Death and Honor

[SIX]

Near Olavarría Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1540 14 July 1943

The navigation chart being used by newly licensed commercial aviation pilot Don Cletus Frade did not have, so far as he could see, the location of any airfield marked on it. It had been published by the Automobile Club of Argentina for the use of touring motorists.

It had proved perfectly adequate, however, to get him where he was now, at an indicated altitude of fifteen hundred feet and about that far to the right of National Route Three.

The only man-made break in the sea of grass that was the pampas was Route Three, and he had seen very few cars and trucks on that narrow two-lane highway.

Clete put the Cub in a gentle climbing bank to the right, taking him farther away from Route Three. When he no longer could see the highway, he saw that the altimeter showed he was at thirty-five hundred feet. He straightened out and looked slowly at the pampas from horizon to horizon. There was absolutely nothing down there but cattle, clumps of trees, and grass.

He put the nose down and dropped to five hundred feet.

Then, as he looked over his shoulder and indicated with a pointing finger that they were going down, Enrico smiled wanly and made the sign of the cross.

Clete retarded the throttle until he felt the little airplane show the first signs of a stall.

Then he dropped the nose further, flared, and put the Cub on the ground. There was no sense making a flyover to see if he could see any obstacles in the grass; the grass was high enough to conceal a rock or tree stump or something else that would cause him to dump the plane.

He had dumped Cubs a half-dozen times while landing on the Texas prairie, twice flipping over, but without hurting himself. He thought that was the worst that could happen here—he’d dump the Cub and have to take a long hike over the pampas to Route Three, then wait for somebody to pick them up.

He knew that he had to see what was going on with the German couple from the embassy as soon as he could, although he wasn’t sure why. It probably would have been smarter to go back to the Big House at the estancia, then drive over to Tandil. But he had given in to his gut feeling that it was important to get there as soon as possible, and that meant flying there from Campo de Mayo, knowing that he’d have to make a fuel stop in the middle of nowhere, and risk dumping the Cub.

Ten minutes after having transferred the gas in the can to the tank, he was airborne again.

And ten minutes after that, as a line of hills almost suddenly rose from the flat pampas, Enrico touched his shoulder and pointed at one of the higher hills. Clete turned toward the hill and in a few minutes saw that there was a house—and some small outbuildings—near the top of one of the hills.

Enrico touched his shoulder again and pointed.

Clete nodded, acknowledging that he had seen the landing strip. He was surprised a moment later to see a windsock to one side of the short strip.

He put the nose down and into the wind, looked at Enrico, and saw that Enrico was again invoking the mercy of the Deity.

As he landed, he got a pretty good look at the house—the strip had been carved out of the hill below the house. It was more of a cottage than a house, with a red-tile roof and a large plate-glass window in the front. There was even a small swimming pool.

A hilltop lovenest, he thought, and smiled at the thought of his father, with Claudia in the backseat, flying a Cub—maybe this one—into here with a weekend of whoopee on their minds.

He hadn’t seen the Horch or a truck, which meant that Dorotea was already on her way back to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, if not already there.

He turned the Cub around at the end of the runway and shut it down. From the house, two gauchos came trotting down a wide stairway; the steps appeared to be railroad ties.

One was Sargento Rodolfo Gómez, Argentine Cavalry, Retired. The other was Staff Sergeant Siegfried Stein, Signal Corps, U.S. Army. Gómez cradled a Mauser hunting rifle in his arms. Clete thought it was most likely the rifle— once his father’s—that Gómez had used to take out Oberst Grüner and Standartenführer Goltz at Samborombón Bay. Stein had a Thompson submachine gun hanging from his shoulder, and the butt of a Model 1911-A1 Colt could be seen sticking out of his wide gaucho belt.

When Clete had climbed out of the Cub, Stein saluted not very crisply. Gómez looked at him, then saluted.

Clete casually returned the salutes. To show he appreciated the incongruity of the situation, he smiled and, as a colonel might do on the parade ground, barked, “Stand at ease, men!”

Stein grinned. “I’m a little surprised you could find this place.”

“I had an ACA road map,” Frade said. “How’s our guests?”

“Several answers to that,” Stein said. “Physically fine. They’re in the living room.”

“And the other answer?”

“She’s a real Nazi bitch, Major.”

“She is?”

“I have the feeling that if she could find some Gestapo guy, it would take her about ten seconds to denounce her husband.”

“Then why did she come?”

“Women change their minds, and, oh boy, has this one changed hers.”

“She say anything?”

“Only that she—meaning him, too—will deal only with an ‘officer of suitable rank.’ ”

“And she pegged you as a sergeant?”

“She pegged me as a Jew—maybe something about my accent—and she can’t believe a Jew would be an officer.” He smiled. “I heard her tell him to tell the ‘Jüdisch Gefreiter’ that she was hungry.”

“Well, let’s go see her. I’ll tell her that you’re actually a Jüdisch Oberst.”

“I don’t think that would work. I think you’re even going to have a hard time getting her to believe you’re a major.”

Frade didn’t reply directly; he had had another thought.

“Did you bring any gas with you?”

Stein nodded. “Four jerry cans from the hangar. I hope it’s avgas.”

“If you got it from the hangar, it is,” Frade said. “Enrico, gas it up. I want to get out of here while it’s still light.”

Frade looked at Stein, who waved him up the steps to the house.

Commercial Attaché and Frau Frogger were sitting side by side on a couch in the living room. The couch faced a large plate-glass window offering a view of the valley and the next range of hills.

Frade could imagine his father and Claudia sitting there—maybe Claudia had had her head in his father’s lap as he smoked a cigar and they shared a glass of wine watching the sunset.

He felt a wave of anger at the two Germans sitting on his father’s and Claudia’s couch.

This is not the time to do something stupid!

Frogger, after a moment, stood. His wife clutched her briefcase-sized purse against her stomach and looked at Frade coldly.

“All right, Herr Frogger,” Frade said in German. “What have you got to offer me?”

“Who are you, please?” Frau Frogger demanded.

Frade ignored her.

“Well?” he pursued.

“I don’t really know what you mean,” Frogger said.

“We insist on dealing with an officer of appropriate rank,” Frau Frogger said.

“You are in no position to insist on anything,” Frade said. “Major, did you find anything interesting in their luggage?”

Staff Sergeant Stein accepted his promotion without question. He popped to attention and said, “No, sir. I thought I would wait until you got here, Colonel.”

“Where is it?”

“I put the bags in the housekeeper’s room, sir.”

Frade switched to Spanish and turned to Gómez. “Take the man to get their luggage,” he ordered.

"Sí, mi coronel,” Gómez said, and gestured with the muzzle of the Mauser for Frogger to start moving.

“Let’s have a look at what she’s got in that purse,” Frade said in English, as much to see from her reaction whether or not she spoke English. He saw that she both spoke English and was very unhappy with the notion of having him see what her purse contained.

You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes, Frade!

“Please empty the contents of your purse on the table,” he said in German, pointing.

“Nothing but personal items,” she said.

“Empty the purse on the table,” Frade said coldly.

“We have diplomatic immunity,” she protested. “This is an outrage.”

For a moment, Frade thought of ordering Stein to take her purse, but one look at Stein’s face showed that the last thing he wanted to do was snatch a purse from someone—Nazi bitch or not—who looked like a grandmother.

Frade took four quick steps to Frau Frogger and snatched the purse from her hands. He found the zipper, opened it, turned the purse upside down, and started to shake the contents onto the floor.

When he glanced at her, he saw pure hate in her eyes.

Frade looked at the pile of miscellany from a woman’s purse and saw a silver-framed photograph. He bent over and picked it up.

It was of three nice-looking young men, all wearing Wehrmacht uniforms. It was fairly obvious these were the Frogger children. The oldest of them was wearing a large floppy beret, and from some recess of his mind he recalled that German armed forces wore berets. He had no idea what ranks they held—as a matter of fact, he wasn’t even positive that they were all officers.

For an intelligence officer, Frade, you have enormous voids in your professional knowledge.

“Please give that back to me,” Frau Frogger said, not at all belligerently.

He looked at her, resisted the temptation to hand her the photograph, and instead carried it out of the room, knowing he was going only where Rodolfo Gómez had led the man.

The door led to the kitchen. Frogger, carrying two large leather suitcases, was walking across it. Frade motioned for him to stop. He held the photo out to him.

“These are?”

“My childr—our sons.”

“And they are where?”

“Two have been killed in the war. The third is in the United States.”

“In the United States?”

“Wilhelm, this one”—he pointed at the man wearing the oversized floppy beret—“was captured while serving with the Afrikakorps.”

“His name is Wilhelm Frogger?”

Frogger nodded. “Oberstleutnant Wilhelm Frogger.”

“He is young to be a lieutenant colonel,” Frade said.

“If you will excuse me, Herr Oberst, you look young to hold your rank.”

Well, he swallowed that colonel bullshit. Or he’s pretending he did.

Okay, where do I go from here?

Jesus, I wish I had had more time to talk to Milton!

Milton said they deserted because they didn’t want to go back to Germany.

Okay. Let’s go with that.

“Mr. Leibermann tells me that you want to be interned in Brazil.”

“That is correct.”

“I’m the only person who can get you into Brazil, and right now I can see no reason why I should do that.”

Frogger’s eyes widened, but he didn’t reply.

“Actually, Leibermann made a mistake in bringing you to me.”

“We have surrendered,” Frogger said.

“What you have done is desert your post at the embassy and put yourselves into the hands of a man whose father was assassinated on the orders of the German embassy.”

“But we have surrendered,” Frogger repeated. “We wish to be granted political asylum in Brazil.”

“Then you should have gone to the Brazilians. You didn’t.”

“I am prepared to cooperate,” Frogger said.

“Meaning what?”

“I have information which would be of value to you.”

“Information about Operation Phoenix, for example?”

“Excuse me?”

“Operation Phoenix.”

“I don’t know the term. I’m sorry.”

“Then you are either stupid or a liar, probably both. Stupid, certainly, for thinking you could come and expect help to desert your post, with nothing to offer us.”

“I have information . . .”

“But not about Operation Phoenix?”

“I know nothing about any Operation Phoenix.”

“You are lucky you brought your wife with you,” Frade said. “Otherwise, you would already be in an unmarked grave on the pampas. I don’t like to kill women unless I have to.”

“Then simply return us to Buenos Aires.”

“My God, you are stupid, aren’t you? You’ve already seen too much to be allowed to remain alive.”

He gestured with his hands, indicating Frogger should carry the suitcases into the living room. Gómez went next, then Frade followed them in.

“Open them and dump them on the floor,” Frade then ordered coldly.

“Those are our personal possessions!” Frau Frogger complained indignantly.

“Dump them on the floor,” Frade repeated.

When that had been done, he spotted the photo album, went to it, and picked it up. He flipped through it, then tossed it atop the pile of clothing and personal items.

In Spanish, he ordered Gómez to put “these swine” into the house-keeper’s room.

“If they look like they’re even trying to get away, shoot them,” Frade ordered, “put them in a hole in the pampas, pour gasoline on them, then set them afire and leave them for the buzzards.”

“I have information—”

“Shut your mouth, you slimy bastard!”

Staff Sergeant Stein met Frade’s eyes but said nothing.

“You ever watch cop movies, Siggie?” Frade asked when Gómez had led the Froggers away.

Stein nodded. “Sometimes.”

“Then you’re familiar with good cop/bad cop?”

Stein nodded.

“I have just been the bad cop,” Frade said. “I don’t know how convincing I was, but that’s what I was trying. I threatened to kill and burn them—”

“I don’t think they have buzzards down here, Major.”

“I don’t know if they do or not. But I don’t think that they know either.”

Stein smiled at him.

“You’re about to become the good cop, Major Stein. The way you do that is to confirm their suspicions that Colonel Frade is an unmitigated sonofabitch who hates Nazis because they killed his father—that’s not far from the truth, incidentally, but I have people like that sonofabitch Cranz in mind, the SS, not a miserable little shit like this guy. Anyway, being the good guy, tell them you may—just may—be able to talk me out of killing them if they have something to offer . . .”

“Like what?”

“He says he never heard of Operation Phoenix, and I don’t know if he’s lying or not. But work on that. Start—unless he starts on Operation Phoenix, or the ransoming operation, which I think is unlikely—by getting him to give us the manning chart of the embassy. We can have von Wachtstein check that, see if he’s lying.”

“Major, I’ve never done anything like this in my life.”

“Welcome to the club, Sergeant Stein. Neither have I.”

Stein shrugged.

“When will you be back?”

“In a couple of days. I want to talk to Leibermann. It’s going to be tough. Martín showed up as I was about to take off from Campo de Mayo. He suspects we’re involved in this. BIS agents are going to be all over everybody.”

Stein nodded, then shrugged, but didn’t reply directly.

“You better get going, Major. You’re about to lose daylight.”

Frade thought aloud: “Jesus, I wish I could get von Wachtstein out here. He’d know how to deal with them.”

“But then they would know he’s Galahad.”

“What makes you think he hasn’t already figured that out?”

“Or her,” Stein said. “Can you get him out here?”

“I don’t know. I’ll work on it. But in the meantime . . .”

“Yes, sir.”