Death and Honor

[ONE]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1730 19 July 1943

Second Lieutenant Leonard Fischer, Signal Corps, U.S. Army, looked with interest as a native Argentine cowboy—called a gaucho, he had learned from a magazine photo essay—pushed himself off the tailgate of a Ford Model A pickup and walked toward the Horch that had carried them from the airfield to what Major Frade had described as “my farm.”

The gaucho looks just like the ones in the pictures in National Geographic: He’s got the wide leather belt decorated with silver, the big knife slipped in the belt at the back, the billowing breeches tucked into leather boots—everything.

But what’s a gaucho doing here? This place looks more like the campus of a boarding school for rich kids than a farm.

And take a look at that! Jesus, that’s a good-looking dame!

I thought all these people would look like Chiquita Banana—dark skin, black hair, a whatchamacallit tied over their heads—not a long-haired blonde in a blouse and a horse riding skirt.

The blonde kissed Major Frade in a manner that was both respectable and interesting, then put her hand out to Fischer.

“Welcome to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo,” she said. “I’m Dorotea Frade.”

“Thank you. My name is Fischer.”

Frade said, “Second Lieutenant Leonard Fischer, Signal Corps, this is my communications officer, Lieutenant Oscar Schultz, USN. And that is the last time we will use our ranks.”

Both Fischer and Schultz had personal thoughts before they shook hands.

Fischer wondered, Frade’s not talking about the gaucho—is he?

Schultz thought, This kid is supposed to be expert on the Collins Model 7.2 transceivers and the SIGABA?

“How do you do, sir?” Fischer said politely.

“And kill the ‘sir’ business, too,” Frade added.

“What do you say, Fischer?” Schultz said.

“What do I call you?”

“We call him El Jefe,” Dorotea said. “It means ‘the chief.’ ”

Fischer nodded his agreement.

“Well, come in the house and we’ll have tea,” Dorotea said.

“Can I pass on that, Dorotea?” Schultz said. “I want to look at what they brought. I figured we’d do that in the hangar?”

“So would Carlos like to have a look at what we brought,” Frade said, then explained Carlos to Fischer. “He’s my mechanic, hired at the strong recommendation of Delgano, which means he works for El Coronel Martín.”

“Carlos went into town yesterday,” Schultz said. “I thought he’d be back today, but he’s not here. I checked on that when I heard you’d come onto the estancia.”

“So would I like to see what you brought home,” Dorotea said. “So tea will be served in the hangar. There also will be beer, Mr. Fischer, a very nice merlot, and bourbon, as that’s what my husband drinks. But we have about anything else you might want.”

“Beer will be fine, ma’am,” Fischer said. “Ma’am, do you have a vacuum cleaner?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Could I borrow it, please? One with a hose would be just what I need.”

“One vacuum cleaner with a hose coming up,” Dorotea said.

“What’s with the vacuum cleaner?” Schultz asked.

“I packed the transceivers and the . . . electric typewriter . . . with popcorn,” Fischer said.

“You did what?”

“I used popcorn as a cushioning material,” Fischer explained.

“I’ll be goddamned!” Schultz blurted.

“Quite probably,” Dorotea said, “if you keep taking His name in vain.”

“Well, I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Chief Schultz said in awe, then winced. “Sorry again, Dorotea.”

They were in the hangar, looking into the innards of the SIGABA device, the cover of which had been carefully removed. There was not much to see, other than an odd wire rising from a sea of popcorn kernels.

“You did that to the Model Seven-Twos, too?” Schultz asked.

“Yeah. It really works.”

“You’ve moved one of these before?” Schultz asked doubtfully.

“I’ve moved a bunch of them,” Fischer said.

Fischer turned to Enrico Rodríguez, who was somewhat awkwardly, if not comically, holding his shotgun in one hand and an upright vacuum cleaner by its handle in his other. Fischer took the vacuum from him and found a power outlet.

There was a thin, foot-long hollow wand attached to the vacuum cleaner hose. Fischer pulled it off, then turned on the vacuum and carefully lowered the now-large, open end of the hose into the SIGABA.

There was a rattling in the hose as the machine sucked up the popcorn. It didn’t take long to get most of it out, and then Fischer put the wand back on the hose and used that to suck out what was left from among the vacuum tubes and rat nests of wiring in the cavity.

“I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Schultz said again. This time he didn’t apologize.

“Now let’s see what happens when we plug it in,” Fischer said.

Dorotea handed him a power cord.

“One-ten or two-twenty?” Fischer asked.

“Two hundred twenty volts,” Schultz answered for her.

Fischer threw the voltage-selector switch on the side of the SIGABA device, then made the connection.

“You better stand back, Chief. Sometimes there’s a flash fire,” Fischer said seriously.

Schultz looked at him in disbelief but took a step back.

Fischer pushed the main power switch.

There was a hum, but no fire.

Fischer smiled at Schultz, who, smiling, shook his head.

A row of dials slowly came to life.

Both Fischer and Schultz examined them carefully.

“Jesus, better than I thought,” Fischer said thoughtfully.

“You don’t have any juice on the DC feed to the secondary oscillator,” Schultz said.

“Oh, hell!” Fischer said, then added, “But no problem. I’ll just say the magic words!”

“The what?”

“Mumbo jumbo, fish boom bah,” Fischer intoned, and with his index finger tapped the dial that showed no indication of power. The indicator needle leapt to life and indicated twelve volts DC.

“If that didn’t work, I would have kicked it. That usually works,” Fischer said. “But sometimes I have to use a hammer.”

“You’re a real wiseass, aren’t you?” Schultz said, smiling.

Fischer shrugged. “I’m a Signal Corps second lieutenant. It goes without saying.”

“It’s working?” Frade asked.

“If I hadn’t watched it myself, I wouldn’t believe it,” Schultz said. “Okay, Fischer. Fair’s fair. If that popcorn is your idea, you’re one clever sonofabitch.”

“Call me ‘Len,’ ” Fischer said.

Frade said, “Talk about clever: You should have heard the line of bull he fed Martín and Tío Juan about this thing. Which they swallowed whole. Tell the chief, Fischer.”

Fischer related the story.

“And they believed that?” Schultz then said.

“Swallowed it hook, line, and sinker,” Frade confirmed.

“Well, then, they must not know a hell of a lot about the way RDF works.”

“What do you mean?” Frade asked.

“There’s no long message like that—‘South American Airways Zero Zero One’—what he said. What the field RDF transmitter sends is a couple of letters. Like P-A-L for Palomar. That’s all. You don’t know that?”

“I do,” Frade replied. “But so what? Martín and Perón don’t.”

Then he had a thought that chilled him, almost making him sick to his stomach.

Oh, shit!

Delgano was there when Fischer was handing that bullshit story to Perón and Martín!

He’s a pilot. He knows about RDF call signs as well as I do! Every time he goes into Palomar, he homes in on PAL.

He looked at Fischer.

Fischer looked embarrassed.

“I know about radios,” he said. “I don’t know much about airplanes.”

“Obviously,” Frade said, somewhat sharply. And was immediately sorry.

This is my fault, not his.

So why didn’t Delgano say anything?

Was he waiting until we were gone, and was going to tell Martín then?

That doesn’t make any sense.

If he was going to tell Martín, he would have told him when he was showing him and Perón around the airplane.

And if he had told Martín, Martín wouldn’t have been so obliging about us loading the SIGABA and the Collins transceivers on the truck and bringing them out here.

At the very least, Martín would have “suggested” we leave everything in the hangar at Palomar.

“Something you ate, darling?” Dorotea asked. “You look as if you’re about to be sick.”

“We didn’t fool Delgano with that story,” Clete said. “He’s a pilot.”

“Oh, shit!” Schultz said.

After a moment, Dorotea asked very softly, “You think he told Martín?”

“I think if he had, the SIGABA device now would be in Martín’s office, being examined by his technicians, and I would be explaining to Tío Juan why I was smuggling a cryptographic device into Argentina. Or I’d be in a cell.”

“Delgano’s a good guy, Clete,” Schultz said. “I know you don’t like him, but . . .”

“But what? The sonofabitch spied on my father for years.”

“That was his job,” Schultz argued. “His duty. That don’t mean he didn’t like your father. Or that he liked spying on him.”

“Meaning?”

“And he’s not stupid.”

“No, he’s not. But what does that mean?”

“I don’t think he liked what the Krauts did to your father. Either personally, or as an Argentine officer. And then you proved you’re not exactly Argentina’s Public Enemy Number One by taking this”—he pointed to the nose of the Lodestar, which was just inside the hangar—“to Campo de Mayo and flying General Whatsisname . . .”

“Rawson,” Dorotea furnished.

“. . . around in their Piper Cub—”

“I know where you’re going, Chief,” Clete interrupted. “But I don’t share your optimism. I have a somewhat darker view.”

“Such as?” Dorotea asked.

“Arresting me—or even Fischer here—as a spy is something that’s not going to happen without General Rawson’s permission. They’re not going to just say, ‘Gotcha. Up against the wall!’ ”

“If you think you’re being clever and funny, you’re not,” Dorotea said.

“I’m obviously not clever, sweetheart, and this is not at all funny. So I think we have to consider the very real possibility that, any minute now, Rawson having given his permission, reluctantly or otherwise, the gauchos will report that a small convoy of Ejército Argentino vehicles have come onto the estancia . . .”

Dorotea inhaled audibly and put her hand to her mouth.

“. . . to arrest me. And, of course, Fischer. And to grab the SIGABA.”

“You don’t know that,” Schultz said.

“No. But I always look for the dark lining of the dark cloud,” Clete said. “The question then becomes what do we do with Fischer.”

“We take him out in the boonies,” Schultz said.

“No,” Frade said. “We fire up the Lodestar and take him to Uruguay. He heads for the Brazilian border, then home. I wait there until I hear from somebody here . . . you, sweetheart . . . what the Ejército Argentino did when they learned we were gone.”

“Or if they came here at all,” Dorotea said.

Clete nodded. “And based on that information, I decide what to do next.”

“Or if they came here at all,” Dorotea repeated.

Clete looked at her.

She added, “You’re assuming a lot has happened and will happen that may not have happened or will not happen at all.”

“Honey, I just can’t cross my fingers and hope for the best,” Clete said. “Okay. Get the tractor, Chief, and we’ll drag the Lodestar out of here.”

“I’m going with you,” Dorotea said.

“No, you’re not. If you did that, you would be an accomplice. Right now, you’re just a wife who had no idea what her crazy American husband was up to. They’re not going to bother you. And we’ll get you to Uruguay or Brazil or wherever later.”

“I’m going with you,” she insisted.

“No,” he said flatly.

“What about the pictures Mr. Dulles wants of me and the Nazis?” Fischer asked.

“Oh, Jesus!” Frade said.

“What pictures?” Dorotea asked. “What Nazis? Who’s Mr. Dulles?”

“I had the feeling he thought that was pretty important,” Fischer said.

“Yeah, so did I, God damn it,” Clete said.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on, please?” Dorotea asked.

He looked at her, then suddenly turned and walked toward the hangar door.

“What are you doing?” she called after him. “Where are you going?”

When Clete left the hangar, Dorotea started after him.

Chief Schultz caught her arm. She looked at him in surprise.

“Sometimes, when you have to make a decision, it’s better if you’re alone,” Schultz said. “And he has to make the decisions here by himself.”

She continued looking at Schultz for a long moment, then nodded her understanding.

She turned to Fischer.

“The Nazis you were asking about? Did you mean the Froggers?”

“That’s the name—I think—he used. Mr. Dulles—”

“And who is Mr. Dulles?”

“I don’t really know. I mean, he’s OSS. I know that. But he’s more than that. He’s somebody important.”

“How do you know that?” Schultz asked.

“Well, when we landed at Pôrto Alegre, he was there with the commanding general, an Air Forces brigadier named Wallace. They met the plane, I mean. And Mr. Dulles shakes my hand and says, ‘What brings you to Pôrto Alegre, Lieutenant?’ and I say, ‘I’m looking for a man named Frade,’ and the general says, ‘That makes two of us.’

“The way he said it made it pretty clear that he wasn’t going to hang a Hawaiian lei around this Major Frade’s neck. So Mr. Dulles says, ‘You think you know Major Frade, do you, General?’

“And General Wallace says—I don’t remember exactly, but something like— ‘Yes, I do. The last time he was here he took off without permission, defied my orders to return to the field, and got me in all sorts of difficulties with the Brazilian authorities. I’ve really been hoping to see that young man again, and soon.’

“And then Mr. Dulles says, very soft, ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken, General. You have never seen Señor Frade before.’

“And the general says, ‘Oh, yes, I have. And I look forward to taking that young man down a peg or two.’

“And Mr. Dulles says, ‘General, I’m afraid you’re not listening. I just told you that you never before saw the Señor Frade who’s coming here to pick up the Lodestar aircraft. You won’t recognize him today or at any other time he might be back here. Is that clear, or is it going to be necessary for me to call General Arnold and have him tell you that personally?’ ”

“Who’s General Arnold?” Dorotea asked.

“ ‘Hap’ Arnold, commanding general of the Army Air Forces,” Schultz furnished. “The whole goddamn AAF.”

“Yeah,” Fischer went on. “So this General Wallace looks like he’s going to sh . . . explode. But then he says, ‘Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. It will not be necessary for you to call General Arnold.’

“And Mr. Dulles says, ‘Thank you.’

“And then—later, not when the general was there—he told Major Frade that I had been given a Lindbergh clearance, and that I was going to find out who Galahad is . . .”

“Jesus!” Schultz said.

“. . . because I’ll be handling all the traffic from here when I get back to Vint Hill Farms.”

“That makes sense,” Schultz said. “We can’t have everybody at Vint Hill doing the decryption.”

“What about the Froggers?” Dorotea asked. “Did he know about them, too?”

“I guess Major Frade told him, because just before he left, he gave him a German camera—something with an l—”

“Leica?” Dorotea offered.

Fischer nodded. “And told him to take pictures of me with these people. Holding a copy of that day’s newspaper.”

“To do what with?” Schultz asked.

Fischer shrugged. “All I know is that I’m going to take the film with me when I go to the States. Mr. Dulles wanted to send a second copy through some Navy officer in our embassy—Delojo?—but Major Frade said he didn’t trust him—”

“What Major Frade said earlier,” Frade’s voice suddenly announced, startling everyone, “Lieutenant Fischer—and it was an order, Fischer—was to stop using ranks.”

Everyone turned to see Frade coming back inside the hangar.

“Sorry,” Fischer said as he noticed the pronounced change in Frade’s body language.

“I’m going to tell it like it is, Fischer,” Frade said with some force. “If my stupidity blows this operation—for allowing you to run with that line to Martín and Perón while not recognizing Delgano, a pilot, knew it was bullshit—there’s going to be real problems. And that’s the great understatement of the day. If— probably when—we get caught, I don’t think much will happen to me. I’ll be kicked out of country, but they’re not going to shoot me.”

He glanced at the others. “You, however, you’re something else. And so are the rest of the people on the estancia. I don’t think they’ll shoot everyone. But you will be tried as spies, sentenced to death, and thrown in a cell. Unless we can do something to get you out, and I don’t think we can—‘we’ meaning me and the U.S. government—you’ll be in that cell for the duration of the war and—what is it they say?—‘plus six months.’ ”

“Yes, sir,” Fischer said meekly.

“And that means, of course, that we won’t have the radar to make sure the Germans haven’t brought another submarine-replenishment vessel into Samborombón Bay . . .”

“Shit,” Schultz said.

"... And that while you’re all in some cell—before and after your courtmartial—the Germans will probably try to have you killed.”

“They can do that?” Fischer blurted.

Frade exhaled audibly. “Yeah, Fischer, they can do that. My Uncle Juan Domingo is not the only Argentine officer who thinks Hitler’s a good guy and that the Germans and Japs and Italians—The Axis—are going to win the war.”

“Oh, boy!” Fischer said.

“And to answer your specific question: The organized crime down here is very much like ours in the States. When the Germans wanted my father dead— and, for that matter, me whacked—they didn’t try to do it themselves. They hired professional killers from whatever they call the Mafia down here. They took out my father but didn’t get me. That was dumb luck; somebody told me they were coming, and I was waiting for them. They’re not nice people. They found my housekeeper, a really nice lady, in the kitchen and slit her throat, just because she was there—”

“Jesus!”

“Yeah, Jesus. Now pay attention, Fischer: I can get you out of the country, into Uruguay, right now. And have you in Brazil tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Froggers are at Casa Chica, a small farm I own near Tandil, in the hills between La Pampas and Mar del Plata—”

“I don’t know where any of those places are,” Fischer interrupted.

“Let me finish, Fischer,” Frade said coldly.

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s about a two-hour drive from here,” Frade went on.

“Yes, sir.”

“And every twenty miles or so, I expect there will be a checkpoint. Either army or police.”

“Yes . . . I understand.”

“I think those pictures are more important than I understand—”

Fischer, nodding, interrupted: “Mr. Dulles made that pretty clear without coming right out and saying so, or saying why.”

After a long silence, Frade said, “I am not going to order you to go out there, Fischer.”

Fischer met his eyes for a moment, then shrugged. “When do I go? Right now?”

“If we’re going to go, yeah, right now. You’re willing to take the chance?”

Fischer nodded again.

Frade raised his eyebrows. “The first thing I learned when I went into the Marine Corps was never to volunteer for anything.”

“Yeah, well, what the hell, I’ve never seen a real Nazi,” Fischer said.

“Taking into consideration that that goddamned Carlos may have sneaked back onto the estancia—”

“I don’t think so, Clete,” Schultz said. “Those gauchos of yours know if a damn rabbit comes on the place.”

Frade ignored the comment. “—and is watching us through binoculars to see what we’re doing before they come to arrest me. So, what we now are going to do is get in the Horch. Fischer gets in the backseat and lies on the floor until we’re a couple of miles from here. And we go to Casa Chica.”

“A couple problems with that, sweetheart,” Dorotea said.

Clete turned quickly to look at her.

“You don’t know how to get there,” she explained reasonably. “The only time you’ve been there, you flew the Piper Cub. And . . . when I am sitting with you in the front seat, and if Carlos is watching us, he will decide that you and I have gone off for a romantic interlude. If I’m not with you, that would be suspicious. Most Marines would not think of leaving their bride the same night they came home.”

Clete saw out of the corner of his eye that Schultz and Fischer were trying very hard not to smile.

Clete nodded. “Okay, okay, sweetheart, you can go.”

“Oh, you’re just so good to me!”

He shook his head—but he was smiling.

“Chief,” Frade then said, “take the SIGABA device out to the radar site. Make sure it and the radio and the code machine and everything else is rigged with thermite grenades.”

“And the Collins radios?”

“Leave them here. If Carlos is watching, taking them out of the hangar would be suspicious.”

Schultz nodded.

“If they come after me,” Frade went on, “torch everything, then go hide on the estancia.”

“I know just the place. Places,” Schultz said. “We’ll just lay low until we see what happens. Not that I think anything will.”

Frade raised his eyebrows, not convinced. He said, “When we get to Casa Chica, we’ll take the pictures of the Froggers—we’ll need a copy of La Nación . . .”

“There’s one in the sitting,” Dorotea said.

“. . . And then we’ll spend the night. We’ll leave there at seven, seven-thirty in the morning. Which should put us back here, or onto the estancia, at about half past nine. Have a gaucho meet us somewhere if everything’s okay. If there’s no gaucho . . . then we’ll play it by ear.”