Death and Honor

[FOUR]

Office of the Commanding General U.S. Army Air Forces Establishment Canoas Air Base Pôrto Alegre, Brazil 1400 22 July 1943

“Yes, sir,” a portly, middle-aged USAAF master sergeant wearing aircrew wings said to his intercom box, then looked somewhat disapprovingly at Frade. “The general will see you now, Señor Frade.”

“Thank you,” Frade said, and, motioning Fischer to come with him, walked through the door to the office of Brigadier General J. B. Wallace, U.S. Army Air Forces.

Wallace was sitting behind a highly polished desk. It held a leather-bound green blotter, a telephone, a pen holder, a sign reading Brig Gen Wallace, and nothing else.

“Thank you for seeing me, General,” Frade said politely.

Wallace nodded but did not reply.

“General, I’m going to need some assistance,” Frade said.

“Is that so?” General Wallace asked in his somewhat nasal tone.

“Yes, sir. The first thing—”

“Forgive me, Señor Frade,” Wallace interrupted, “but what gives you the authority to demand anything of me?”

Frade took a leather folder from his trousers pocket and laid it on the general’s desk. It was his set of the credentials that Colonel Graham had issued to everyone on Team Turtle on 5 July. His identified him as the OSS regional commander.

“Those credentials do, sir. And you are advised that those credentials are classified Top Secret, and you are not permitted to disclose to any of your subordinates that I have shown them to you.”

The general picked up the folder and began to examine it.

“And my superiors ?” he challenged, sarcastically. “Am I permitted to disclose to them that you have shown me whatever this is?”

“You may inform your superiors, in the grade of major general or above, that I presented them to you, but not the circumstances under which I have done so. Any questions you or they may have about the credentials or me should be directed to the Office of Strategic Services in Washington.”

General Wallace tried to stare Frade down. He failed.

The general examined the credentials again, this time very carefully. Finally, he raised his eyes to Frade.

“Frankly, I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Very few people have, sir.”

“What is it you want me to do, Mr. Frade?”

I thought those credentials would dazzle you, you pompous sonofabitch!

“I want you to fly Mr. Fischer to Rio de Janeiro as soon as possible so that he can catch the next Pan American Airways flight to the United States.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” General Wallace said.

“I want him escorted, very discreetly, of course, by armed officers—one of whom should be at least a major—who will stay with him until they see the Pan American plane take off.”

“That can be arranged. And what else?”

“I need to send a small package by officer courier to Washington,” Frade said. “I thought perhaps one of your pilots flying up there—a major or more senior officer?”

“Again, that should be no problem to arrange. Am I permitted to ask what’s in the package?”

Frade did not answer immediately. Instead he gestured to Fischer.

“Let me have one of those cassettes, Len.”

When Fischer had handed him one, Frade held it up for General Wallace to see.

“This is also classified Top Secret,” he said.

“I understand,” General Wallace said seriously.

“I will need three large manila envelopes—better make it four, right, Mr. Fischer? You’re the expert here.”

“Four would be better,” Fischer agreed.

“And a grease pencil and Scotch tape. The wider the better.”

“Sergeant!” General Wallace raised his voice.

The portly master sergeant appeared at the door.

“Mr. Frade will require four large manila envelopes, Sergeant, some Scotch tape, and what else was there, Mr. Frade?”

“A grease pencil, black, please, Sergeant,” Frade said. “And if you have some of the two-inch-wide Scotch tape?”

“Yes, sir,” the master sergeant said. “Right away.”

Frade used the grease pencil to write Unexposed Film Top Secret Eyes Only DDWHO in large letters on both sides of one of the manila envelopes, put the film cassette he’d shown Wallace in it, and wrapped it tightly with the Scotch tape.

Then he repeated that operation twice, creating a thick roll of envelopes and tape. He put the roll into the fourth envelope, then on that outer envelope wrote BY OFFICER COURIER TOP SECRET EYES ONLY DDWHO OR GENERAL DONOVAN. He sealed the envelope, then signed C. FRADE, AREA COMMANDER on the flap, and covered his signature with more Scotch tape.

“Do you think that’ll do it, Mr. Fischer?”

“I think that should do it,” Fischer said. “General, you don’t happen to have a courier’s briefcase we could use, do you?”

“I don’t know what a courier’s briefcase is,” General Wallace said.

“They have sort of a stainless-steel wire and handcuff arrangement,” Fischer said, “so the briefcase can be attached to the courier.”

Where the hell did Len get that?

“Perhaps we could improvise something,” General Wallace said.

“That would be helpful,” Fischer said. “Thank you.”

“May I ask what DDWHO means?” General Wallace asked.

“Deputy Director, Western Hemisphere Operations,” Frade said. “The courier doesn’t need to know that. All he has to do is take the briefcase to the National Institutes of Health Building, ask for the duty officer, and give it to him.”

“I understand,” General Wallace said. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Certainly.”

“We have an aircraft—a B-24—leaving within an hour or two for the United States. Perhaps Mr. Fischer could travel on that?”

Why not? That would save Len the trip to Rio de Janeiro.

But it’s a long goddamn ride in the bomb bay of a B-24 from here to the States.

“Ordinarily, General,” Frade said, “that would be a splendid idea. But there are reasons why Mr. Fischer should travel on Pan American Grace”—for example, sitting in a softly upholstered seat while a steward in a white jacket serves him chilled champagne and a five-course meal—“that make that ill-advised. Perhaps the B-24 pilot—presuming he’s a field-grade officer—could serve as the officer courier, but my priority now is to get Mr. Fischer to Rio de Janeiro just as soon as possible.”

“I understand,” General Wallace said, and raised his voice again: “Sergeant!”

The master sergeant appeared in the door a moment later.

“Sir?”

"Call Base Ops and have a C-45 readied for an immediate flight to Rio. Priority One.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you,” Frade said.

Besides, if Len went on the B-24, that would put both film cassettes on the same plane, and that would not be a good idea.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Frade?”

“I can’t think of a thing, General.”

“If you’ll be with us tonight, perhaps we could have dinner.”

“That’s very kind of you, General, but just as soon as I see Mr. Fischer’s plane lift off, I’m going wheels-up myself back to Buenos Aires.”

“Sergeant!”

“Sir?”

“Have my car brought around to take these gentlemen to the field.”

As they walked across the tarmac to a USAAF Beechcraft C-45 Expeditor, Fischer smiled at Frade and said, accurately mimicking General Wallace’s somewhat nasal speech, “ ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Frade? Dinner, perhaps?’ ”

Frade chuckled.

“You really put that stuffy sonofabitch in your pocket,” Fischer said.

It wasn’t me, Frade thought.

It was that OSS badge that put Wallace in my pocket.

“I’m a Marine officer, Lieutenant,” Frade replied with a mock-serious tone. “Perhaps you should keep that in mind.” Then he smiled and, when Fischer smiled back, put out his hand.

“Thanks, Len. You’ve done a wonderful job.”

“I’m a Signal Corps second lieutenant,” Fischer said, mimicking Frade’s tone. “Perhaps the major might want to keep that in mind.”

Clete laughed, then, surprising the both of them, they embraced in the Argentine manner—except neither kissed the other.

“I’ll see you around, Clete. And we’ll be in touch.”

“Yeah, we will.”

Frade punched Fischer in the arm, then watched as Fischer ducked through the small door of the small twin-engine aircraft.

Frade didn’t move as the Expeditor taxied to the end of the runway, ran up its engines, and took off. It wasn’t that he was that interested in watching the airplane take off. He was considering the fact that, once again, he was about to be a prick.

Fischer was under the impression that he was going back to the safety of Vint Hill Farms Station.

Tough luck, Len, ole buddy. I need you.

If not here right now, then kept on the shelf to be taken down and expended as needed.