Death and Honor

[THREE]

“Well, I’m not surprised that you gave up,” Colonel A. F. Graham said to Major Cletus Frade as they stood out of the sun in the cool shade of a magnificent magnolia tree and watched Fischer load Frogger in the backseat of the staff car. “That sonofabitch is tougher than he looks. But I wonder if maybe you quit a little too soon.”

“Colonel, I haven’t quit. I’m just starting.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“The Kraut who Roosevelt has stashed in the Hotel Washington.”

“You want to take him to Washington to see Hanfstaengl?”

Frade nodded. “By way of Fort Bragg.”

“What’s at Fort Bragg?”

“I heard it’s even bigger than Camp Pendleton, and there should be a lot of planes on the air base because of the paratroopers.”

“You’re trying to impress Frogger?”

Frade nodded again.

“I don’t think that will work, and I don’t think taking him to see Putzi Hanfstaengl in Washington is a good idea.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Frade said in exasperation.

“By now, you should know that the way this works is I make the decisions and you make them happen.”

“Colonel, what you said was, ‘Use your best judgment. I’ll back whatever you decide to do.’ This is my best judgment. If you don’t want to do it, Colonel, sir, that’s your call.”

“I don’t like your tone of voice, Major,” Graham said coldly.

Frade’s face showed that he didn’t much care whether Colonel Graham liked the tone of his voice or not.

After a long moment, Graham said, “You showed him that Office of War Information radioteletype about warning people to get out of Berlin?” When Frade nodded, Graham added, “If you really want to impress him, we could quote refuel end quote at Newark.”

“What’s going on at Newark?”

“It’s the jump-off point for B-17s, B-24s, and whatever else can make it across the Atlantic. The last time I was there, it was a sea of bombers.”

Frade nodded his understanding.

“And on the way,” Graham said, warming to his own idea, “we could fly over Manhattan—which has not been bombed—and then over the shipyards in New Jersey and around Baltimore . . . and finally Washington, the White House, and all those buildings untouched by the war.”

He saw the look on Frade’s face.

“Okay, Clete, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. Allen Dulles thinks turning the Froggers is important.”

Frade did not reply.

“This isn’t the first time that I’ve given you the benefit of my very serious doubts, is it?”

“I don’t think I’d better answer that.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Graham said.

Frade didn’t respond.

“There are several problems with taking him to see Putzi at the Hotel Washington,” Graham went on. “For one thing, Frogger says he never heard of him—”

“He’s heard of him,” Frade said flatly.

Graham grinned. “Odd, we’ve found something we agree on. I’ll have to give Putzi a heads-up we’re coming, and why.”

“Just tell him we want him to convince Willi that Putzi was a pal of Adolf and his cronies, and—”

“I know what to tell him,” Graham cut him off. “What I’m thinking is that taking a German officer, in Afrikakorps uniform, into the Hotel Washington may raise some eyebrows.”

“If anybody asks, tell them he’s a character in one of Howard’s movies.”

Graham shook his head.

“And speaking of Howard,” Frade said, “are those guys in the white jackets on the Constellation his or yours? They’re the same ones who were in the Chateau Marmont, right?”

“You mean Howard’s Saints? I wondered how long it was going to take you to get around to asking about them.”

“ ‘Howard’s Saints’?”

“They’re Mormons. Members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. They don’t drink, they don’t smoke, they don’t even drink coffee. They protect Howard from all sorts of threats—some real, some imagined. He pays them very well.”

“Do they carry guns? Can they help Fischer guard Frogger?”

Graham nodded.

“Can we get Howard on the phone while Fischer and Frogger are on their way to the airport? Give him a heads-up?”

Graham nodded and said, “You’re not going with them?”

“Let him worry what you and I are up to,” Frade said. “And then be dazzled by the airplane while he’s waiting for us.”

Graham considered that, then nodded. “Okay.”

Frade walked to the staff car. Frogger was in the backseat, his hands handcuffed behind him. Fischer was standing by the door.

“Get Colonel Frogger out of the hot sun, Major,” Frade ordered. “Put him on the plane. Cuff him to one of the seats halfway down the fuselage. If he tries to escape, shoot him in the foot; try very hard not to kill him. What I don’t need right now is a noble martyr to the Nazi cause.”

“Yes, sir,” Fischer said.