Death and Honor

[ONE]

Aeropuerto El Alto La Paz, Bolivia 1230 11 August 1943

The airfield at La Paz left a good deal to be desired. The single runway was short and paved with gravel. The customs officials who met the SAA Lodestar were in ill-fitting khaki uniforms and expected to receive—and did—a little gift in appreciation of their professional services.

The fuel truck was a 1935 Ford ton-and-a-half stake-bodied truck—not a tanker—sagging under the weight of a dozen fifty-five-gallon barrels of aviation fuel. The pump was hand-cranked.

There was a small silver lining to that, however. When Frade examined the barrels, he saw from the intact paint on the openings that they hadn’t been opened since leaving the Howell Petroleum Refinery in Louisiana. The fuel would be safe to use.

Cletus Howell Frade did not mention to Gonzalo Delgano his connection with Howell Petroleum.

The weather station was “temporarily” out of communication with anybody else, which meant that they would have to rely on the weather report they’d gotten just before taking off from Guayaquil, Ecuador, not quite six hours before. That one had reported good weather all over the eastern half of South America, and from what they’d seen in the air, the report was valid.

They both were tired. It had been a very long flight. They’d left Burbank at six in the morning on August ninth and flown nonstop to Mexico City. They’d taken on fuel there and flown on to Guatemala City, whose airfield was downtown and surrounded by hills. The final approach was a dive at the threshold.

Frade and Delgano spent the night in Guatemala City in a charming old hotel, which apparently had not replaced the mattresses since they were first installed. But nevertheless both had overslept. They had planned to leave at six a.m., but it was a few minutes after eight before they broke ground on the next leg, to Guayaquil, Ecuador.

They didn’t want to try to go any farther, so they spent the night there, just about on the equator, which meant tropical temperatures and hordes of biting insects—many of them mosquitoes—that the somewhat ragged mosquito nets did little to discourage.

The next morning, they were wide awake at five a.m. and took off for La Paz as intended, at six a.m., without availing themselves of anything more than coffee for breakfast.

It had been a nearly six-hour flight, and as soon as they could after landing they headed for the airport restaurant.

The tableware was dirty, the papas fritas limp and greasy, and the lomo— filet mignon—was thin and had the tenderness of a boot sole.

“I don’t mean to be critical, Gonzo, but I have had better lomo,” Frade said as he pushed his plate away and reached for another piece of bread.

“Patience is a virtue, as you may have heard. In just a matter of hours, Cletus, my friend, we will be in Argentina, where, as you have learned, the women are beautiful and the beef magnificent.”

Delgano saw something in Frade’s eyes.

“What?” he asked.

“Gonzo, we have to talk.”

“I thought this would be coming.”

“Truth time?” Frade asked.

“That’s always useful. But one of the truths here is that I’m afraid we have different loyalties.”

“Different isn’t the same as opposing.”

“Would your admitting that you are a serving officer—a major—of the U.S. Corps of Marines attached to the OSS be the kind of truth you’re talking about?”

“Not really,” Frade said. “Colonel Martín has known that for some time, and so have you, Major Gonzalo Delgano of the Ethical Standards Office of the Bureau of Internal Security.”

Delgano considered that and nodded. He then said: “Colonel Martín also believes that you know a good deal more than you’re admitting about the disappearance of the Froggers. Are you going to tell me the truth about that? Is that what this is all about?”

Frade nodded.

“You kidnapped them?” Delgano asked.

“No. They came to me. I didn’t kidnap them.”

“We wondered about that. Kidnapping a German diplomat and his wife would have been very dangerous, and we couldn’t understand why you would do something so foolish.”

“Frogger had been ordered back to Germany. He was afraid he was suspected of being a traitor.”

“Colonel Martín considered that. He has a hard time believing Frogger is Galahad.”

“He’s not. And, yeah, Gonzo, I realize that when I say he’s not, I’m admitting there is a Galahad. Truth time.”

Delgano smiled wryly.

“Colonel Martín thinks Galahad is Major von Wachtstein,” Delgano said.

“Does he?”

“I didn’t really expect you to admit something like that,” Delgano said. “Why did Frogger go to you?”

“He didn’t. When he decided that he had to run, he went to somebody else, who brought the Froggers to me.”

“Are you going to tell me who that ‘somebody else’ is?”

“No,” Frade said simply.

“So why did you take them? Knowing how dangerous for you that would be?”

“I’d like to say because I’m a Good Samaritan, but I won’t. I’m not, and you wouldn’t believe it anyway. The truth is that my friend had no place to hide them and I couldn’t let them go. The Germans would learn who brought them to me, for one thing. And, for another, I got word that the SS had decided that Frogger knew too much and had put out an order to kill him—both of them; the wife, too—wherever and whenever found.”

“So what are you going to do with them?”

“This is where telling the truth gets uncomfortable.”

“Do you have any choice?”

Frade shook his head. After a moment, he said, “Do you remember having breakfast with a man called Stevens, an assistant consular officer, when we were at Canoas?”

Delgano nodded.

“Well, he solved my problem of what to do with the Froggers. He’s not an assistant consular officer at the embassy in Rio de Janeiro.”

“I didn’t think he was. Who is he?”

“A very senior OSS officer.”

“Who works for Colonel Graham?”

“Who works with Colonel Graham.”

“An important man,” Delgano said.

Frade nodded. “When I told him about the Froggers . . . I have to go off on a tangent here, Gonzo. What do you know about Operation Phoenix?”

Delgano gestured with his hand toward Frade. “Why don’t you tell me about Operation Phoenix?”

“I will if you tell me whether or not you’ve heard about it, Major Delgano.”

Delgano shrugged. “Very well. I’ve heard about it.”

“Okay. I’ll tell you everything I know about it, and you can then tell me if it’s what you’ve heard.”

“Fair enough.”

“Just about everybody in Hitler’s circle but Hitler himself has realized that the war essentially is over, and that most of them are going to get hung. So Martin Bormann came up with a plan—Operation Phoenix—to buy a sanctuary in South America. Primarily in Argentina, but also in Brazil, Paraguay . . .”

“That’s pretty much what we’ve heard,” Delgano said when Frade had finished.

“What have you heard about the ransoming of Jews out of the concentration camps and arranging for them to get out of Germany and come to Argentina and Uruguay?”

Delgano didn’t reply immediately.

“Nothing,” he finally said. “But it would certainly explain something that’s been bothering us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Two things: Where all those pathetic ‘Spanish and Portuguese’ Jews are coming from—pathetic meaning undernourished, showing signs of abuse, and looking very frightened. And with numbers tattooed on their inner arms.” He pointed to his own arm. “We checked their passports. They’re valid.”

“You said two things,” Frade said.

“And the passage of large amounts of dollars and pounds sterling through Argentina and into Uruguay.”

Frade smiled knowingly. He said, “The operation is run by Himmler’s adjutant, SS-Brigadeführer Manfred von Deitzberg, who was recently in Argentina wearing the uniform of a Wehrmacht major general.”

“We knew that—that he was really SS—but never quite understood what he was doing in Argentina.”

“Looking for Galahad and protecting the ransoming operation.”

“From you?”

Frade nodded, and said, “But he really has nothing to worry about for the moment. President Roosevelt has decided that my shutting it down would have the effect of sending more Jews to the ovens or being worked—or starved—to death. So the plan is that we’ll deal with those bastards once the Germans have surrendered.”

“One of the problems you—the United States and England—have in Argentina, Cletus, is that very few people are willing to believe the Germans are capable of cruelty—mass murder—on that scale.”

“Yeah, I know,” Frade said, and went on: “My orders are to keep track of both Operation Phoenix and the ransoming money.”

“This is where you have to tell me about South American Airways. Alejandro Martín doesn’t believe much—in fact, anything—about the story you’ve given about why the U.S. suddenly is willing to provide us airplanes that Brazil—and other of your allies—would very much like to have.”

Delgano paused, chuckled, then went on: “But his philosophy is much like yours, Cletus: Let the bastards get away with whatever it is for now. We’ll deal with them later, and in the meantime we’ll have the airplanes.”

“And Gonzo Delgano is watching the bastards like a condor?”

Delgano smiled and nodded.

“The true story is pretty incredible,” Frade said. “You want to hear it anyway?”

Delgano nodded.

“You know who Colonel Charles Lindbergh is?”

Delgano’s face showed he found the question unnecessary to the point of being insulting.

“Well, Lindbergh went to Germany, where Göring gave him a medal, then Lindbergh came home and announced that the Luftwaffe was the most advanced . . .”

“You’re right,” Delgano said. “That story is so incredible that I don’t think you could have made it up. Really?”

Frade nodded. “That’s it. Believe it or not. Okay. Getting back to the Froggers.”

“Okay.”

“You want the short version or the long one?” Clete asked.

“Try the short one first.”

“The Froggers had three sons. Two of them were killed. Lieutenant Colonel Wilhelm Frogger was captured with General von Arnim when the Afrikakorps surrendered, and was taken to America. When I was gone—ostensibly getting my ATR check ride in a Lodestar—I actually flew a Constellation to the POW cage in Mississippi. I showed Frogger pictures of his parents with me and Len Fischer. I told him why his parents—at least his father—had fled the German embassy—”

“ ‘At least his father’?”

“La Señora Frogger is a dedicated Nazi. And, as such, too much of a zealot to believe that the Nazis would kill her and her husband without blinking an eye.”

Delgano’s face showed surprise, but he said nothing.

“Anyway, I told Frogger about Operation Phoenix—”

“And he believed you?”

Frade nodded. “And he’s willing to talk to his father about helping me keep track of the Operation Phoenix and ransoming money.”

“Two questions about that. First, why would he do that? Second, how could he do that from a prisoner camp in . . . where did you say? Mississippi?”

“He’s not in Mississippi,” Frade said.

Delgano considered that a moment, then an eyebrow went up. “Canoas?”

Frade nodded again.

“How did he get there?”

“In a Constellation.”

“The same one you flew to Mississippi to see him?”

“Yeah.”

“It doesn’t add up, Cletus. I don’t think you’re lying to me, but I’m sure you’re not telling me everything.”

Clete smiled. “I’m not and I’m not.”

“You’re going to have to tell me everything.”

“Tell me what doesn’t add up, and I’ll try.”

“Let’s go back to SAA’s insurance being canceled,” Delgano said. “Martín doesn’t believe that. He thinks it was arranged to give you a credible excuse to come to the United States. To see this Colonel Frogger?”

"It was.”

Delgano squinted his eyes. He looked a little mad . . . or maybe hurt.

“Your anger was very convincing,” he said. “I told Martín I believed you.”

“I didn’t know until we got to the Chateau Marmont. Graham was there.”

Delgano considered that, then asked, “Who arranged the scenario?”

“The man you met in Canoas. His name is Allen Dulles. He does in Europe what Graham does in the Western Hemisphere.”

“As important as keeping a track on the German money in Argentina may be to you, I don’t think it’s important enough for all of this. And I find it very hard to believe that a German lieutenant colonel is going to change sides simply because you have his parents.”

Frade didn’t reply for a long moment. Then he said, “Frogger had changed sides, to use your term, before I saw him. Before he was captured. I didn’t know this when I went to see him, and he was everything you’d expect an officer to be. He wouldn’t give me anything but his name and his rank and his service number.”

“What happened?”

“I really don’t want to tell you this, and after I do you will probably— almost certainly—wish I hadn’t told you.”

“We won’t know that, will we, until you do? So tell me.”

Frade made a grunt. “Okay. There is a plot involving a number of senior German officers to kill Hitler and end the war they know they have no chance of winning before more people are killed. Frogger has been part of it for some time. When it came out that we knew about it—”

“You told him?”

“It came out almost accidentally. He threw a name at me and saw on my face that I knew it.”

“That tells me, you know, that the Germans you’re working with in Buenos Aires—Galahad certainly, the ambassador maybe, and probably others—are involved in this assassination plot.”

“I don’t want to answer that, Gonzo.”

Delgano looked Frade in the eyes a long moment.

“You don’t have to, Cletus. And you’re right, my friend. My life would be a lot more comfortable from now on if I didn’t know about this.”

“If it gets out, a lot of good, decent officers are going to wind up with piano wire around their necks and hanging from butcher hooks.”

“And if it doesn’t get out, Hitler is assassinated.”

“That’s what we’re hoping for.”

It was another long moment before Delgano went on: “The rest of the scenario is that we fly to Canoas, then smuggle Frogger into the country. And I tell no one. Is that it?”

“That’s part of it. The other part is that we smuggle the Froggers out of Argentina into Brazil, where they will be seen boarding a British warship or airplane—that hasn’t been worked out completely yet—then smuggle them back into Argentina.”

“To call off the hunt for them in Argentina?”

Frade nodded.

“And you’re asking me to help you with this?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You realize that I am honor bound to tell Colonel Martín everything you’ve told me.”

“That’s the call you have to make, Gonzo. What does your honor demand of you?”

“Goddamn you, Cletus!”

Delgano stood up.

“If I walk out of here without giving you an answer, are you going to shoot me?”

“I should, but I couldn’t, and I think you know that.”

“I’m going to take a walk. I think better when I’m walking. And I also pray better while walking, rather than on my knees.”

He walked quickly to the door, then turned back toward Frade.

“Don’t come after me,” he said. “And for Christ’s sake, don’t try to reason with me.”

When Delgano had been gone for twenty minutes, Frade relit the cigar he had been holding unlit for most of that time and walked to the door. He spotted Delgano on the threshold of the runway, walking slowly back and forth across the markings. Delgano could have been talking to himself.

Finally, Delgano threw his hands up in what could have been a gesture of frustration—or one of decision—and started walking purposefully back toward the terminal building.

He walked up to Frade, who had stepped out of the building.

They locked eyes for a long moment.

“May God damn you, Cletus. And may God forgive me.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” Delgano said, his voice strained with emotion, “that if you promise to try to remember the Lodestar is not a fighter, I’ll let you fly to Canoas.”

Clete nodded. “Muchas gracias, mi amigo.”

Then he saw tears in Delgano’s eyes and felt them well up in his own. He grabbed Delgano and hugged him tightly.