The Honor of Spies

VI

[ONE]

Hauptquartier Abwehr

Bendlerblock, 76 Tirpitzufer

Berlin, Germany

0655 20 August 1943

Canaris's Mercedes, which was smaller and far less ostentatious than any of the other official cars of the senior members of the Nazi or OKW hierarchy, was crowded.

Max--now wearing a somewhat shabby dark blue business suit and a light gray snap-brim felt hat, both of which looked too small on the muscular old sailor--was driving. Canaris rode beside him.

General von Wachtstein, Oberstleutnant Gehlen, and Fregattenkapitan von und zu Waching were in the backseat, each holding a briefcase on his lap.

When Max drove into the Bendlerblock--a large, drab collection of connected four-story masonry buildings south of the Tiergarten--there were three larger official Mercedeses backed into the four-place parking area reserved for the cars of senior officers. Two of them had mounted on the right front fender a metal flag appropriate to the rank of the passenger it would carry. One flag was that of a General der Fallschirmtruppe and the other that of an SS-Brigadefuhrer.

That meant that von Deitzberg and Student were already here waiting for him. Canaris wondered who was in the third car.

Canaris thought that while there were at least a half-dozen brigadefuhrers in the SS--maybe more--there was only one General der Fallschirmtruppe in the Luftwaffe: Kurt Student.

A pilot in World War I, Student had stayed in the service, and had been involved with German military aviation from the beginning, before there had been a Luftwaffe and while Germany was at least paying lip service to the Versailles Convention, which forbade Germany to have an air force.

Student had taught fledgling German pilots to fly gliders, hiding the program as a sport. He had become, in the process, an expert in engineless aircraft, and had drawn plans for the construction of enormous gliders. These would be towed by transport aircraft once the Germans had stopped following the pro scriptions of the Versailles Convention.

While they were waiting for the right moment to do that, Germany struck a secret deal with the Soviet Union. It made available airfields deep in Russia on which German pilots were secretly taught to fly powered aircraft and German engineers secretly built and tested a whole new generation of fighter and bomber aircraft. All far from prying French and English eyes.

Student had been in charge of this program, reporting to Hermann Goring and Hitler directly. In those days, not all senior officers could be trusted to keep their mouths shut about Germany's blatant violation of the Versailles Convention, and what was secretly going on in Russia was very much a secret in Germany as well.

Until the Crete disaster provoked Hitler's wrath, Student had what looked like a promising career before him in the upper echelons of the German armed forces. He had had the backing of Goring, not only because he was a fellow World War I pilot and had made such substantial contributions to the Luftwaffe, but also because the Fallschirmtruppe were, in effect, the infantry of the Luftwaffe--much like the U.S. Marine Corps is the Navy's infantry--and Goring liked the idea of having his own army, especially now that Heinrich Himmler had formed the Waffen-SS as the private army of the Schutzstaffel, which had begun as Hitler's bodyguard.

And Hitler's displeasure had been tempered. He had ordered that henceforth the Fallschirmjager would fight as ordinary infantry, but he had not stripped Student of his rank. Hitler even permitted Student to remain on the periphery of those gathered around his Wolfsschanze map tables.

But until the rescue of the deposed Italian dictator had come along--General von Wachtstein had told Canaris that it had been named Unternehmen Eiche (Operation Oak)--Student had not been given, by Hitler or by the OKW staff, any meaningful duties or missions.

That told Canaris that Student was fully aware that the success or failure of Operation Oak was a second chance for him. If he were able to carry it off, he could again bask in the Fuhrer's approval. However, if he failed, he could count on being sent to the Eastern Front--if he was lucky. Hitler had stripped other general officers he thought had failed him of their ranks, their medals, and even their pensions.

Max stopped the car before the entrance. Canaris was out of it before the guard could trot up to open the door for him.

The officers in Canaris's far-from-opulent outer office rose as Canaris walked in. Including General Kurt Student, which Canaris found interesting, as he was junior to the parachute troops general.

I think he knows he needs me.

As indeed he does.

Canaris acknowledged only Student. He said, "Heil Hitler," gave a somewhat sloppy Nazi salute, then offered his hand.

"Good morning, General," he said. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting."

Student smiled and made an It doesn't matter gesture. Canaris motioned Student toward the door to his office and gestured for the others to follow. He waved Student into the chair at one end of a long, somewhat battered conference table. He took the seat at the opposite end.

Without being invited, SS-Brigadefuhrer von Deitzberg sat down beside Student. The other men in the room--a major and a lieutenant, both Fallschirmtruppe officers, and an enormous Waffen-SS captain--came to attention.

"Please be seated," Canaris said, pointing to the chairs around as General von Wachtstein, Fregattenkapitan von und zu Waching, and Oberstleutnant Gehlen entered the office. Von Wachtstein took a seat beside Canaris and von und zu Waching took one across from him.

"In a moment, Frau Dichter will bring us what is supposed to be coffee and then we can start talking about Operation Oak," Canaris said. He paused. "General Student, I don't know these gentlemen."

The Waffen-SS captain leapt to his feet and barked, "SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer Skorzeny, Herr Admiral, of SS Special Unit Friedenthal."

Canaris nodded at Skorzeny, then made a somewhat impatient wave of his hand telling him to sit down. The parachute officers were now standing at attention. Canaris waved at them to sit down.

"Admiral," Student said, pointing as he spoke, "these gentlemen are Major Harald Moors and Leutnant Otto von Berlepsch."

"Actually, the leutnant is Leutnant Count Otto von Berlepsch," von Deitzberg said.

"Is he really?" Canaris asked, dryly sarcastic.

Tell you what, Baron von Deitzberg: You and Count von Berlepsch put on your suits of armor, and General Student and I will help you get on your horses. Feel free to stand on our backs as you do so.

The anger came quickly and unexpectedly and was immediately regretted for two reasons: Coming close to losing his temper with von Deitzberg approached stupidity, for one. For another, the looks of contempt on both von Berlepsch's and Generalmajor Count von Wachtstein's faces showed they were as contemptuous of von Deitzberg's evoking of the Almanach de Gotha as he was.

"As of one o'clock this morning," Canaris announced, "the Carabinieri were completing their plans to move Mussolini from the Isle of Ponza to the Campo Imperatore Hotel in the Apennine mountain range, some eighty miles northeast of Rome. The Carabinieri have arranged for patrol torpedo boats to move him and his guard to the mainland. I don't know where on the mainland, and I don't know when the move will take place--probably not tomorrow, but early in the morning of the day after tomorrow."

"Admiral, you're sure of your intelligence?" General Student asked.

That wasn't a challenge. He is just making sure.

Canaris nodded.

"If we could find out where they are going to land him on the mainland, we could free Il Duce en route to the Campo Imperatore," von Deitzberg said.

"How would you do that?" Canaris asked evenly.

"I don't think that Hauptsturmfuhrer Skorzeny, Herr Admiral, and his SS Special Unit Friedenthal would have any difficulty in freeing Il Duce from any Italian unit," von Deitzberg said.

"How much do you know about the Carabinieri, von Deitzberg?" Student asked softly.

"They're Italian, aren't they? And haven't we all learned that whatever else our former Italian allies might be good at--making wine, for example--they are not very good at making war?"

"Forgive me, von Deitzberg, but I have to disagree," Student said. "You've heard, I'm sure, that one should never underestimate one's enemy."

"Are you suggesting, Herr General," von Deitzberg challenged, "that a unit--a special unit, such as the Special Unit Friedenthal of the Waffen-SS--is not superior to any Italian unit?"

Student did not answer directly. Instead, looking at Canaris and von Wachtstein, he said, "Forgive me, gentlemen, if I'm telling you something you probably know as well as I do.

"The Carabinieri Reali--Royal Carabinieri--has been around since 1814," Student began, as if lecturing a class at the Kriegsschule. "The term 'Carabinieri' refers to the unit being armed with shortened, bayonetless rifles, carbines. These were--and remain--special troops not intended to march in formation across the battlefield toward the enemy. Forerunners, one might say, of latter-day special troops, such as the Waffen-SS and, of course, the Fallschirmjager.

"They began to acquire their legendary reputation as warriors right from the beginning, when, the year after they were formed, they engaged and soundly defeated Napoleon's best at Grenoble in 1815. Subsequently they served--with equal distinction--in the Crimean War and performed admirably in the wars of Italian Independence, Eritrea, and Libya.

"In this war, the Carabinieri have fought with valor in Greece and East Africa under impossible odds."

General von Wachtstein nodded his agreement. Von Deitzberg saw this and his lips tightened even more.

Canaris thought: Student is certainly aware that it's unwise to challenge Himmler's right-hand man.

But he's also aware that rescuing Il Duce is his last chance. And that Himmler wants this rescue operation for the SS. And he can't let that happen.

So--with the old principle that the best defense is a good offense--he's going to take on von Deitzberg.

Good for him.

"So, von Deitzberg," Student went on, "while I am second to no one in my admiration for the SS, I submit that your Special Unit Friedenthal--it is approximately of company strength, as I understand it?"

"A reenforced company, Herr General. A little over three hundred men--"

"All of whom, I am sure, are a credit to the SS and Germany. I doubt, however, that even such a splendid body of men can take on a battalion--six or seven hundred strong--of the Carabinieri who have been personally charged by their king with guarding Il Duce."

Von Deitzberg glared at him. His face showed that he was preparing a sarcastic, perhaps caustic, reply.

He ran out of time.

"Then, may I tell the Fuhrer, Admiral Canaris," General von Wachtstein asked, surprising Canaris, who hadn't expected him to open his mouth, "that you and General Student are agreed that the attempt to liberate Mussolini should take place after he is moved to the Campo Imperatore Hotel rather than on the Isle of Ponza, or when he is being moved from one to the other?"

That wasn't a question.

Von Wachtstein was telling von Deitzberg that he agreed with Student.

"Yes," Canaris said.

"Concur," Student said.

That makes three of us who have crossed von Deitzberg. Not only Student and me, but also von Wachtstein, for asking the question.

Why did he do that?

One general supporting another against the SS?

Or maybe to show von Deitzberg that there are only three senior players in this little game, and von Deitzberg is not one of them?

Well, he had his reasons and he's no fool.

And that means he knew I wouldn't support von Deitzberg.

"Can we now get to the details of the operation itself?" von Wachtstein asked. "I hate to rush any of you, but the Fuhrer is waiting to hear what you have decided."

Well, that I understand: He's making the point to von Deitzberg that he represents the Fuhrer.

Von Deitzberg said: "I believe Hauptsturmfuhrer Skorzeny has a very good plan--"

"I'm sure he does," Student interrupted him.

"If I have to say this," von Deitzberg said, "Reichsfuhrer-SS Himmler feels the SS Special Unit Friedenthal should play a significant role in this operation."

"The Fuhrer has honored me with the responsibility for carrying it out," Student said.

"Let's hear what the SS has to say, General Student," von Wachtstein said.

"Certainly," Student said.

"Skorzeny," von Deitzberg said.

Skorzeny popped to attention, then opened his briefcase and took a large map and a number of large photographs from it. He unfolded the map and then laid it on the table.

In front of von Wachtstein, which means he acknowledges that von Wachtstein is really in charge.

"I have personally reconnoitered the Campo Imperatore Hotel by air," Skorzeny said. "In a Fieseler Storch. If you will notice, gentlemen, the map has keys to the photographs."

Canaris examined the map and the photos with interest. All he had previously seen was a prewar advertising brochure for the hotel. It wasn't that he was disinterested but rather because, before Hitler had involved him in the rescue of Il Duce, he couldn't imagine being involved himself.

As both Gehlen and von und zu Waching had heard him often say, "Effective intelligence is far less the gathering of information than being able to find the two or three tiny useful bits in the mountains of useless data."

Canaris simply hadn't the time to try to learn anything but the two or three useful bits: where Mussolini was being held, and when and where he was going to be moved.

Looking at the map and the photographs now, Canaris understood why the Carabinieri had chosen the Campo Imperatore Hotel as the place to confine Il Duce. It sat atop the Gran Sasso, the highest mountain in the Italian Apennines, accessible only by cable car from the valley. Mussolini would not only have to escape his captors but also somehow use the cable car to get down the mountain. And cable cars were not like automobiles; one could not operate them by oneself.

More important, no one trying to free him could do so without using the cable car. All the Carabinieri would have to do to thwart a rescue attempt was disable the cable car and call for help, which could get there--even from Rome--long before the rescuers could scale the Gran Sasso.

"Simply," Skorzeny said, "my plan is that 108 members of the SS Special Unit Friedenthal, under my command, will land in a dozen of General Student's DFS 230 assault gliders. Once the Carabinieri have been dealt with, and Il Duce freed, a Fieseler Storch will land, and Il Duce and I will get in it and fly to Rome."

"I find a few little things in your plan that concern me," Student said sarcastically. "For example, the Storch is a two-seat aircraft. Or are you planning on flying it yourself, Herr Hauptmann?"

The door opened and Frau Dichter, Canaris's anemic-looking secretary said, "Forgive the intrusion, Herr Admiral, but . . ."

Reichsfuhrer-SS Heinrich Himmler pushed past her into the room.

". . . Reichsfuhrer Himmler."

Everyone rose quickly to their feet.

Himmler's right arm shot out in the Nazi salute.

"Heil Hitler," he announced softly. "Take your seats, gentlemen. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Would you like to sit here, Herr Reichsfuhrer?" von Deitzberg asked.

"This will be fine," Himmler said as he took one of the chairs lining the conference table.

When he had seated himself, the others sat back down.

"Actually," Himmler announced, "I came to have a word with Admiral Canaris. But since I am here, and we all know how important Operation Oak is to our Fuhrer, perhaps this is one of those fortuitous circumstances one hears so much about. Please go on."

Von Deitzberg shot to his feet.

"Herr Reichsfuhrer, General Student was about to tell us what he finds wrong with Skorzeny's plan."

"Which is? Skorzeny's plan, I mean."

"Admiral Canaris has learned that Mussolini will shortly be taken to the ski resort--the Campo Imperatore Hotel--on the crest of the Gran Sasso," von Wachtstein said. "It was just agreed that that is where the rescue will take place. Skorzeny proposes that 108 men of the SS Special Unit Friedenthal under his command land by glider and free Il Duce, who will be then flown to Rome in a Storch."

"And General Student finds weaknesses in that plan?" Himmler said. "I'll be interested to hear what they are."

"Several things concern me, Herr Reichsfuhrer," Student began, only to be interrupted by Himmler raising a hand to cut him off.

"Actually, Student, I learned something from you soldiers," Himmler said, then paused, smiled his undertaker's smile, and made his little joke: "As hard as that may be to believe."

There was dutiful laughter.

"What I learned, and it has really proven useful, is that if the junior officer is asked for his opinion first, then one may be reasonably sure that his answers are what he believes, rather than what he believes his superiors wish to hear. Why don't we try that here? Who is the junior officer?"

"I believe I am," von Berlepsch said as he stood. He quickly added, "Herr Reichsfuhrer."

But the delay was noticeable.

"And you are?" Himmler asked.

"Leutnant von Berlepsch, Herr Reichsfuhrer."

"And what do you think of Brigadefuhrer von Deitzberg's . . . excuse me, Hauptmann Skorzeny's plan, Herr Leutnant?"

Canaris thought: So von Deitzberg has been playing soldier and planning operations? I wonder why he decided to say it was Skorzeny's plan. Perhaps because, so far, von Deitzberg has yet to hear a shot fired in anger and doesn't want to give anyone the opportunity to mention that?

Or is there something Machiavellian in play here?

Himmler wants Skorzeny to be a hero, because he has plans for him?

"As I am sure the Reichsfuhrer is aware," von Berlepsch began, "any type of vertical envelopment operation is very difficult in mountainous terrain."

"Vertical envelopment means parachutists, gliders?" Himmler asked.

"Precisely, Herr Reichsfuhrer. In the case of the Gran Sasso, the wind conditions are such that parachute envelopment is impossible. The only way to envelop the hotel is by glider, and they will, for lack of a better term, have to be crash-landed."

"Von Berlepsch, aren't all glider landings, for lack of a better term, 'crash landings'?" von Deitzberg asked.

"Yes, Herr Brigadefuhrer, they are. My point here is that Fallschirmjager troops are trained in glider crash landings--necessary because, under optimum conditions, one glider landing in four is a crash landing--and I don't think this is true of the Waffen-SS troops you envision employing."

"I don't think I'm following this, von Berlepsch," Himmler said. "Let me put a question to you: Suppose it was absolutely necessary that a number--say, twenty-five--of the Friedenthal unit participate in Operation Oak. How could that be done?"

Von Berlepsch looked first at Major Moors and then at General Student for guidance.

"I asked you, von Berlepsch," Himmler said curtly.

"If such a requirement were absolutely necessary, Herr Reichsfuhrer--and I would hope that it would not be--I would put the SS men in the last three gliders."

"Why the last three?" von Deitzberg asked almost angrily.

Himmler pointed an impatient finger at him to shut him up, then made a Let's have it gesture with the same finger to von Berlepsch.

"Herr Reichsfuhrer," von Berlepsch said, "I of course have no idea what Hauptmann Skorzeny has planned, but in our plan--"

"The author of which is who?" Himmler asked.

"Major Moors and I drew it up for General Student's approval, Herr Reichsfuhrer."

"Go on."

"There will be a dozen gliders towed by Junkers Ju-52 aircraft, Herr Reichsfuhrer. The aircraft will be in line, one minute's flying distance apart. Each will be cut loose from the towing aircraft as it passes over a predetermined spot on the mountain. I can show you that point on Hauptmann Skorzeny's maps, Herr Reichsfuhrer . . ."

Himmler made a gesture meaning that wouldn't be necessary.

". . . which will cause the gliders to land at one-minute intervals on a small flat area--not much more than a lawn, actually--near the hotel."

"That will take twelve minutes," von Deitzberg protested. "Why can't they land at thirty-second intervals? For that matter, fifteen-second intervals? Fifteen seconds can be a long time." Then he began to count: "One thousand one. One thousand two. One thousand three. One thous--"

"Because a sixty-second interval is what these officers recommended to General Student," von Wachtstein interrupted, "and what General Student approved. I think we can all defer to his judgment and experience."

"And your reason for putting Skorzeny and his men in the last three of the gliders to land?" Himmler asked von Berlepsch.

"Because by then the Fallschirmjager in the first gliders to land will be in a position to help the Waffen-SS troops get out of their crashed gliders," von Berlepsch said.

"Unless they themselves have crashed, of course," von Deitzberg said sarcastically.

"Some of them will have crashed, von Deitzberg," Student said icily. "We expect that. What von Berlepsch has been trying to tell you is that Fallschirmtruppe are trained to deal with that inevitable contingency."

"Well," Himmler said, "that would seem to solve the problem, wouldn't you agree, von Wachtstein?"

"If what you are saying is that General Student, Admiral Canaris, and you are agreed . . ."

"I'm just a visitor here, General," Himmler said. "The agreement must be between Student and Canaris."

Canaris thought: And the translation of that is that if this absurd operation fails--as it well may--Student and I will take the blame.

If it succeeds, Himmler and the SS will get the credit because Skorzeny was involved.

"Admiral Canaris?" von Wachtstein asked.

"If General Student is happy with this, I will defer to his expertise and judgment."

"I will so inform the Fuhrer," von Wachtstein said.

"And now, if I may delicately suggest to you, Admiral, that your knowledge of the fine points of an operation like this is on a par with my own, and that neither of us is really of any value here, I wonder if we could have a few minutes alone?"

"There's a battered desk and several chairs in my cryptographic room," Canaris said. "Would that be all right with you, Herr Reichsfuhrer?"

"That would be fine," Himmler said. "Von Deitzberg, when you're finished here, come to my office and bring me up to date."

Von Deitzberg popped to attention and clicked his heels.

"Jawohl, Herr Reichsfuhrer."

Himmler gave the Nazi salute wordlessly and waited for Canaris to show him where to go.

[TWO]

"Be so good as to give the Reichsfuhrer and me a few minutes alone in your luxurious accommodation," Canaris said after one of his cryptographic officers had unlocked the door to a small room crowded with equipment.

"Jawohl, Herr Admiral."

"Is there coffee?"

"A fresh pot, Herr Admiral."

Himmler waited until the cryptographic officer had left.

"In the nature of a state secret of the highest category--in other words, not to go further than this room--I really don't like von Deitzberg," Himmler volunteered. "He's very useful, but there is something about him I just don't like."

What's that all about?

Whatever it is, I'm not going to react to it.

"In the nature of a state secret," Canaris said, "the coffee I just asked about is not only full of caffeine, but was smuggled into Germany. I think you'll like it."

"How smuggled?"

"Usually, in one of two ways. Several of the stewards on the Lufthansa Condor flights to Buenos Aires are mine. In addition to keeping an eye on the passengers and crew for me, they bring me Brazilian coffee beans. And then, from time to time, I have to send someone to Lisbon--or go there myself--and in Lisbon, one can go into any grocery store and buy as much coffee as one can afford."

"The Fuhrer would be very disappointed in you if I told him that," Himmler said. "I gave up on our Victory Coffee a year ago and went to tea. And now the tea is going the same way as the coffee did."

"I'm coffee rich at the moment. May I offer you a half-kilo?"

"A cup I will gratefully accept. But thank you, no, about the half-kilo. If I took it, I would again become addicted, and withdrawal is just too painful." Himmler smiled his undertaker's smile. "Actually, what I wanted to talk to you about is a conversation I had over a cup of tea with our Fuhrer yesterday at Wolfsschanze--after you left."

"How was the tea?"

"Excellent. It was a gift of the Japanese ambassador."

"And did the Fuhrer offer you a half-kilo?"

"You know better than that, Canaris. What he did want to talk about was South America."

"Really?"

"He said that he was just letting his imagination run, but what did I think about sending Il Duce, once he has been freed, to South America."

"To seek asylum from the King? Victor Emmanuel?"

"He had in mind Operation Phoenix," Himmler said evenly.

"That would be difficult without a good deal of preparation."

"So I told the Fuhrer. Then he said something to the effect that he was sure the mechanism of movement was in place. The statement was, of course, in fact a question."

"'The mechanism of movement'? He was asking about the submarine? Submarines, plural?"

Himmler nodded.

"I told the Fuhrer that I had turned over control of U-405 to you some weeks ago and that I knew you were either planning, or had already put into play, a test run of U-405 to see if there were any flaws in your scheme for transporting and secretly inserting senior officials into Argentina."

Himmler looked at Canaris to see what his reaction to this would be.

Canaris hoped his face did not show the fury he felt.

You sonofabitch!

You never turned over control of U-405 to me.

What the hell are you up to?

He waited for Himmler to explain. Himmler waited for Canaris to say something.

Canaris reached into his inside jacket pocket and took from it a small, leather-bound notebook. He flipped through it until he found what he wanted.

"So, that's what Kapitanleutnant von Dattenberg's submarine was doing yesterday afternoon at South Longitude 39.91, West Latitude 43.76."

"Is that where it is? And where is that?" Himmler asked, smiling.

"That's where it is, Herr Reichsfuhrer. In the South Atlantic, about eight hundred miles from the mouth of the River Plate--far enough out to avoid aerial detection by the B-24s that the Americans are flying out of Brazil."

"I had no choice, Canaris. You know as well as I how it is with the Fuhrer. When he asks a question, he expects an answer, and becomes . . . what shall I say? . . . excitedly disappointed when there is none."

Canaris smiled and nodded his understanding.

And you knew, you slimy bastard, that there was virtually no chance of me going to the Bavarian corporal and saying, "Reichsfuhrer Himmler never turned U-405 over to me; he's lying."

Having someone say anything against anyone in the inner circle really "excites" the Fuhrer. He reserves that privilege to himself.

"Let us say, Admiral, that U-405 leaves its current position the day after tomorrow, to meet with a submarine which would depart the pens at Saint-Nazaire at about the same time. How much time would it take it to make the rendezvous, take on the senior person to be smuggled into Argentina, and then sail to wherever it is in Argentina where that would happen?"

"If you're looking for an answer to give the Fuhrer, Herr Reichsfuhrer, I can give you a rough one off the top of my head, and in ten minutes I can have von und zu Waching come up with estimates accurate within an hour or so."

"Off the top of your head?"

"Saint-Nazaire is--off the top of my head--about 6,000 nautical miles from Buenos Aires. Von Dattenberg and the U-405 are about 500 nautical miles from Buenos Aires. So we're talking about splitting 5,500 nautical miles. Presuming fuel consumption is not a problem, and it can sail on the surface, a U-405-class U-boat can make fifteen knots in ordinary seas.

"Fifty-five hundred miles divided by fifteen is right at 370 hours. Say, two weeks, and a day or two to make the rendezvous. And that much, plus the extra 500 miles, back. Say thirty-two, thirty-three days from the order to go to put your imaginary very important officer on the beach."

"Buenos Aires is that far?" Himmler asked incredulously.

"That far, Herr Reichsfuhrer. As I said, von und zu Waching in ten minutes or so could come up with a more precise estimate."

"I wonder if von Deitzberg will like his ocean voyage," Himmler said, smiling.

This time Canaris did not--perhaps could not--suppress the look of surprise that crossed his face.

"Yes, von Deitzberg will make this voyage," Himmler said. "For several reasons: One, I can report that to the Fuhrer. I had hoped to be able to tell him 'SS-Brigadefuhrer von Deitzberg has tested the transport mechanism,' but now I suppose it will be, 'My Fuhrer, as we speak SS-Brigadefuhrer von Deitzberg is personally testing the transport mechanism.'

"The second reason is that once von Deitzberg has been smuggled into Argentina, he can straighten out the mess we both know exists there. We have to eliminate both the Froggers and that American OSS agent who's causing us all the trouble. What's his name?"

"Frade, Herr Reichsfuhrer. Cletus Frade."

"Yes, I'd forgotten. Frade has to be eliminated, and von Deitzberg is the man to do it, since no one else seems to be capable of doing it."

"You're absolutely right, Herr Reichsfuhrer," Canaris said. "More coffee?"

"I shouldn't. What is it they say, Canaris? 'The greatest pleasure is indulging one's nasty habits'?"

"I've heard that, Herr Reichsfuhrer. When do you plan to put this into action?"

"I'll tell von Deitzberg when he comes to the office. Give him a day to pack, settle things, and another day to get to Saint-Nazaire. You can deal with the navy, can't you, Canaris? I'd really hate to involve Grand Admiral Karl Donitz in this unless I have to."

"I can deal with the navy, Herr Reichsfuhrer."

Himmler nodded.

"And now, before you corrupt me completely with your smuggled coffee, I'd better get back to work. Don't say anything to von Deitzberg, please. I want to see the look on his face when I tell him."

[THREE]

The Embassy of the German Reich

Avenida Cordoba

Buenos Aires, Argentina

0910 25 August 1943

"Herr Cranz is here, Excellency," Fraulein Ingeborg Hassell announced from the door.

"Ask him to come in, please," Manfred Alois Graf von Lutzenberger said, not quite finishing the sentence before Karl Cranz shouldered past Fraulein Hassell into the room.

"Heil Hitler!" he announced conversationally. "You wanted to see me, Herr Ambassador?"

Von Lutzenberger barely acknowledged Cranz's presence.

"No visitors, no calls, please, Ingeborg," he said, and then he rummaged in a desk drawer as his secretary left the room and closed the door. Finally, he found what he was looking for--a box of matches--and lit one of them, and then a cigarette.

As he extinguished the match by waving it rapidly, he pointed to a sheet of paper on his desk with his other hand.

"The only person who's seen that is Schneider," von Lutzenberger said. "He had it waiting for me when I came in this morning."

Consular Officer Johann Schneider, a twenty-three-year-old Bavarian, was actually an SS-untersturmfuhrer, the equivalent of second lieutenant. He was the first of his lineage ever to achieve officer status, and the first to receive education beyond that offered by the parochial school in his village.

He gave full credit for his success to Adolf Hitler, Heinrich Himmler, and the tenets of National Socialism. He believed he had been selected for his assignment to Buenos Aires--instead of being posted to one of the SS-regiments on his graduation from officer candidate school at Bad Tolz--because his superiors recognized in him a dedicated officer of great potential.

He was never disabused of this notion by any of his superiors in Germany or Buenos Aires. But the truth was that he had been sent to Argentina because he was a splendid typist. The then-senior SS officer in Buenos Aires, Karl-Heinz Gruner--ostensibly the military attache, who wore the uniform of a Wehrmacht oberst but was actually an SS-standartenfuhrer--had confessed to Reichsfuhrer-SS Heinrich Himmler that he had had quite enough of menopausal females and needed a classified files clerk who could type as well as any woman and could be told to work all night, every night, without breaking into tears.

A sympathetic Himmler had ordered an underling to see what was available for Oberst Gruner at Bad Tolz, and four days later newly commissioned SS-Untersturmfuhrer Schneider had boarded a Lufthansa Condor in Berlin. Thirty-eight hours later, he reported to Gruner in Buenos Aires.

To keep his new typist/classified file clerk happy--Schneider had immediately made it clear that he believed his Argentine assignment was to assist Gruner in high-level intelligence activities--Gruner had permitted Schneider to think of himself as an unofficial member--or perhaps a probationary member--of the SS-Sicherheitsdienst, or Secret Service.

Whenever he saw Schneider chafing at the bit over his clerical functions, Gruner ordered him to secretly surveille certain members of the embassy staff, most of them unimportant except for First Secretary Anton von Gradny-Sawz.

This was because Gruner neither liked von Gradny-Sawz nor fully trusted him. He didn't think men who had changed sides could ever be fully trusted.

Von Gradny-Sawz's primary--if not official--function around the embassy was what Gruner and Ambassador von Lutzenberger thought of as "handling the canapes"; neither was willing to trust von Gradny-Sawz with anything important, but he was good with the canapes.

As von Gradny-Sawz was fond of saying, his family had been serving the diplomatic needs of "the state" for hundreds of years. The implication was the German state. The actuality was that von Gradny-Sawz had been in the diplomatic service of the German state only since 1938.

Before then--before the Anschluss had incorporated Austria into the German Reich as Ostmark--von Gradny-Sawz had been in the Austrian Foreign Service. The ancestors he so proudly spoke of had served the Austro-Hungarian Empire for hundreds of years.

Having seen the handwriting on the wall before 1938, von Gradny-Sawz had become a devout Nazi, made some contribution to the Anschluss itself, and been taken into the Foreign Service of the German Reich.

Ambassador von Lutzenberger, who understood how sacred the canape-and-cocktails circuit was to the diplomatic corps, had arranged for von Gradny-Sawz's assignment as his first secretary. Von Gradny-Sawz could charm the diplomatic corps while he attended to business.

The secret reports on von Gradny-Sawz that Schneider gave to Gruner showed that the first secretary divided his off-duty time about equally between two different sets of friends. The largest group was of deposed titled Eastern European blue bloods, a surprising number of whom had made it to Argentina with not only their lives but most of their crown jewels. The second, smaller group consisted of young, long-legged Argentine beauties whom von Gradny-Sawz squired around town, either unaware or not caring that he looked more than a little ridiculous.

SS-Oberst Gruner was now gone, lying in what Schneider thought of as a hero's grave in Germany beside his deputy, SS-Standartenfuhrer Josef Luther Goltz. They had been laid to eternal rest with all the panoply the SS could muster, after they had given their lives for the Fuhrer and the Fatherland on the beach of Samborombon Bay while trying to secretly bring ashore a "special shipment" from a Spanish-registered ship in the service of the Reich.

Specifically, both had been shot in the head by parties unknown, although there was little doubt in anyone's mind that Cletus Frade of the American OSS had at least ordered the killings, and more than likely had pulled the trigger himself.

Schneider had gone first to Ambassador von Lutzenberger and then, when SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Karl Cranz had arrived in Buenos Aires to replace Gruner, to Cranz offering to personally eliminate Frade, even if this meant giving his own life to do so.

Both told him, in effect, that while his zeal to seek vengeance for the murders of Gruner and Goltz was commendable and in keeping with the highest traditions of SS honor, the situation unfortunately required that everyone wait until the time was right to eliminate Frade.

They told him the greatest contribution he could make to the Final Victory of the Fatherland was to continue what he was doing with regard to handling the classified files, the dispatch and receipt of the diplomatic pouches, and the decryption of the coded messages the embassy received from the Ministry of Communications after they had received them from the Mackay Cable Corporation.

Neither told him that was sort of a game everyone played. The Mackay Corporation was an American-owned enterprise. They pretended that they did not--either in Lisbon, Portugal, or Berne, Switzerland--make copies of all German traffic and pass them to either the OSS or the U.S. Embassy. And the Germans pretended not to suspect this was going on.

Important messages from or to Berlin were transmitted by "officer courier," which most often meant the pilot, copilot, or flight engineer on the Lufthansa Condor flights between the German and Argentine capitals.

And when these messages reached the Buenos Aires embassy, they were decoded personally by Ambassador von Lutzenberger or Commercial Attache Cranz, not Schneider. Schneider had no good reason--any reason at all--to know the content of the messages.

Cranz picked up the message and read it:

Cranz looked at von Lutzenberger.

"You said Schneider had this waiting for you when you came in this morning?"

Von Lutzenberger nodded.

"A Condor arrived in the wee hours," he said. "Our Johann met it, and the courier gave him that."

"When did you start letting 'Our Johann' decode messages like this?"

"It came that way," von Lutzenberger said, and handed Cranz two envelopes. "The outer one is addressed to 'The Ambassador'; the inner one said 'Sole and Personal Attention of Ambassador von Lutzenberger.' "

"Interesting," Cranz said as he very carefully examined both envelopes.

"It could be that they were preparing to send it as a cable, and then for some reason decided to send it on the Condor," von Lutzenberger suggested.

Cranz considered that for a long moment.

"If a Condor was coming, that would keep it out of the hands of Mackay," Cranz said, and then wondered aloud, "Not encrypted?"

Von Lutzenberger shrugged.

"Maybe there wasn't time; the Condor may have been leaving right then. And that brings us to the question: 'What the hell is this all about?' "

"Questions," von Lutzenberger corrected him. " 'Who is this senior officer?' 'What is he going to do once he gets here?' And most important: 'What are we going to do about this?' "

Cranz nodded, signifying he agreed there was more than one question.

"Was there anybody interesting on the Condor?"

"Businessmen, two doctors for the German Hospital. No one interesting."

"Which means the Condor could have been held at Tempelhof."

"Unless that might have delayed the Condor a day, and they wanted to get this to us as soon as possible."

"Which brings us back to: 'What are we going to do about it?' " Cranz said.

"Unless you have some objection, or better suggestion, what I'm going to do is tell Schneider that he is to tell no one anything about the message for me. Then I'm going to call Gradny-Sawz in here as soon as he comes to work, show him this, and tell him that he is to tell no one about it, and that he is responsible for getting the identity card, the driver's license, et cetera, and the apartment."

"And not bring Boltitz and von Wachtstein in on this?"

"And not bring anyone else in on this, anyone else. Then, if it gets out, we will know from whom it came."

Cranz considered that for a long moment, then nodded.

"Raschner?" he asked.

"That's up to you, of course. But I can see no reason why he has to be told about this now."

After a moment, Cranz nodded again.

[FOUR]

Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade

Moron, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

1545 30 August 1943

First Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, Corps of Engineers, AUS, who was an assistant military attache of the United States Embassy, stood outside the door of Base Operations and watched as a South American Airways Lodestar turned on final, dropped its landing gear, and touched smoothly down on the runway.

Pelosi was in uniform and could have posed for a U.S. Army recruiting poster. He wore "pinks and greens," as the Class "A" uniform of green tunic and pink trousers was known. The thick silver cord aiguillette of an attache hung from one of his epaulettes. His sharply creased trousers were "bloused" around his gleaming paratrooper boots.

Silver parachutist's wings were pinned to the tunic. Below the wings were his medals--not the striped ribbons ordinarily worn in lieu thereof. There were just three medals: the Silver Star, the National Defense Service Medal, and the medal signifying service in the American Theatre of Operations.

Pelosi was one of the very few officers--perhaps the only one--to have been awarded the nation's third-highest medal for valor in combat in the American Theatre of Operations. There was virtually no combat action in the American Theatre of Operations. The citation for the medal was rather vague. It said he had performed with valor above and beyond the call of duty at great risk to his life in a classified combat action against enemies of the United States, thereby reflecting great credit upon himself, the United States Army, the United States of America, and the State of Illinois.

He could not discuss--especially in Argentina--what he had done to earn the Silver Star.

Pelosi had earned the medal while flying in a Beechcraft Staggerwing aircraft piloted by then-First Lieutenant Cletus H. Frade, USMCR. What they had done--getting shot down in the process--was illuminate with flares a Spanish-registered merchant vessel then at anchor in Samborombon Bay.

Illuminating the ship, which was then in the process of replenishing the fuel and food supplies of a German submarine, had permitted the U.S. submarine Devil Fish to cause both the submarine and the ship to disappear in a spectacular series of explosions.

All of this naval activity--German, Spanish, and American--was in gross violation of the neutrality of the Republic of Argentina. Samborombon Bay, on the River Plate, was well within Argentine waters. After some lengthy consideration, the government of Argentina decided the wisest course of action was to pretend the engagement had never happened.

But of course the story had gotten out. The officers with whom Lieutenant Pelosi had shared an official lunch for military and naval attaches of the various embassies at the Officers' Casino at Campo de Mayo--the reason he was wearing his uniform--knew not only the story but also of Pelosi's role in it.

No one had mentioned it, of course, but it sort of hung in the air. Pelosi had been understandably invisible to the German naval attache, Kapitan zur See Boltitz; the German assistant military attache for air, Major Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein; and to their Japanese counterparts.

Peter von Wachtstein had managed to discreetly acknowledge Tony Pelosi while they were standing at adjacent urinals, and some Argentine officers--all naval officers but one--had been quite cordial, as had the Italian naval and military attaches. That, Tony reasoned, was probably because King Victor Emmanuel had bounced Il Duce and had the bastard locked up someplace.

South American Airways Lodestar tail number 007 was wanded into a parking spot beside almost a dozen of its identical brothers.

The rear door opened and Sergeant Major Enrico Rodriguez (Ret'd) came down the stairs, carrying his shotgun. When he saw Pelosi, he smiled.

"Don Cletus will be out in a minute," he announced. "I have to find a truck."

Pelosi asked with hand gestures if he could go into the aircraft. Enrico replied with a thumbs-up gesture, and as he walked away, Pelosi marched toward the aircraft and went inside.

The chief pilot of South American Airways, Gonzalo Delgano, and the managing director of the airline, Cletus Frade, were in the passenger compartment. Pelosi saw that all but two of the seats had been removed. There were two enormous aluminum boxes strapped in place.

Delgano was in uniform: The uniform prescribed for SAA captains was a woolen powder blue tunic with four gold stripes on the sleeves, darker blue trousers with a golden stripe down the seam, a white shirt with powder blue necktie, and a leather brimmed cap with a huge crown. On the tunic's breast were outsized golden wings, in the center of which, superimposed on the Argentine sunburst, were the letters SAA.

Chief Pilot Delgano, as was probably to be expected, had five golden stripes on his tunic sleeves and the band around his brimmed cap was of gold cloth.

The managing director of SAA, who was bent over one of the aluminum crates, was wearing khaki trousers, battered Western boots, and a fur-collared leather jacket that had once been the property of the United States Marine Corps.

Cletus Frade came out of the box holding a lobster by its tail. Pelosi decided the lobster had to weigh five pounds, maybe more.

"You're still alive, you great big ugly sonofabitch!" Frade proclaimed happily. "God rewards the virtuous. Remember that, Gonzo."

Delgano shook his head.

Frade spotted Pelosi.

"And, by God, we're safe! The 82nd Airborne is here!"

"Where'd you get the lobster?" Pelosi inquired.

"Santiago, Chile, from which Delgano and I have flown in three hours and thirteen minutes. At an average speed of approximately 228 miles per hour, while attaining an altitude of nearly 24,000 feet in the process. We had to go on oxygen over most of the Andes, and it was as cold as a witch's teat up there. But neither seems to have affected my friend here, despite the dire predictions of my chief pilot."

"I thought the cold and/or lack of oxygen would kill them," Delgano said.

"What are you going to do with it?" Pelosi asked.

"Well, at first I thought I'd organize a lobster race, but now I think I'll eat him. And at least some of his buddies in the tank. If you promise to behave, Tony, you are invited to a clambake this very evening at the museum. You may even bring your abused wife."

Tony knew that the museum was the Frade mansion--which indeed resembled, both internally and externally, a museum--on Avenida Coronel Diaz in Palermo.

"You've got clams?"

"Clams, oysters, and lobster. Santiago is a virtual paradise of seafood."

"Don Cletus thinks we can make money flying it in," Delgano explained.

"Trust me, Gonzo," Frade said. "And now curiosity is about to overwhelm me: What are you doing here, dressed up like some general's dog-robber?"

"Curiosity just overwhelmed me," Delgano said. " 'Dog-robber'?"

"Aides-de-camp, who must be shameless enough to snatch food from the mouths of starving dogs to feed their general, are known as dog-robbers," Frade explained.

Delgano shook his head.

Pelosi said: "I was at a reception for foreign attaches at Campo de Mayo. You had to go in uniform with medals."

"And was Major Baron von Wachtstein there, dazzling everybody with his Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross?"

Pelosi nodded.

"Good. That means he's in town and can come."

"So was el Coronel Peron."

"He can't."

"And there's a package for you."

"Yeah?"

"From Room 1012, National Institutes of Health Building, Washington, D.C. It was in the pouch. My boss said to get it to you, and to get a receipt."

The headquarters of the Office of Strategic Services was in the National Institutes of Health Building.

Pelosi's boss, the military attache of the U.S. Embassy, was not fond of either Pelosi or Frade. He had received a teletype message from the vice chief of staff of the U.S. Army directing him not to assign Lieutenant Pelosi any duties that could possibly interfere in any way with his other duties. The other duties were unspecified. The military attache knew that Pelosi was the OSS man in the embassy and worked for Cletus Frade.

"He didn't happen to open it before he gave it to you to give to me, did he?"

Pelosi shook his head.

"Where is it?"

"In my car."

"You left the report of my Wasserman test in your car where anybody can get at it? Go get it! My God, what if Dorotea should see it?"

Pelosi got quickly off the Lodestar.

"What test is that?" Delgano asked.

"They draw blood. And test it. If you flunk your Wasserman test, you have syphilis. And it has to be that. I can't think of anything else the National Institutes of Health could possibly be sending me. Can you?"

Delgano knew where OSS headquarters was.

"Not really," he said, shaking his head. "Cletus, you are impossible."

Pelosi had to wait to get back on the airplane until half a dozen workmen had unstrapped the aluminum crates and manhandled them into the back of a 1940 Chevrolet pickup truck.

Then he came aboard and handed Frade a large padded envelope.

Frade tore it open.

It contained an inch-thick book. Clete flipped through it, then handed it to Delgano, who read the title aloud: "'Pilot's Operating Manual, Lockheed L-049 Constellation Aircraft.'"

Delgano then looked at Frade, who handed him a small note that had been paper-clipped to the book.

"Constellation? Is that that great big new airplane? The one with three tails?" Pelosi asked.

"It has three vertical stabilizers, Tony," Frade said as he read the note.

When he had finished reading the note, Delgano looked at Frade.

"Again?" he asked.

"I have no idea what this is all about," Frade confessed. "If I figure it out, you'll be the first to know."

[FIVE]

Sidi Slimane U.S. Army Air Force Base

Morocco

1250 4 September 1943

Captain Archer C. Dooley Jr., USAAF, commanding officer of the 94th Fighter Squadron, studied the runway behind him in the rearview mirror of his P-38, saw what he wanted to see, then looked to his left, saw that he had the attention of First Lieutenant William Cole, smiled at him, raised his right hand, and gestured with his index finger extended, first pointing down the runway and then in a circling motion upward.

When Cole had given him a smile and a thumbs-up gesture, Dooley put his hand on the throttle quadrant and pushed both levers forward to take off power.

This caused the twin Allison V-1710 1,475-horsepower engines of his P- 38 "Lightning" to roar impressively and the aircraft to move at first slowly, and then with rapidly increasing velocity, down the runway.

He lifted off--with Cole's Lightning perhaps two seconds behind him--retracted the gear, and retarded the throttles to give him the most efficient burning of fuel as he climbed to altitude and to the rendezvous point over the Atlantic Ocean.

Sixty seconds later, two more P-38s roared down the runway, and sixty seconds after they had become airborne, two more, and sixty seconds after that, two more, for a total of eight.

"Mother Hen, check in," Captain Dooley ordered.

One by one, the seven other P-38s in the flight reported in, starting with "Chick One, sir. All okay."

When Chick Seven had been heard from, Dooley went on: "Pay attention to Mother Hen. We're going out over the drink on this heading, our speed and rate of climb governed by our concern for fuel consumption. Think fuel conservation. Better yet, think of what a long swim you are going to have if you don't think fuel conservation. We are going to eleven thousand feet, which should put us above Grandma. Everyone, repeat everyone, will monitor the frequencies you have been given for Grandma's squawk. Everyone will acknowledge by saying, 'Yes, Mother.' "

The responses began immediately: "Chick One. Yes, Mother."

Two of the Chicks were unable to keep the chuckles out of their voices. They tried. The Old Man could be a real hard-ass if he was crossed.

Captain Dooley had been the valedictorian of the 1942 Class at Saint Ignatius High School in Kansas City, Kansas. He still was not old enough to purchase intoxicating spirits--or, for that matter, even beer--in his hometown.

He had become an aviation cadet, been commissioned, been selected for fighter pilot training and graduated from that, in time to be assigned to the aerial combat involved in the American invasion of North Africa, flying P-51s for the 403rd Fighter Squadron of the 23rd Fighter Group.

Four weeks and six days after Second Lieutenant Dooley had reported to the 403rd and flew his first mission, the Squadron First Sergeant had handed him a sheet of paper to sign:

Officer promotion policies within the 23rd Fighter Group were quite simple:

16. In the case of a combat-caused vacancy, the next-senior officer will temporarily move into the vacant position. If no replacement officer of suitable rank becomes available within seven (7) days of such temporary assignment, the temporary assignment will become permanent, and the incumbent will be promoted to the rank called for by the Table of Organization & Equipment without regard to any other promotional criteria.

When Dooley assumed command of the 403rd, eleven of the pilots who had been senior to him when he had reported for duty as a second lieutenant with the 403rd had been killed or otherwise been rendered hors de combat.

At just about the time Archie became the Old Man, the United States achieved aerial superiority over the battlefield, and the 403rd didn't have very many--almost no--aerial battles to wage. The mission became ground support and logistics interdiction. The latter translated to mean they swept low over the desert and shot at anything that moved. Locomotives were ideal targets, but single German staff cars, or Kubelwagens--for that matter, individual German soldiers caught in the open--were fair targets.

Captain Dooley had dutifully repeated to his pilots the orders from above that even one dead German soldier meant one fewer German who could shoot at the guys in the infantry. But he confessed to his pilots that he himself had very bad memories of a Kraut Mercedes staff car he'd taken out when he'd come across it as it moved alone across the desert.

"Orders are orders," Captain Dooley told his pilots.

When things had calmed down a little, the brass had had time to consider officer assignments, putting officers where they could do the most good. Some of the replacement officers sent to the 403rd after Captain Dooley's assumption of command were senior to him. On the other hand, back at Sidi Slimane in Morocco, there was a newly arrived squadron none of whose officers had yet flown in combat. The problem was that the 94th Fighter Squadron was flying Lockheed P-38 Lightnings, not P-51s. Captain Dooley was not qualified to fly P-38s.

A command decision was made.

"Fuck it. Dooley's one hell of a pilot. Give him a quick transition into P- 38s and send him to command the 94th. All they're doing back there is running escort for transports flying in from the States. He's a quick learner. He's proven that. And he can teach the others how to fly combat when they're not escorting transports. They'll pay attention to a guy with two DFCs even if he looks like a high school cheerleader."

Aerial resupply of the North African Theatre of Operations was performed by Douglas C-54 four-engine transports. Carrying high-priority cargo ranging from fresh human blood through spare parts to critically needed personnel, they flew from East Coast airfields to Gander, Newfoundland, and after refueling, from Gander to airfields in England.

Fighter aircraft from fields in Scotland flew out over the ocean to escort them safely past German fighters flying out of France. To keep a German fighter formation from happening upon a fleet of transports, the transports flew separately.

The same protection system was put in place as the transports flew from England to North Africa. They were escorted out over the Atlantic by fighters, then flew alone far enough out to sea to avoid German interception as they flew south, until they were met by North Africa-based American fighters over the Atlantic a hundred miles at sea, then escorted to North African air bases, most often Sidi Slimane.

"Aircraft squawking on One One Seven, this is Mother Hen. How do you read?" Captain Dooley inquired. They were approximately 130 miles out over the Atlantic.

"Mother Hen, Five Oh Nine reads you loud and clear."

"Grandma, read you five by five. I should be able to see you. Are you on the deck?"

"Actually, Mother Hen, I'm at twenty thousand. From up here, I can see what looks like a bunch of little airplanes at what's probably ten thousand. Is that you?"

Dooley looked up, searching the sky. He saw the sun glinting off the unpainted skin of an aircraft that looked vaguely familiar, and for a moment he had a sick feeling in his stomach.

Jesus Christ, is that a Condor?

The Germans were running their long-range transport, the Condor, from fields in Spain to South America. The 94th had been ordered to "engage and destroy" any such aircraft they encountered.

Archie Dooley did not want to shoot down an unarmed transport.

Orders are orders.

Fuck it!

"Mother Hen to all Chicks. Follow me. Do not--repeat, do not--engage until I give the order."

He pushed his throttles forward and began his climb.

Getting to twenty thousand feet didn't take much time, but catching up with the sonofabitch took a hell of a long time.

He has to be making three hundred miles an hour! I didn't think the Condor was anywhere near this fast.

Jesus, that's not a Condor!

What the fuck is it?

Dooley finally pulled close enough to see that the airplane, whatever the hell it was, was American. There was a star-and-bar recognition sign on the fuselage, and when he picked up a few more feet of altitude, he saw that U.S. ARMY was painted on the wing.

He looked back at the tail to see if there was a tail number.

Tail, hell. It's got three of them!

"Five Oh Nine, this is Mother Hen."

"Oh, hello there, Mother Hen. I wondered how long it was going to take you to get up here."

Dooley pulled closer and parallel to the cockpit of the huge--And beautiful! Jesus, that's good-looking!--airplane.

The pilot waved cheerfully at him.

Dooley saw that he was not wearing an oxygen mask.

Don't tell me it's pressurized! It has to be. He's at twenty thousand with no mask!

Jesus, I know what it is. It's a Constellation! I've seen pictures.

What the hell is it doing here?

Dooley saw that his airspeed indicator needle was flickering at 320.

"Five Oh Nine, Mother Hen. We are going to form a protective shield above and ahead and behind you and lead you in."

"Thank you very much."

I will be goddamned if I will ask him if that's really a Constellation.

Dooley went almost to the deck with the Constellation, watched it touch smoothly down, then shoved his throttles forward and picked up the nose so that he--and the rest of the flight--could go around and get in the landing stack.

When Dooley's P-38 was at the end of its landing roll, he was surprised to see that instead of at Base Ops, where he expected it to be, the Constellation was at a remote corner of the field, where maybe fifty people were hurriedly erecting camouflage netting over it.

"Mother Hen to all Chicks. Refuel, check your planes, but don't get far from them. I was told to expect another mission when we got back."

He switched radio frequencies from Air-to-Air Three to Air-to- Ground Two.

"Sidi Tower, Mother Hen is going to taxi to the Constellation."

"Negative, Mother Hen. You are denied--"

Dooley turned his radios off and taxied to the Constellation.

By the time he got there, the camouflage netting was in place and the staff car of the base commander was parked at the foot of a long ladder that reached up to the fuselage of the Constellation.

The base commander glowered at Dooley.

Fuck it! What's he going to do, send me to North Africa?

He started to shut down the Lightning.

He had to wait until someone brought a ladder so that he could climb down from the P-38 cockpit.

By the time he got close to the Constellation, two civilians were climbing down the ladder.

That guy looks just like Howard Hughes.

The guy who looked just like Howard Hughes said, "Why do I think you're Mother Hen?" Then, without waiting for a reply, he said to the other civilian, "This is the guy who shepherded us in here, Colonel."

"I was very happy to see you out there, Captain," the other civilian said, offering Dooley his hand. "Thank you. And are you going to take care of us on the way to Lisbon?"

The base commander put in: "I thought I'd wait, Colonel Graham, until you got here before I told the captain where he was going next."

"But he is prepared to leave shortly?" Colonel Graham asked.

"Just as soon as his aircraft is refueled," the base commander said, then looked at Dooley. "Right, Captain?"

"Yes, sir."

The base commander looked back at Graham and added, "And he picks up the flight plan at Base Ops, of course, and confers with the C-47 crew."

"Good," Colonel Graham said. "We have a very narrow window of time."

"Any questions, Captain Dooley?" the base commander asked.

"Actually, I have two, sir. Three, if I can ask this gentleman if he's the pilot I saw when we made rendezvous."

The tall civilian nodded.

"How long did it take you to come from England in that beautiful airplane?"

"Actually, we came by way of Belem, Brazil. It took us a little over eleven hours from Belem. That's two questions."

"Did anyone ever tell you you look like Howard Hughes?"

"I hear that all the time," Howard Hughes said.