Death and Honor

[TWO]

Canoas Air Base Pôrto Alegre, Brazil 2135 11 August 1943

Canoas ground control told them to turn off the runway onto Taxiway 6 and hold; a Follow-Me would meet them.

The checkerboard-painted truck appeared two minutes later and led them to a remote corner of the field, across the runway complex from Base Operations. A Constellation was parked there, and before they could bring the Lodestar to a stop next to it, a MP jeep—a red light on its fender flashing brightly in the night—came racing up, followed by a staff car on the bumper of which was the starred plate of a general officer.

United States Army Air Forces Brigadier General J. B. Wallace, his aide-de-camp, and two MPs, one of them a captain, were standing on the tarmac when Frade opened the passenger door and got out.

Frade resisted the Pavlovian impulse to salute.

“Welcome back to Canoas, Señor Frade,” Wallace said.

“I didn’t expect to be met by the base commander, sir,” Frade said.

“Well, I would think the circumstances rather dictated that I should, wouldn’t you?”

“Very kind of you, sir.”

Delgano came out of the Lodestar somewhat awkwardly, carrying a canvas overnight bag in each hand.

Wallace eyed him warily, glanced at the Connie, then said, “The . . . others . . . arrived a few hours ago. May I ask who this gentleman is?”

“El Señor Delgano is South American Airways’ chief pilot.”

“And will he be going with us to meet . . . the others?”

“Oh, yes,” Frade said.

General Wallace made a rather grand gesture toward the staff car.

Wallace’s aide indicated that Frade and Delgano should get in the backseat. As the general got in the front passenger seat, the aide extended his hand for the overnight bags, then put them in the trunk and got in the car behind the wheel.

“Blow the horn at them,” General Wallace ordered, then reached over and did it himself. “Let’s get the show on the road!”

The siren on the MP jeep began to howl, and both vehicles took off.

General Wallace turned in his seat to face Frade. “May I speak with Mr. . . . Delgano, you said? . . . here?”

“Anything you have to say to me, sir, you can say to Captain Delgano.”

“I had a personal message from General Arnold directing me to place all my facilities at the disposal of the OSS for this operation of yours.”

“Did you?”

And General Arnold didn’t mention that this operation of mine is sort of a secret, and that running us around the base behind a MP jeep with its siren and strobe going might not be such a good idea?

You didn’t think that might make people wonder what the hell is going on?

“What I’ve done is put the crew of the Constellation in the visiting officers’ BOQ. I’ve put you—and the others—in a senior officers’ quarters—a rather nice little cottage that was, fortunately, vacant. I hope that’s all right, Mr. Frade?”

“Fine. Thank you, sir.”

“And put it under secure guard, of course,” General Wallace concluded.

There was another MP jeep in the driveway of a red-tile-roofed cottage. It was parked nose out, and its headlights illuminated the lawn of the adjacent cottage, where two Brazilian women—obviously maids of some sort—stood with their arms folded, almost visibly wondering what all the activity was about. As the general’s escort jeep pulled to a stop and its siren died, the MPs in the parked jeep jumped out, popped to attention, and saluted the staff car.

“Would you like me to come in with you, Mr. Frade?” General Wallace asked. He already had his front passenger door open.

“That won’t be necessary, General, thank you. What I want you to do, if you’d be so kind, is to get us a car and driver to use while we’re here. It’s getting late, and we still have to go to the officers’ club for dinner.”

“I can arrange for the club to deliver your dinner, if you’d like. Security might be a problem there.”

“We’d rather go to the club, if that would be all right. And speaking of security, you can send the MPs away, please.”

“Is that wise?”

“I think so. I appreciate your concern, but we’re all armed.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Frade. Can you give me some idea how long you’ll be here?”

“We’ll leave at first light. And as soon as we break ground, the Constellation will go back to the States. I presume that if I need anything, I can get in touch with you by asking the operator for the commanding general?”

Wallace nodded, then said rather formally, “I’ll be available around the clock, Mr. Frade.”

“I’ll make sure General Arnold knows of my appreciation of all your efforts, General.”

“That’s kind of you, Mr. Frade. But unnecessary. I am just doing my duty.”

“And doing it in an outstanding manner, in my opinion. Thank you again, General.”

Frade reached across the seat, shook Wallace’s hand, and got out of the staff car. Delgano followed him and they walked to the door of the cottage. There Frade turned and waved to General Wallace as he drove off.

He looked at Delgano and shook his head.

Delgano smiled. “We have officers like that in the Ejército Argentino, too. Many of them are colonels and generals.”

“Shame on you, Major Delgano.”

Frade lifted the knocker on the door and let it fall.

One of Howard Hughes’s Saints pulled the door open a crack and, when he recognized Frade, opened it all the way.

"Be on your guard,” Frade announced. “I sent the MPs away.”

He intended it to be a joke. If it amused Howard’s Saint, there was no sign of it on his face.

“They’re in the kitchen,” Howard’s Saint said.

Len Fischer was still wearing major’s leaves and MP insignia on his uniform, but the white leather accoutrements were gone. Oberstleutnant Wilhelm Frogger was wearing suit pants and a white shirt with the tie pulled down. Frade saw Frogger’s suit jacket on the back of a chair.

Frade said, “What happened to your pistol, Len? And the fancy holster?”

“Good evening, sir. It’s nice to see you again, sir. I’m fine, thank you.”

“Don’t let that major’s leaf go to your head, Len,” Frade said, then motioned toward Delgano. “You remember Captain Delgano, right?”

The two wordlessly shook hands.

Fischer turned around. He had a Model 1911-A1 Colt pistol in the small of his back.

“And who is this gentleman?” Frade asked about Frogger.

“My name is Wilhelm Fischer,” Frogger said formally. “I am a South African.”

“And presumably you have a passport to prove it?”

Frogger reached into an interior pocket of the suit jacket and came out with a passport, which he handed to Frade.

Frade studied it carefully for almost a minute, then handed it to Delgano.

“This is Mr. Fischer, of Durban, South Africa,” Frade said. “He’ll be flying to Buenos Aires with us.”

Delgano examined the passport.

“According to this, Mr. Fischer is already in Argentina,” he said.

“It also shows he’s been all over South America in the last six months. And if you look carefully, Gonzo, you’ll see that the immigration officer was a little sloppy with his stamp. You can’t quite make out the date when he passed through immigration. Just that it was this month.”

“Very good,” Delgano said. “Why the name ‘Fischer’?”

Len Fischer answered the question: “Colonel Graham said because Fischer, ‘one who fishes,’ is close to Frogger, ‘one who spears frogs.’ And easy to remember. ”

“Who are you?” Frogger asked Delgano somewhat arrogantly.

Frade said: “He’s the chief pilot of South American Airways, Mr. Fischer. And if you don’t exchange any more information than that, both of you will be able to truthfully tell anyone who asks that you don’t know anything about the other one. I introduced you here. Leave it at that.”

He let that sink it, then said: “Two questions, Len. One, is there any reason that we—the Lodestar and the Constellation—can’t leave here at first light? And, two, do you know how to get in touch with the Connie crew?”

“Colonel Graham said it was your call how far I went?” Len Fischer said.

“I can’t see any reason why you can’t go back to the States on the Connie. So answer my questions.”

“The crew is in the BOQ. I have a number.”

“Call it. Tell them as soon as General Wallace sends a car, we’re going to the club for dinner. Ask the pilot to meet me there.”