Death and Honor

[TWO]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1030 14 July 1943

Don Cletus Frade sat at a small glass-top table on a small verandah outside the master bedroom of the big house waiting for his wife to join him. He was reclined in his chair, his feet resting on the other chair, and holding a brown manual in his hands.

The manual, published by the Aeronautics Division, Ministry of the Interior, Republic of Argentina, was titled “A Practice Examination for Those Intending to Take the Qualifying Examination Leading to the Award of the Rating of Commercial Aviation Pilot.”

The manual had come to him from Major Gonzalo Delgano, Argentina Army Air Service, “Retired,” now the chief pilot of South American Airways. He had pointed out, reasonably, that inasmuch as the “understanding” was that all SAA pilots be Argentine nationals, it might be better if Don Cletus got an Argentine pilot license as an Argentine citizen.

It would be, Delgano had said at the time, a mere formality. Then he had come back and reported that the examining officer was being a “bit difficult” and Don Cletus would have to go to El Palomar and take the examination. It would probably be a matter of simply showing up—Delgano would meet him there—and signing a few papers.

Reasoning that while Delgano was probably right, this still was Argentina, and that it was better to be safe than sorry.

Clete had called Tío Juan Domingo and explained the problem.

Colonel Perón said that it was nonsense, not to worry about it, that he would have a word with whoever it was in charge of such things. Then he had called back and said “there were formalities,” and that he would need to go to El Palomar and sign a few papers. And he would meet him there to make sure things went smoothly.

The “practice examination” seemed to have been written for people who really didn’t have much practical aviation experience. Among other gems, offered as True or False, it asked would-be aviators “Should seat belts be worn at all times?” and “Should flights over bodies of water be undertaken only in good weather?”

Doña Dorotea Mallín de Frade came onto the verandah in her negligee and a robe, both pale blue. Don Cletus’s heart jumped.

That has to be the best-looking woman in the world.

For the first time in my life, I understand why people go bananas when they see the Virgin Mary with the Baby Jesus in her arms.

My God, I’m the luckiest man in the world to have that beautiful, wonderful, loving woman carrying our child!

“Get your goddamn feet off my chair, Cletus!” Doña Dorotea greeted him. “I’ve told you a hundred times!”

He took his feet off her chair and put the manual on the floor.

Antonio La Vallé, the butler, trailed by one of the maids, appeared.

“Would Doña Dorotea prefer her eggs soft-boiled or scrambled?”

“The thought of either makes me nauseous,” Doña Dorotea said.

“You have to eat, precious,” Clete said.

“Yes, I know. I’m eating for two. What is that wonderful American phrase? ‘Up yours,’ Cletus.”

“Give her the eggs scrambled, with toast and orange juice, please,” Cletus said.

Doña Dorotea had managed to get everything down without nausea and was mopping at her plate with a piece of toast when Antonio came back onto the verandah.

“Don Cletus,” he announced, “four people, one a woman, in an American auto with diplomatic license tags have just come onto the estancia.”

Clete nodded his thanks and wondered aloud, “I wonder who the hell that is? A woman?”

Dorotea shrugged.

“In twenty minutes, you will know.”

“In twenty minutes, I have to take off for El Palomar.”

“In a Cub, darling, right?”

“In a Cub, my love.”

After a second glass of after-dinner Argentine brandy the previous evening, Clete had confided to Dorotea that he was thinking of flying the Lodestar to El Palomar for his pilot’s test.

“I mean, how could they question my ability to fly a transport if I flew there in the Lodestar?”

“They would question your sanity for flying it alone,” she said. “And if you ever fly it alone again, you will thereafter sleep in it alone. You are about to be a father. Perhaps, as you say, you should write that down.”

Not quite twenty minutes later, Clete and Dorotea had a second cup of coffee on the verandah as they waited for the mysterious American car with diplomatic license tags to appear.

It turned out to be a 1941 Chevrolet sedan. Captain Max Ashton was driving, and beside him in the front seat was a plump, balding, forty-nine-year-old who looked like a friendly shopkeeper. Clete knew who he was, and his curiosity was now in high gear.

Milton Leibermann was accredited to the Republic of Argentina as one of the five legal attachés of the United States embassy. It was technically a secret that he was also the special agent in charge of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Argentine operations, and that all “legal attachés” were FBI agents.

In what Colonel Graham had described to Clete as yet another wonderfully Machiavellian move of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, the President had assured FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover that the FBI was responsible for all intelligence and counterintelligence activities in the Western Hemisphere. The President had also told OSS Director William J. Donovan that Central and South America were of course included in the OSS’s worldwide responsibilities.

The result of this was that there were two U.S. intelligence agencies operating throughout Central and South America who regarded themselves as being in competition with each other and therefore had as little to do with each other as possible. And in Argentina—where Major Cletus Frade, chief of OSS Western Hemisphere Team 17, code name Team Turtle, did not trust the OSS Station Chief, Argentina, Lieutenant Commander Frederico Delojo, USN, as far as he could throw him—that meant there were three American intelligence agencies whose members did not talk to each other.

The exception to this was the relationship between Major Frade and Mr. Leibermann. There was a strong feeling of mutual admiration. Leibermann was a first-generation American who had learned his German and Yiddish from his parents and his Spanish from the Spanish-Harlem section of Manhattan.

He had developed contacts with the German and German-Jewish communities in Buenos Aires and elsewhere. Frade—with the caveat that Leibermann not pass it on to his FBI superiors—had told Leibermann about the operation the SS had ransoming concentration camp inmates. Leibermann had agreed to keep the secret, because he personally believed the OSS was better equipped to deal with the problem than was the FBI. The FBI’s expertise lay in solving crimes and ransoming operations of an entirely different nature.

Leibermann was the only person not in Team Turtle who knew that “Galahad, ” Frade’s man in the German embassy, was Major Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein. He had kept this secret, too, although, as the SAC in Buenos Aires, he had been tasked “as the highest priority” to find out who Galahad was.

Leibermann and Frade had agreed early on that the less they were seen together the better it would be for both. They maintained contact through Ashton and Pelosi, and the latter took care to see that their contacts took place not only inside the embassy but out of sight of Commander Delojo as well. It was not in either Frade’s or Leibermann’s interests that Delojo know of their association.

The last time Leibermann had been at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo was for the wedding of Clete and Dorotea. Frade was genuinely surprised to see Leibermann now, and concerned. Agents of the BIS knew who Leibermann was and kept him under pretty tight surveillance.

The mystery grew even more when instead of pulling into the parking area in front of the big house, Ashton stopped just long enough for Leibermann to get quickly out of the car, then drove away.

Leibermann trotted up the stairs and across the verandah—passing Clete and Dorotea—and went into the house.

Enrico picked up his shotgun and looked down the drive as if he expected someone to be chasing the Chevrolet.

“I think he’s headed for the hangar, Enrico,” Clete said. “Go down there and see if you can be useful.” Then, when he saw the look of reluctance on the old soldier’s face, he added: “Go! We’ll be all right. There’s a Thompson in the vestibule.”

When Clete and Dorotea went into the house, they found Leibermann in the vestibule.

“Where’s the resident BIS agent?” Leibermann asked.

“Delgano’s waiting for me at Campo de Mayo,” Clete said. “Where today, after dutifully cramming for it all last night, I take my pilot’s exam.”

“What he meant to say, Milton,” Doña Dorotea said, “was: ‘Good morning, Milton. How are you? Nice to see you. You’re looking well. Can we offer you a cup of coffee? Or some breakfast?’ ”

"What I meant to say is: ‘What’s the hell’s going on, Milt?’ ”

“At half past eight this morning, the commercial attaché of the German embassy appeared at my apartment door with his wife and surrendered,” Liebermann said. “They’re in the car with Ashton.”

"What do you mean, surrendered?” Clete asked.

“They’ve been recalled to Germany, and he doesn’t want to go. So he wants me to get them to Brazil, where he can get them interned.”

“He tell you why?” Clete asked, but before Leibermann could reply, he asked another question: “What’s their relationship to you?”

“Well, I’ve been trying to recruit them, but until this morning, when they showed up at my place, I had no idea that I’d even caught their attention.”

“Recruit them for what?”

Leibermann’s face showed he thought that was a really stupid question.

“Can you do that? Get them to Brazil?” Clete asked.

“Not without permission,”’ Leibermann said. “Which means I would have to ask the ambassador, who would ask your friend Commander Delojo . . .”

“Another stupid question: Why can’t they get themselves interned here?”

“Because neutral Argentina is not granting political asylum to Germans. Or, for that matter, to Americans. Brazil is at war . . .”

“Okay. Back to my first question: Why doesn’t he want to go back to Germany? What did he tell you?”

“Nothing that I believe,” Leibermann said. “But what I think is very likely is that he’s afraid he’s going to be identified as Galahad.”

“But he’s not.”

“I know that, and you know that, and probably so does Generalmajor von Deitzberg, who was sent here to find the traitor and he’s not going to fail. Or at least that’s what Frogger is worried about.”

“That’s his name?”

Leibermann nodded. “Wilhelm Frogger.”

“So what’s wrong with letting Delojo have him?”

“Delojo’s going to ask why he came to me, and I have solemnly promised him I would let him know in advance before I tried to recruit anybody, so there would be ‘no duplication of effort.’ ”

“And Delojo,” Dorotea said, “would certainly ask him who he thought the traitor really was, and this man would probably give him a list of names, including the right one.”

Leibermann looked at her and nodded.

“I wonder what this guy knows about Operation Phoenix and the ransoming operation,” Clete wondered aloud.

“I don’t know. He probably knows something he doesn’t know he knows. Presuming he doesn’t know all about both operations,” Leibermann said.

There was the sound of a car pulling up outside.

“Now what the hell?” Clete said.

It was Enrico and Max Ashton.

“I told you to make yourself useful at the hangar,” Clete said less than kindly.

“Rodolfo is at the hangar, Don Cletus,” Enrico said.

Cletus was about to bark at Enrico, then just in time remembered, Never give a subordinate an ass-chewing in the presence of others, and turned back to Leibermann.

“Well, what we’re really saying is that we should hide these people someplace until we make up our minds what to do with them,” he said.

“And pick their brains about what they might not know they know,” Leibermann quickly agreed.

“Which is why you brought them here, right?” Clete said. “Why the hell didn’t you come right out and say so?”

“I didn’t want to suggest something that could endanger your operation. But once it was your idea . . .”

“Well, we can hide them here, I guess.”

“This is the first place Colonel Martín would look for them,” Dorotea said. “If he doesn’t think you kidnapped them, the Germans will make that suggestion.”

Leibermann didn’t say anything, but it was clear on his face that he agreed with Dorotea.

“Don Cletus?” Enrico said.

“What?” Clete asked, somewhat impatiently.

“Is it important that we hide these people where El Coronel Martín and his clowns cannot find them? Or the Germans?”

“Yes, it is.”

“We could hide these people in Casa Chica, Don Cletus.”

“What’s Casa Chica?” Frade said. “One of the casas on the estancia? Didn’t you hear what Doña Dorotea just said? This is the first place Martín’s going to look. And, God damn it, the people who work for him are not clowns; they’re good.”

“This is somewhat delicate, Don Cletus.”

“Delicate? What the hell are you talking about?!”

“Casa Chica is a very small estancia near Tandil in the hills between La Pampas and Mar del Plata,” Enrico explained. “No more than maybe two hundred hectares.”

“Whose estancia is it?”

“It is yours, Don Cletus.”

“How come I never heard of it?”

“It was one of your father’s most closely kept secrets, Don Cletus,” Enrico said.

“You mean during the . . . before the coup? Because of that?”

“No, Don Cletus,” Enrico said uncomfortably. “Señor . . . it was where he and Doña Claudia would go when they wished to be alone.”

Leibermann smiled. Frade glared at him.

“There is an airstrip and a nice little house. Very romantic, Don Cletus. There is a very nice view of the hills. There is a waterfall, not a very big one, but a very nice one. And—”

“And nobody knows about this place?” Clete shut him off.

“No, señor. Only myself and Rodolfo. When El Coronel and Doña Claudia went there, he took with them only Rodolfo or me, and Mariana María Delores, may she be resting in peace.”

Frade’s mind flashed the image of Enrico’s sister, Señora Mariana María Dolores Rodríguez de Pellano, her throat slashed during the failed attempt to assassinate Frade.

When Clete didn’t reply, Enrico went on: “There are just a few servants there, Don Cletus. All of them my family. They know how to keep their mouths shut.”

“That sounds ideal, Clete,” Leibermann said.

“Can we get these people there without anyone seeing them?”

“In the back of a truck,” Enrico said.

“Honey, I really have to go,” Clete said. “If I’m late getting to Campo de Mayo, the first thing they’ll think is that I’m involved in this.”

Dorotea nodded.

“Call Casa Número Veintidós. Tell Chief Schultz to send Sergeant Stein here with a truck and a couple of Thompsons. Tell Stein to dress like a gaucho. And then, Enrico, truck these people out to this place in Tandil. Don’t let them be seen, and don’t let them near a telephone.”

“I will go with you, Don Cletus,” Enrico said softly.

Clete ignored him.

“I have no intention of riding in the back of a truck,” Dorotea said. “I’m pregnant, in case you haven’t noticed. Factor that into your planning, Napoleon.”

“What are you talking about?” Clete asked. “You’re not going to this place, wherever it is. Jesus Christ!”

“Permission to speak, Don Cletus?” Enrico asked.

When Frade looked at him, he saw Enrico was standing at attention.

Restraining a smile, Clete barked, “Stand at ease, permission granted,” and then glowered at Ashton, who was smiling.

“Señor, if I am not with you at Campo de Mayo, questions would be asked . . .”

Jesus, he’s right about that!

“. . . but if Rodolfo were to drive Doña Dorotea in the Horch and the truck following them was carrying furniture, and provisions. . . .”

“Good idea, Clete,” Leibermann said. “Nothing suspicious about that. What do they call that? ‘Hiding in plain sight’?”

Clete considered that a moment, then agreed. “Yeah, it is. You sure you’re up to this, baby?”

“Of course I am. All I do is ride over there—I’ve never been to the estancia, but I’ve been to Tandil; I’d guess it’s about two hours from here—unload the provisions and the furniture, and ride back. As long as Rodolfo and Seigfried don’t hang out a sign, no one will suspect that we’re hiding a couple of Nazis in what is now my little love nest in the hills.”

Clete was surprised at her use of the term Nazi and then wondered why. He quickly decided that was because the word called up images of Nazis in steel helmets or SS uniforms in B movies, not the dumpy looking guy and his matching wife he had seen in the back of the Chevrolet.

He turned to Leibermann.

"And you and Max head back to Buenos Aires and hope nobody saw you come out here.”