—for reasons that are none of his business."

"You are asking me to lie to a superior officer, Mayor Frade. That is dishonorable."

"How would you categorize your behavior toward my father, Capitan? And what was it you said to me, at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, about 'people in our profession being sometimes required to do things that are personally repugnant'?"

Delgano met Clete's eyes. There was cold anger, even hate, in them.

Christ, we got this far, and now this self-righteous sonofabitch is going to screw everything up.

Delgano turned and walked away from the aircraft without saying anything.

So what do I do now?

I can't really refuse to fly this thing to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo; I gave Mart?n my word that I would. And if this goddamned coup d’?tat fails, I don't want Mart?n and Rawson and Ramirez and the rest of them stood up against a wall because I didn't provide them a means to get out of the country.

Delgano said, "send them back across the Rio Uruguay." If that happens, it wouldn't be the end of the world. If 1 can get the radar sent back with them, we wouldn't be any worse off than we were yesterday.

Clete saw Delgano, faintly, standing beside a man on a horse.

That's probably Coronel Porterman.

Delgano walked back to the Lockheed.

"Your 'passengers' will take the horses of the guard detail," Delgano said, "and be accommodated overnight in the transient officers' quarters."

"I'm not sure my passengers know how to ride," Clete thought aloud.

"Excuse me?" Delgano asked, somewhat incredulously.

"Just a moment, Capitan," Clete said, and turned to walk back up the aisle to talk to Ashton.

He immediately bumped into him; he had come down the aisle to see what

was going on.

"I've never been on a horse in my life," Ashton said in English.

"You heard all that?" Clete asked.

Ashton nodded.

"And I'm not comfortable with them guarding our stuff," Ashton said. "So what we'll do is that I will stay aboard—"

"No," Clete said. "I don't want Coronel Porterman to get the idea we don't trust him."

"I don't trust him," Ashton said.

"If they want to take the radar away from us, there's nothing we can do to stop them," Clete said. "We will accept his hospitality."

"You trust the guy you were talking to?"

"Yes, I do," Clete said, hoping there was more conviction in his voice than he felt.

"OK," Ashton said. "Your call, Major."

Thirty minutes later, a wagon drawn by a matched pair of white-booted roans took aboard four passengers and headed through the rain toward the barracks of the Second Regiment of Cavalry.

Saddled horses had been brought from the stables along with the wagon, for Clete, Enrico, and First Lieutenant Madison R. Sawyer III, Infantry, Army of the United States, the only member of Ashton's team who said he could ride.

As they started to ride away from the Lockheed, Lieutenant Sawyer told Clete that he had "played a little polo at Ramapo Valley" while at Yale, and asked if there would possibly be a chance that he could play while he was in Argentina.

"We'll see, Lieutenant," Clete said.

He looked over his shoulder.

Four troopers of the Second Cavalry, short-barreled Mauser carbines hanging muzzle downward from their shoulders, had set up a moving perimeter guard around the tied-down Lockheed.

To one side, maybe a dozen others were squatting around a bonfire under a quickly erected tent fly. A dozen horses stood stoically in the rain, their reins tied to a rope suspended between two tree limbs jammed into the ground.

If it wasn't for the Lockheed,Clete thought, this could be the plains of West Texas in 1890.

[THREE]

USS Alfred Thomas DD-107

26° 35" South Latitude 42° 45" West Longitude

0615 17 April 1943

Lieutenant Commander Paul Jernigan, a neat, thin Annapolis graduate who was six months shy of being twenty-nine years old, pushed himself out of his pedestal-mounted, leather-upholstered bridge chair—the captain's chair—and walked to the navigation room.

His ruddy-faced, Irish, twenty-three-year-old navigator, Lieutenant (j.g.) Thomas Clancy, USN, and Ensign Richard C. Lacey, USNR, a short, somewhat pudgy twenty-two-year-old, who was the communications officer of the Thomas, were bent over the chart.

"She appears to be picking up speed, Skipper," Clancy said. "Lacey estimates she's now making twenty-two knots."

"She" was a vessel they hoped was a Spanish-registered merchantman called the Comerciante del Oceano Pacifico. They had been looking for her for almost four days. There had been an OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE, the highest-priority communication, from the Navy Department.

TOP SECRET

OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE

FROM CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS WASH DC 0440 GREENWICH 13 APR 43

TO USS ALFRED THOMAS DD107

1. REFERENCE MSG 43-100-656 DATED 1 APR 43 SUBJECT LOCATION AND IDENTIFICATION OF CERTAIN VESSELS BELIEVED TO BE OPERATING IN SOUTH ATLANTIC OCEAN.

2. PRIORITY OF SEARCH SHOULD BE DIRECTED TO LOCATION AND POSITIVE REPEAT POSITIVE IDENTIFICATION OF SPANISH REGISTERED COMERCIANTE DEL OCEANO PACIFICO. SUBJECT VESSEL DESCRIBED IN DETAIL IN REFERENCE ABOVE AND IS LISTED WITH PHOTOGRAPH ON PAGE 123 IN 1938 JANES MERCHANT SHIPS OF THE WORLD.

3. SUBJECT VESSEL BELIEVED BOUND FOR RIVER PLATE ESTUARY AND WAS LAST REPORTED 1300 GREENWICH 8 APR 43 AT 8 DEGREES 33 MINUTES NORTH LATITUDE 26 DEGREES 55 MINUTES WEST LONGITUDE.

4. ON DETERMINING LOCATION CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS WILL BE ADVISED PRIORITY OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE TOGETHER WITH YOUR ESTIMATED TIME OF ARRIVAL MOUTH OF RIVER PLATE.

5. ALFRED THOMAS WILL NOT REPEAT NOT BOARD SUBJECT VESSEL OR CONDUCT ANY ACTIVITY IN HER REGARD WHICH MIGHT POSSIBLY BE CONSTRUED AS VIOLATION OF RULES OF SEA WARFARE IN RE PASSAGE OF NON-COMBATANT VESSELS BETWEEN NEUTRAL PORTS.

6. ON LOCATION OF SUBJECT VESSEL, ALFRED THOMAS WILL MAINTAIN CONTACT WITH SUBJECT VESSEL UNTIL FURTHER ORDERS AND WILL FURNISH POSITION EVERY FOUR (4) HOURS UNLESS THERE IS A CHANGE OF HER COURSE SUGGEST ING A CHANGE OF DESTINATION.

7.

BY DIRECTION OF THE CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS

QUIMMER VICE ADMIRAL

The chart over which Clancy and Lacey were bent traced the course of seven merchantmen they—and probably every other U.S. Navy vessel operating in the South Atlantic—had been directed to "monitor."

Skippers of other U.S. Navy men-of-war were almost certainly wondering what the hell was going on, and one did not radio the Chief of Naval Operations to ask for the reason behind an order.

But Captain Jernigan was sure he knew exactly what was going on—although he had not been officially told. He thought the Alfred Thomas had been selected from among the other ships on station, not so much because of its location, but rather because the Chief of Naval Operations knew that he would correctly guess what was going on.

The Alfred Thomas had been involved in the sinking of the Reine de la Mer in Samboromb?n Bay. A torpedo from the U.S. submarine Devilfish had actually sunk the ship, but Devilfish could not have gotten into position to fire her torpedo without the assistance of the Alfred Thomas.

When they received the first message to "monitor" the seven merchantmen, Jernigan immediately decided that Naval Intelligence—or maybe the OSS— had determined that the Germans were sending a replacement, which they could be expected to do, but were unable to determine which of the seven it was.

And obviously, at least to Captain Jernigan of the Alfred Thomas, ONI and/or the OSS now thought the Comerciante del Oceano Pacifico was probably the ship they were looking for. Probably was the operative word. If they were more certain, they would have ordered the Alfred Thomas to board the Oceano Pacifico or, possibly, even to sink her.

When the second message came, Clancy, at Jernigan's orders, set up a sweeping course that would possibly allow them to intercept her—presuming the Oceano Pacifico maintained her last known course.

Lookouts were ordered aloft around the clock, and of course there was the radar, which was supposed to have a range of fifty miles, and which Captain Jernigan trusted as profoundly as he trusted gentlemen in two-tone shoes and gold bracelets who operated businesses called "Honest Albert's Hardly Used Automobiles."

After days of fruitless search, Jernigan had just about decided that the search course Clancy set was the wrong one—his fault, not Clancy's; he gave the order to follow it—when, to his genuine surprise, two hours after nightfall the day before, the radar operator reported a "target" thirty miles away, on a heading that would ultimately lead to the River Plate estuary.

Jernigan ordered Clancy to set up an interception course that would place them eight miles off the unknown vessel, on a parallel course.

That was just close enough for the lookout to report bright lights on the horizon. Bright lights suggested a neutral vessel—they sailed with floodlights lighting huge national flags painted on their hulls—but there was no way to further identify her without moving closer, and Jernigan was unwilling to do that at night. The Alfred Thomas took up a parallel course ten miles to starboard.

Jernigan then went to bed, in the belief that he should be well-rested when it came time to make decisions in the morning. After at least thirty minutes in his bunk, he realized that falling asleep in these circumstances fell in the category of wishful thinking. He showered and returned to the bridge.

It was now daylight. The vessel, whoever it was, was not visible to the lookouts, but still presented a good target to the radar.

Jernigan realized that it was of course likely that if it was the Oceano Pacifico, she would also be equipped with radio direction and ranging apparatus, and know that there was a ship just a few miles away.

It was also likely that if it was the Oceano Pacifico, she was armed. Putting a submarine-replenishment vessel into position in Samboromb?n Bay was of critical importance to German submarine operations in the South Atlantic.

With the naval cannon that could be placed aboard a merchantman, the Alfred Thomas of course would have the advantage. Unless, of course, the captain of the other vessel decided to take a long shot and opened up without warning with everything he had.

Jernigan glanced at his watch.

The crew had been fed.

"Set a course which will bring us within visual range, Mr. Clancy," he ordered. "How long would you estimate that would take?"

"Presuming they can't run any faster than the twenty-two knots she's now making, Sir, I would estimate fifteen minutes."

"In ten minutes, order Battle Stations," Captain Jernigan ordered. "I'm going to go have my breakfast."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

He did not, in fact, have any breakfast. He instead moved his bowels, and returned to the bridge.

Exactly ten minutes had elapsed. As he stepped onto the bridge, and Mr. Lacey bellowed "Captain is on the bridge" much more loudly than was necessary, Mr. Clancy pressed the microphone switch and bellowed, "Battle Stations, Battle Stations, this is no drill."

Three minutes later, the lookout aloft reported a vessel dead ahead on the horizon. Thirty seconds after that, Jernigan saw the stack of a merchantman.

"All ahead full," he ordered softly. "Make turns for flank speed."

"All ahead full, make turns for flank speed, aye," the talker repeated.

"Charge all weapons," Jernigan ordered.

"Charge all weapons, aye."

"Mr. Clancy, we will pass to starboard."

"Pass to starboard, aye, aye, Sir."

"I want to read her stern board," Jernigan said. "Run right up her ass until I can see it."

""Right up her ass, aye, aye, Sir."

OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE

FROM ALFRED THOMAS DD107 0150 GREENWICH 17 APR 43

TO CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS WASHDC

ALL RECEIVING USN VESSELS AND SHORE STATIONS TO RELAY

1. MOTOR VESSEL COMERCIANTE DEL OCEANO PACIFICO LOCATED AND POSITIVELY REPEAT POSITIVELY IDENTIFIED AT 0145 GREENWICH 17 APR 43 POSITION 27 DEGREES 25 MINUTES SOUTH LATITUDE 43 DEGREES 05 MINUTES WEST LONGITUDE.

2. SUBJECT VESSEL MAKING 22 REPEAT 22 KNOTS ON COURSE 195 REPEAT 195 TRUE. BASED ON FOREGOING, ESTIMATED ARRIVAL MOUTH RIVER PLATE 2150 19 APR 43.

3. ON APPROACH OF THIS VESSEL SUBJECT VESSEL UNCOVERED FOUR NAVAL CANNON BELIEVED TO BE 5-INCH OR EQUIVALENT, FOUR MULTIPLE BARREL AUTOMATIC CANNON BELIEVED TO BE 20 OR 30 MM B0F0RS, PLUS SIX MACHINE GUNS OF UNDETERMINED CALIBER.

4. NO REPEAT NO FIRE OF ANY KIND WAS EXCHANGED AND NO REPEAT NO CONTACT OF ANY KIND WAS ATTEMPTED OR MADE BY EITHER VESSEL.

5. USS ALFRED THOMAS PROCEEDING IN COMPLIANCE WITH ORDERS.

JERNIGAN, LTCOM USN, COMMANDING.

[FOUR]

Second Cavalry Regiment Reservation

Santo Tome

Corrientes Province, Argentina

070D 17 April 1943

The rain had continued through the night. It was still raining when Capitan Del-gano came into the transient officers' quarters to take everybody to breakfast.

Delgano tugged at Clete's sleeve as they walked down a gravel path to the officers' mess. Clete slowed and let the others get ahead of them.

"There's a small problem," Delgano announced. "The truck with the fuel got stuck on the way to the airstrip. They're transferring the fuel barrels to a wagon."

The first thing Clete thought was that if the ground was so rain-soaked that the truck had gotten stuck, the airstrip itself would also be too soft for takeoff.

But then some Guadalcanal-learned expertise popped into his mind. That wasn't necessarily so. You got mud where there was nothing but dirt, and where the dirt had been chewed up by tires. Before they got all the pierced-steel planking laid at Fighter One on Guadalcanal, he had often taken off from the dirt runway, after heavy rains that had made the roads to Fighter One just about impassable.

Where there was grass, often there was not mud. The airstrip here had not been used, except to graze cattle. The strip itself might be all right.

One criterion to judge by would be how far the Lockheed's wheels had sunk into the ground overnight. It was to be expected that they would sink in somethere was 18,000 pounds resting on maybe two square feet of tire surface—but sometimes that didn't prohibit taxiing and takeoff.

A Wildcat could often be rocked out of tire ruts using the engine alone, or helped by people pushing. But you could feel a Wildcat and operate the throttle accordingly. The Lockheed was too heavy to feel, and probably would be difficult to push.

He had a quick mental image of a team of horses pulling the Lockheed out of tire ruts with a rope tied to the gear.

And then he had another thought. The Lockheed no longer weighed 18,000 pounds. It weighed 18,000 pounds less the weight of the fuel consumed between Porto Alegre and Santo Tome, and while he hadn't done what a good pilot should have done—checked to see how much fuel remained—he figured he had burned at least a thousand pounds of AvGas, and possibly more. Maybe even two thousand pounds.

If they topped off the tanks here, that would mean adding that weight back, which very well might spell the difference between sinking into the ground and being able to taxi and take off.

He could also considerably lighten the aircraft by off-loading the ton of radar equipment and not taking anyone with them. That would get the aircraft into the air and to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, where it was needed, at the price of worrying how to get Ashton, his team, and the radar to the shore of Samboromb?n Bay.

"Don't start fueling it until I have a look at it," Clete said.

"We are pressed for time," Delgano said.

"Getting that airplane, fully loaded, off of here may be difficult. Hold off on topping off the tanks," Clete ordered firmly, as another problem entered his mind.

Delgano nodded, agreeing with the takeoff problem.

"And we're probably going to need more runway than I thought we'd need for the C-45," Clete went on. "Which means we have to walk some more to make sure there's nothing out there we'll run into."

"We have to get that airplane to Buenos Aires Province as soon as possible," Delgano said.

"If I can't get it off the ground here, it'll never get to Buenos Aires Province," Clete said. "The lighter it is, the better a chance I have."

Delgano nodded again.

They were now at the door to the officers' mess.

"I'll be in in a minute," Clete called to Ashton, then turned to Delgano: "I'd try to get it off with the fuel aboard, but I know I don't have enough to make Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. What I'm thinking is going from here to a regular airfield, and taking on fuel there."

"That would call attention to us," Delgano argued.

"The safest thing to do would be to unload my cargo here, leave my passengers here, and you and I take off alone, with the fuel now on board, and refuel somewhere between here and Buenos Aires."

Delgano nodded. "What's your cargo?"

"I don't think you want to know," Clete said.

"Explosives?"

"I don't think you want to know," Clete repeated.

"I think I should know," Delgano said.

"Are you familiar with radar?" Clete asked.

"I know what it is, of course. A radar? What are you going to do with a radar?"

"Guess," Clete said.

"My best information—el Coronel Martin's best information—" Delgano said without missing a beat, "is that there is no German replenishment vessel in Samboromb?n Bay."

"That was yesterday," Clete said. "If I left my cargo and my passengers here, could you arrange transportation for them and guarantee their safe arrival to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo?"

"No," Delgano said after some thought. "I could get a truck, but there would be at least a dozen checkpoints on the highway between here and there. Authorization from Colonel Porterman—a shipping manifest—might get them past the Army checkpoints, but not those of either the Polic?a Federal or the Provincial Police. They would want to check the cargo against the manifest. The only way I could ensure getting through them would be to be there and I have to be with the airplane."

Clete grunted thoughtfully.

"They could stay here until after . . ." Delgano suggested.

"And if the coup d’?tat fails, then what happens to them?" Clete didn't wait for a reply. "I'm not going to leave them here. That brings us back to two choices: taking off with them aboard, which I'm not at all sure I can do, or leaving them here, to make it by road to some airfield near here where I can get 110-130-octane aviation gasoline."

"Posadas," Delgano said immediately. "It's 130 kilometers from here; two hours, maybe a little less, by truck."

"Long-enough runways? Capable of handling the Lockheed?"

Delgano nodded.

"OK. Posadas it is. Let's get some breakfast."

If the fuel gauges were to be trusted—and Clete had learned from painful experience that this was something wise birdmen did not do—there was just barely enough fuel remaining aboard to get them to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.

That was not good news; he would have been happier if the tanks had contained just enough AvGas to get them to Posadas. The Lockheed would have been that much lighter.

He briefly considered pumping gas out of the tanks. That was obviously not practical. It would have been time-consuming in itself. And, since there were no empty barrels at the landing field to pump it into, they would have had to wait until empty barrels could be brought from the barracks out to the strip.

A second truck sent from the barracks to take aboard the radar had made it out to the Lockheed without trouble. By driving across the grass of the pampas, Clete noted somewhat smugly, and staying off the muddy road.

He was almost through giving Capitan Delgano enough of a cockpit checkout to enable him to work the landing gear and flaps controls on orders, and to operate the radio direction finding system, when Captain Maxwell Ashton III came up to the cockpit.

"The radar's on the truck," he announced. "But just between you and me, mi Mayor, I'm more than a little nervous to see my radar going off by itself."

"There will be no awkward questions asked at checkpoints of five happy Brazilian civilians in a civilian car," Clete said. "There would be if you guys were on an Army truck."

"OK," Ashton said. "Good luck!"

"If I can't get this thing out of here, you're on your own," Clete said. "I'm sorry about that."

"Yeah, well, let's see what happens," Ashton said.

He touched Clete's shoulder, then turned and left the cockpit.

Clete looked around the cockpit a moment, then got up and walked through the cabin to make sure the door was closed properly. When he returned to the cockpit, had strapped himself in, and looked out the window, he saw that the thorough Capitan Delgano had arranged for a fire extinguisher to be present against the possibility of fire when the engines were started.

It was not, however, the latest thing in aviation-safety technology. It looked as if it belonged in a museum. It was a wagon-mounted water tank, with a pump manned by four cavalry troopers. Presumably, if there was a fire, and the four of them pumped with sufficient enthusiasm, a stream of water could be directed at it.

But since water does not extinguish oil or gasoline fires with any efficiency, all it was likely to do was float burning oil and/or AvGas out of the engine nacelle over the wing and onto the ground.

Clete threw the master buss switch and yelled "Clear!" out the window.

The four cavalry troopers, startled, took up their positions at the pump handles.

Clete set the throttles, checked the fuel switch, and reached for theleft engine START Switch.

The left engine started, smoothed down, and he started the right engine.

He looked at Delgano, who smiled, and crossed himself.

Clete took off the brakes and nudged the left throttle forward. The Lockheed shuddered, and then the left wheel came out of the depression it had made during the night. Clete advanced the right throttle, and the right wheel came out.

He straightened the Lockheed out, then taxied back between the clay pots marking the runway, and then down it as far as he could to where he decided the downward slope of the "runway" was going to be too much to handle.

He turned the plane around, and saw that the wheels had left ruts six inches deep.

"Here we go," he announced matter-of-factly, and moved the throttles totakeoff power.

The Lockheed shuddered, and for a moment seemed to refuse to move. Then it began to move.

It picked up speed very slowly, and then suddenly more quickly. Life came into the controls. He pushed the wheel forward a hair to get the tail wheel off the ground, then held it level until he felt it get light on the wheels. He edged the control back, and a moment later the rumbling of the gear stopped.

"Gear up!" he ordered.

Thirty seconds later, as he banked to the left, setting up a course for Posadas, he glanced at Delgano.

"This is a fine airplane!" Delgano said.

"I don't know about you, Capitan," Clete said, "but I always have more trouble landing one of these things than I do getting one off."

"I have faith in you, mi Mayor," Delgano said. "For the very best of reasons."

"Which are?"

"Because you are in here with me."

Chapter Twenty-One

[ONE]

Posadas Airfield

Posadas, Missiones Province, Argentina

0930 18 April 1943

It was a twenty-five-minute flight from Santo Tome to Posadas, which turned out to be a recently and extensively expanded airfield shared by Aerol?neas Argentina and the Air Service of the Argentine Army.

Clete managed to put the Lockheed down on the field's new, wide concrete runways without difficulty. A pickup truck flying a checkered flag met them at the taxiway turnoff and led them to a new hangar, where a dozen soldiers of the Air Service, Argentine Army, were waiting to push the Lockheed into a hangar.

The aircraft normally parked in the hangar—a half-dozen Seversky P-35 fighter planes—were parked outside. Clete stared at them with fascination. In high school, he made a tissue-covered balsa wood model of the fighter. He was so fond of it that he was never able to find the courage to wind up its rubber band and see if it would fly.

When Clete was in high school, the Seversky was about the hottest thing in the sky. Dreaming of one day flying it, Clete could still remember its capabilities: It had a Pratt and Whitney 950-horsepower engine, which gave it a 280-m.p.h. top speed; and it was armed with two .30-caliber machine guns firing through the propeller and could carry three 100-pound bombs, one under each wing and the third under the fuselage.

The F4F-4 Wildcat Clete flew on Guadalcanal had six .50-caliber machine guns, and was powered by a 1,200-horsepower Pratt and Whitney engine, which gave it a 320-knot top speed. The F4U Corsair, which was already in the Pacific to replace the Wildcat, had a 2,000-horsepower Pratt and Whitney engine, a top speed of 425 knots, and in addition to its six .50-caliber machine guns could carry a ton of bombs.

Clete had never seen a P-35 before. It was obsolete long before Clete went to Pensacola for basic flight training. There was something very unreal about seeing them parked here, obviously ready for action.

If the Brazilians decided to bomb Argentina with the B-24s I saw parked at Porto Alegre, and the Argentines sent up these P-35s to attack them, it would bea slaughter. The multiple .50s in the B-24s' turrets would be able to knock the P-35s out of the sky long before the P-35s got into firing range of their .30-caliber guns.

Why am I surprised? They're still practicing how to swing sabers from the backs of horses in Santo Tome.

The Lockheed was equally fascinating to the Argentine pilots standing by their Severskys. To judge from the looks on their faces, they had never seen a Lockheed Lodestar before.

As soon as the Lockheed was inside the hangar, the doors were closed. Clete and Delgano walked through the cabin, opened the door, and found a major and a captain waiting for them.

They were introduced to Clete as the commanding officer and the executive officer of the Fourth Pursuit Squadron, but no names were provided by Delgano. He referred to Clete as "Major," without a last name.

It was obvious that the Major and the Captain were participants inOutline Blue, and that they were not only nervous about having the Lockheed at their field but deeply curious to get a better look at it.

Delgano, sensing that, suggested to Clete that he show them around the airplane. While they were in the cockpit, the hangar door opened wide enough to permit a hose from a fuel truck to be snaked inside, and the tanks were topped off.

The curious pilots and ground crewmen outside the hangar were not permitted inside.

By the time Ashton's team arrived at Posadas—crammed into the same 1939 Ford Clete used to find Ashton in the Automobile Club Hotel—Clete was able to receive a somewhat rudimentary weather briefing and, with Delgano watching over his shoulder, to lay out the flight plan.

The truck with the radar arrived ten minutes after Ashton and his men. The crates were loaded aboard, and then the passengers.

The Major and the Captain shook hands rather solemnly with Clete and Delgano, and then the hangar doors were opened again. Ground crewmen pushed the Lockheed back out onto the tarmac. Two men with a bona fide aircraft fire extinguisher on wheels appeared. Three minutes after Clete started the engines, he lifted the Lockheed off the runway and set course for Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.

[TWO]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1205 18 April 1943

Once he found the cluster of buildings around the Big House on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, Clete dropped close to the ground and went looking for the radio station. He wanted to see if he could find it—if he could find it from the air, then somebody else also could—and to let Ettinger, the Chief, and Tony, if he was there, know he had returned.

He had a good idea where the station was in relation to the Big House, but still had a hard time finding it. When he did, pleasing him, he could see nothing that would identify it from the air as a radio station. The three reddish sandstone buildings visible in the clearing were essentially identical to other buildings in other stands of trees all over the estancia. Such buildings were used as housing and for any number of other purposes in connection with the operation of the ranch.

He was, in fact, not entirely sure he had found the right buildings until, on his third pass over the clearing, a gaucho he recognized as Schultz came out of one of them and gazed up with curiosity.

Clete dipped his wings and turned toward the landing strip at the Big House.

Clete was not very concerned about putting the Lockheed onto the estancia strip. When he'd flown the stagger-wing into it he had more than enough runway, and he had enough experience with the Lockheed to have a feel for its landing characteristics.

But, as he took deeply to heart the saying that a smugly confident pilot is the one who is about to badly bend his airplane, he set up his approach very carefully. He came in low and slow and greased the Lockheed onto the strip within twenty feet of the whitewashed line of rocks that marked the end of the runway. He had a good thousand feet of it left when he brought the Lockheed down to taxi speed.

"Nice landing," Delgano said.

"Thank you," Clete said. "This thing isn't as hard to fly as I thought at first."

Clete turned the Lockheed off the runway and taxied toward the hangar.

I wonder if we can get this great big sonofabitch in that little hangar?

Because Second Lieutenant Cletus H. Frade, USMCR, of VMF-221 had received a truly magnificent ass-chewing on Henderson Field on Guadalcanal for using too much of his Wildcat engine's power in similar circumstances, he now remembered to use the Lockheed's engines very carefully to turn the airplane around so that it pointed away from the hangar without flipping over one or more of the Piper Cubs parked near it.

That done, he started to shut it down. This time he checked the gauges for remaining fuel. He still had enough aboard, he quickly calculated, to make it back and forth to Montevideo, and probably enough to make it one-way to Porto Alegre.

He unfastened his harness and started to slide out of his seat.

Delgano stopped him by laying a hand on top on his.

"We must talk," Delgano said.

"Oh? About what?"

"If you succeeded in bringing the airplane across the border to Santo Tome, my orders were to take it directly from Santo Tome to Campo de Mayo."

"OK," Clete said. "And my having my passengers screwed that up?"

"That and the fact that it is not the C-45 light twin you told us it would be. I thought I would be able to fly the C-45 alone."

"Alone?" Clete asked, not quite understanding what Delgano was talking about.

"You were to become a guest of Colonel Porterman at Santo Tome for the next four or five days," Delgano said.

"You . . . forgot... to mention that."

"Coronel Mart?n spoke with General Rawson," Delgano said. "Coronel Mart?n believed that if you flew any airplane into Campo de Mayo, that would have put you in a delicate position—actually, I suppose, a more accurate term would be 'dangerous position.'"

"How so?"

"You would have played an active part in the revolution," Delgano said. "IfOutline Blue failed, and for some reason you could not leave the country, you would almost certainly be one of the dozen or so officers who faced the most severe consequences."

"You mean, they would shoot me?" Clete asked. "Just for loaning you an airplane?"

"For flying the airplane to Campo de Mayo, and because you are your father's son," Delgano said, waited long enough for that to sink in, and then went on. "Your execution by Castillo's people under such circumstances would be— is—a real possibility."

"Is?" Clete thought aloud.

"So, on General Rawson's authority, it was decided that I would 'borrow' your airplane at Santo Tome, and leave you there. Two things, of course, made that impossible. You arrived in an airplane that I could not fly by myself, and you had your 'passengers' and their cargo with you."

"If I had known about this," Clete said, "I would have thought twice about bringing Captain Ashton and his people with me."

"Well, what is the expression? That's water under the dam. The reality I had to deal with is that you arrived at Santo Tome with an airplane I could not fly by myself, and with your passengers and the cargo aboard."

"OK," Clete said, and waited for Delgano to go on.

"I made a decision at Santo Tome," Delgano said, "without consulting with el Coronel Porterman, but on my own authority. Based on the facts that I had somehow to get the airplane to Campo de Mayo, that I could not do so alone, and that I could not leave your passengers and their cargo with the Second Cavalry, I decided that everybody would leave Santo Tome and that en route I would ask you to divert to Campo de Mayo."

"Ask me?"

"Insist."

"How insist?" Clete asked, aware that he was getting angry.

Delgano shrugged, making it clear he was sure Clete knew what he was talking about.

"En route, I decided that brandishing a pistol would not only be melodramatic but probably impractical. Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez would certainly try to stop me, for one thing. In any event, I decided that attempting to take control of the airplane would be at best risky. It would also have been dishonorable on my part."

"If you asked me to divert to Campo de Mayo, I would have flown there," Clete said.

"Knowing that your 'passengers' would certainly be interned the moment we landed?"

"They weren't interned at Posadas."

"I needed you to fly the airplane out of Posadas," Delgano said. "If they appeared at Campo de Mayo, they would have been arrested."

"So now what?"

"The situation is now in your hands," Delgano said.

"In other words, you're asking if I will fly the airplane to Campo de Mayo?"

Delgano nodded.

"Aware of what I said before," Delgano said. "That doing so constitutes more than simply ferrying an airplane."

"Sure," Clete said. "I promised you the airplane. I'll deliver it. A deal's a deal, Delgano."

"Thank you. I really thought that would be your reaction. On my part, unless asked directly, I will not report that we made a passenger stop here."

"Thank you."

"I am, of course, honor bound to inform Coronel Martin. But I don't think that will be a problem for you. He already knows about your radio station, and I'm sure understands the mission of the second OSS team. If he wanted to shut you down, he could have done so before now."

Clete nodded.

"What about the people at Posadas?" Clete asked.

"I may be wrong, but I don't think they will have anything to say. They know nothing except that you and I took on fuel and some unidentified passengers at Posadas in connection withOutline Blue. They may have thought that Captain Ashton's accent was odd, but he spoke Spanish—and you speak Spanish like an Argentine—and they have no reason to suspect that any of you are norteamericanos."

"And Colonel Porterman?"

"If the airplane appears at Campo de Mayo, he will presume that any problems we faced were solved. He took my word that your passengers and their cargo do not pose any threat to Argentina. He was a friend of your father's. He wishes you no harm."

"OK, Capitan," Clete said, putting out his hand to Delgano. "We have a deal. Now let's get the aircraft unloaded, and then we'll take it to Campo de Mayo."

As Clete was walking Delgano through the preflight check of the Lockheed, Tony Pelosi arrived in the 1941 Studebaker Clete had seen at the radio station. Chief Schultz drove up fifteen minutes later at the wheel of a Model A truck.

Ettinger,Clete decided, is probably monitoring the radio.

Then he sensed that something was not as it should be. Neither the Chief nor Tony smiled when they came up. The reverse. They both looked uncomfortable.

"Where the hell is my brass band?" Clete asked.

"Ettinger took off," Tony blurted.

"He did what?"

"He took off."

"Took off to where?" Clete asked.

Tony looked uncomfortably at Delgano, visibly wondering if he should continue talking in the presence of an Argentine.

"I have two men here who were supposed to keep Sergeant Ettinger on the estancia," Delgano said.

"How much does this guy know?" Tony blurted.

"He knows the Germans are trying to kill Ettinger," Clete said.

"He probably went to Uruguay," Chief Schultz said.

"What the hell for?"

"The Chief thinks it's got something to do with the message where you told Graham the name of the German in Montevideo," Tony said.

"How did he see that?" Clete asked furiously.

"That's my fault, Cle . . . Major," Tony said. "Ettinger was awake when I started to encrypt it. The Chief was asleep. Ettinger's better with that than I am. So, instead of fucking it up, or waking the Chief, I asked Ettinger if he would do it."

"Jesus H. Christ, Tony! I can't believe you were that stupid!"

"Neither can I, now," Tony said. "Anyway, the next morning, he wasn't there. He left this for you."

Tony handed him a sheet of paper, on which Ettinger had typed:

Clete:

I think I can put Bagman's name together with a couple of names I already have. If I can, we'll have just about all the pieces of the chain identified.

I hope your flight went smoothly. See you soon.

Dave

Clete read it, and then looked at Pelosi.

"I was going to Uruguay to look for him," Pelosi said. "But the Chief said he thought I'd better wait until you got back."

You ever hear about looking for a needle in a haystack, Tony?

Delgano suddenly made an imperious waving "come here" motion in the direction of the tree line behind a hangar. A gaucho stepped out of the trees and walked quickly toward them.

"Who's that?" Chief Schultz asked.

"I told both of you I didn't want Ettinger to leave the estancia," Clete said coldly.

Looking about as uncomfortable as Tony and the Chief, the gaucho approached Delgano and almost came to attention.

“S?, Se?or?"

"The norteamericano?"

"He left the estancia three nights ago, mi Capitan."

"We know that. Where is he?" Delgano demanded impatiently.

"He took the car ferry to Montevideo that same morning, mi Capitan."

"You had people on him all the way to the boat ferry?"

“S?, Se?or."

"And presumably the borders are being watched? We would know if he has returned?"

“S?, Se?or."

"Presumably, mi Mayor," Delgano said, "Sergeant Ettinger is in Montevideo. I did not have authority to send any of my men across the border."

"You tell me what you want me to do, Mr. Frade," the Chief said.

"I don't know what the hell to do," Clete said.

"I can be in Montevideo in the morning, if I leave now," the Chief said.

"We don't know where the hell he is in Montevideo," Clete said. "If he got that far before the Germans got to him."

"Clete, I'm sorry," Tony said.

"You goddamned well should be, Tony!"

Jumping on Tony's ass isn't going to do any good. The sonofabitch in this is Ettinger himself.

If he gets his throat cut, it's his own goddamn fault!

I don't mean that.

What the hell am I going to do ?

Oh, yeah!

"Captain Ashton and his team, and the radar, are in the hangar," Clete said. "Get them and their stuff out of here. Our priority is to get that radar in place and set up."

"What do we do about Dave?" Tony asked.

"I'll deal with Dave," Clete said. "You two make yourself useful to Captain Ashton."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the Chief said.

"I'm sorry, Clete," Tony said.

"You said that," Clete said somewhat unkindly, and then turned to Delgano. "I have to make a telephone call," he said. "It won't take long."

Delgano was obviously curious, but asked no questions.

Clete called the office number, the first of the three numbers Leibermann had given him.

The man who answered the telephone did so by reciting the number called in Spanish.

"This is Cowboy," Clete said. "I need to talk to him right now."

"Can he call you back?" the man said, still speaking Spanish.

"No."

"Hold on," the man said, now in English.

A long ninety seconds later, Milton Leibermann came on the line.

"So how's things out in the country, Tex?"

"Ettinger is in Uruguay. Probably Montevideo."

"I thought he planned to stay in the country?"

"So did I. Do you have any friends in Uruguay who could be useful?"

"You're not going over there yourself?"

"I wish I could, but I can't get away."

"You wouldn't want to tell me why not?"

"You remember that party we talked about?"

"The big one? All the important people?"

"Right. I've been invited. Under the circumstances, I can't turn down the invitation."

"You will tell me all about the party, won't you, Tex? Just as soon as you can?"

"What are we doing here, making a deal?"

"You could put it that way."

"OK, Milton. Deal."

"Just for the record, Tex, I would have gone anyway," Leibermann said, and the phone went dead.

[THREE]

2035th U.S. Army Air Corps Support Wing

Porto Alegre, Brazil

1325 18 April 1943

The pilot of the Douglas R5-D took his microphone from its cradle on the control yoke, checked to see that his transmitter was set on the correct frequency, and depressed thetransmit switch.

"Porto Alegre, Navy Seven Niner Niner Seven."

"Go ahead, Seven Niner Niner Seven."

"Niner Seven passing through seven thousand estimate twenty miles northwest your station. Approach and landing, please."

"Niner Seven, you are cleared for a straight-in approach to Runway One Seven. I say again One Seven. Ceiling and visibility unlimited. The winds are from the south at fifteen, gusting to twenty. The barometer is two niner niner. Report when passing through five thousand and when you have the field in sight."

"Niner Seven understands One Seven."

"Niner Seven, that is a Roger."

"Porto Alegre, please advise your base commander we have a Code Six aboard."

"Wilco, Niner Seven."

The staff car—a 1942 Chevrolet sedan—assigned to Colonel J. B. Wallace, U.S. Army Air Corps, stopped at the side of the Base Operations building. The driver, a young, crew-cutted sergeant, jumped out. He went quickly to the trunk and removed a checkered flag rolled around a length of aluminum pipe. Unrolling the flag as he walked, he went quickly to the front of the Chevrolet and inserted the pipe into a holder welded to the bumper. The purpose of the checkered flag was to increase the chances that pilots of taxiing aircraft would see the Chevrolet and not run over it.

Then he quickly slipped back behind the wheel, drove onto the tarmac in front of Base Ops, and waited for the Navy Transport that had just landed to turn off Runway One Seven and taxi to the Base Operations building.

After it did that, ground crewmen pushed a flight of stairs up to the door of the aircraft.

"Drive over there," Colonel Wallace ordered.

"Yes, Sir."

The sergeant drove to the rolling stairs, then jumped out and opened the rear door for Colonel Wallace.

Colonel Wallace tugged at the skirt of his green tunic, adjusted his leather-brimmed cap—to signify his status as an active pilot, he had removed the crown stiffener from it—tucked his riding crop under his arm, and stood near the foot of the stairs to officially greet the Code Six passenger that Naval Air Transport Command flight 404, Panama-Brazil, had reported aboard.

A Code Six was a Navy captain, or an Army (or Marine) colonel. Colonel Wallace believed that an officer who had achieved such a high rank, and was bearing the enormous responsibility that went with it, was entitled to the courtesy of being greeted by someone of equal rank when arriving at a military base. If an incoming aircraft, when asking for landing permission, did not volunteer the information that they did—or did not—have colonels or general (or flag) officers aboard, the Porto Alegre tower was instructed to inquire.

The passenger door—within the much wider cargo door—opened, and a Marine colonel stepped out onto the landing at the head of the stairs. He immediately turned to the aircraft, and someone inside handed him two leather suitcases.

"Take care of the Colonel's luggage," Wallace ordered, and his driver went quickly up the stairs, saluted, took the suitcases, and motioned for the Colonel to descend the stairs.

Wallace stepped to the foot of the stairs, removed his riding crop from under his left arm, and touched the brim of his cap with it.

"Welcome to Porto Alegre," he said with a smile.

The Marine colonel returned the salute. He wore, as Marines did—Wallace thought it was a fine idea—the silver eagles denoting his rank both on the epaulets of his tunic and on the points of his collar.

"Thank you," he said.

The Marine colonel was not wearing any ribbons to indicate where he had served, or what, if any, decorations for valor or outstanding performance he had earned. Colonel Wallace thought the wearing of ribbons should be mandatory, and he did not like to hear them referred to depreciatingly as fruit salad.

"I'm Colonel J. B. Wallace, commanding," Wallace announced.

"Just the man I'm looking for," the Marine said. "My name is Graham."

"How may I be of service, Colonel?"

"You can point me in the direction of the nearest head," Graham said. "And then I would like a few minutes of your time."

"I guess the Officers' Club is as close as anyplace," Wallace said, gesturing toward his car. "Unless you would prefer, Colonel, to let me have you set up in the VIP quarters?"

"The Club would be fine, thank you," Graham said.

“Can I still find something to eat here?" Graham asked when he had come out of the restroom and joined Wallace at a table in the barroom.

"Of course," Wallace said, signaling to a waiter.

"All I had on the plane was a bologna sandwich and a banana," Graham said.

"Well, we'll get you something here—the beef is invariably good—and then we'll take you to my office and settle your paperwork with my adjutant. How long will you be with us, Colonel?"

"Not long," Graham said. "I don't think I'll have to get involved with your adjutant."

"Excuse me?"

Graham reached in his pocket, didn't find what he was he was looking for, and then searched his other pockets until he did. He handed Wallace a somewhat battered envelope containing a single sheet of paper.

THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF

THE PENTAGON WASHINGTON, D.C.

1 January 1943

Subject: Letter Orders

To: Colonel A.F. Graham, USMCR

Office of Strategic Services

Washington, D.C.

1. You will proceed to such destinations as your duties require by U.S. Government or civilian motor, rail, sea or air transportation as is most expedient. JCS Travel Priority AAAAAA-1 is assigned. The wearing of civilian attire is authorized.

2. United States Military or Naval commands are authorized and directed to provide you with whatever assistance of any kind you may require to accomplish your mission(s).

By Order of The Chairman, The Joint Chiefs of Staff: OFFICIAL:

Matthew J. Markham

Lieutenant General, USAAC

J-3, JCS

"I don't think I've ever seen any orders like that," Colonel Wallace said, and then blurted: "We had some of your people in here recently, I expect you know."

"That was going to be my first question to you," Graham said, and then noticed the waiter was standing by the table. "You say the beef is good?"

"Excellent."

"I would like a steak, a New York strip, medium rare. French fried potatoes and a sliced tomato. Could I get that?"

The waiter nodded, then looked at Colonel Wallace.

"Just coffee, please," he said.

The waiter nodded and left.

"You said you 'had,' past tense, some of my people in here?" Graham asked.

"Yes, we did. A Marine Major Frade and an Army Captain Ashton, plus four men he identified to me as commissioned officers."

"Did Major Frade pick up the airplane?" Graham asked, and then interrupted himself. "Colonel, there was some confusion about the type airplane. What's the difference between a C-45 and a C-56?"

"A C-45 is what we call a 'light twin,'" Wallace explained. "The C-56 is the Lockheed Lodestar transport."

"The Lockheed Lodestar? The airliner?"

Wallace nodded.

"Major Frade . . . could fly the Lodestar?"

"He flew it out of here," Wallace said, "under somewhat unusual circumstances."

"Which were?"

"He asked permission to make some practice landings," Wallace said. "Which I of course granted. I also volunteered to accompany him—I have a good many hours in large, multiengine aircraft and believed I could impart some of my experience. He declined my offer."

"He did?"

"He then proceeded to the end of the runway," Wallace said, warming to his subject, "where he loaded aboard what I presume were the other OSS personnel, and took off. Against specific orders from the tower to abort his takeoff and return to Base Operations. He did not return. I'm afraid I have no idea where he is now, or the airplane."

"What makes you think he took aboard the other people?"

"They have not been seen since," Wallace said. "This places me in a very difficult position, Colonel, with the Brazilian authorities."

"How's that?"

"I had arranged with the appropriate authorities for them to clear the airplane through Customs, and to commence an international flight."

"Nobody told you to do that. All you were supposed to do was paint it red and paint some numbers on it. You did do that?"

"Yes, of course."

"When did Major Frade leave here?"

Colonel Wallace took his notebook from his pocket, flipped through it, and found what he was looking for.

"At 2126 hours 17 April," he said. He read further: "After ignoring four orders from the tower specifically ordering him to abort his takeoff and return to Base Operations."

"Just as soon as I see Major Frade, Colonel, I'll ask him why he did what you said he did."

"How would you suggest I deal with the Brazilian authorities, Colonel? They are still waiting to clear the aircraft."

"I'll tell you what happened to that aircraft, Colonel," Graham said. "The right engine was about to fall off."

"Excuse me?"

"You tell the Brazilian authorities you discovered the right engine of that airplane was about to fall off. Faulty bolts, or something. You have ordered replacement parts from the United States. Until they arrive, obviously, the airplane isn't going anywhere. When it's ready to go, you will get in touch with them again."

"That would be the uttering of a statement I know to be false."

"Yes, it would," Graham said.

"I couldn't do that without written authority," Wallace said.

"Of course you couldn't," Graham said. "I'll be happy to give you written authority. And then I suggest you prepare a full report of the entire incident, including this conversation, and forward it directly to General Markham at the Joint Chiefs."

Colonel Wallace considered that. From the look on his face, Graham concluded that he found the suggestion satisfactory. Or almost so.

"What will I say to the Brazilians if they should ask, some time from now, whatever happened to the aircraft?"

The waiter delivered Colonel Graham's food.

Graham cut a piece of steak, chewed it appreciatively, and then replied:

"Why don't you ask General Markham what to tell the Brazilians? When you write him?"

Wallace considered that for a long moment, then nodded his head.

"I think that should do it," he said.

"I'm sure it will," Graham said.

"And how may I be of service to you, Colonel?"

"I have to get to Buenos Aires as soon as possible," Graham said. "What would you suggest?"

"The simplest way would probably be for you to go to Rio de Janeiro and catch the Panagra flight. They usually have seats—people get off in Rio de Janeiro, and there are few people who fly from Rio to Buenos Aires."

1 flew to Porto Alegre on the Navy transport because it was considerably faster than Panagra's sea planes. Now this idiot is suggesting I fly north to Rio de Janeiro to try to get a seat on tomorrow's plane, which is the same one I didn't want to board in Miami.

"That'll take too long. Can you get me from here to Montevideo?"

"It would be difficult."

"Why?"

"It generally takes about four days—sometimes longer—to obtain permission from the Uruguayan authorities to land an American military aircraft in Uruguay."

"There's an airstrip, I have been told, in Chui, on the Brazilian-Uruguayan border," Graham said. "From Chui, on the other side of the border, it's only a hundred seventy-five miles to Montevideo. Can you put me in there?"

"Are you sure there's an airstrip in ... where did you say?"

"Chui," Graham said. "Yes, I'm sure."

"Well, if there is, it would be a small airstrip. You'd have to go in by L-4— Piper Cub. I'll look into it. When would you like to go?"

"As soon as I finish my lunch and change into civilian clothing," Graham said.

[FOUR]

Visiting Officers' Quarters

First Cavalry Regiment

Camp a de Mayo

Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

1515 18 April 1943

"Where are you?" Dorotea Mallin demanded, by way of greeting, the moment she came on the line.

"Don't ask," Clete said.

"What does that mean, 'don't ask'?"

"I can't tell you, is what it means."

"What am I supposed to tell Father Matthew?"

"What?" Clete asked as his memory kicked in half a second later and identified Father Matthew as the Very Reverend Matthew Cashley-Price of the Anglican Cathedral. Provided Clete and Dorotea underwent premarital counseling under his direction, Father Matthew was going to unite them in holy matrimony.

"Cletus, damn you, you heard what Father Matthew said. We have to have premarital counseling. He's called twice a day since you . . . since you disappeared. Where have you been? Where are you?"

"Honey, you just have to stall him for a couple of days."

"That's simply out of the question," Dorotea announced with feminine imperialism. "I don't care where you are or what you're doing, you have to call Father Matthew, right now, apologize, and set up an appointment."

"I can't, Princess," Clete said.

Her entire tone of voice changed.

"My God, you're in some sort of trouble."

"No."

That's not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. But at the moment, 1 'm not actually in trouble.

"Yes, you are. I can tell by your voice."

"Honey, I'm not," Clete said. "Really, I'm not. But I'm . . . tied up . . ."

"Tied up how?"

". . . for the next couple of days."

"Tied up how?"

"With rope. To the bed."

"You don't really think you're funny?"

"Princess, you're just going to have to trust me."

"Why should I?"

Clete replied with the truth without thinking much about the possible ramifications of that.

"You don't have any choice, honey," he said.

Dorotea hung up on him.

He was standing with the handset in his hand, his finger holding down the switch, wondering whether it would be better to call her back or not, when he heard the door creak open.

Teniente Colonel Bernardo Mart?n and Capitan Roberto Lauffer came into the room. Mart?n was in mufti and carrying a well-worn leather briefcase, while Lauffer was not only in uniform but wearing a Sam Browne belt with a saber hanging from one side of it, an Argentine .45 automatic in a glistening molded leather holster riding high on the other side.

Enrico, who had been sitting on the windowsill, stood up and came to attention.

Lauffer waved his hand at him to stand at ease.

"If I'd known there was a telephone in here, I would have had it removed," Mart?n said, turning his back to Clete as he closed the door. He turned and asked: "Who were you talking to?"

Clete—just in time—bit off the "none of your goddamned business" reply that came to his lips.

For one thing, who I talk to is his business, and for another, he has enough to worry about without getting into a verbal duel with me.

"My . . . fianc?e," Clete said.

"Oh. You didn't happen to tell her where you were, did you?"

"No. Nor where I've been. She was curious about that, too."

Lauffer smiled.

"What was the subject of your conversation?" Mart?n asked, and Clete saw a faint smile on his face too, before he added, "or is that too intimate a question for a gentleman such as myself to ask?"

"The Very Reverend Matthew Cashley-Price, of the Anglican Cathedral," Clete said, and had to smile, "is apparently greatly annoyed that I have been unable to fit him and his premarital counseling into my busy schedule. And consequently, so is the lady."

"Shame on you," Mart?n said, now smiling wickedly. "Before taking a serious step, like marriage, one should have all sorts of counseling. How did the conversation end?"

"She hung up on me when I said she had no choice but to trust me," Clete said.

Lauffer chuckled.

"It would appear that your charming fianc?e and I have the same problem," Mart?n said. "We both have no choice but to trust you. As we both do, I'm sure. The question is not if we trust you, really, but how far, isn't it?"

Clete felt his temper start to simmer.

I'm here, aren't I? With the airplane?

"You have no reason not to trust me, Coronel," Clete said.

No longer smiling, Mart?n looked at him for a long moment.

"I inform you now, Mayor Frade," he announced formally, "that you are a prisoner of the armed forces of the Provisional Government of Argentina, and ask you now, Mayor Frade, if, as an officer and a gentleman, you will offer your parole to me?"

Clete's temper began to boil over.

"A prisoner? What the hell is that all about?"

"A record will be made of your arrest," Mart?n said. "And of the seizure by the Provisional Government of your aircraft. In the event events do not go as planned, those records will come into the possession of the Castillo government. Possibly, they may—"

"Oh, come on, Mart?n!" Clete interrupted. "If you can't pullOutline Blue off, and we all get arrested, Castillo's people will look at my, quote, arrest, unquote, and the, quote, seizure, unquote, of the Lockheed and see it for what it is, a transparent attempt to get me off the hook. Christ, they know damned well my father started the whole goddamned thing!"

“What are you saying?"

“I'm saying that when I landed that airplane here, I knew what I was getting myself into."

"That's what General Rawson thought you would say," Lauffer said emotionally, "as your father's son, as the great-grandson of General Pueyrred?n. That you would join us!"

"Don't get carried away, Roberto," Clete said. "I'll fly the airplane, if it comes down to that, but I'm not enlisting in your army."

"Actually, the subject of a temporary commission did come up," Mart?n said. "Would you be willing—"

"I already have a Marine Corps commission," Clete said.

"This would be a temporary commission," Mart?n said. "It would solve a lot of problems. . . ."

"Would I have to swear an oath? Of allegiance?"

"Yes, naturally. Of course."

"The moment I did that," Clete said, "I would lose my American citizenship."

"That would be difficult for you?"

"Yeah, it would," Clete said without thinking about it. "I don't want to do that."

He happened to glance at Martin's eyes.

And saw in them that he had just closed a door that would never again be opened.

If I had accepted that temporary commission under these circumstances, where accepting it might mean that I would find myself standing in front of a wall with Rawson, Martin, and Lauffer, even if it lasted only three days, they would thereafter have accepted me as a bona fide Argentine. Now that will never happen.

Well, so be it. I'm an American. I don't want to give that up.

"That leaves you, of course," Mart?n said, cordially enough, "as the English would put it, as neither fish nor good red meat."

"I guess it does," Clete said.

"I'm turning you over to Capitan Lauffer," Mart?n said. "Until this is over, I want you to be with him. If using the airplane becomes necessary, you will receive that word from him."

"Fine with me," Clete said.

"As an officer and a gentleman, I would like you to give me your parole," Mart?n said.

"What kind of a parole?"

"That you will not leave Campo de Mayo, nor communicate with anyone outside Campo de Mayo, without the express permission of Capitan Lauffer or myself."

"I've already told you that I'll fly the airplane. But I will need to use the telephone. What if I give you my word I will not mention, in any way,Outline Blue?"

"I don't think you're talking about telephoning your fianc?e," Mart?n said. "You're concerned about Sergeant Ettinger? Is that what you mean?"

Clete nodded.

"Delgano told you he took the car ferry to Montevideo?"

Clete nodded again.

"I'm sorry, Mayor," Mart?n said. "You will not be in any position to help Ettinger untilOutline Blue has run its course. If I hear anything, I will let you know. I will require your parole."

"Or what?"

"Or I will place an armed guard at your door."

"OK," Clete said. "I won't try to leave, and I won't communicate with anyone without your permission."

"On your word of honor as an officer and a gentleman?"

"On my word of honor as an officer and a gentleman," Clete parroted.

I wonder if I mean that? What is the really honorable thing to do? Pass up an opportunity to try to keep one of my men alive? Or live up to Martin's adult version of Boy Scout's Honor?

"Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez," Mart?n said, turning to Enrico, "are you armed?"

Enrico looked at Clete for guidance.

"Tell him, Enrico."

“S?, mi coronel," Enrico said, patting the small of his back to indicate that he had a pistol concealed there.

Mart?n picked his briefcase up from where he had set it on the floor, opened it, and produced a .45 automatic.

"I really hope you won't have occasion to need this," he said, handing it to Clete.

Then he nodded at Lauffer and left the room.

[FIVE]

The Embassy of the United States of America

Montevideo, Uruguay

2205 18 April 1943

"I will take you there, Se?or, of course," the taxi driver at the bus terminal said to the somewhat rumpled-looking middle-aged man, "but it is a long way, an expensive trip, and the norteamericano Embassy is not open at this hour."

"You are very kind, Se?or," Colonel A. F. Graham, USMCR— and have just earned yourself a very nice tip—"but please take me there anyway. Someone is waiting for me."

That's the absolute opposite of the truth. If I can find Stevenson, he will be the most surprised sonofabitch in Uruguay.

The Embassy of the United States was in a stone villa, inside a tall stone-and-steel-spear fence. A brass sign was on the fence gate pillar, and a painted wooden sign announced the hours the Embassy was open for business. The gate was firmly closed with a heavy chain and a large padlock.

There was also an intercom device with a button.

Graham pushed the button. Thirty seconds later, a voice barely comprehensible through static—but obviously American—announced "Cerrado"— Closed.

Deciding that communication over that device would be impossible, Graham put his finger back on the button and held it there.

There were several more "closed" announcements over the next two minutes, and then there was a flash of light as the door of the Embassy villa opened and an indignant young man in Marine khakis appeared and shouted, "Cerrado! Cerrado!"

Graham kept his finger on the button until the Marine—a corporal—came down to the gate.

"Cerrado, Se?or," he said with finality.

"Good evening, Corporal. My name is Graham. I would like to see Mr. Ralph Stevenson, who is the Cultural Attach?."

The Corporal was visibly surprised that the middle-aged man wearing rumpled clothes and badly needing a shave spoke English so well.

"Sorry. We're closed. You'll have to come back in the morning."

"I would like to see either Mr. Stevenson, please, or the duty officer."

"You American?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am."

"Is this some sort of bona fide emergency?"

"Yes, I would say so, Corporal."

"What kind of an emergency?"

"Corporal, listen to me carefully. I may not look like one, but I happen to be a colonel of the United States Marine Corps."

It was clear that the corporal thought this highly unlikely.

"Is that so? You got anything to prove it, Colonel!"

Colonel Graham had with him his Marine Corps identification card, his JCS Letter Orders, and another plastic enclosed card identifying him as the Deputy Director For Western Hemisphere Operations of the Office of Strategic Services. But before leaving Porto Alegre, he had placed all of these documents into the false bottom of one of his suitcases.

But, he realized, he was not without the means to convince the corporal that he was a fellow Marine.

"Listen to me, son," he said. "Unless I am inside the Embassy talking to the Duty Officer within the next thirty seconds, you're going to be a buck private on your way to permanent duty cleaning mess-hall grease pits on Parris Island so fast it will take a week for your ass to catch up with you. Now open this goddamned gate!"

"Aye, aye, Sir," the corporal said as he reached for the key to the padlock. As they reached the open door to the Embassy building, the corporal volunteered the information that Mr. Stevenson was in the building but had left orders that he was not to be disturbed by anybody but the Ambassador.

"That was before I got here, son," Graham said. "Tell him I'm here."

"Aye, aye, Sir," the corporal said. "I'll take you to his office."

"Thank you."

The office of the Cultural Attach? was in the basement of the villa. The corporal knocked on the door.

It was opened by a nice-looking young man in his thirties whose face bore a look of resigned tolerance.

"Corporal, I said I didn't want to be bothered," he said, and then saw Graham. "Jesus Christ! Colonel Graham!"

"Hello, Stevenson," Graham said.

"You know the Colonel, Sir?" the corporal asked. "Yes, I do," Stevenson said.

"Yes, Sir. Then I'll just log him in."

"No, Corporal, don't do that," Graham said. "Actually, since you didn't see me, there's no reason to log me in." The corporal looked at Stevenson.

"You didn't see Colonel Graham, Corporal," Stevenson said. "I'll explain this to the Security Officer."

"Yes, Sir."

"Come in, Colonel," Stevenson said. There was a man sitting on a battered leather couch in Stevenson's small office.

"Don't tell me this is the legendary Colonel A. F. Graham in the flesh," the man said.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Leibermann, and before you jump all over Stevenson's ass for talking to me, I came to see him."

"Is that so? Why?"

"Has my fame preceded me?" Leibermann asked. "Can I infer from the utter lack of surprise on your face that you know who I am?"

"I know who you are, Mr. Leibermann. What I'm curious about is what you're doing here."

"Tex Frade asked me to see what I could do to keep your man Ettinger alive. I'm sorry to tell you I failed."

"What are you saying? Ettinger's dead?"

"Dead, and they mutilated the corpse to send a message."

"What kind of a message? To whom?"

"That's what Stevenson and I were talking about," Leibermann said. "But since Stevenson won't tell me what Ettinger was doing over here, we aren't doing very well with our little game of Twenty Questions."

"I told you, Milton, I don't know what Ettinger was doing there," Stevenson protested. "I never heard his name before you walked in here tonight!"

You call him by his first name, do you, Stevenson? That means that (a) you are probably seeing more of him than Wild Bill Donovan would like you to, (b) that you like him, and (c) Leibermann likes you, or else he wouldn't have made a point of telling me he came to see you to keep him out of trouble with me.

"What does this mean, Colonel?" Leibermann asked sarcastically. "That the OSS not only doesn't talk to FBI, they don't talk to each other, either?"

"I think the word is 'compartmentalization,'" Graham said. "Nobody knows anything more than they have to."

"Of course, all I am is a simple accountant, not a secret agent, like you two, so I may be missing the big picture on this, but my word for that is 'stupid.'"

"When did this happen?" Graham asked.

"According the local cops, he'd been dead about thirty hours when they found him."

"Where did they find him?"

"There's a sort of a seaside resort here called Carrasco. They found him in the sand dunes about a mile north of the hotel—actually it's a gambling casino and hotel—where he was staying. His car is in the casino garage. No signs of a struggle in his room."

"How did they kill him? How was he mutilated?"

"Ice pick in the ear," Leibermann said. "And, postmortem, they severed his penis and placed it in his mouth. That's what we were talking about when you showed up."

"Why would they do that?" Graham asked.

"Are we talking to each other to the point where we agree that probable bad guys are the Germans?" Leibermann asked. "OK, why would the Germans do that?"

"I don't think the Germans would," Leibermann said. "They might do something imaginative, like hang a gasoline-filled tire around him and set it on fire, but I don't think they'd cut off a Yiddisher's schwantz. and stick it in his mouth. They'd have to touch it."

He mimed lifting the penile member erect and then sawing on it with a knife.

"Isn't that sort of thing, the penis in the mouth, associated with gangs in the United States?" Graham asked.

"The true indication of somebody else's intelligence is how much he agrees with you," Leibermann said. "My own theory of what happened is that the local branch of Murder Incorporated was hired by parties unknown but who probably have offices in the German Embassy. The reason for the contract was that Ettinger knew too much and talked. The local cops tell me that's what happens down here, too, to people who talk too much."

"You say Frade asked for your help?" Graham asked.

Leibermann nodded.

"When was that?"

"A little after noon today."

"Do you know where he is now?"

"Hey, I'm the FBI. I'm supposed to ask the questions. You guys are supposed to blow things up."

"Very funny, Milton," Graham said. "You don't mind if I call you Milton, do you?"

"Not if I can call you Alejandro," Leibermann said.

Christ. He even knows my first name.

"I would be honored if you called me Alejandro, Milton," Graham said. "And very grateful if you would tell me where Frade is."

"He told me he was invited to a party and couldn't turn down the invitation. Clever fellow that I am, I think he was telling me the coup d’?tat has started."

"Did he happen to mention anything about an airplane?"

"What did you do, get him one to replace the one he put on the bottom of Samboromb?n Bay?"

Graham happened to glance at Stevenson. From his face, it was obvious that he was hearing a number of things for the first time.

"If I answer that so subtly phrased question, will you answer a question for me?'

"That depends on how subtle your answer is," Leibermann said, smiling at him.

"Yes. We got him another airplane. He picked it up in Brazil, and had aboard another OSS team. It was supposed to be a small twin, but it turned out to be a Lockheed airliner, a Lodestar. Since that was the first time Frade has flown a Lodestar, so far as I know, I have been naturally wondering if he and the people with him made it all right."

"That wasn't evasive at all, Colonel," Leibermann said. "So I will reply in kind. Frade landed at his estancia with the Lockheed. They unloaded five people—almost certainly your OSS team—and some crates, and then took off again. I don't know where to."

"How reliable is that information?" Graham asked.

"The man I have on Frade's estancia is pretty reliable."

"A minute ago, Milton, when I asked about an airplane, you weren't exactly truthful, were you?" Graham said.

"I was obfuscatory," Leibermann said. "The first time you asked me about an airplane was before I knew you had really stopped playing games. So I was obfuscatory."

"Do the names 'Galahad' and 'Cavalry' mean anything to you, Milton?"

"These sources? Code names for sources?" Leibermann asked, as if he didn't expect a reply. "You got them from Frade?" Now he waited for Graham to nod. "I haven't a clue about who Galahad might be," he went on. "But Cavalry might be Martin. You know who I mean, the BIS guy?"

Graham nodded again.

"I'll ask around, if it's important to you," Leibermann said. "Is it important?"

"Important enough for me to come down here," Graham said. "Which is the next thing on my agenda. I need to get to Buenos Aires. How's the best way?"

"The best way is to catch the eight-o'clock boat ferry in the morning. That'll put you into Buenos Aires a little before two."

"That's not quick enough," Graham said.

"You're out of luck," Leibermann said. "There's no other way tonight. You missed the boat, to coin a phrase."

"What about driving?"

"There's a ferry across the border into Entre Rios Province," Stevenson said. "But it stops running at ten. I'm afraid Mr. Leibermann is right, Colonel. You're stuck here for the night."

Graham shrugged.

"Colonel, what about Ettinger's body?" Stevenson asked.

"What about it?"

"What do we do with it when the police release it?"

God forgive me, that subject never entered my mind.

"Ettinger was here as a private citizen. What happens when a private citizen dies down here?"

"I really don't know," Stevenson said. "I'll have to ask one of the diplomats, the Consul General."

"No. You go to the Ambassador. You tell them Ettinger died in the service of his country. I want him put in a casket with a flag on it, and I want him taken to Porto Alegre, Brazil, escorted by the Military Attach? and a couple of Marines from the Embassy Guard. They can fly him home from there. You tell the Ambassador I said that's what going to happen, and all you want from him is to tell his people to do it."

"Yes, Sir."

"Do it now, tonight," Graham said. "And send off a message to Oracle— right now—so somebody can let his mother know what happened."

"Yes, Sir."

"Where can I stay tonight?"

"There's room in my apartment, Sir," Stevenson said.

"Where are you staying, Milton?"

"I've got a room in the Casino Hotel I told you about."

"Could I get a room there?"

"Probably. But there's two beds in my room, if there's a problem."

"That might be best of all," Graham said. "Once I have a shower and a shave, and change into clean clothes, I think that you and I ought to have a long talk, Milton."

"I was hoping that's what you had in mind, Alejandro," Leibermann said.

Chapter Twenty-Two

[ONE]

Visiting Officers' Quarters

First Cavalry Regiment

Campo de Mayo

Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

0125 19 April 1943

The lights in the room went on. Clete, startled, sat up in the bed.

Capitan Roberto Lauffer was standing just inside the door, by the light switch. He was fully dressed, and wore a blue-and-white-striped band of cloth around his right arm. The door was open, and through it Clete could see two soldiers armed with Thompson submachine guns. They both looked maybe seventeen years old—and terrified. They also had the blue-and-white—the Argentine colors—armbands.

"Sorry to wake you, Cletus," Lauffer said politely. "But something has come up. The order to execute immediately has been given."

Nice choice of words, Roberto! It's really great to have someone waking you up in the middle of the night saying things like "the order to execute immediately has been given."

The door to the other bedroom opened, and Enrico, in baggy cotton undershirt and drawers, came in. He had his right hand behind his back.

I don't think Enrico's scratching his ass; he's got his .45 back there.

"Buenos dias, mi Capitan."

"The order for immediate execution ofOutline Blue has been issued, Suboficial Mayor," Lauffer said formally.

"I will get dressed, Se?or," Enrico said.

Clete swung his feet out of bed.

"What are you talking about?" Clete asked. "What's this 'execute immediately' order all about?"

"Castillo knows that Blue Sky was ordered—the command to executeOutline Blue," Lauffer explained. "He sent messages to every command, stating that General Ramirez has resigned as Minister of War, that any orders Ramirez might issue are to be ignored, and that General Savaronna has taken his place."

"Who's Savaronna?"

"He was Castillo's Minister of Labor," Lauffer furnished, and then went on: "We expected something like that might happen, Coronel Mart?n predicted it. The only thing that's changed is that General Ramirez has ordered us to move now."

"Instead of when?"

"Instead of tomorrow morning," Lauffer said. "I thought you readOutline Blue."

"Not that carefully."

"And under the circumstances, General Rawson feels that we should make sure the airplane will be ready. Just in case it's needed."

Clete had put on clean underwear, stockings, and a clean shirt. He stood looking at the closet where Enrico had hung up his clothing. He had his choice of a business suit or the riding breeches and boots he wore flying the Lockheed into Campo de Mayo.

"I don't think my diplomat's uniform is the appropriate uniform of the day," he thought aloud.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing," Clete said, and reached for the riding breeches.

"I don't know whether you will feel comfortable with these," Lauffer said when Clete had finished—with a loud grunt—pulling on his riding boots. "But General Ramirez said I should offer them to you."

Lauffer extended to him a blue-and-white armband, together with two safety pins and an envelope. Clete opened it. It contained a single sheet of paper:

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

Campo de Mayo

19 April 1943

Se?or Cletus Howell Frade is in the service of the Provisional Government of the Republic of Argentina, acting under the direct orders of the undersigned.

Ramirez

Teniente General Pedro P. Ramirez

Minister of War

Provisional Government of the Republic of Argentina

Rawson

General de Division Arturo Rawson

Presidente of the Governing Council

Provisional Government of the Republic of Argentina

The point of his crack about being comfortable with these is that I turned down that temporary commission.

Clete took his tweed jacket from its hanger, laid it on the bed, and pinned the blue-and-white-striped armband to it. He put it on, then looked at Lauffer.

"'Rawson's the new President, huh?"

"Until elections can be held," Lauffer said.

Or until they stand us all in front of a wall wearing blindfolds and offer us a last cigarette, right? Whichever comes first?

Enrico came into the room, wearing what apparently was the prescribed uniform for field service. This included a leather harness ringed with well-polished leather clip holders for a rifle, a well-polished molded holster for his .45, and a cavalry saber in a scabbard.

“You have one of these armbands for him?" Clete asked.

Lauffer handed Enrico an armband. When it became apparent that Enrico was going to have trouble pinning it on without taking his jacket off—and that meant also unstrapping his leather harness and belt—Clete took it from him and pinned it on for him.

"I have a car outside," Lauffer said.

"Your pistol, Se?or Cletus?" Enrico said.

"Well, we can't forget that, can we?" Clete said, and bent over and took the pistol from where he had stored it under the bed.

In a Marine Pavlovian reflex, he ejected the magazine, pulled the action back, saw that the chamber was empty, let the slide go forward, lowered the hammer, and replaced the magazine. Then he looked at the pistol.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Not only don't I want to shoot anybody with it, but I don't have a holster.

He remembered that Enrico often carried his pistol in the small of his back. He could not work the pistol under his waistband until he had loosened his belt.

There is a very good chance that this thing will slip down my ass, into my pants leg, and clatter noisily onto the ground. What I should do is just leave it here.

But I don't really want to do that.

Lauffer was waving him through the door.

A 1940 Chevrolet, painted in the Argentine shade of olive drab, was parked by the curb outside the building. The driver held open the door and saluted as Clete, Lauffer, and Enrico squeezed into the backseat. That was not easy, and both Enrico and Lauffer had trouble arranging their sabers.

The two soldiers with Thompsons squeezed into the front seat beside the driver.

It must be even more crowded up there with those tommy guns.

Fifty-round drum magazines, too.

I wonder if either of those kids knows how to shoot a Thompson?

Here lies Major Cletus H. Frade, USMCR, who survived Guadalcanal but died in a South American revolution when he was shot by mistake by a nervous seventeen-year-old who didn't know that unless you let go of the trigger, the Thompson will keep shooting.

The driver turned on the headlights and started off.

"Turn off the lights!" Lauffer ordered sharply.

"Why?" Clete asked as the lights faded.

"We want to mobilize with as much secrecy as possible," Lauffer said seriously, and as if the question surprised him.

Don't you think that Castillo has somebody out here with orders to report immediately when anything out of the ordinary happens?

The Chevrolet crawled to the end of the block and turned right onto a row of two-story barracks.

All the lights in the barracks were on, and soldiers were sleepily forming ranks in the street.

Clete, with effort, said nothing about lights in the barracks.

Five minutes later, they reached the airfield.

The guard detail there was under the command of a nervous infantry major who ordered everybody out of the car. He examined the interior with the aid of a flashlight, and did not seem at all happy with the document signed by the President of the Governing Council of the Provisional Government of the Republic of Argentina and his Minister of War vis-a-vis a Se?or Cletus H. Frade.

Finally, however, he passed them through the barricade—fifty-five-gallon drums set in the middle of the street—into the airfield property.

The lights inside both hangers were on, and so were the floodlights mounted on the hangers to illuminate the parking ramp. Clete saw a half-dozen small airplanes, including two Piper Cubs and a Fieseler Storch— that's probably the one Mart?n came to the estancia in.The others he thought were English, but he wasn't sure.

There were also what looked like two platoons of infantrymen, in field gear, armed with Mauser rifles, standing at ease in ranks, with their officers, in riding breeches and high-crowned brimmed caps, standing in front of them, hands on their swords, smoking cigarettes and trying to look calm and nonchalant.

Not one of these guys, including Lauffer, has ever heard a shot fired in anger.

I don't see any bigger airplanes. Are those half-dozen puddle jumpers all they keep out here ?

"I don't see any larger airplanes than those Piper Cubs and the Storch," Clete said, making it a question.

“The bombers and transport aircraft are on maneuvers in Tucuman Province," Lauffer said.

"When did that happen?" Clete asked.

"Four days ago," Lauffer said. "Coronel Mart?n advised General Ramirez that the Air Service was not in sympathy with the G.O.U. General Ramirez then ordered them to Tucuman Province," Lauffer said.

Well, that explains why it was so important to get the Lockheed here, doesn't it? No Lockheed, no way out.

"You think they will stay there?"

"We hope so. Orders were issued at midnight to detain their commanding officers until further orders."

The Chevrolet stopped by the side door of the closest hangar. Everybody got out of the car.

"There are supposed to be men here to push the airplane from the hangar," Lauffer said. "But something may have gone wrong, and they may not have arrived. We may have to push it ourselves."

What's wrong with those infantrymen? Why can't they push the airplane out of the hangar?

Capitan Delgano, in civilian clothing and wearing a blue-and-white-striped armband, walked out of the hangar.

I wondered where you were.

He then had another thought.

"Roberto," he asked finally, and carefully. "Am I allowed to make a comment, a suggestion?"

"Of course," Lauffer said.

"Everybody seems a little nervous," Clete said.

"I think that's to be expected, don't you?" Lauffer replied a little stiffly.

"I was thinking that everybody is already wondering what that Lockheed is doing here in the first place. What I mean is that somebody has probably already figured out it's intended to fly Rawson and Ramirez and the others out of here if this thing goes wrong."

"I'm sure that thought has occurred to some people," Lauffer said.

"Roberto, the moment we roll that airplane out of the hangar, and I start the engines, everybody's going to think the revolution is over and our side lost."

"Why would they think that?"

"That's what I would think if I were them," Delgano said, nodding at the infantrymen.

"What do you suggest, Mayor Frade?" Lauffer asked formally.

"Have you had the tanks topped off?" Clete asked.

Delgano nodded.

"Then there's no point in rolling it out of the hangar and making anybody nervous. If we need it, we can roll it out then."

"General Rawson ordered me to make sure the aircraft is ready," Lauffer said.

"Tell him it's ready, Delgano," Clete said. "All we need to get it out of here is to open the hangar doors." He thought of something else. "It would also be nice if I knew where we're going. Or don't you trust me with that information?"

"You will be informed when—" Lauffer said.

"Asuncion, Paraguay," Delgano interrupted. "It's thirteen hundred kilometers. Would you like to see the flight plan I laid out?"

"If Capitan Lauffer thinks I can be trusted with it," Clete said. "I would like very much to see it.

"It's inside," Delgano said, gesturing in the direction of the hangar.

When they started to walk toward the hangar door, Clete saw the infantry officers watching carefully.

Fifteen minutes later, after checking Delgano's flight plan and walking him through another preflight check, they came out of the hangar. When they did, there was visible relief on the faces of the infantry officers.

But Lauffer was not through.

"You do not wish to test the aircraft's engines? Could that be done inside the hangar?"

"Not without opening the doors," Clete said. "The prop blast would very likely knock the doors off their tracks and then you'd never get it out of the hangar."

"I'll go to General Rawson and tell him that it was my decision not to roll the aircraft from the hangar," Delgano said. "If that's what you'd like."

Lauffer considered that a moment.

"I think it would be best if Se?or Frade did that," he said. "I suggest that you stay here and hold yourself in readiness."

"Whatever you say, Capitan," Delgano said, his tone suggesting that he was at least as disappointed with Lauffer as Clete was. Lauffer seemed more interested in making sure no one could criticize his actions tonight than anything else.

[TWO]

Officers' Casino

Campo de Mayo

Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

0225 19 April 1943

The muzzles of what looked like .30-caliber air-cooled Browning machine guns poked from upstairs windows in the Officers' Casino (which was what the Argentine Army called their Officers' Club). There were two sandbagged machinegun positions on the lawn of the club, and there were a number of soldiers— mostly noncoms—guarding the door who looked as if they knew what they were supposed to do with their rifles and submachine guns.

The capitan in charge of the building's guard detail would not pass Lauffer, Clete, and Enrico into the lobby of the building until one of his lieutenants had gone inside the building to "check with el Coronel Per?n."

They got inside as far as the door of what looked like the Main Dining Room, converted now to the command post where Ramirez and Rawson were directing the coup d’?tat, before they were stopped again to wait further clearance.

Clete looked inside, and decided that while this place looked like a command post—there were maps on the wall; batteries of telephones; messengers coming and going and the like—there was something about it that reminded him of the command post training exercises he'd gone through during his officer's training. Then the aviation cadets had played at being squadron and air group commanders and staff officers, and solemnly pretended they knew what they were doing. There was somehow the same flavor here. Everybody seemed to be playing a role, and only a few people seemed to act as if they really knew what they were doing.

El Coronel Juan Domingo Per?n himself, in an immaculate, splendidly tailored uniform, finally approached the door and waved them inside.

"There is a problem with the aircraft?" he asked.

"It will be available on five minutes' notice," Clete answered.

Per?n looked at Clete and then at Lauffer, his attitude making it clear that he wasn't interested in what Clete had to say.

"Is the aircraft available?" Per?n asked.

Screw you, Coronel!

"Se?or Frade thought it best not to take the aircraft from the hangar," Lauffer said.

"What?" Per?n asked indignantly.

"I thought it better to leave it in the hangar . . . ," Clete began, and stopped when he saw General Rawson walking toward them.

"Is there a problem?" Rawson asked.

"No problem," Clete said. "The aircraft is available on five minutes' notice. It will take me that long to get it out of the hangar and warm the engines."

Rawson looked at Clete with his eyebrows raised questioningly.

"My thought, General," Clete said, "was that—"

"Lauffer, why did you bring Se?or Frade here?" Per?n interrupted.

"Excuse me, Coronel," Clete said, "I was speaking to the General."

Per?n glared at him. Rawson made a face and then gestured for Clete to continue.

"If we rolled the airplane out of the hangar and started the engines, it might give people the idea we were about to use it," Clete said. "Which seemed to me to be both unnecessary and unwise."

Rawson considered that a moment, then said, "You're right. I should have thought of that."

Per?n's face tightened, but he didn't offer a comment.

"Capitan Delgano is with the airplane?" Rawson asked.

“S?, mi General," Lauffer said.

"Coronel Per?n and I are about to have a final word with Coronel Tarramanno of the First Cavalry," Rawson said."Outline Blue calls for them to begin their march at two-thirty. I suggest that you stay here with Capitan Lauffer, Se?or Frade, in case we need you."

"Yes, Sir."

"With a little luck, we won't, but I'd like to have you available," Rawson said. "Take a look at the situation map. And if you have any other thoughts, please give them to me."

"Yes, Sir."

Per?n's face was now as stiff as a board.

"Your car is outside, Roberto?" Rawson asked.

“S?, mi General."

"Then we'll use it," Rawson said. "Let's go, Coronel."

The Situation Map was actually a collection of maps, all taped to a sectional sliding wall normally used to break the large dining room into smaller rooms. In the center were large maps of Argentina, one showing the upper half of the country, and the other the lower.

On the maps flag pins located both provincial capitals and military bases. The pins were either black or red, and Clete wondered about the significance of the colors until he spotted a blue-and-white pin on the map of the upper half of Argentina, looked closer, and saw that it marked Campo de Mayo.

The blue-and-white flag pin obviously identified locations under control of the revolutionaries.

So far, there's only one blue-and-white flag.

Confirmation of the meaning of the flag pins came almost immediately, when a lieutenant stepped to the map and replaced the black pins that marked Santo Tome and the Second Cavalry post outside Santo Tome with blue-and-white pins.

Obviously, word had just come in that the Second Cavalry had not only joined the revolution, but had taken over the city of Santo Tome.

Clete moved to the right of the central maps to one of Buenos Aires and Entre R?os Provinces. Here more than a dozen blue-and-white pins marked the location of military bases and cities. But there were far more black "undecided," Clete judged—pins than blue-and-white, and there were two dozen red pins, which probably marked units and locations that were opposed to the ouster of President Castillo's government.

On these maps, too, were grease pencil marks outlining the routes of march the military units controlled by G.O.U. would take from Campo de Mayo and other military bases to the Casa Rosada.

A major politely moved him away from the map and inserted two different pins, one blue and one yellow, both numbered "1" at the gate to Campo de Mayo. These obviously represented the First Cavalry and First Infantry Regiments, which were at this moment preparing to begin their march.

Two minutes later, the major replaced the black pins marking the location of the barracks of the Second Infantry, the Buenos Aires garrison troops, and the cantonment of the Navy's School of Engineering. Clete knew where both military bases were. The Second Infantry's barracks were near the Army's polo fields across from the racetrack (and near Uncle Willy's house) and the Navy School was on Avenida del Libertador several miles closer to Campo de Mayo.

The new flag pin on the Second Infantry was blue-and-white, and the new flag pin on the Navy Engineering School was red. The Navy was apparently staying with Castillo.

What does that mean? Will they fight the First Infantry when they see them coming down Avenida del Libertador? With what? The Navy usually doesn't have many small arms, just enough rifles and pistols to arm Navy guards.

In the next few minutes, with decreasing courtesy, he was moved out of the way to allow a procession of officers and noncoms to replace pins all over the map.

Finally realizing with more than a little chagrin that he was really bothering people, he turned from the wall of maps and got out of the way.

At one side of the room he saw a table tended by white-jacketed waiters, and walked to it. Coffee and pastry was being served. That, like the swords dangling from every officer's Sam Browne belt, seemed grossly incongruous to him, but apparently to no one else.

He took a cup of coffee and a roll and found an armchair, sat down, and stretched out his legs. The coffee was very hot, and he set the cup down on the wide arm of the chair to let it cool.

He was a well-nourished young man in excellent physical condition, and quite naturally excited to be taken out of bed in the middle of the night to witness a coup d’?tat.

But on the other hand, during the last seventy-seven hours he had traveled from Buenos Aires to Santo Tome by train; crossed into Brazil by ferry, and then been driven across Brazil by a driver who apparently believed the two speeds of a car were On and Off; received four hours' intense, if rudimentary, instruction in the operation of a Lockheed C-56Lodestar aircraft; flown that two-pilot aircraft without assistance, using dead-reckoning navigation, illegally across the Brazilian-Argentine border; landed it at night in a heavy rainstorm on a too-short, unpaved landing strip illuminated by gasoline burning in clay pots; flown the aircraft the next morning from Santo Tome onto another dirt strip at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and then from the estancia to Campo de Mayo.

The next thing Clete knew, Enrico was gently shaking him.

"Se?or Cletus," the old soldier said, gently reproving him. "You are snoring."

Clete looked at his Hamilton. It was quarter past five.

Jesus Christ!

What did you do in the revolution, Daddy?

Why, son, I slept through it.

He rose quickly out of the chair and walked back to the wall of maps.

General Rawson was there, with Lauffer standing beside him.

Looking over Rawson's shoulder, he could see that almost all of the flag pins on the map of Buenos Aires were now blue-and-white.

Almost all. Not all.

There were more than a dozen red flag pins, mostly congregated around the Casa Rosada, but also on the Edificio Libertador, and, surprising Clete, on the Naval School of Engineering. Near that red flag pin was the blue flag pin with the numeral 1, identifying the First Infantry Regiment.

He looked for and found the yellow flag of the First Cavalry. It was on the intersection of Avenida Cordoba and Avenida Pueyrred?n, less than a mile from the Casa Rosada. Beside it was the blue flag pin of the Second Infantry.

General Rawson sensed somebody behind him and looked over his shoulder.

"You must have a clear conscience, Se?or Frade," Rawson said, letting him know that he had seen him sleeping—or possibly heard him snoring. "Either that, or you have a commendable faith inOutline Blue."

He's in a good mood. The revolution must be on track.

"The latter, mi General," Clete said. "Judging from the map, it looks like it's going well."

"Not here," Rawson said, pointing at the School of Naval Warfare. "There is resistance here. Machine guns. There have been some casualties. The First Infantry is stalled."

Clete blurted, "Can't they bypass it? Come back later and clean it out?"

"They could, they should, and I have ordered them to do precisely that," Rawson said. "I had to order the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry to stop their advance."

He pointed to those flags.

"I don't understand."

"I am not in communication with the commanding officer of the First Infantry," Rawson explained. "They had a radio truck with them, but it has stopped functioning, and the telephone lines all along Libertador are not working. They were probably disconnected by the Navy; there is a switching station inside the compound."

What about sending a messenger?

Rawson read his mind.

"I've sent three messengers, and they have either been unable to get through, or the legitimacy of the order is being questioned."

"What about dropping them a message?" Clete thought out loud.

"Excuse me?"

"You have three Piper Cubs on the airfield. One of them could be there in ten minutes. Just drop your orders to the commanding officer."

"Drop?" Rawson asked, confused.

"You put the message in a pouch, with something heavy, like a wrench or a brick. You tie a long piece of cloth to the pouch, so that they can see it coming down, and throw it out the window."

"Is that possible?"

"It's routine in the Marine Corps," Clete said.

"How do you keep the message from falling into the . . . wrong hands?"

He almost said "hands of the enemy." But these sailors aren't enemies, they're people who just haven't gotten the word. Which probably explains why the infantry commander hasn't blown them away. They're trying to spill as little blood as possible.

"You fly low enough, and slow enough, over the people you want to get the pouch so you can't miss."

"That's very interesting."

Clete warmed to the subject.

"As far as that goes, there's a couple of soccer fields right next to the Navy School. You could land a Cub there and deliver the message in person."

"Is that possible?"

"Yes, it is."

"You would be willing to do that?"

Oh, shit!

Actually, I was thinking that Capit?n Delgano would be just the man for the job. For one thing, he's got a lot more time in Piper Cubs than I do; and for another, I don't think I want to explain to some loyalist Argentine sailor what I'm doing flying an Army airplane for the revolutionaries.

"Yes, Sir," he heard himself saying. "If you'd like me to."

"Excuse me for a moment," Rawson said. "I would like a word with General Ramirez."

He was back in two minutes with Ramirez, who obviously thought the idea had great merit.

"What I was thinking. Mayor Frade," he said, "was that we have two problems which might be solved if you believe you can drop a message to the First Infantry by small aircraft."

Are you ever going to learn to keep your mouth shut?

"Yes, Sir?"

"Outline Bluecalled for the two columns to converge simultaneously on the Casa Rosada. The First Infantry would move down Avenida del Libertador, while First Cavalry and the Second Infantry would move down Avenida Cordoba. As I'm sure you'll understand, that will have a certain psychological effect. As a matter of fact, the simultaneous arrival of the two columns was your father's idea."

"Yes, Sir."

"The First Cavalry and the Second Infantry have been halted, as General Rawson told you, at Pueyrred?n and Cordoba. Now, if we can send word to the First Infantry to bypass the resistance at the Naval School, we can start the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry moving again. But since they are so much closer to the Casa Rosada than the First Infantry, we again have the problem of arranging for them to move in concert. At the moment, we have communication with the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry, but we cannot count on the telephones continuing to be operational. You see the problem?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Once we start the First Infantry moving, do you think it would be possible to observe it from the air as it moves down Avenida del Libertador?"

"Yes, Sir, of course."

"And then, when they are the same distance from the Casa Rosada as the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry, to drop a message to them to resume their march?"

"There is only one problem I see with that, mi General," Clete said. "Or two. The first is that I'm not qualified to make an assessment like that. I would have no idea when the two columns were, time-wise, an equal distance from the Casa Rosada."

"Oh. I didn't make myself clear. General Rawson would be in the airplane. His presence at the Naval School is essential to the whole idea. So he would be with you; and he would make the decision when to order the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry to resume their march."

"The second problem, Sir, is that while I can fly the Lockheed by myself, should that be necessary, Capitan Delgano cannot."

"I think by now we can safely say that the success ofOutline Blue is a given," Ramirez said, "and we will not need your aircraft. What we must do now is finish the operation with as little loss of life as possible. What I'm saying is that the honor of the officers defending the Casa Rosada will be satisfied when clearly irresistible force—the simultaneous appearance of the two converging columns—makes further resistance obviously futile and surrender honorable. Lives will be saved!"

"Yes, Sir. I take your point."

"God go with you!" Ramirez said emotionally, and grasped both his shoulders. "Your father would be proud of you, my boy!"

Here lies Major Cletus H. Frade, USMCR, who survived Guadalcanal and slept through most of the Argentine Revolution of 1943, but—for reasons that have never been made clear— died while trying to land a Piper Cub on a soccer field. General Arturo Rawson, who had just been appointed President of the Governing Council of the new military government, was also killed in the crash.

[THREE]

The Office of the Military Attach?

The Embassy of the German Reich

Avenida Cordoba

Buenos Aires, Argentina

0525 19 April 1943

Standartenf?hrer Josef Goltz,Oberst Karl Heinz Gr?ner thought, looks to be in complete possession of his faculties; Der grosse Wienerwurst looks as if he's about to wet his pants.

Goltz was shaved and in uniform. First Secretary Anton Gradny-Sawz was unshaved, his hair was mussed, he was not wearing a necktie, and his face was flushed.

"We almost couldn't get through," Gradny-Sawz announced. "There are troops all along Avenida Cordoba. We were stopped—"

"The First Cavalry and the Second Infantry Regiments," Gr?ner said, directing this information to Goltz. "Obviously headed for the Casa Rosada. I have no idea why they have stopped. If there were resistance, gunfire, I would have heard it."

"Will their coup d’?tat succeed?" Goltz asked.

"I would think so. These units may be ahead of schedule, and are waiting for others to show up. I haven't been receiving much information—the loyalists have shut down many of the telephone trunks. But what I have suggests that almost all of the troops in the Buenos Aires area have placed themselves under Ramirez and Rawson. I have no idea what's going on in the rest of the country. It's impossible to call in or out of Buenos Aires. I was surprised that I was able to get through to you. I can't reach the Ambassador." Goltz grunted.

"General Rawson has been appointed—or has appointed himself. . ." Gr?ner stopped to read from a clipboard where he had written it down: " 'President of the Governing Council of the Provisional Government of the Republic of Argentina.'"

"That's not good news," Gradny-Sawz said. "Why do you say that?" Goltz asked.

"Oberst Per?n told me that Rawson is one of those who believe we were responsible for the death of Oberst Frade. They were close friends."

"Oberst Per?n was the late Oberst Frade's closest friend," Goltz said. "He understands why the death of Frade was necessary. Believe me, Anton, Rawson will come to understand that, too." There was a knock at the door. "Come!" Gr?ner said.

Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein entered Gr?ner’s office. He, too, was in uniform.

"Heil Hitler!" he said, giving the stiff-armed salute.

"I tried to call you," Gr?ner said. "The lines were out."

"I saw troops moving—as well as a squadron of the Corps of Mounted Police," Peter said. "I thought the revolution had probably started. I tried to call you, Herr Oberst, at your home, and when I could not get through, decided I had better come here."

"Right," Gr?ner said. "The correct decision."

"First Cavalry and the Second Infantry Regiments are stopped along Avenida Cordoba at Avenida Pueyrred?n. ..."

"We had trouble getting past them, von Wachtstein," Gradny-Sawz said. "There was a major who had apparently never heard of diplomatic privilege."

"Well, we're here," Goltz said. "And now that we are?"

"The reason I called you, Herr Standartenf?hrer," Gr?ner said, "was not because of the revolution; all we can do about that is wait to see what happens. There has been a message from Berlin. The cryptographer officer is still ill, and the communications officer called me. About four-thirty I was in the process of decrypting the message when one of my sources telephoned from Campo de Mayo to tell me the troops had left there at half past two."

"It took him two hours to send that word to you?" Gradny-Sawz said incredulously. "That doesn't seem to be a very good source."

"I was pleased that he managed to get through at all," Gr?ner said. "At that point I telephoned your house, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"I think we must proceed on the assumption that President Castillo will be removed from office—if he has not been removed already," Goltz said, "and that henceforth we will be dealing with—what was it you said, Gr?ner? 'The Governing Council of the Provisional Government'—as, it seems appropriate to say, you accurately predicted. What did Berlin have on its mind?"

Gr?ner went to his safe, worked the combination, opened the safe, and handed Goltz a business-size sealed envelope. On this he had written, "For the Exclusive Attention of Standartenf?hrer Goltz." Goltz tore the envelope open and read the message.

MOST SECRET

URGENT

FROM FOREIGN MINISTRY

TO EMBASSY OF THE GERMAN REICH BUENOS AIRES

FOR EXCLUSIVE ATTENTION (1) AMBASSADOR

(2) STANDARTENF?HRER JOSEF GOLTZ

BERLIN 18 APRIL 1943 7:05 PM

1. SUMMARY OF INFORMATION RECEIVED FROM DOENITZ AND CANARIS FOLLOWS:

A. ON 13 APRIL 1943 US CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS SIGNALED ALL US NAVY VESSELS

OPERATING IN SOUTH ATLANTIC OCEAN TO LOCATE AND POSITIVELY IDENTIFY SPANISH REGISTERED MOTOR VESSEL COMERCIANTE DEL 0CEAN0 PACHTC0.

B. AT 6:27 AM LOCAL TIME 18 APRIL 1943 AT POSITION 27 DEGREES 25 MINUTES SOUTH LATITUDE 43 DEGREES 05 MINUTES WEST LONGITUDE COMERCIANTE DEL 0CEAN0 PACDTCO WAS CLOSELY APPROACHED AT VERY HIGH SPEED AND IN AN ENTIMIDATINGLY RECKLESS MANNER BY US NAVY DESTROYER ALFRED THOMAS. IMMEDIATELY AFTERWARD ALFRED THOMAS RADIOED NON-ENCRYPTED MESSAGE TO US CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS GIVING POSITION AND ESTIMATED TIME OF ARRIVAL (9 PM 20 APRIL 1943) OP COMERCIANTE DEL OCEANO PACIFICO AT MOUTH OP RIVER PLATE.

C. US AMBASSADOR MADRID HAS BEEN SUMMONED TO SPANISH FOREIGN MINISTRY TO RECEIVE OFFICIAL PROTEST IN STRONGEST POSSIBLE LANGUAGE THIS INTIMIDATION AND HARASSMENT OF A CLEARLY IDENTIFIED SPANISH VESSEL ON THE HIGH SEAS IN BLATANT VIOLATION OF THE RULES OF NAVAL WARFARE AND THE RIGHT OP FREE PASSAGE OP NON-BELLIGERENT POWERS AS OUTLINED IN THE GENEVA CONVENTION.

2. AMBASSADOR VON LUTZENBERGER IS DIRECTED TO IMMEDIATELY AND PERSONALLY REGISTER WITH HIGHEST POSSIBLE OFFICIAL OF ARGENTINE GOVERNMENT THE OUTRAGE OF THE GOVERNMENT OP THE GERMAN REICH CAUSED BY THIS BLATANT VIOLATION OP NEUTRALITY BY THE US GOVERNMENT. AMBASSADOR WILL REMIND ARGENTINE GOVERNMENT OP THE SINKING OF THE PORTUGESE MERCHANT SHIP REINE DE LA MER UNDER VERY SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES IN SAMB0R0MB0N BAY AND TO REQUEST IN THE STRONGEST POSSIBLE LANGUAGE THAT ARGENTINE NAVAL FORCES ASSUME RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE SAFETY OF THE COMERCIANTE DEL OCEANO PACIPICO WHILE SHE IS IN ARGENTINIAN WATERS. SIMILAR ACTION WILL BE TAKEN BY THE SPANISH AMBASSADOR.

3. AMBASSADOR AND GOLTZ ARE EXPECTED TO TAKE WHATEVER PRECAUTIONS ARE NECESSARY TO INSURE SECURITY OF MATERIEL EN ROUTE IN CONNECTION WITH REPATRIATION PLAN. AMBASSADOR WILL REPORT RECEIPT OF MATERIEL BY URGENT RADIO TO FOREIGN MINISTER.

4. CONTENTS OF THIS MESSAGE, AND ACTION DIRECTED HEREIN HAVE BEEN COORDINATED WITH HIMMLER, BORMANN, CANARIS, AND DOENTTZ.

IN THE NAME OF THE FUHRER, ADOLF HITLER!

VON RIBBENTROP

FOREIGN MINISTER

MOST SECRET

Goltz idly handed the message to Gradny-Sawz and looked at Gr?ner. "We have another situation, don't we, Herr Oberst, where, thanks to the nonavailability of our delicate cryptographic officer, you already know information you are not authorized to know?' "It would appear so."

"You are now authorized to know it," Goltz said with a smile. "So what is your reaction to this?"

"May I speak freely, Herr Standartenf?hrer? Offer a professional observation that in another context might be considered disrespectful?"

"Of course."

"The Americans and the English knew the Oceano Pacifico is the replacement for the Reine de la Mer before they dispatched their vessels to find it."

"How could they possibly have known that?" Gradny-Sawz demanded.

"If they weren't sure, they would have shadowed her with discretion. When they ‘intimidated' her, they were thumbing their noses at us."

"To what purpose?" Goltz asked.

Gr?ner did not reply directly.

"And they are by now probably wondering what 'materiel' the Oceano Pacifico has aboard that merits the attention of the Foreign Minister, after coordination with Canaris, Doenitz, and, especially, Bormann and Himmler."

"You're not really suggesting the enemy has intercepted that message, much less have been able to decrypt it?" Goltz asked.

"There's no question that they have intercepted it," Gr?ner said. "And if they haven't managed to decrypt it yet, it won't take them long."

"I refuse to believe that!" Gradny-Sawz said indignantly. "German cryptography is the best in the world!"

"And I would further suggest, Herr Standartenf?hrer," Gr?ner went on, ignoring Gradny-Sawz, "that other connections will be made. Your name is listed as a special recipient. 'Who is Standartenf?hrer Goltz?' They have an Order of Battle, Herr Standartenf?hrer. They know who you are. 'What is the SS-SD liaison officer to the Office of the Party Chancellery doing in Buenos Aires? Why is he being made privy to this particular message? Is it because there is a connection between him and this mysterious materiel von Ribbentrop is talking about?'"

"You certainly seem to be greatly impressed, Gr?ner, with the capabilities of our enemies!" Gradny-Sawz said.

"I am paid, Herr Baron . . .," Gr?ner began coldly, but was interrupted by Goltz.

"Anton, sssssh!" he said. "Oberst Gr?ner is not pleased with what he considers to be his duty to tell me."

"I don't think it reasonable to assume, Herr Standartenf?hrer," Gr?ner said, "that the Americans or the English have any idea of the nature of the "materiel' they will correctly suspect is aboard the Comerciante del Oceano Pacifico, but because of the interest shown by our senior leaders in it they will conclude that it is important. Given that, they may decide it is in their best interests to destroy the 'materiel,' and worry about the indignation of the Spanish and the Argentines later."

"By destroy it, you mean sink the Oceano Pacifico?” Goltz asked, and then answered his own question. "Why wouldn't they have done that on the high seas when they found her?"

"They found her before this message was sent," Gr?ner replied reasonably.

"Permission to speak, Herr Oberst?" Peter von Wachtstein asked. Gr?ner nodded. "Herr Oberst, I have the feeling that I am listening to a discussion I perhaps should not be hearing."

Gr?ner looked at Goltz. Goltz looked at Peter for a moment.

"Give Hans that message, Anton, please," Goltz ordered.

Gradny-Sawz did so reluctantly. Goltz waited until Peter had read the message, and then went on.

"The 'materiel' to which the message refers, Hans," Goltz said, "is for use in repatriating the Graf Spee officers. Some of it is military in nature, shortwave radios, that sort of thing, and small arms. Some of it is passports and other documentation. There is even some money. It would be very inconvenient if it were lost, and embarrassing, if the documents, in particular, fell into the wrong hands."

Like hell it is, Herr Standartenf?hrer,Peter thought. What you 're talking about is money. The money von Lutzenberger told me the replacement ship was bringing in. And the loss of a few small arms and radios and "some money" wouldn't even be brought to the attention of Himmler, Canaris, and company.

"Yes, Sir," Peter said.

"Two things seem evident to me," Goltz said. "The repatriation of the Graf Spee officers has come to the attention of our most senior leaders. Perhaps the F?hrer himself has expressed an interest—"

"Yes, I would not be surprised," Gradny-Sawz interrupted, which earned him a look of disdain from Goltz.

"—and that Oberst Gr?ner is correct in believing that the Americans are quite capable of sinking the Oceano Pacifico without concerning themselves with either the Argentine or the Spanish outrage that would cause, simply because attention has been called to the materiel our beloved Foreign Minister has informed them she has aboard."

Gradny-Sawz was visibly shocked by the sarcastically disrespectful reference to Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop.

"As a matter of fact," Goltz went on, "I think we should consider ourselves fortunate that the Americans did not have a chance to intercept and decrypt Ribbentrop's message. They very likely would have attempted to board the Oceano Pacifico."

"But Josef," Gradny-Sawz said, "the Oceano Pacifico is armed. She would have fought rather than submitted to a boarding."

"An armed merchantman is no match for a destroyer," Goltz said. "If the Americans had intercepted that message before they found the Oceano Pacifico, our materiel would now be on the bottom of the South Atlantic Ocean."

"She's due at the mouth of the River Plate at nine tonight," Gr?ner said thoughtfully.

"With a little bit of luck, she may arrive a little sooner," Goltz said. "If I were her captain, under the circumstances I would make all the speed I could. And with a little more luck, the Americans will not be able to decrypt Ribbentrop's news bulletin until she is safely inside Argentine waters."

"You don't think the Americans would sink her inside Argentine waters?" Peter asked. "They sank the Reine de la Mer."

"One, Hans," Goltz explained, "I don't believe they would send a destroyer into Argentinian waters to sink a neutral vessel, no matter what they suspected of her. A submarine, possibly. Two, I don't think they could set anything up between now and the time the Oceano Pacifico will enter the River Plate estuary tonight."

"Yes, Sir, I'm sure you're right," Peter said.

"But tomorrow, as a wise man once said, is another day," Goltz said. "And by the day after tomorrow, there is no question the Americans could bring a submarine into Samboromb?n Bay to sink the Oceano Pacifico. And we certainly cannot place any real hope that by the day after tomorrow the Argentine government will respond to von Lutzenberger's request that the Argentine Navy protect her."

"Not in the present circumstances," Gradny-Sawz agreed solemnly.

"Which means we have three choices," Goltz went on. "We can try to get that materiel off the Oceano Pacifico tonight, which seems unlikely. Or first thing in the morning, which seems possible but risky—there would be obvious risks in landing a boat during the day. Or as soon after dark tomorrow night as possible, which I think is the solution."

"Yes, I would agree," Gradny-Sawz said.

"Von Wachtstein," Gr?ner asked, "what's the status of the boat?"

"Herr Loche—G?nther’s father—took possession of the boat yesterday, Herr Oberst. I believe the both of them—G?nther for sure—were going to El Tigre this morning to test the engine, and so forth."

"That may change, because of the circumstances," Gradny-Sawz offered.

"Have you seen the boat, von Wachtstein?" Goltz asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"In other words, you would know where to find it if you went out there?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Anton, I have a mission for you," Goltz said. "You will find G?nther— preferably G?nther and his father, but G?nther in any case—and order him out to the boat, if he's not already there."

"Wouldn't it be better to send von Wachtstein?"

"I will explain, in this instance, that I believe that the First Secretary of the Embassy of the German Reich, in an Embassy Mercedes, stands a better chance of making it through the lines of the revolutionaries than a major."

"Of course, you're probably right," Gradny-Sawz said.

"And I will tell you this just once, Gradny-Sawz: Never question any orders I give you ever again."

Gradny-Sawz's plump face colored.

"Josef, I meant no—"

"For the time being, Gradny-Sawz, I think it would be best if you referred to me by my rank."

Gradny-Sawz's swallowed.

"Jawohl, Herr Standartenf?hrer," he said finally.

"Von Wachtstein, do you think you can make it through this revolution we seem to be having out to El Tigre?"

"I'm confident I can, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"You will go there and take possession of the boat. If G?nther and/or his father is there, they will serve as your crew to take the boat to Magdalena. If they are not there by ten-thirty, you will take the boat to Magdalena by yourself and hold yourself in readiness there for further orders."

"Jawohl, Herr Standartenf?hrer."

"You said, Oberst Gr?ner, that you have someone in Naval Headquarters?"

"Yes, I do."

"Can he be relied upon to notify you of the arrival of the Comerciante del Oceano Pacifico within Argentine waters?"

"Not unless I specifically ask him to. I mean, I receive regular routine reports of all shipping activity, but I think you're talking about learning of her arrival immediately."

"We need to know when she enters Argentine waters and more importantly, where she will anchor. Do you think, Gr?ner, that when the Oceano Pacifico reports entering the River Plate your man has enough authority to order her to anchor in Samboromb?n Bay?"

"I would have to go to Naval Headquarters and explain the situation," Gr?ner said. "My man, unfortunately, owes his allegiance to Castillo."

"You have only one asset in Naval Headquarters?" Goltz asked impatiently.

"Only one in the office of the Harbor Master," Gr?ner said.

Goltz turned to Peter.

"Oberst Gr?ner and I will work this out, von Wachtstein," he said. "We really have until, say, six o'clock tonight. You understand what I'm thinking?"

"I think so, Herr Standartenf?hrer. Presuming I can get out of El Tigre, I should be in Magdalena by five or five-thirty. Oberst Gr?ner will determine the Oceano Pacifico's estimated time of arrival and where she will drop anchor, and he will send that information to me at Magdalena. On your orders, I will take the boat out to the Oceano Pacifico. From that point, we will proceed with the discharge of the materiel aboard the ship as per the original plan."

"You see any problems with that, von Wachtstein? Aside from getting out of El Tigre into the River Plate?" Gr?ner challenged.

"Only finding the Comerciante del Oceano Pacifico at night, Herr Oberst."

"If that looks like a problem, you could delay taking the boat out from Magdalena until first light," Goltz ordered. "I'll have to go out to her myself; and if you think there would be a problem finding her at night, I would have the same problem. Gr?ner, I presume everything else is ready?"

"Yes, it is," Gr?ner replied. "The only possible problems I can see are von Wachtstein getting out of El Tigre, and then finding the ship from there at night."

"We are presuming your friend can order her to drop anchor someplace where it will be convenient to Magdalena and the landing point."

"Where is that, Herr Standartenf?hrer?" Peter asked.

"You'll be advised, Hans, at the appropriate time," Goltz said. "What I will do now is wait here for the Ambassador to arrive. That will be all, gentlemen, thank you."

Gradny-Sawz gave the Nazi salute, and barked, "Heil Hitler!"

Peter had come to the Embassy by taxi from his apartment. Then, there had been any number of taxis on the street. Now there were none in sight on Avenida Cordoba in either direction. There was no other traffic either, vehicles or pedestrians.

The word was apparently out that the revolution had begun.

Further up Avenida Cordoba, he could see the lead elements of the stalled columns of the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry regiments—riflemen on foot, mounted cavalry, and even some horse-drawn 75-mm howitzers.

He was going to have get past those lines anyway, he reasoned. Perhaps traffic was again moving in the areas now controlled by the revolutionary forces. He started walking toward the soldiers.

He had walked two blocks when his ears picked up the sound of a light aircraft. A very low-flying light aircraft. He looked up in the sky, trying—without success—to spot it.

And then it came from behind him, very low. It was a Piper Cub, wearing the insignia of the Argentine Army. It was no more than a hundred feet over the roofs of the buildings lining both sides of Avenida Cordoba.

I wonder what the hell that's about?

Chapter Twenty-Three

[ONE]

Office of the Naval Attach?

The Embassy of the United States

The Bank of Boston Building

Avenida Bartolome Mitre

Buenos Aires, Argentina

0555 19 April 1943

The event that became known in history books as the Argentine Revolution of 1943 first came to the attention of Lieutenant Commander Frederico Delojo, USN, Naval Attach? (and, covertly, OSS representative) of the Embassy of the United States of America at 0452 19 April 1943.

He was later to remember the precise time and circumstances because he not only made a note of the time but also because he was wakened from a sound sleep in his apartment by a horrendous squealing of tortured tires, followed immediately by the scream of metal tearing asunder.

He jumped out of bed and went to the balcony of his apartment. As he suspected, there'd been one hell of an accident, involving a truck and an automobile. The automobile was a police vehicle. It was equipped with a large chrome-plated (and probably American) siren mounted on the roof. And it had collided with an Army truck, striking the truck as it moved through the intersection.

Then Commander Delojo noticed something odd. There was not just one Army truck, but a number of them, a convoy, presumably under the command of the officer who now appeared, wearing a sword, and accompanied by four soldiers in German-style helmets and field gear. As the officer directed the removal of the injured driver of the police vehicle from his crushed vehicle, another police vehicle, with siren screaming, came racing down the street and very narrowly avoided colliding with the two vehicles now blocking the intersection.

It was followed almost immediately by another police car, siren screaming, which could not stop in time and collided with what Delojo now thought of as Police Vehicle Two.

The intersection was now effectively blocked by the truck and three police vehicles. An Army car, a 1941 Chevrolet four-door sedan, now appeared, and a lieutenant colonel hurried out of the backseat and, with some excitement and waving of his arms, began to order the clearing of the intersection.

Moments later, two sergeants appeared with twenty soldiers in field gear and directed their pushing of the disabled vehicles off the intersection.

As soon as that was accomplished, the convoy of army trucks began to move again. Without thinking about it. Commander Delojo began to count them. Twenty-six trucks passed through the intersection. Each of them was loaded with infantryman in German-style steel helmets sitting shoulder to shoulder and holding their rifles erect between their knees.

This was possibly a routine maneuver, Commander Delojo decided. But on the other hand, it was also possible that the troops were somehow connected with the coup d’?tat that everybody expected.

It was worth calling the duty officer at the Embassy, Delojo decided. His telephone was dead.

At that point, Commander Delojo put on his uniform, checked to see that he had both his diplomatic passport and the carnet issued to diplomats by the Argentine Foreign Ministry, and left his apartment. Obviously it was his duty to notify the OSS as soon as possible that the long-expected coup d’?tat was finally taking place.

Nothing now on the street indicated what had roused him from his sound sleep but the first police car. The other police cars and the convoy were nowhere in sight.

A taxi came down the street. He flagged it and ordered the driver to take him to the United States Embassy.

En route to the Embassy the taxi was stopped twice by roadblocks, one manned by half a dozen members of the Corps of Mounted Police and the other by a platoon of soldiers of an Engineer Battalion. The Mounted Police passed him through immediately, but the two Engineer lieutenants held a whispered discussion that lasted ten minutes before deciding they should pass the American diplomat.

While he was waiting for their discussion to conclude, Delojo reconsidered his original idea to urgently message the OSS in Washington that the coup d’?tat was now taking place.

For one thing, he did not know for a fact that it was. He really should not message Washington unless he could transmit facts. And prudence suggested that just sitting on the nest waiting to see what breed of chick emerged from the egg was the proper course of action.

Yesterday, Vacuum—Mr. Milton Leibermann of the Federal Bureau of Investigation—put his head in the door and in an unexpected and frankly unwelcome spirit of interagency cooperation informed him that he had just learned that one of Frade's enlisted men, Sergeant David Ettinger, was missing from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and was very possibly in great danger, and that he thought Delojo should know about it.

Oracle would certainly want to know about that. Theoretically, Frade or his parachutist deputy would have relayed that information to Washington. But that was a dangerous presumption to make. Perhaps Frade didn't know about it, and Lieutenant Whatsisname—Pelosi—could not be relied upon to act in a responsible manner. He was, in fact, a demolitions man, not an intelligence officer.

On one hand, Delojo reasoned, if he messaged Oracle about the missing sergeant, it might make the point that he was staying on top of the situation in Buenos Aires. But on the other hand, doing so raised two potential areas of difficulty. Frade was responsible for reporting on his own men. After that unnecessarily curt message from Donovan about his role with respect to Frade, it might appear that he was trying to put his nose in somewhere it wasn't welcome. Furthermore, if he did inform the OSS that the sergeant was missing, he would be expected to reveal the source of his information, Leibermann. Director Donovan had told him personally that he was to have as little to do with the FBI as possible—preferably nothing.

It was near sixa.m. when Commander Delojo reached the Bank of Boston Building. Just before he entered it, he decided that the most prudent course of action was to find out as much about the coup d’?tat as possible—if that's really what it was—and to see if he could learn anything about the missing sergeant, but not to message Oracle unless he had facts to report.

As Delojo entered the narrow corridor where his office was located, one of the cryptographic section's enlisted men was approaching from out of the corridor. He was a large, tall, corn-haired Iowa farm boy to whom Commander Delojo had been introduced—the Embassy Security Officer thought it a good idea for cryptographic clerks to be personally acquainted with officers authorized to dispatch or receive TOP SECRET material—but he could not at the moment recall his name.

"Morning, Commander," the sergeant said. "I was just looking for you."

"Is that so?"

"Poop from the group for you," the sergeant said, extending a clipboard to Delojo. "Just came in. If you'll sign that, please?"

Commander Delojo held the opinion that the U.S. Army did not instill in its enlisted men a proper respect for commissioned officers—enlisted Army personnel were, if anything, worse than their Marine counterparts—but he did not think this the place or the time to have a word with the sergeant about his informality.

He took the clipboard and signed for Message 3002, TOP SECRET NO COPIES, handed the clipboard back, and reached for the message's envelope.

"What the hell's going on outside, Commander?"

"I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn the Argentines are staging a coup d’?tat," Delojo said.

"No shit? Against who?"

That did it. The next time I see the cryptographic officer Iwill have a word with him about this young man.

"By definition, Sergeant, a coup d’?tat is made against the existing head of state. Here that would be President Castillo."

Commander Delojo carried the envelope to his office, closed and locked the door after him, then tore open the envelope.

URGENT TOP SECRET NOT TO BE COPIED

FROM ORACLE WASHDC

MSG NO 3002

DIR 0050 GREENWICH 19 APRIL 1943

TO STACHEBP AGGIE

STACHIEP BUENOS AIRES

1. ADDRESSEE WILL REPLY QUICKEST MEANS GIVING TIMERECEIPT THIS MESSAGE

2. RELIABLE INTELLIGENCE GIVES ETA GROCERYSTORE TWO MOUTH RIVER PLATE 1600 GREENWICH 20 APRIL 1943.

3. DETERMINE AND ADVISE QUICKEST MEANS:

A. LOCATION AGGIE.

B. LOCATION TEX AND PARROT AND OPERATIONAL STATUS OP PARROT.

C. LOCATION SNOOPY AND TEAM AND EQUIPMENT AND OPERATIONAL STATUS EQUIPMENT.

4. QUERY SOURCE GALAHAD POSSIBLE REASON SPECIAL INTEREST AT HIGHEST LEVELS BERLIN IN SECURITY OF QUOTE REPATRIATION PLAN MATERIEL ENDQUOTE POSSIBLY ABOARD GROCERYSTORE TWO.

5. WHOEVER ESTABLISHES FIRST CONTACT WITH AGGIE WILL RELAY FOLLOWING: PRESIDENT DESIRES EARLIEST POSSIBLE IDENTIFICATION AND MOTIVATION OF GALAHAD.

DONOVAN END

TOP SECRET NOT TO BE COPIED

"Damn!" Commander Delojo said, realizing that the message placed him in an even more difficult position than having to decide whether or not to message Oracle vis-a-vis the coup d’?tat and Sergeant Whatsisname.

Obviously, if he was to locate Aggie—Colonel A. F. Graham, USMCR— that meant he was down here somewhere.

Why? Has something else gone wrong that I'm not aware of?

Delojo had no idea where Tex—Major Cletus H. Frade, USMCR—was except that he had left Buenos Aires by train five days ago.

The last word he had from Snoopy—Captain Maxwell Ashton III, AUS— was that he was in Santo Tome and his team and their equipment were in Porto Alegre, Brazil.

Porto Alegre was the last known location of Parrot—the airplane that Frade had gone to Porto Alegre to pick up and, against Delojo's objections, bring into Argentina black, while carrying the rest of Team Snoopy and their radar equipment with him.

Since he had no idea of the identity, much less the motivation, of Galahad, he obviously could not locate him and query him regarding the " 'repatriation plan materiel' possibly aboard grocerystore two," whatever the hell that might be.

But an order was an order, and there was nothing to do but reply to Oracle's 3002, even though he was quite sure it was going to make him look like a fool. He sat down and rapidly typed his reply on a blank sheet of paper:

TOP SECRET URGENT

FROM STACHTOF BUENOS AIRES OO1O GREENWICH 19 APR 43

TO ORACLE WASH DC REFERENCE YOUR 3003

1. RECEIVED 1050 GREENWICH 19 APR 43.

2. HAVE BEGUN EFFORT TO LOCATE AGGIE.

3. LOCATION TEX UNKNOWN LAST REPORTED ENROUTE BIRDCAGE. NO INFORMATION AVAILABLE RE SNOOPY, TEAM, OR EQUIPMENT. HAVE BEGUN EFFORT TO DEVELOP REQUESTED INFORMATION.

4. CANNOT QUERY GALAHAD INASMUCH AS IDENTITY UNKNOWN.

5. UNUSUAL MILITARY AND POLICE ACTIVITY EARLY THIS AM SUGGESTS POSSIBILITY COUP DETAT MAY BE UNDERWAY. PRESENTLY AVAILABLE INTELOGENCE INSUFFICIENT TO PREDICT OUTCOME.

6. UNCONFIRMED INTELLIGENCE REPORTS SARNOFF MISSING.

END

STACHEF BUENOS AIRES

TOP SECRET

He carefully read what he had typed, then took it to the cryptographic officer and instructed him to dispatch the message immediately.

Of all the missions Oracle had ordered, he decided, the priority mission was the location of Colonel Graham. The problem was that he had absolutely no idea where Colonel Graham might be.

The best thing to do, he concluded, was stay right where he was. For one thing, if Colonel Graham were here and became aware the coup d’?tat was probably taking place, he would either contact the Embassy or telephone. If that was true, it was his place to be available. Furthermore, the Embassy was probably the best place to gather additional information about the coup d’?tat.

Delojo returned to his office, left it to pick up a cup of coffee from the machine in the room housing the typing pool, and returned to his office.

He stepped out on the balcony and gazed down at the street. A group of natives was in the process of rocking a bus. As Delojo watched, they succeeded in turning it onto its side. Gasoline began to spill from the fueling mouth. Someone tossed a match, and the gasoline caught fire.

A minute or so later, the gas tank exploded.

Delojo stepped back from the edge of the balcony. There was no point in making oneself conspicuous in a situation like this.

An Argentine Army Piper Cub flew overhead, from the direction of the Casa Rosada. Delojo had several questions about it. Was it a loyalist, so to be speak, aircraft, or aligned with the revolutionaries? And what was it doing? Delojo had had several conversations with the Army Attach? about such aircraft. For the Attach? had discussed with his Argentine Army counterparts the concept of direction of artillery fire by airborne forward observers, and had been told that this would be quite impossible until Argentine Army artillery units were equipped with radios capable of communicating with aircraft.

Commander Delojo set out to find the Army Attach?. This was an interesting development, and discussing it with the Army Attach? would be a fruitful way of passing the time until something happened.

[TWO]

Aboard Argentine Army Air Service Light Aircraft Type 42 #6

Above Plaza San Martin

Capital Federal

Buenos Aires, Argentina

OB 15 19 April 1943

After a brief period of considerable—and visible—uneasiness and uncertainty, General of Division Arturo Rawson, President of the Governing Council of the Provisional Government of the Republic of Argentina, quickly became not only a believer in the amazing capabilities of light aircraft, but quickly applied those capabilities toward the execution ofOutline Blue.

General Rawson had of course previously flown in Type 42 Aircraft (a high-wing monoplane powered by a 75-horsepower Continental A-75-8 engine and known commercially as the Piper J-4 Cub); but on those flights the pilots were Argentine Army Air Service officers with a deep interest in doing nothing that would make a general officer feel uncomfortable or give him any cause whatever to suspect that they were anything but sober, careful airmen devoted to all aspects of aviation safety.

Today, he was being flown by a pilot who had soloed, illegally, in a Piper Cub at thirteen years of age, after six hours of illegal, if careful, flight instruction by his uncle. Later, Marine Aviation Cadet Frade, C.H., had three times come very close indeed to being dropped from the program at the United States Navy Aviation Training Base, Pensacola, Florida. Cadet Frade's problems with the program had nothing to do with his ability, or inability, to fly the Stearman "Yellow Peril" basic training aircraft, or with the academic portion of the training syllabus, but with his difficulty in learning to fly "The Navy Way" at the Navy's pace, while paying strict attention to the Navy's deep concern for flight safety.

For example, some improvised variations from normal procedures during his first solo cross-country flight in the Stearman brought him for the first time before a board of stern-faced Naval Aviators who were considering his possible expulsion from the program.

The flight plan called for him to fly from Saufley Field to an auxiliary field just across the 'Florida-Alabama border, shoot a touch-and-go, and then return to Saufley Field.

He did that. But he was also observed en route by a flight instructor who reported that Cadet Frade not only engaged in twenty minutes of unauthorized aerobatic maneuvers in the Stearman, but followed this outrageous deviation from his authorized flight plan by returning to Saufley Field via the Gulf Coast beaches, along which he flew at no more than 200 feet above the surf, while waving at female civilian sunbathers on the beach.

After his third appearance before the Elimination Board, Cadet Frade realized that any further infractions against the Navy's Flight Regulations, particularly those involving unsafe flight maneuvers, would almost certainly keep him from receiving his wings of gold and second lieutenant's commission.

No more infractions of any kind were laid against him during the rest of his Primary Flight Instruction, nor during Advanced Flight Training, nor—after he was rated a Naval Aviator and commissioned second lieutenant, USMCR— while undergoing the prescribed courses of instruction which saw him rated as an F4F "Wildcat" pilot.

Things changed slightly when he was assigned to VMF-221 at Ewa, Territory of Hawaii. The Marine Air Group Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, greeted him there with a speech. Its most pertinent point developed the notion that now that Second Lieutenant Frade had learned to fly a Wildcat safely, it was his duty, before entering combat, to learn how far he personally "could push the Wildcat's envelope."

"The Envelope" was defined as the limits (in terms of speed, various maneuvers, stress, and so forth) to which the Navy Bureau of Aeronautics had determined the Wildcat could be safely subjected.

Second Lieutenant Frade accepted this order with enthusiasm. By the time he landed his Wildcat on Guadalcanal on the just-captured airfield—not even yet named "Henderson" after a Marine aviator who had died in the Battle of Midway—he had proved to himself that the Wildcat's actual envelope permitted, among other things, close-to-the-ground maneuvering at speeds far beyond those given in the official BUAIR envelope.

The day after First Lieutenant Frade became an ace by downing five enemy aircraft in his Wildcat, he was summoned before Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins, the Marine Air Group Commander. Colonel Dawkins told him he had seen his flight records, which included civilian flying experience, and reported that Cletus H. Frade had passed the Civil Aviation Administration's Flight Examination in a Piper Cub; and had received his private pilot's license in the second week of his fourteenth year; and had subsequently acquired 930 hours of time in the Piper Aircraft Company's Model J-4.

Colonel Dawkins then explained that there had been unexpected losses of Marine aviators, mostly Flying Sergeants, who had been flying the First Marine Division's Piper Cubs, aircraft that were used for artillery spotting, liaison, and aerial ambulance purposes. Dawkins then asked him if he would be willing to fly a Piper Cub until replacement pilots could be brought to Guadalcanal from the States.

On one hand, stepping down from a Wildcat to a Cub was obviously beneath the dignity of a Marine fighter pilot; but on the other, lieutenant Frade had been in the Corps long enough to understand that when a lieutenant is asked to do something by a lieutenant colonel, the expected response is "Aye, aye, Sir."

Before strapping General Rawson into the backseat of the Argentine Army Air Service Light Aircraft Type 42 #6, Major Frade's last significant flight experience in a Piper Cub had been to locate, and then drop messages and essential supplies, to the First Raider Battalion operating in mountainous jungle terrain some fifty miles behind Japanese lines.

General Rawson, of course, knew nothing of any of this. All he knew was that the Cub he was flying in now was being flown in a different manner—a frighteningly different manner—than he was accustomed to.

For one thing—because Clete had decided the best way to find the Argentine Navy's School of Naval Engineering was to find and then fly down Avenida del Libertador—their altitude between Campo de Mayo and the place where the Navy was holding up the progress of the First Infantry Regiment never exceeded 300 feet and was often considerably less. Frade often flew the Cub around—rather than over—brick smokestacks and other high structures in his flight path.

For another, when they approached the School of Naval Engineering, without really thinking about it, Clete began to move the Cub in a manner that would make the Cub a more difficult target for anyone inclined to shoot at it.

For another, General Rawson's orders to Clete had been to land on the soccer fields adjacent to the School of Naval Engineering, "if possible." In his mind, he would evaluate the situation, the location of the opposing elements, and then authorize Frade to determine, as Step Two, whether he could safely land the airplane on the field.

Clete took one look at the soccer field, decided it was obviously possible to land there—all the Navy weaponry, mostly light machine-gun positions, were emplaced to oppose the First Infantry's movement down Avenida del Libertador—and did so.

By the time he taxied back to a takeoff position, three officers of the First Infantry—one of them had actually unsheathed his sword—galloped onto the soccer field to investigate the astonishing landing of an airplane.

General Rawson climbed out of the Cub, discussed the situation with the officers, and issued his orders. After leaving a few men in place facing the Navy, the regiment would bypass the School of Engineering and resume its march down Avenida del Libertador.

When they had moved far enough down Libertador so that simultaneous movement of the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry would bring both columns to the Casa Rosada at the same time, the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry would be ordered to resume their march.

"I am now going to reconnoiter by air," General Rawson announced, "to ascertain the exact location of the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry."

He then climbed back into the Cub.

The First Infantry officers saluted and began to trot back to their troops.

General Rawson laid a hand on Clete's shoulder, and Clete turned to look at him.

"Is there any way we can communicate when we are up in the air?"

Clete showed General Rawson the earphones and microphone—with which he had mistakenly believed General Rawson would be familiar—and Rawson put them on.

"You may depart," Rawson ordered.

Clete pushed the throttle forward and took off. Once they were airborne he started to look for the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry, which he had been told were stopped at Pueyrred?n and Cordoba.

"It will take twenty minutes for the orders to be passed and for the First Infantry to make any measurable progress," Rawson announced over the intercom. "Would it be possible, without extraordinary risk, to observe what's going on at the Casa Rosada?"

"Yes, Sir," Clete said, and for the next twenty minutes Clete flew back and forth over Buenos Aires.

As he flew down Avenida Cordoba he noticed a man in a strange uniform, and he was almost convinced it was Peter von Wachtstein. When they flew over Plaza de Mayo, they saw an overturned bus in flames, and he could see the faces of people inside Casa Rosada watching it burn.

Twenty-five minutes after taking off from the soccer fields, General Rawson decided the First Infantry had moved far enough so that the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry could be ordered to resume their march.

Clete flew down Avenida Cordoba again and dropped the order to the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry to get moving.

Thirty minutes after that, as both columns converged onto the Plaza de Mayo, white flags—probably sheets, Clete decided—appeared in the windows of the Casa Rosada.

"General, you want me to try to land down there? I'm a little worried about that burning bus. I don't know what debris's liable to be on the street."

"You mean land in Plaza de Mayo?" General Rawson replied, a touch of incredulity in his voice. And then, without giving Clete a chance to reply, he went on: "I think we should return now to Campo de Mayo. It would be more fitting if General Ramirez and I accepted the capitulation together and arrive at Casa Rosada together. By automobile. With a suitable escort."

On the fifteen-minute flight back to Campo de Mayo, General Rawson pushed his intercom mike switch one more time.

"I think I should tell you, my friend, that when your father talked about all the amazing things one could do with a small airplane, I was one of those who simply didn't believe him. How nice it is that his son should be the one to prove us all wrong."

[THREE]

The Officers' Casino

Campo de Mayo

Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

1845 19 April 1943

Teniente Coronel Alejandro Bernardo Mart?n rolled up the curved driveway to the Officers' Casino in the chauffeur-driven official Mercedes assigned to the Chief of the Bureau of Internal Security of the Ministry of National Defense. During the day there had been well over one hundred proclamations issued in the name of the Governing Council of the Provisional Government of the Argentine Republic. Of these, three personally issued by the President had a direct effect on Teniente Coronel Martin:

El Almirante Francisco de Montoya, Chief of the BIS, had been relieved of his duties, placed on leave, and would be retired.

Until a successor to Almirante de Montoya was named, Teniente Coronel Alejandro Bernardo Mart?n would assume the duties of Chief, BIS.

Teniente Coronel Alejandro Bernardo Mart?n was brevetted Coronel until further orders.

Coronel Juan Domingo Per?n wanted Montoya dismissed from the service and placed under house arrest. But Mart?n prevailed against him. Mart?n argued before General Rawson and General Ramirez (who retained his post as Minister of War) that Montoya had done his duty to Argentina as he had seen it and had taken or not taken a number of actions that had benefited the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos and the execution ofOutline Blue.

Mart?n also refused permanent appointment as the Chief of BIS. The offer was colored, he believed, by emotion on the part of General Rawson, who would later come to regret his impulsiveness. He also believed the appointment of another admiral to the post would go a long way toward pouring oil on the troubled waters that now existed between the Argentine Armada and the Argentine Army.

On the other hand, Mart?n was rather sure that his brevet promotion to Coronel would be made permanent within the next few days. As a Coronel known to have both the ear and the gratitude of the President and the Minister of War, he would have no trouble dealing with the new Chief, BIS, no matter who that might be.

The sandbag machine-gun emplacements in front of the Casino were still there, but the weapons and their crews were gone. So were the machine guns that had earlier been visible in upper-floor windows of the building, and the guards who had been stationed at the Casino's doors.

General Ramirez was now back in his office at the Edificio Libertador— Mart?n had just come from there—and the maps that had been hung in the early hours of the morning on the movable wall of the Main Dining Room were now hanging in the Situation Room in the Edificio Libertador.

The Officers' Casino of Campo de Mayo was now just that again.

Mart?n marched through the door of the club—he was in uniform, still bearing the badges of a teniente coronel. Perhaps, he thought, there will one day be a brass plaque affixed to the wall, commemorating the use of the Casino as the headquarters of the coup d’?tat. But perhaps not. It might be better not to have such an historical marker. It might be better if the coup d’?tat, and the reasons for it, and the deaths of Argentine soldiers and sailors it caused, just faded from memory.

As soon as he was in the lobby, he saw Major Cletus H. Frade, of the norteamericano Office of Strategic Services. Frade, who had obviously and understandably been waiting for him, rose out of a leather-upholstered armchair and started walking toward him, closely followed by Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodriguez, Retired.

I wonder,Mart?n thought somewhat unkindly, if the old soldier thinks Frade needs protection in the men's room and follows him in there ?

"Ah, Mayor Frade," Mart?n said, smiling and putting out his hand. "I understand that you have been flying our new President around."

"That was twelve hours ago," Clete said, "and since then I have been sitting around here with my . . ." He stopped himself just in time from completing the rest of the sentence that came to his lips; it had to do with the insertion of the short thick opposable digit of his hand into his anal orifice. He finished, ". . . nothing to do."

Martin's smile faded but did not entirely disappear.

"I don't know if there's dancing in the streets or not," Clete went on. "But I just heard General Rawson on the radio delivering a speech from the balcony of the Casa Rosada, which suggests to me the coup d’?tat was successful."

I know what's bothering him: his Sergeant Ettinger. I don't want to break that bad news to him here, like this.

"And so it has been," Mart?n said. "I was about to have a drink. I would be honored if you would join me."

"I'm not sure I should have a drink," Clete said. "I might say something rude with just a little alcohol in me."

"Please," Mart?n said. "I will buy. It is a custom in our Army for newly promoted officers to buy drinks for their friends. And the invitation of course includes you, Suboficial Mayor."

"You got promoted?"

"Are you all that surprised?"

"No. Not at all," Clete said. "I didn't mean to be so . . ."

"But you have been unable to understand why you have been . . . asked to stay here . . . when it became apparent that we have a new government?"

"Yeah," Clete said. "And 'asked' isn't the word."

He pointed to a major, still in field uniform, who was watching them.

Mart?n gestured for the major to join them.

"Se?or Frade, Mayor," Mart?n said, "will no longer require your protection. You may consider yourself relieved of that responsibility."

“S?, mi Coronel," the Major replied, and then after a moment's hesitation offered his hand to Clete. "I hope, Se?or, you can understand my position."

"No hard feelings, Major," Clete said, taking his hand. "I know who gave you your orders."

"I considered it necessary," Mart?n said, acknowledging he had given the orders. "Not only because I wanted to have a word with you before you took off. . ."

"It's too late to take off," Clete said. "I don't want to try to land that Lockheed at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo at night."

". . . but for other reasons as well," Mart?n concluded. "Will you have a drink with me? I'll explain."

"Yes, of course. Thank you. And congratulations, mi Coronel. It's a well-deserved promotion."

"For saying that, I will buy you two drinks."

He touched Clete's arm and propelled him to the bar, which was crowded with the successful members of the Revolution of 1943 not needed at the Edificio Libertador.

"Would you bring us a bottle of Johnny Walker Black, please? And three glasses?" Mart?n ordered.

When it was delivered, he waved the barman away, poured the whiskey himself, and handed Clete and Enrico their glasses.

"If you will indulge me further, gentlemen, I have three toasts to offer."

"Don't take too long," Clete said.

"To the new government of Argentina," Mart?n said seriously.

Clete raised his glass.

"Hear, hear," he said.

"To the officers and other ranks of the Argentine Armada and Army on both sides of this unfortunately necessary change of government who died for their country today."

Clete's face showed that the toast surprised him, but after a moment he said, "Hear, hear," raised his glass, and took another sip of his whiskey.

"And to Technical Sergeant David Ettinger, United States Army. I am very sorry indeed, Mayor Frade, to have to tell you that he also died in the service of his country."

"Oh, shit," Clete said. He looked at his half-empty glass of scotch, drained it, and then looked at Martin.

"When did that happen? How?"

"Excuse me, mi Coronel," Enrico said. "Did you say Ettinger is dead?"

"I'm afraid so, Suboficial Mayor," Mart?n said, then looked at Clete. "I received the word just two hours ago. When the telephones to Montevideo were restored. Sergeant Ettinger's body was found on the beach at Carrasco two days ago. In the morning. He had been stabbed to death."

Mart?n saw that Clete's face was white, and his lips bloodless.

With either pain or rage or both. This is not the time to tell him Ettinger was mutilated. Or how.

"By party or parties unknown, right?" Clete asked bitterly.

"My sources tell me the murder has all the marks of a killing for pay."

"And we know who paid, don't we? That goddamned Goltz!"

"'Goltz,' Se?or Clete?" Enrico asked.

"That German SS Colonel, Enrico. He ordered Ettinger's murder, and he got it. He's the same sonofabitch who ordered my father killed. I'll get that sonofabitch, somehow!"

"I understand your feelings, Frade," Mart?n said, "but it would help nothing if you took any—"

"It would be unprofessional, right? Conduct unbecoming an intelligence officer? Well let me tell you, mi Coronel, if I ever get a bead on that Kraut sonofabitch—and I'm damned sure going to try—I'll drop him in his tracks!"

"A 'bead,' Se?or Clete?" Enrico asked.

"A 'bead'?" Mart?n parroted.

Clete, looking at the confusion on their faces, smiled.

"I guess that doesn't translate into Spanish very well, does it?" he said. "In English—or American, I suppose—when you line your rifle sights up on a deer, you say you're 'taking a bead.' I guess it comes from the little brass balls the old Winchesters used to use for front sights; they looked like beads."

"You shot many deer in the United States, did you?" Mart?n asked.

"Asked the professional intelligence officer, cleverly tactfully trying to change the subject," Clete said, smiling at him. "Don't worry, Martin. When I drop that sonofabitch, I will make a real effort to do it so you won't get involved."

Mart?n smiled at him.

In Frade's shoes, I would certainly feel exactly the same way.

"I ask you, my friend, not to act in haste or anger," Mart?n said.

"Is there any longer any reason I have to stay here?" Clete said, then smiled and added, "Asked the amateur intelligence officer, tactfully trying to change the subject."

"The original reason I asked Capitan Delgano to ... make sure you were available . . . was of course the possibility that the Lockheed would be needed."

"That, I understood. But why until now?"

"El Presidente considered for a while offering your aircraft to former Presidente Castillo and members of the former government. It would take them out of the country."

"Oddly enough, I thought that might be it," Clete said. "I had a lot of time to think, you understand."

Mart?n looked at Clete, smiled, and shook his head.

"In any event, former Presidente Castillo, and some others, have been placed aboard a boat in El Tigre which will take them to Uruguay. You are free to leave. With the gratitude of the government, and my personal gratitude."

He offered Clete his hand.

"Where will you go?" Mart?n asked.

“I don't know," Clete said. "What I'm wondering is how I will get anywhere. I flew in here."

“The least we can do for you is provide you with a car and driver," Mart?n said.

"How about a ride into Buenos Aires?" Clete asked. "I've got cars there. I want to make a telephone call. . . ."

"I took the liberty of telephoning Se?orita Mallin—actually I spoke with her father—and told him that, although you were unavoidably detained, you were not in any danger."

"Jesus H. Christ!" Clete said, and then added, thinking out loud: "That was damned nice of you."

"It was nothing," Mart?n said.

He looked around the room, found the major who had been Clete's oh-so-courteous guard, and waved him over.

"Mayor, I want you to find a car and a driver, and then escort Se?or Frade anywhere he wishes to go in Buenos Aires."

“S?, mi Coronel."

"Thank you," Clete said. "I am free to take the airplane?"

"Of course, but you said you ..."

"Tomorrow," Clete said, thinking aloud. "I'll have somebody drive me out here. Or, if I decide to go to the estancia, I'll fly a Cub here, pick up the Lockheed, and worry about getting the Cub back later."

"I will order Capitan Delgano to make himself available to you at your convenience."

"Thank you very much, mi Coronel, but I won't need Capitan Delgano."

"I would feel so much more comfortable if he were with you."

"Thank you for your concern, but no thank you."

Mart?n looked at him for a long moment before saying, "Whatever you wish, of course."

From the windows of the Army Mercedes on the way into Buenos Aires, Clete saw absolutely no signs whatever that the country had just undergone a revolution.

The flow of traffic was normal. The restaurants and cafes were open and apparently doing a good business. When they drove down Avenida del Libertador past the Navy School of Engineering, nothing suggested that a regiment of infantry had been held up there, or that there had been a skirmish in which people had died.

He realized he was going to have to do something about Ettinger. Starting with finding out what happened to him. The question was how to do that. Tony and the Chief would probably have no more information than when he'd flown the Lockheed out of the estancia. If he was killed in Uruguay, any information the police there passed on to norteamericanos would have been passed on to the Embassy in Montevideo, not the Embassy here.

There was probably an OSS station chief in Uruguay, but he had no idea who he was, and he doubted if Delojo did either, or if he did, that he would give that information to him without argument.

Leibermann probably had contacts in Montevideo, but how much they knew—if anything—about an American getting himself stabbed to death in Carrasco was a big question.

The one person who almost certainly had more information than anyone else was Coronel Martin, and he had already told him everything he knew, or at least wanted him to know.

The only way to find out what he had to know was to go to Montevideo himself, and somehow find the OSS guy there and get him to find out what he could.

That was obviously impossible tonight. And tied in with that difficulty was the Lockheed. He wanted to fly the Lockheed out of Campo de Mayo and back to the estancia. Mart?n did not at all like it when he refused Capitan Delgano's services. And Clete didn't at all like it that General Rawson had considered using the Lockheed to carry the deposed President out of the country. He might decide it would be useful for other purposes—a flight around the country, for example, to show himself off to the people. Clete needed the plane to deal with the Comerciante del Oceano Pacifico, and that might be as soon as within the next couple of days. Or tomorrow.

And he wanted to see Dorotea.

The priorities, therefore, were to see Dorotea and get the Lockheed out of Campo de Mayo. And since he could not move the Lockheed tonight, that meant he could see Dorotea tonight.

He could of course visit her at her house, where he could see Dorotea, and her mother, and Se?or Mallin, and even Little Henry. And they could talk about getting together with the Very Reverend Matthew Cashley-Price for premarital counseling.

With a little bit of luck I might even get Dorotea alone for twenty seconds and put my arms around her.

Or, when the Mercedes drops us off at The Museum— No. Uncle Willy's house would be better— I could telephone Dorotea from there, tell her 1 can't leave there, I expect an important telephone call or something, and suggest that she come to Uncle Willy's house . . . alone.

Dorotea is a very intelligent girl. If she agrees to come, she'll understand what I have in mind. After all, as they say, there is no point in closing the barn door after the cow's gotten out, is there?

He turned to the major sitting beside him.

"Mayor," he announced, "now that I think about it, I would rather go to my house on Libertador. The address is 4730. It's right across from the racetrack."

"Whatever you wish, Se?or Frade."

"Why are we going to the Libertador house, Se?or Clete?" Enrico asked, turning from the front seat.

"I have my reasons," Clete said.

Enrico looked confused for a moment, and then understanding dawned.

He nodded with comprehension and approval.

"You can find something to do to occupy your time, can't you, Enrico?"

"Yes, of course, Se?or Clete."

Se?ora Lopez, the housekeeper, opened the door.

She is not only surprised to see me, but she doesn't seem to be too happy about it, either.

"You will be spending the night, Se?or Frade?"

"I think so, yes," Clete said.

She's uncomfortable with that reply, too. What the hell's going on? Oh, hell, she probably was going to take the night off, go to a movie or something, and I'm screwing that up for her.

"I will need nothing tonight," Clete said. "I'm going to bed early"— I devoutly hope—"and there's no point in you staying around, if you've made other plans."

"S?, Se?or," Se?ora Lopez said.

Oh, to hell with her.

"Let's see what cars are here, Enrico," Clete said. "You may have to go over to Avenida Coronel Diaz and get one."

Enrico nodded.

Three cars were in the basement garage: Se?ora Lopez used the 1939 Ford station wagon to run the house, and in it, it was to be hoped, she would drive to the movies before Dorotea arrived. Next to it there was the old, immaculately maintained Rolls Royce. And next to that was the bullet-shattered Horche in which his father had been murdered.

"Does that thing work?" Clete asked, pointing at the Rolls. "Specifically, will it make it out to Campo de Mayo in the morning?"

"Of course," Enrico said as if he considered the question very strange.

"OK. Then we'll use that."

Enrico nodded.

Clete walked to the Horche and ran his fingers over the bullet-shattered windshield and the bullet holes in the fenders and doors.

"1 want to have this repaired, Enrico. Made like new. Is that going to be a problem?"

"No. It can be done."

There was the sound of an automobile horn, close, a signal.

Enrico walked to the garage door, slipping his .45 automatic from the small of his back and holding it parallel to his leg as he did so. He pushed a button, and the garage door rose.

An Argentine Army staff car with a sergeant at the wheel rolled into the basement.

Jesus Christ, Per?n! I forgot that sonofabitch is staring here!

Are you calling him a sonofabitch because he just ruined your carnal plans for the evening?

He was your father's best friend. Be gracious to the sonofabitch!

Clete walked to the car and opened the rear door.

El Coronel Juan Domingo Per?n was not alone in the backseat of the car. A girl, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, no older than that, was sitting beside him. A shy girl, who glanced at Clete, then blushed and looked away.

"Buenos tardes, mi Coronel," Clete said with a smile.

Per?n looked a little embarrassed himself.

Probably because you showed your ass to me this morning at the Officers' Casino. You should be embarrassed, you bastard. That wasn't called for.

"I fear, Se?or Frade," Per?n said, "that I am still imposing on your hospitality."

"Not at all, mi Coronel. My house is your house for as long as you wish."

"You are very kind, but I am—"

"Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez and I were just about to leave," Clete said. "We just came here to pick up the Rolls Royce."

Per?n nodded.

"I hope to see you soon, mi Coronel," Clete said, smiled, and walked to the Rolls Royce.

"You better drive, Enrico," Clete said. "I think this thing was made before I was."

He climbed into the front passenger seat and waited for Enrico to get behind the wheel.

Neither Per?n nor the girl got out of the car before Enrico drove the Rolls out of the garage.

"Who was the girl, Enrico? His daughter? I thought Per?n wasn't married."

"He is not, Se?or Clete."

"What is she, then, his niece?"

"Not his niece, Se?or Clete. Where are we going, Se?or Clete?"

Interesting question. What do I do now? Go to The Museum and call Dorotea from there? Why call her? She might have come to Uncle Willy's house, but she won't come to The Museum.

"Oh, Christ. To hell with it. To the Mallins' house, please."

Enrico nodded, and at the next intersection turned left off Avenida del Libertador.

"If that girl wasn't Per?n's niece, who was she?" Clete asked.

Enrico did not answer.

He's not answering that question. Why not? Because he would be embarrassed by the answer? Or because the answer would embarrass Per?n? That's what it has to be.

Jesus, is what I am now starting to suspect possible? Obviously, truth being stranger than fiction, it is.