Death and Honor

[FOUR]

Bolling Air Force Base Washington, D.C. 1730 6 August 1943

Clete didn’t know, of course, whether Oberstleutnant Frogger was impressed with his tour of the Eastern Seaboard from Connecticut to Washington, D.C.— with a side trip to North Carolina to Pope Air Force Base and Fort Bragg—but as Frade lined up the Constellation with the runway at Bolling, he didn’t see how Frogger could not be. He had been dazzled himself.

After the flyover of Bragg and Pope—and they had been lucky there; an enormous fleet of C-47s was in the process of disgorging a regiment of paratroopers as they flew over—they had flown to north of New York City, where Hughes had called Air Traffic Control and reported they were having pressurization problems, and requested an approach to the field at Newark at no higher than five thousand feet.

That allowed them to fly at that altitude over Manhattan Island. The Hudson River was full of ships, and they got a look at the bustling shipyards in New Jersey. Taking on fuel at Newark gave them forty minutes on the ground, which in turn gave them—and, more important, Frogger—that long of a time to see row after row of glistening new B-17 and B-24 heavy bombers preparing to fly to Europe.

Hughes again called Air Traffic Control, reported they were still having pressurization problems, and requested—and received—permission to fly to Bolling at five thousand feet.

Their routing took them over Delaware, then Baltimore, and finally Washington. It was a sunny day and all the buildings of the capital were on clear display, every one untouched by any sign of bombing.

They were third in the pattern to land at Bolling, after a B-26 light bomber and a four-engine Douglas C-54 transport. Frade then greased in the Constellation. He really thought it was a combination of a nice day, a low, slow approach, and a lot of beginner’s luck, but was nonetheless pleased when he heard Howard Hughes say over the intercom, “Not bad, Little Cletus.”

The tower directed them to the tarmac before a remote hangar on the opposite side of the field from Base Operations. The hangar was under heavy guard—submachine-gun armed MPs on foot and others in a three-quarter-ton weapons carrier and a jeep. Frade was curious about that and even more curious to see that a dozen or more men were in the hangar polishing the aluminum skin of a C-54.

Hughes answered his question before Frade could put it into words.

“The Sacred Cow,” he said.

“The what?”

“The Sacred Cow,” Hughes explained, “is the President’s personal aircraft. He really should have one of these; they’re faster, have a longer range, and are more comfortable. But Lockheed makes these, Charley Lindbergh works for Lockheed, and our commander in chief is cutting off his nose to spite his face because he’s got a hard-on for Charley.”

“You’re serious?”

“Don’t tell anyone, Little Cletus, but our noble commander in chief can be a vindictive sonofabitch. Ask your grandfather.”

Ground handlers pushed steps against the Constellation’s rear and behind the cockpit doors. A closed van backed up to the steps rising to the door behind the cockpit. On its sides was a sign: CAPITOL CATERING. A 1940 Packard limousine pulled up to the stairs leading to the passenger compartment. A chauffeur got out and the rear door opened.

Frade walked down the aisle to Frogger, who was handcuffed to one of the seats. A fold-down shelf on the rear of the seat ahead of him held a coffee cup and an ashtray.

Frade squatted in the aisle.

“Welcome to Washington, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

Frogger did not reply.

“One of two things is going to happen now,” Frade said. “I’m going to have the major remove your handcuffs. Then you have your choice of walking forward and going down the stairs and into the van. Or you can be difficult about this, and the handcuffs will be put back on your wrists and you will be led— or carried, if you choose to be difficult—down the wider stairs at the passenger compartment door and put into the van.”

“Where am I being taken?”

“To see Herr Hanfstaengl. He’s a former close friend of your Führer.”

“This entire situation, sir, is a violation of my rights under the Geneva Convention! I demand to see a representative of the International Red Cross!”

Frade stood and looked at Fischer.

“Have them cuff Herr Oberstleutnant’s hands behind his back and put him in the van.”

Frade stood in the passenger door and watched as two of Howard’s Saints marched Frogger down the stairs and to the rear door of the CAPITOL CATERING van. Fischer followed them. The van’s door closed and it drove off.

Frade stepped back and motioned for Colonel Graham to precede him down the stairs. They both got into the limousine and it drove off.

As they left the air base, Frade said, “I don’t suppose there’s a radio in that van, is there? And one in here?”

“There is,” Graham said. “That is, there are. But if you’re thinking of telling them to drive the extra couple blocks to show Frogger the White House, I already have.”

The Packard stopped in front of the Hotel Washington. Graham got out with Frade on his heels, went through the revolving door, and walked purposefully to the bank of elevators. They got on one, and the operator, a burly black man with gray hair, closed the door.

“Good evening, Steve,” Graham said politely. “By now they should be waiting for us in the subbasement.”

“Excuse me, Colonel,” the operator said as he studied Frade and his long locks. “Who’s this gentleman?”

“This is Major Frade,” Graham said.

“My heads-up said you, an MP major, two of Mr. Hughes’s men, and a quote end quote special visitor.”

“And that while we’re in there nobody else is to be admitted?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The MP officer will be in the basement with the special visitor,” Graham explained. “I’ll vouch for this officer.”

“Yes, sir,” the elevator operator said, and reached for the elevator control. As he did so, Frade saw that the fabric of the operator’s black jacket was tightly stretched over what was almost certainly a 1911-A1 Colt .45 in the small of his back.

“Why do I suspect you’re one of us?” Frade asked him, smiling.

“No, sir. I’m Secret Service. We protect the President, the Vice President, their families, and select supposed ex-Nazis.”

The elevator stopped and the Secret Service man slid open the door.

Frogger was standing there with one of Hughes’s men on each side. Fischer stood to one side.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” the Secret Service man said. “I guess you’re waiting for the elevator to the Washington Berghof?”

Graham laughed.

“Get on, please, Oberstleutnant Frogger,” Graham ordered.

Frogger looked reluctant, almost as if he was going to refuse.

“Get on,” Graham repeated.

Frogger didn’t move.

“Colonel, you better get on,” the Secret Service man said in perfect German. “If I have to come out there and throw you on, you’re not going to like it at all.”

Frogger came into the elevator and the others crowded in after him.

The Secret Service man took a telephone from its hanger and said into it: “Six on the way up. Clear the corridor.”

The elevator began to rise. When the car stopped and its door was opened, there was a small sign announcing SEVENTH FLOOR.

There also were two men in civilian clothing waiting for them. From the respect with which they greeted Colonel Graham—and from their haircuts— Frade guessed they were soldiers, maybe even Marines.

“This way please, Colonel, gentlemen.”

They were led to a door at the end of the corridor. One of the men gestured at Howard’s Saints, signaling them that the corridor was as far as they were going to be allowed to go, and then opened the door and gestured for Graham, Frade, Fisher, and Frogger to go in. When they had done so, the door was closed after them.

Frade saw they were in a comfortably furnished corner sitting room. Its windows opened on both Pennsylvania Avenue and Fifteenth Street. The White House, a block or so to the west, was clearly visible over the roof of the Treasury Department building.

An interior door opened and a tall man with somewhat sunken eyes and a prominent chin walked in. He was wearing a white shirt, no tie, and the cuffs were rolled up.

“Hello, Alex,” he said in Boston—or at least Harvard—accented English.

“How are you, Putzi?” Graham said as they shook hands.

Hanfstaengl looked at Frogger and said in German, “Colonel, I’m Ernst Hanfstaengl. And you can let your breath out. You are not about to be hung on a meat hook.”

Frogger glared at him but said nothing.

Hanfstaengl turned to Graham.

“I don’t need to know who these gentlemen are, Alex, but it probably would be quite helpful if I knew what it is they—or you—want from the colonel.”

“Putzi, I’m afraid that’s classified,” Graham said.

“Mr. Hanfstaengl,” Frade said, “what I would like for you to do is tell the colonel what scum are running Germany.”

Hanfstaengl looked at Frade, then raised his eyebrows.

“Well, that wouldn’t be hard—I know most of them—but what makes you think he’d believe me? Someone in my position would not be likely to say that Adolf Hitler and the National Socialist Democratic Workers Party are the hope of Western civilization, now would he?”

“Give it a shot, please,” Frade said on the cusp of unpleasantness.

Hanfstaengl looked at Graham for guidance.

Graham said, “Tell the colonel, for example, where Hitler got the money to buy the Volkische Beobachter.”

“The people’s what?” Frade asked.

“ ‘The People’s Observer,’ literally translated,” Hanfstaengl said. “The Nazi party newspaper. Hitler got it from me. I gave him the money.”

“And why did you do that?” Graham asked softly.

“At the time, I believed Hitler was the hope of Germany and possibly the only thing standing between Germany, Europe, Western civilization, and the Communist hordes.”

“What made you change your mind?” Frade asked.

“Even if you don’t know it yet, the United States is the only hope the world has to stem the Communist hordes.”

“You haven’t changed your mind about Hitler?” Frade challenged.

“My position on that is a pox on both their houses,” Hanfstaengl said. “Goebbels and Himmler tried to have me murdered, as I suspect you know.”

“But I thought you were a good Nazi,” Frade said.

“Presumably you know what Lord Acton had to say about power. ‘Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ What happened in Germany is unequivocal proof of that.”

“Then you would say that Hitler and the people around him are corrupt?” Graham asked.

“Well, if the bastard hadn’t murdered his niece, with whom he was having an incestuous relationship, I would say that Hitler is probably less personally corrupt than those around him. He’s paranoid, of course. And an egomaniac. Those around him are corrupt beyond description.”

He paused and looked at Frogger.

“You are a professional soldier, Herr Oberstleutnant?”

Frogger nodded.

“Then certainly you must be aware that your peers hold the ‘Austrian corporal’ in deep contempt?”

Frogger didn’t reply.

“Let me put it to you this way, Herr Oberstleutnant: Germany has lost the war. The sooner it’s over, the fewer soldiers—and civilians—will be killed or mutilated for life. Have you heard that Goebbels has gone on Radio Berlin and advised people to leave? So the sooner Germany surrenders, the better for Germany.”

Hanfstaengl looked at Frogger for a response and got none. He shrugged as if he expected that reaction.

Then he coldly added: “Herr Oberstleutnant, if whatever Colonel Graham here is asking you to do will hasten the end of the war, then it is your duty to do so.”

“What they are asking me to do has nothing to do with ending the war, Herr Hanfstaengl,” Frogger said.

“Perhaps you can’t see how whatever he’s asking you to do has to do with hastening the end of the war, but I know Colonel Graham well enough to know that unless he thought it was about ending the war, or something nearly that important, he wouldn’t have brought you here to me.”

Frogger did not respond.

Without breaking eye contact with Frogger, Hanfstaengl said, “May I ask him a question, Alex?”

“Discreetly, Putzi.”

"Herr Oberstleutnant, does the term heavy water—”

“Stop right there, Putzi!” Graham said sharply.

“—mean anything to you? Because if it does, and you’re not giving Graham what he wants—”

“Shut up, Putzi!” Graham ordered loudly and furiously.

Graham looked at Frade. “Get Frogger the hell out of here. I knew this was a bad idea. . . .”

Hanfstaengl threw both hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“Herr Hanfstaengl, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Frogger said without conviction as Frade reached for him.

“Putzi, you sonofabitch!” Graham said bitterly.

The door from the corridor suddenly opened.

A burly man stepped inside. He held a Smith & Wesson revolver in his hand, the arm extended parallel to his leg. He looked quickly around the room.

“You can put that away, Dennis,” Franklin Delano Roosevelt said as he rolled his wheelchair through the doorway. “I know both of them well enough to know it’s mostly bark without much bite.”

No one in the room spoke for a moment.

“Mr. President,” Graham said finally. “Your friend has just been talking about heavy water.” His voice was tense with anger.

“I heard you would be here, Alex,” the President said, ignoring the outburst entirely. He paused to take a cigarette from a gold case and fit it into an eight-inch-long silver holder. Dennis, the man who had entered the room holding a revolver at his side, quickly produced a cigarette lighter.

Roosevelt took a puff and exhaled thoughtfully.

“As I was saying, Alex, I heard you were paying Putzi a visit, but I didn’t hear anything about these gentlemen.”

He waved the cigarette holder like a pointer at Frade, Fogger, and Fischer, who had all, without thinking about it, come to attention. Then the cigarette holder pointed at Frogger.

“May I ask who you are, sir?”

Frogger grew even more stiffly erect. He bowed and clicked his heels.

“Oberstleutnant Frogger, Wilhelm, Excellency!” he barked.

“In whose presence Hanfstaengl has been—” Graham began, only to be shut off by Roosevelt’s extended palm.

Roosevelt’s cigarette holder was now aimed at Frade.

“Before anyone tells me, let me guess. You’re Cletus Frade.”

“Yes, I am, Mr. President.”

“I’m pleased that you finally have found time to come to Washington,” Roosevelt said. He turned to Frogger. “Mr. Frade is an interesting man, Colonel. At one time, he was a distinguished fighter pilot. Now he’s an intelligence officer who knows the names of the German officers who are planning to—how do I put this?—permanently and irrevocably remove Chancellor Hitler from office. Information he refuses to share with me, as difficult to believe as that may be.”

He paused and looked at Frade for a long moment.

FDR then went on: “And I have no idea, Colonel, why he’s brought you here to see my old friend Hanfstaengl. I’m not at all sure he’d tell me if I asked. But I do know that he would not have done so unless he thought it was rather important.”

He took another pull at his cigarette, then looked at Frogger as he slowly exhaled the smoke through his nostrils.

“The reason, Mr. Frogger, that I don’t insist that Frade share everything he knows with me is that he enjoys my absolute confidence. You might wish to keep that in mind in your dealings with him.”

The President kept his eyes locked with Frogger’s for a long moment, then swiveled the wheelchair to face Hanfstaengl.

“This would seem to be a poor time for a visit, Putzi, wouldn’t it? I’ll come back another time.” He paused, then said, “Good evening, gentlemen,” and swiveled his wheelchair around so that he faced the door.

The Secret Service agent was just able to get to the door and open it as Roosevelt rolled up to it. And then the President was through it and gone.

A long moment later, Frade said without thinking, “Jesus H. Christ!”

“Is it true, Mr. Frade?” Frogger asked. “That you know the names of those officers who plan to . . . remove . . . der Führer?”

“If it were true, why the hell should I tell you?”

“If it was not true, you would have said it was, to elicit my support,” Frogger said.

Frade just looked at him.

“Mr. Frade,” Frogger said after a moment, “does the name Oberstleutnant Claus Graf von Stauffenberg mean anything to you?”

Frade didn’t reply.

“Perhaps you’re not as good an intelligence officer as your President Roosevelt seems to think you are, Mr. Frade. The look in your eyes answered my question.”

They locked eyes.

“As the imminent and inevitable collapse of the Afrikakorps became apparent, ” Frogger said, “von Stauffenberg was trying to arrange my transfer to Germany. I’m rather surprised my name has not come to your attention.” He paused, then went on: “Under the changed circumstances, Mr. Frade, I will of course do whatever it is you want me to do.”

“For the moment, Colonel Frogger, I’ll go along with you,” Graham said. “It will take a day or two for me to verify your connection with von Stauffenberg. If you’re lying, I’ll have you shot.”

“I understood that, Colonel, when I gave you von Stauffenberg’s name.”

“Fischer, take him back to Bolling. Put him on the Constellation. If he tries to escape, if he tries anything, kill him,” Graham ordered.