Death and Honor

[FIVE]

Estancia Santa Catalina Near Pila Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 2015 20 July 1943

Cletus Frade’s first reaction when he saw the black Mercedes drop-top sedan with a cuerpo diplomático license plate parked in front of the great house of the estancia was to think, Thank God, he’s here.

Frade was carrying the information outlining the workings and personnel of the German embassy that Stein had obtained from Frogger. If Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein had not been at his wife’s mother’s home, Frade would have had to have given the papers to La Señora Alicia Carzino-Cormano de von Wachtstein to pass to her husband.

Clete didn’t want to do that.

Alicia was not Dorotea. And that was something Clete had known long before Dorotea had manifested that cold ruthlessness at Casa Chica that he hadn’t suspected she was capable of. The less Alicia was involved in the business between Clete and Peter, the better. For a number of reasons, not limited to her inability to handle—it bordered on sheer terror—what her husband was doing.

And that presumed Alicia would be here. If she wasn’t, that would have meant he would have had to give the material to Alicia’s mother, and have her pass it to Alicia to pass it to Peter. And he would have had to tell Claudia what it was, and how he had come by it. He didn’t want to do that either. Claudia Carzino-Cormano was tough, but there was no reason to bring her into a potentially dangerous situation unless it was absolutely necessary.

Clete had another unpleasant thought. The Mercedes was the car assigned to the military attaché of the German embassy. It had been Peter’s to use—after Oberst Grüner, the military attaché, had been killed at Samborombón Bay— as the acting military attaché. But that had changed with the arrival of Korvettenkapitän Karl Boltitz, who had been named the military attaché.

Is Boltitz here with Peter?

As if reading his mind, Dorotea said, “That’s the official car. That means Boltitz is probably here, too.”

“Yeah,” he said, and looked at her.

Jesus Christ, she even thinks like I do!

When they walked up on the verandah, they could see Korvettenkapitän Boltitz through the sitting-room window. He was in an armchair. La Señorita Isabela Carzino-Cormano was sitting on a footstool next to him, hanging on his every word.

Looks like El Bitcho has become just another goddamn Nazi, Clete thought. She’s as bad as Frau Frogger.

Alicia saw them through the same window and seemed less than overjoyed at their arrival. Although she and Dorotea had been close friends since childhood, and although she knew that if it hadn’t been for Clete going to El Coronel Perón, who had gone to some of his high-ranking Nazi friends to request a favor, right now Peter von Wachtstein would be in Germany flying the Me-262 jet fighter instead of here safe—relatively—in Argentina.

Alicia got off the couch and was standing behind the Carzino-Cormano butler when he opened the door.

“Peter is here,” she greeted them. “And Karl Boltitz.”

That it was a warning showed in her eyes.

“How nice,” Dorotea replied cheerfully. “Are you going to ask us in?”

“Of course,” Alicia said, then raised her voice. “Mama, Dorotea and Cletus are here.”

She led them into the sitting room.

Von Wachtstein and Boltitz stood.

“Oh, how nice,” Claudia Carzino-Cormano said, smiling bravely. “You’re just in time for dinner.”

“Then our timing is perfect,” Cletus said, went to her, really kissed her cheek, and thought: I’m glad you don’t know there’s two other Nazis at Casa Chica, one of them sitting on your couch reading from my father’s copy of Goethe’s love poems.

He turned to the men.

“And how is the diplomatic corps tonight?”

“Señor Frade,” Boltitz said. “How nice to see you. And you, señora.”

“Hello, Frade,” Peter said. “How are you? Dorotea?”

“Can I get you something to drink?” Claudia asked.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Clete said. “If that’s merlot that Major von Wachtstein is drinking, I’d love some of that.”

He sensed Isabela’s eyes and looked at her. Her eyes were as hateful as he expected.

“What a joy it is to see you, Isabela,” Clete said. “And you seem so happy. Been pulling the wings off flies again, have you?”

“Cletus!” Dorotea and Claudia said, almost in unison.

“Karl,” Claudia then said, “you’ll have to forgive him. He’s always teasing Isabela.”

“I am not!” Cletus said.

“Changing the subject,” Peter said. “There’s a rumor going around that your first airplane has arrived.”

“Not a rumor at all,” Clete said. “It’s at El Palomar. After a two-hour-and-sixteen-minute flight from Pôrto Alegre.”

“That’s fast.”

“Fast and smooth,” Clete said. “American aviation genius at work.”

That earned him, as he expected it would, another dirty look from Isabela.

“Not as fast as the Condor, certainly,” Isabela said.

“I don’t know,” Clete said innocently. “How fast is the Condor, Isabela?”

Her expression showed that she did not have a clue. She looked at Peter.

“It’ll do a little better than three hundred kph,” Peter furnished. “It cruises at around two fifty-five.”

“The Lodestar tops out at a little better than three forty-five,” Clete said.

“But it won’t cross an ocean, will it?” Isabela challenged.

Gotcha, El Bitcho!

“Isabela,” Clete explained politely, “the Lodestar, first, never was designed for long flights. And, second, it’s obsolete. That’s why they’ve sold them to South American Airways. We—the Americans—don’t need them anymore.”

“Then you Americans don’t have an airplane like the Condor that will cross oceans?” she pursued.

“I didn’t say that, Isabela,” Clete went on, trying not to sound condescending. “Right now, the Americans every day fly the Douglas DC-4 across both the Pacific and the Atlantic. And there’s a new Lockheed—”

“There is?” Peter asked.

Clete turned to him. “The Lockheed pilots who delivered the Lodestar to Pôrto Alegre told me their new one—they call it the ‘Constellation’—has just been certified. At cruise altitude, seventy-five hundred meters, it cruises at five hundred seventy kph. For eighty-seven hundred kilometers. With a full load. Thirty passengers.”

“Very impressive,” Peter said, meaning it.

“I’ll believe it when I see it land at El Palomar,” Isabela said.

“That’s probably never going to happen, Isabela,” Clete said, paused, and when he saw she was about to snap back at him, added, “When the first Constellation lands here, it’ll belong to South American Airways, and will of course land at Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade.”

“The two of you stop it!” Claudia said. After a moment, she asked, “What did you just say, Cletus?”

“About where the Constellation will land when it comes here, you mean?”

“You know very well that’s what I mean. What are you talking about?”

“The chief pilot of South American Airways—you remember him, Claudia, Major Delgano?”

She nodded. “And?”

“He came to see us this morning to tell me that he and my Tío Juan”—he paused and looked at Boltitz—“El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón is not really my uncle, korvettenkapitän, but he likes me to call him that. Anyway, Tío Juan and Major Delgano thought it would be nice if we named our new airport after my father, and wanted to know what I thought of the idea.”

“Damn you, Cletus!” Claudia said, having trouble with her voice. “You are just like him! Same awful sense of humor!”

“Oh, I don’t think they were fooling, Claudia. Tío Juan told Delgano he was going to have a word with the president. I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody’s already painting a temporary sign.”

“If la señora is so pleased,” the butler announced from the door to the dining room, “dinner can now be served.”

“As our hostess,” Clete said while the coffee was served, “already is offended by my bad manners—”

“And with damned good cause,” Claudia interrupted, “thank you very much, Cletus.”

Clete nodded once, then went on: “—I would not dare anger her further by filling the room with cigar smoke. I am therefore going to take my coffee onto the verandah for a smoke. If anyone would care to join me . . . you, perhaps, Isabela?”

She snorted.

“All are welcome,” Clete went on. “I have cigars but regrettably no cigarettes. ”

“I’d like a smoke,” Boltitz said. “With your permission, la señora?”

“Go,” Claudia said.

The three men went not only onto the verandah but off it and into the garden, where they could not be overheard. There, Frade extended his cigar case.

“I don’t use them, thank you,” Boltitz said.

“Put one in your mouth anyway,” Frade said. “In case El Bitcho is watching us out the window, as I suspect she is. Or will be.”

Boltitz nodded and took a cigar.

Von Wachtstein took a cigar, lit it, and puffed appreciatively.

“Nice,” he said.

“They make them in Tampa, Florida,” Frade said between puffs on his. Then he added, “Peter, turn your back to the house. I’m going to give you an envelope, and I don’t want Isabela to see me doing it.”

The transfer took perhaps thirty seconds.

“What’s in the envelope?” von Wachtstein said.

“Information about your embassy. I need to know how accurate it is.”

“Where did you get it?” Boltitz asked.

Frade didn’t reply.

“So you have the Froggers, Cletus?” von Wachtstein asked, but it was more of a statement.

“The who?”

“You would be surprised to learn that the former commercial attaché of the embassy, Herr Wilhelm Frogger, and Frau Frogger have gone missing?” Boltitz asked.

“You don’t say?” Frade said.

“On Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo?” von Wachtstein asked.

Frade shook his head.

“Someplace where they will be hard to find, I hope?” Boltitz asked.

Frade looked at him but did not reply.

“Major Frade, if I’m not mistaken, SS-Brigadeführer von Deitzberg has ordered the present commercial attaché, the former Obersturmbannführer Karl Cranz, to eliminate them when and where found.”

“Why would von Deitzberg want to do that?”

“Because he could then tell Himmler that Frogger was the traitor in the embassy and that he had been eliminated.”

“But that’s not true.”

“And if von Deitzberg later found the real traitor, he could then tell Himmler that there were two traitors and he had found both. And I would guess that he would hope the currently unrevealed traitor, or traitors, would relax a bit after learning Frogger had been identified, and that would help him catch them.”

“You’re pretty good at this, aren’t you, Boltitz?” Frade said. His tone of voice showed that he meant the compliment.

“Admiral Canaris once told me that any intelligence officer who thinks he’s pretty good is sadly mistaken,” Boltitz said.

“He’s obviously a wise man,” Frade said. “Well, if I happen to bump into your man Frogger, I’ll mention that his friends are looking for him.”

“I suspect he knows that,” Boltitz said. “What he really should worry about is that Frau Frogger thinks they are really friends.”

“You know that, too, do you?” Frade said.

“What do you want done with what you gave Peter?”

“Just let me know if it’s accurate. If it is, call my house in Buenos Aires and leave word that my new suit is ready.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Leave word that I have to come in for another fitting,” Frade said.

Boltitz nodded.

“We should probably rejoin the ladies,” von Wachtstein said. “Before El Bitcho comes out to wag her tail at Karl.”