The Honor of Spies

VIII

[ONE]

Office of the Managing Director

Banco de Inglaterra y Argentina

Bartolome Mitre 300

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1430 19 September 1943

"You have an international call, Senor Duarte," Humberto Duarte's secretary announced at his office door. "It is Senor Frade calling from Brazil."

"Put it through, put it through," Duarte said impatiently.

He had the handset of his ornate, French-style telephone to his ear before his secretary had moved from the door.

It took ninety seconds before Frade came on the line.

"What did I do, Humberto? Interrupt your lunch?"

"Where the hell are you?" Humberto began, and then before Frade could possibly reply, went on, "No one knew where you were."

"And you thought I had crashed? I'm touched by your concern."

"I didn't know what to think. El Coronel Martin has been looking all over for you."

"He does like to keep an eye on me, doesn't he?"

"Cletus, for God's sake, can't you ever be serious? Martin said he has to see you as quickly as possible. He said it was very likely a matter of life or death."

The tone of Frade's voice changed. He now was serious.

"That's interesting. He say whose life?"

"Does it matter, for God's sake? Martin is a serious man. What in the world have you done now?"

"This is what I need you to do, Humberto. And it's not open for debate . . ."

"My God!"

"I want you to call President Rawson . . ."

"The president?"

"Are there two of them?"

"Have you been drinking?"

"I haven't so much as sniffed a cork," Frade said. "Tell el General that I would be very pleased if he, and such members of his staff as he sees fit, would have a glass of champagne with me at five o'clock this afternoon at Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade."

"What?"

"I think you heard me, Humberto. If he shows reluctance, insist. If he's really reluctant, go so far as to remind him that he told me if there was anything I ever wanted from him, all I had to do was ask. Just get him there, Humberto."

"What the hell are you up to? You really haven't been drinking?"

"Boy Scout's Honor, I haven't had a drop in four days."

"I asked what this is all about, Cletus," Duarte said as sternly as he could manage.

"Take him up in the control tower. Have him there at five," Frade said, ignoring the question. "And once he's agreed to be there, get on the horn, call Claudia and tell her to be there, too--with both daughters, if possible, and von Wachtstein. And Father Welner. I suppose I'd better ask my beloved Tio Juan. I'd hate to hurt his feelings for not getting invited. And call my beloved father-in-law, speaking of people who don't like me. Get him out there, too. The more the merrier, in other words. Oh, hell! And call el Coronel Martin, too. And you better call La Nacion, La Prensa, and the Herald, too. And tell them where el Presidente is going to be at five."

"Cletus, you listen to me," Duarte said sternly. "I'm not going to do any of this until you tell me what's going on."

"Just goddamn do it, Humberto. It's really important."

"I said no."

"And I said have everybody at the field at five o'clock. Just do it, goddamn it!"

There was a click, and Duarte realized that Cletus had hung up.

He took the handset from his ear and looked at it for a moment. Then he slowly replaced it in the base. He stared at that for a very long moment, exhaled audibly, then reached for the handset.

When his secretary came on the line, he said, "Call the Casa Rosada, please, and tell whoever answers the phone in the president's office that I am calling on behalf of Don Cletus Frade."

[TWO]

The Control Tower

Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade

Moron, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

1700 19 September 1943

General Arturo Rawson, president of the Republic of Argentina, and his aide-de-camp were both in uniform as they stood with Senora Claudia de Carzino-Cormano, Senor Humberto Duarte, and Reverend Kurt Welner, S.J., in the control tower. They all held stems and sipped champagne. The windows of the tower provided them an excellent view of the airfield's runways, tarmac, and the surrounding buildings and area.

There were six Lockheed Lodestars visible. President Rawson had commented what beautiful aircraft they were, and had watched intently as one had landed and two others had taken off.

Behind the hangar, the parking lot was crowded with large automobiles. Their passengers--those not in the control tower; there was regrettably only so much room--were standing on the tarmac in front of Base Operations, where a table had been set up so that white-jacketed waiters could serve champagne and canapes.

As the sweep second hand of the large clock approached the numeral twelve, indicating the time to be precisely 17:00:00, a familiar voice came over the tower's loudspeakers.

"Jorge Frade, this is South American Three Zero One."

"That's Cletus," Senora Carzino-Cormano declared unnecessarily.

"Senor Duarte, we don't have an aircraft with that tail number," the controller announced.

"Answer him," Duarte snapped.

"South American Three Zero One, Jorge Frade, go ahead."

"Three Zero One is at fifteen hundred meters, indicating four hundred kilometers per hour, fifty kilometers north of your station. Request approach and landing."

"How fast did he say he was going?" General Rawson asked.

"He said four hundred kilometers, mi general, but that can't be right," the general's aide-de-camp said.

"Three Zero One, Jorge Frade. Descend to one thousand, report when the field is in sight."

"Three Zero One, leaving fifteen hundred for one thousand," Frade's voice came over the loudspeaker.

Two minutes later, Frade's voice announced, "Three Zero One at one thousand meters, indicating three hundred kilometers. Request straight-in approach to runway Three Three."

"He said three hundred kilometers this time," General Rawson announced. "I could hear him clearly."

"Three Zero One, Jorge Frade clears you for a straight-in approach and landing as Number One on runway Three Three. Report when the runway is in sight."

"Three Zero One has the airfield in sight. Understand cleared as Number One on Three Three," the loudspeaker announced, and then: "Put the wheels down, Gonzo. It's smoother if you do that."

"My God," Claudia Carzino-Cormano said. "What is that? It's absolutely enormous."

The Lockheed Constellation, landing gear and flaps down, touched down at the far end of the runway.

Then it taxied to the terminal. As it got closer, everyone in the tower could now see that it had SOUTH AMERICAN AIRWAYS lettered in red on the fuselage, the flag of Argentina painted on all three of its vertical stabilizers, and the legend CIUDAD DE BUENOS AIRES lettered beneath the cockpit windows.

As it got really close to the terminal, small side windows in the cockpit opened, hands came out, and a moment later Argentine flags on holders were fluttering in the wind.

Frade's voice came over the speakers again.

"How about somebody getting a ladder out here so we can get out of this thing?"

"Oh, Claudia," the president of Argentina said emotionally, thickly, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. "If only our Jorge were here to see this!"

"Arturo, I know in my heart he's watching," Claudia said.

The two embraced.

Humberto Duarte thought: I have no goddamn idea what Cletus is up to.

But whatever it is, he just got away with it.

[THREE]

Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade

Moron, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

1710 19 September 1943

It is entirely likely, Cletus Frade thought as he looked out the cockpit window, that there's not a ladder within miles of here that's long enough to reach up to the door, which will tend to put a damper on the triumphal arrival of the Big Bird.

He looked down at the people standing on the tarmac, most of them holding up champagne stems in salute as they looked with what approached awe at the Lockheed Corporation's latest contribution to long-distance commercial aviation.

Claudia probably set that up; Humberto wouldn't think of it.

Whoever did it, it was a good idea.

Frade saw that Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein, who was not in uniform, was almost feverishly taking photographs of the airplane with a Leica camera.

Just like the one we used to take pictures of the Froggers.

And, of course, of Tio Juan's map of South America after the Final Victory. He spotted el Coronel Juan Domingo Peron standing beside el Coronel Martin.

And you're here, aren't you, you sonofabitch?

And what the hell were you talking about, Martin, when you said you had to see me as soon as possible on a matter of "life and death"?

Well, at least it doesn't concern Dorotea or anyone at Casa Montagna. I talked to her just before we took off from Canoas. I told her I was about to fly here. I didn't tell her in what I was about to fly here, just that I was, and that I would see her there just as soon as I could deal with what I had to do in Buenos Aires.

There was a Collins Model 7.2 transceiver installed in the Connie; it had connected easily from Canoas with the Collins transceiver at Casa Montagna and with the one at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. As a result of the latter call, there would be at least three of the estancia's station wagons, three sedans, and a stake-bodied truck waiting at the airfield to transport the Connie's passengers and their luggage. Frade's Horch was, he presumed, parked where he had left it in the hangar.

Among the passengers aboard were three ASA people from Vint Hill Farms Station: Second Lieutenant Len Fischer and two young enlisted men who were both T-3s. T-3 was an Army rank Fischer had to explain to Frade, as there was no such rank in the Marine Corps. Their staff sergeants' chevrons had a "T," meaning "Technician." And staff sergeant was Pay Grade Three, hence T-3.

The ASA people, however, were not in uniform. They all wore civilian clothing and carried passports, draft cards, and other identification saying they were employees of the Collins Radio Corporation, Cedar Rapids, Iowa.

There were other civilian technicians aboard, some of them actually civilians. One of the bona fide civilians was an employee of the Curtiss-Wright Aircraft Engine Company. He would stay in Argentina only long enough to ensure that two other "employees of Curtiss-Wright"--actually, two U.S. Army Air Force technical sergeants--both were qualified to care for Curtiss-Wright R-3350-DA 3 18-cylinder supercharged 3,250-horsepower radial engines and were prepared to teach their art to employees of South American Airways. Four of the Curtiss-Wright radials powered the Constellation.

Additionally, there was a bona fide civilian employee of the Lockheed Aircraft Corporation and two more Army Air Force noncoms in mufti, who would both care for the airframe and see to the necessary instruction of South American Airways personnel to function as flight engineers.

At Howard Hughes's suggestion, Chief Pilot Gonzalo Delgano had decreed that the flight engineers would have to be fully qualified pilots.

Six of these pilots were also aboard, getting their training hands-on.

Which meant that three of SAA's Lodestars, which the pilots had flown to Canoas, would have to sit there on the tarmac until Frade and Delgano could figure out how to get them back to Argentina.

That problem being compounded by the delivery to Canoas of the second Constellation and, within the week, the expected arrival of the third Connie.

They would have to be stripped of their U.S. Army Air Force markings, then repainted in the South American Airways scheme--one as the Ciudad de Mendoza and the other as the Ciudad de Cordoba--and then flown to Buenos Aires, that problem compounded by the fact that only two SAA pilots--Frade and Delgano--had as many as fifteen takeoffs and landings, and neither Frade nor Delgano was willing to turn one of the Constellations over to less experienced pilots no matter how high their enthusiasm.

There were also aboard two slightly older bona fide civilians. Both were accountants, and looked like it, but for obvious reasons their identification did not indicate that they in fact practiced their profession as employees of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

The accountants would stay in Argentina--Frade had not decided whether in Buenos Aires or in Mendoza--to keep track of and make sense of whatever the Froggers, father and son, would tell them and what could otherwise be learned from other sources on how the German Operation Phoenix money was being invested--hidden--in the Argentine economy.

The voice of an SAA pilot who had been taking on-the-job training as a flight engineer came over Frade's earphones: "Captain, they're bringing a ladder."

"Thank you," Frade said. "Keep me posted."

He turned to Delgano. "You get off first, Gonzo, that guy next, and you give the impression you're the pilot and he's the number two. I'll get off later."

Delgano made a thumbs-up gesture, unfastened his harness, got out of the copilot's seat, and walked into the passenger compartment.

Where the hell is Humberto? Frade wondered as he carefully looked out a side window.

More important, where the hell is General Rawson?

If Humberto couldn't get him to come out here, this whole thing is going to blow up in my face!

Frade, ten minutes later, looked out the side window again.

The last time he had looked, Peter von Wachtstein had been one of six or eight photographers taking pictures of the Constellation. Now he was alone.

Where the hell are the others?

What's going on?

Then he saw that the photographers were backing toward the airplane, taking pictures of General Rawson, Humberto Duarte, Father Welner, and Claudia de Carzino-Cormano. Their party had just come out of the building and was walking toward the Constellation.

The president of the Argentine nation was smiling broadly.

And with the exception of my beloved father-in-law, so is everybody else out there.

"Captain," Delgano's voice came over the headset. "The ladder they brought is a meter too short."

"Shit! Now what?"

"They sent for a truck. They're going to put the ladder in the bed of the truck."

Frade tried to take a look from the cockpit window. The only thing he could see was a Chevrolet pickup truck approaching the aircraft. He couldn't see the door to the passenger compartment.

He quickly unstrapped himself, went into the passenger compartment, and looked out a window there. The pickup truck was backing up toward the airplane. In it, supported by four men, was a stepladder--a very long one. Then he no longer could see the truck.

He looked down the aisle. Delgano was standing in the door, facing inward, one leg gingerly extended downward out the door.

Then, very slowly, he disappeared.

Clete could see nothing out the window.

Then the SAA pilot/flight-engineer-in-training backed into the door and warily reached for the ladder with his leg.

"Change of plans!" Clete announced. "All SAA pilots go down the ladder!"

The five remaining SAA pilots formed a line by the door.

Out the window, Clete could see that Delgano had made it safely to the bed of the pickup, from which he jumped to the ground. Then the first SAA pilot came into view.

God, don't let any of them take a dive off that damn ladder with all those cameras trained on them!

Finally, everybody had gone down the ladder, jumped off the truck, and had lined up behind Gonzo and Pilot Number One. They all adjusted their uniforms.

Delgano issued a command. Everybody marched six steps forward. Delgano issued another command and everyone halted.

They were now facing General Rawson, his entourage, Claudia de Carzino-Cormano, Father Welner, and Humberto Duarte.

Delgano saluted.

"Senor Presidente, mi general," he barked. "I have the honor to present Argentina's first international passenger aircraft!"

Frade couldn't actually hear what Delgano was saying, but he had spent thirty minutes rehearsing him on what he was to say before they left Canoas.

General Rawson saluted, then took three steps forward, kissed--more or less--Delgano on both cheeks, then each of the other pilots. Colonel Juan D. Peron appeared and joined Rawson's entourage as they walked after the president, each of them shaking each pilot's hand.

By then, Frade was at the door.

Enrico Rodriguez came to him, carrying his shotgun.

"Leave that on the airplane," Clete commanded. Then he raised his voice and ordered: "Everybody sit tight. I'll come for you as soon as I can."

He backed out the door, found the top step of the ladder with his left leg, then the step below it with his right, and went down the ladder into the bed of the pickup.

As he jumped to the tarmac, he saw that General Rawson had seen him and was smiling happily. When Rawson had finished kissing--more or less--the last SAA pilot, he headed right for Clete.

The president embraced Frade and kissed him--fully and wetly--on both cheeks, then again embraced him, then finally, holding on to both of Frade's arms, backed away and looked into his eyes.

"Cletus, your father would be so proud of you!"

Rawson was so sincere that the cynicism with which Frade had been viewing the entire performance instantly vanished. He felt his eyes water, and his voice was not firm when he replied, "Muchas gracias, mi general."

"Cletus, as much as I want to see inside the airplane, the Papal Nuncio is at this moment waiting for me at Casa Rosada. But I will be back."

"By then, mi general, there will be proper aircraft steps for you when you can find time in your schedule for us."

Rawson squeezed both of Frade's arms, then turned and marched off.

El Coronel Juan D. Peron marched up to Frade. He kissed--pro forma--Frade's cheeks. "I am presuming, Cletus, that there is some good reason why I didn't hear about this--"

He gestured at the airplane, at Claudia de Carzino-Cormano, at Humberto Duarte, and at General Rawson.

"--until an hour ago."

"There certainly is, Tio Juan," Frade said enthusiastically. Then he kissed Peron wetly on the cheek and said, "You're going to have to excuse me."

Frade walked quickly to Claudia, kissing her fondly but not wetly.

Peron's face tightened and for a moment it looked as if he might follow Frade. At the end, he marched toward his car.

"How's my favorite stockholder?" Clete asked Claudia.

She shook her head in resignation.

"Frankly, wondering what the hell is going on around here."

"I saw an opportunity and took it. We gringos call that 'striking while the iron is hot.' I have no idea what that really means, but that's what we say."

"How much did that cost?" Claudia asked, gesturing toward the Constellation.

"A lot," Clete admitted. "And we have three of them."

"And where's the money going to come from?"

"So far it's come from my grandfather, which brings us to that, Humberto."

"Excuse me?" Duarte said.

"There are two accountants aboard the Ciudad de Buenos Aires," Clete said, "dispatched by my grandfather to make sure I don't squander his money on whiskey and wild women. Tonight, I'm going to put them up in the house on Coronel Diaz. But we're going to have to find them someplace to live--someplace nice; they're high-priced CPAs--maybe the Alvear or the Plaza. Can you deal with that?"

Duarte nodded.

"The immediate problem is to get them off the airplane, by which I mean we need the service of Immigration and Customs."

Humberto pointed. Clete saw a half-dozen uniformed Immigration and Customs officers.

"But first we need a better way to get things off the Connie than that stepladder," Frade said. "I wonder where Senor Manana is." He looked around and spotted him.

"Senor de Filippi?" he called.

Guillermo de Filippi, SAA's chief of maintenance, walked to him.

"Our immediate problem, Guillermo," Frade said, "is to unload our new aircraft. That stepladder won't do. Any suggestions?"

"Senor Frade, we don't have a ladder that tall."

"We have wood, right?" Frade said. He pointed to two railroad flatcars, both bearing enormous stacks of lumber intended for the construction of a third hangar. "And carpenters? Does that suggest anything to you?"

"Senor Frade, the carpenters stop work at five o'clock, and it's after that. There would be problems with the union."

"I will deal with the workmen, Don Cletus," Enrico Rodriguez said.

Frade turned and saw him standing behind him. Holding his shotgun.

How the hell did he get down the ladder with the shotgun?

I don't think that being forced to build a stairway with a shotgun aimed at you would be good labor-management practice.

"Enrico, tell them it's two days' pay if they can build a stairway up to the plane in half an hour."

Father Welner chuckled. Senor de Filippi looked confused.

"And I'll throw in a case of beer," Frade added, then turned to de Filippi. "And there's a couple of other things that have to be done. On the airplane are airframe and engine engineers . . ."

He stopped in midsentence when a line of cars started to stream from behind the hangar onto the tarmac.

"What are we going to do, have a parade?" Frade quipped.

"We are having a cocktail and small buffet at your house on Coronel Diaz," Claudia said. "To celebrate whatever is going on here."

"You set that up, did you?"

"I was with your father for many years, Cletus. I didn't think you would mind my using the house."

"I was just about to say, 'Thank you very much, that's a great idea.' "

"And while that's going on," Claudia said, "we're going to have a quick board of directors meeting in the upstairs sitting room."

"We are?" he asked, smiling at her.

"We are," Claudia said flatly. "And I mean right now."

"There's a lot that has to be done here," Frade said.

"Aside from getting your passengers off that airplane and into the cars--and that can be dealt with by Senor de Filippi--there's nothing you have to do here that won't wait until tomorrow morning. Humberto and I have a right to know what's going on here, and I insist you tell us. And right now."

Actually, there is one thing I have to do here that won't wait until morning.

My back teeth are floating.

"Claudia, I'm going to go directly into the hangar, get in the Horch, and when you get to the house I'll greet you at the door."

He pointed to the automobile, which was sitting just inside the door, and then at Rodriguez.

"Enrico, have someone throw my bags off the Connie and put them in the Horch. We're going to Coronel Diaz. Senor de Filippi can get the ladder built. Right, Guillermo?"

"Of course, Senor Frade."

"And then bring everybody to my house on Coronel Diaz. You know where it is?"

De Filippi nodded.

Claudia eyed Frade suspiciously.

"I trust that that will be satisfactory, Claudia?" Frade asked with a smile.

She examined his face carefully and finally said, "All right." Then she added, "Be there, Cletus."

He grabbed her, kissed her wetly on both cheeks, and then walked quickly toward the hangar.

He walked past the Horch until he found the men's room.

A moment after he had reached one of the urinals, someone walked to the adjacent fixture. Frade looked to see who it was.

"Please don't say it, Cletus," el Coronel Alejandro Martin said.

"But people will talk, Alejandro, if you keep following me into men's rooms."

He sighed. "I should have known better than to ask."

"Humberto said you were looking for me," Frade said.

"We have to talk."

"Okay."

"Not in here."

"I presume you've been invited to Senora Carzino-Cormano's cocktail and small buffet?"

Martin shook his head.

"Not to worry. It's her party, but my house. You're invited. So we can talk there. Or better yet, ride into town with me. We can sit in the back of the Horch and wave at our loyal subjects."

He turned slightly away from the urinal and well mimicked the regal flat-handed slow wave of British Royalty.

Martin smiled and chuckled.

"I think I should warn you, Cletus, that I have learned you are at your most dangerous when you're playing the clown."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, mi coronel."

"Okay, I'll ride in with you. What we need to talk about has nothing to do with what happened here today. But I want to talk about that, too."

[FOUR]

Ruta Nacional No. 7

Near Moron

Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

1750 19 September 1943

"I hope this doesn't make you think I'm paranoid, mi coronel," Frade said, "but I think we are being followed."

Frade was at the wheel of the Horch. Martin sat beside him. Enrico was in the back. The canvas top of the Horch had been lowered.

"We are," Martin said. "Please tell Enrico not to shoot them; they belong to me."

"Enrico," Frade called, raising his voice. "Don't shoot at the people in the car behind us. They belong to el Coronel Martin."

"There's two cars of them, Don Cletus," Enrico called. "They've been with us since we left the airfield."

Frade looked at Martin, held up two fingers, and wordlessly asked with a raised eyebrow, What the hell is that all about?

Martin explained: "About a month ago--on August 12, to be precise--there was an incident near your home on Coronel Diaz. You may have read about it in the press. It was necessary for the police to kill three criminals they came across in the middle of a robbery."

"I do seem to recall something about that," Frade said.

"I didn't want something like that to mar Dona Claudia's little party today. Better safe than sorry, as they say."

"You really think that's likely?"

"I'd say it's far more likely that unknown malefactors who don't like you would have another go at you while you're--while we're--riding along here like targets in a carnival shooting gallery."

"How would they know I'm here?"

"How many cars like this Horch would you say there are in Argentina?"

"Good point," Frade said.

"Cletus, can we have one of our off-the-record conversations?"

"Same rules?"

"Same rules. We don't have to answer a question, but if we do, it has to be the truth."

"Ask away."

"Let's start with what happened today: What's going on with that enormous airplane?"

"Airplanes. There's three of them."

"Three of them?"

"There's another at the Canoas airfield, being painted, and another on the way there."

"And what are you going to do with them? More to the point, what are you going to do with them for the OSS?"

"The what?" Frade replied. "The OSS? What's that?"

They smiled at each other.

Frade went on: "But to answer the question generally: South American Airways is about to begin one-stop--at Belem, Brazil--service between Buenos Aires and Lisbon, Portugal. Or maybe Madrid. I won't know that until I make a test run. Could be to both places. And maybe to Switzerland, too. Anyway, at least one flight each way a week, maybe two."

"What's that all about?"

"What I was told was there is a problem moving civilians between Europe and the States by air . . ."

"Civilians? Or spies from that organization you never heard of?"

"Civilians. Diplomats. Not only Americans, but neutrals--French, Spanish, Swiss, et cetera. Businessmen, too. Right now, if we have to send a diplomat to Spain, for example, he has to either wait for a Spanish ship--or other neutral ship, and there aren't many of either--or travel by air on one of our transport airplanes, which means some military officer gets bumped . . ."

" 'Bumped'?"

"Doesn't get to go. Anyway, he goes by military air to England--sometimes by bomber, riding in the back, where the bombs go--and then they get him to Spain either by a neutral-country civilian airplane, and there aren't many of those, or by a neutral ship. Getting the picture?"

Martin nodded.

"The Swiss--I didn't even know they had an airline until last week--have been asking for Douglas transports and, specifically, for Constellations. Which is what I flew in here today."

"Beautiful airplane. Enormous airplane. Where did you learn how to fly one?"

"I thought you knew I used to be a Marine fighter pilot. If it's got wings, a Marine fighter pilot can fly it."

Martin shook his head resignedly. "And Delgano?"

"I taught Delgano at Canoas. Then we partially trained another half-dozen SAA pilots--"

"Partially trained?"

"They've made a half-dozen takeoffs and landings, but they're not ready to fly the Connies anywhere."

"Getting back to how you came to get the airplanes?"

"Okay. They offered the Connies to me. I jumped at it, borrowed the money . . ."

"What I was asking was why did they--and who's 'they'?--offer them to you?"

"They were offered to me by Howard Hughes . . . the aviator, the movie guy?"

"I know who he is."

"We're old friends. More important, he's close to my grandfather. He's also in tight with Lockheed. I think he probably owns it, but that's just a guess. Anyway, Howard told me what I just told you, and said that the government doesn't want to sell airplanes of any kind to the Swiss--or just about anyone else in Europe, or to the Brazilians, but SAA is sort of special."

"Because the managing director works for the OSS?"

"The what?" Frade replied.

They smiled at each other, and then Frade went on: "The only thing the Constellation is good for, Alejandro, is hauling people long distances. It is not a submarine hunter; it can't drop bombs and there are no machine-gun turrets. And the Americans already have submarine-hunting aircraft--modified B-24s--at Canoas and other places in Brazil. As you well know."

"So why does your friend Howard Hughes think SAA is special?"

"Because Argentina is neutral--"

"Some of us actually are," Martin interrupted.

"Let me finish. When SAA establishes probably a twice-a-week service back and forth to Portugal or Spain, the problem of moving civilians back and forth from the States by air is solved. The airplanes take off from a neutral country, Argentina, and fly with only one stop, Canoas, to another neutral country. If you want to go to Europe, you get on one of the Pan American Grace Clippers, the flying boats, and go to Canoas. SAA will then fly you to Lisbon."

"Why is the United States being so nice to Argentina?"

"The Connies will give the finger"--he demonstrated the gesture--"to the only other airline, Lufthansa, offering commercial service to Europe. Everybody knows the Constellation is an American airplane. They call that 'public relations.' "

"You believe all this, Cletus?"

"All I know for sure is that I am about to own three Constellations with which I hope to make a lot of money."

"That presumes the Argentine Civil Aviation Direccion gives you--gives SAA--permission."

"Come on, Alejandro. The airplanes are owned by an Argentine company--"

"There is a nasty rumor going around that the major stockholder in that company is in the OSS," Martin interjected.

"--and will be flown by Argentine pilots, many of whom"--Frade turned to look Martin in the eyes--"a nasty rumor has it, are actually military officers assigned to the Bureau of Internal Security." Frade looked back to the road and went on: "As will be, I suspect, the Immigration and Customs officers who will carefully check each plane before it takes off, and when each one lands. This has nothing to do with the OSS, Alejandro."

"So you say, Major Frade. Or did a promotion come with your added responsibilities to the OSS?"

"And then there's that other thing," Frade said, ignoring the comment. "I somehow got the impression just now that General Rawson thinks this is a lovely idea, that offering intercontinental air service will add to the prestige of the Argentine Republic."

"Since we are still off the record, Cletus, I will admit that was brilliant, what you did at the airfield."

"You are too kind, Alejandro."

And it was.

Colonel Graham actually orchestrated that entire arrival business like a symphony conductor.

But, Alejandro, if you want to think I'm that clever, help yourself!

"What did you say about borrowing money?"

"My grandfather, who always knows a bargain when he sees one, has elected to make a substantial investment in South American Airways."

"Wouldn't that make it a mostly North American-owned company?"

"Not at all. As you know, I am an Argentine by birth. And many years ago, when he first started looking for oil in Venezuela, my grandfather became a citizen of that splendid South American country. Something to do with excessive taxes laid on foreigners. You know, dual citizenship. Like me. SAA is entirely owned by South Americans."

Martin shook his head.

"You're good, Cletus. This round goes to you."

"That suggests there will be other rounds."

"You and I both know there will be," Martin said.

"All I can do is hope that your careful scrutiny of every little detail of our operations, which I fully expect will finally convince you that my motive in this is solely to make a lot of money. And, of course, to add a little prestige to the country of my birth."

"You already have a lot of money."

"Money is like sex, Alejandro," Frade said solemnly. "You can never get too much of it."

Martin laughed, but then said: "I already warned you that I've learned you are most dangerous when you're playing the clown."

"Can we turn to this 'you have to see me on a matter of life-and-death importance'?" Frade said. "I never clown about things like life and death."

"Neither do I," Martin replied. "Okay. Here it is: The Germans may be planning to kidnap your father-in-law, your mother-in-law, and your brother-in-law, and exchange them for the Froggers."

Frade didn't say a word.

After a long moment, Martin said, "For God's sake, Cletus, don't pretend you don't have the Froggers."

"What I was thinking was: How good is your source?"

"It came from someone in a position to know," Martin said.

"That's not the same thing as saying 'reliable' or 'very reliable,' is it? Where'd you get that, Alejandro?"

"Next question?"

"You've got somebody in the German Embassy?" Frade said, but before Martin could respond, he went on: "I don't understand why they would tell you that. Or, if this is true, why they haven't already done it. It's probably bullshit, which brings me back to: Why did they tell you?"

"It may very well be, to use your word, bullshit. But, on the other hand, they just might be getting ready to kidnap your in-laws."

"You've said 'may be planning' and 'just might be getting ready.' Which suggests to me that you don't have much faith in your source."

Martin didn't reply for a long moment, then asked: "You're hearing this for the first time?"

Frade nodded. "I never even thought of something like this as a possibility."

"I'm surprised. You generally think of just about everything. Unless, of course, you have a reason for believing the Germans won't do anything to get the Froggers back."

"Short of causing harm to me or anyone close to me, they're capable and probably willing to do anything to get the Froggers back." He stopped and smiled at Martin. " 'The Froggers.' There's that name again. Who are the Froggers, incidentally? I never heard of them."

Martin shook his head in resignation. "Tell me," he said, "why won't they cause harm to you or people close to you?"

"I thought I told you that."

"Tell me again."

"I told my beloved Tio Juan--and you were there, Alejandro, when I called him from my house on Coronel Diaz, right after they tried to kill Enrico and me--that I was giving him the benefit of the doubt that he didn't have time to call off his German friends, but that he'd better get right on the phone."

"I remember that. But I don't remember hearing what it was that el Coronel Peron was supposed to tell the Germans that would make them reluctant to harm you."

"Well, for one thing, there's photographs of my Tio Juan with the SS just before they shot up my house in Tandil. I don't think the Germans would like to see them plastered all over the front pages of La Nacion, La Prensa, et cetera."

Martin's eyebrows rose.

"Uh-huh," Frade said, nodding. "And then there are photographs of boats trying to smuggle crates from the Spanish-registered merchantman Comerciante del Oceano Pacifico onto the beach at Samborombon Bay. Taken from up close with one of those marvelous German Leica cameras. Some of those pictures show the German assistant military attache for air . . . What's his name?"

"Galahad, maybe?"

Frade, looking forward and showing no reaction, said, "'Galahad' ? Never heard that name, either. Now I remember: von Wachtstein. The photos--remarkably clear photographs, as I said--show von Wachtstein loading the bodies of the German military attache, Oberst Gruner, and his assistant, Standartenfuhrer Goltz, onto the Oceano Pacifico's boats. Very graphic photographs. Both men had been shot in the head. Blood and brain tissue all over them. And von Wachtstein."

Martin exhaled audibly. He said, "Well, I suppose keeping those photographs out of the newspapers would tend to make the Germans reluctant to really make you angry."

"And there are more."

"If you have these photographs . . ."

"I have them, and there's more."

Martin raised his hand to interrupt him.

"I can't help but wonder why you just don't give them to the press."

"Next question?"

Martin shrugged his acceptance of the rules.

"I've changed my mind," Frade said thoughtfully a moment later. "But this is really off the record, Alejandro."

Martin nodded.

"President Roosevelt made the decision that as outrageous as Operation Phoenix is, and as despicable and disgusting as the SS-run Buy-the-Jews-Out-of-Extermination-Camps Operation is, as much as he would like to expose both operations to the world, the bottom line is that some Jews are being saved from the ovens. If it came out, no more Jews could be saved, and the Germans would probably kill the rest of the Jews as quickly as possible so there would be no proof, no witnesses."

Martin exhaled audibly again. This time it sounded like a groan.

"My orders are to keep track of where that money is going," Frade said. "So that when the war is over--"

"That's an admission, you realize . . ."

"Yeah. I realized that when I decided you had a right to know what's going on."

"And the Froggers are giving you information, or at least names--that sort of thing--regarding the money from both Operation Phoenix and the other one? Does the other one have a name?"

"The who? Never heard of them. And, no, the other filthy operation doesn't have a name."

"Do the Germans know you know about the unnamed operation?"

"They don't know how much we know about it."

"How much do you know?"

"A good deal. And when the war is over, when faced with the alternative of either telling us what we don't know or a hangman's noose, I suspect the slimy SS bastard running the operation in Montevideo will sing like a canary."

"Montevideo?"

Frade nodded.

"Your sergeant was killed in Montevideo," Martin said.

"Technical Sergeant David Ettinger," Frade said. "They stuck an ice pick in his ear in the garage of the Hotel Casino de Carrasco. More precisely, the SS bastard hired a local assassin--probably assassins--to do it. Ettinger was getting too close to that unnamed operation."

"Has the 'SS bastard' a name?"

"Why do you want his name?"

"For my general fund of knowledge, Cletus."

"There is a man in Montevideo who was offended by what happened to David Ettinger . . ."

"An American, perhaps?"

Frade nodded.

"Maybe in the OSS?"

"Next question?" Frade said, and then went on: "This man believes in the Old Testament adage about an eye for an eye. But he was refused permission to take out the SS bastard. That's when they told us FDR had decided that he wanted the unnamed operation to continue, to save as many Jews as possible. To keep an eye on this SS bastard, but keep him in place. If you had his name, Alejandro, I don't know what you'd do with it."

"I understand," Martin said. "If I were you, I wouldn't trust me with it either. Even if I gave you my word that I would keep it to myself, and pass on to you anything that came my way about him. And the unnamed operation."

They locked eyes for a long moment.

"Sturmbannfuhrer Werner von Tresmarck," Frade said. "He has diplomatic cover, of course. He's a homosexual. His wife is involved in it up to her eyeballs . . ."

"I thought you just said he was homosexual."

Frade nodded. "He is. That's how they keep him in line. He either does what they tell him, with absolute honesty, and keeps his mouth shut, or he winds up in a concentration camp with a pink triangle pinned to his suit."

"And the wife?"

"Inge. She is not homosexual. That's what they call an understatement. She was sort of a high-class hooker in Berlin after her first husband was killed in Russia. She was given the choice between marrying this guy and keeping an eye on him, or going to work in a factory. Inge is feathering her own nest with what she can skim from the unnamed operation money."

"If I didn't know better, I'd think someone--Galahad probably--also knows Senora von Tresmarck and has been gossiping about her to you."

"I don't know anybody named Galahad. I thought I told you that."

Martin smiled. He was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, he said, "If I understand you, Cletus, until I told you about this kidnapping of the Mallins, you thought you had sort of an arrangement, an armistice, with the Germans."

"An uneasy armistice, but yeah. They would be very unpopular in Berlin if they got themselves declared persona non grata and got kicked out of Argentina. So--I thought--they'd be willing to just let things stand as they are while they're waiting for their ultimate victory."

"Then what's this kidnapping about?"

"Now you sound as if you believe it's serious."

"I'm not prepared to ignore it. Are you?"

"So if you're not prepared to ignore it, what are you doing about it?"

Martin, obviously considering his answer, took a long moment before re plying.

"I've got people on them," he said finally. "All of them. Including your fa ther-in-law."

"Which might tip our German friends that you know of the plan, and wonder where you got your information," Frade said.

Martin did not reply, but after a moment shrugged his agreement.

"How about this?" Frade suggested. "Tomorrow morning, I take my mother-in-law and the boy to Mendoza . . ."

"I heard you had Dona Dorotea at Casa Montagna," Martin said. "What's that all about?"

"Next question? And how come you know about Casa Montagna?"

"Next question?"

"As I was saying, I'll put some people from the estancia on my father-in-law," Frade said. "Conspicuously. Four guys--all ex-Husares--in a station wagon with 'Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo' painted on the doors. He won't like it, but I don't think he wants to go to Mendoza, and I'm sure he doesn't want to be kidnapped."

"Is he going to be at Dona Claudia's little party?"

"Reluctantly, I think."

"This is none of my business, but why doesn't he like you?"

"You mean, what prompted him to tell his wife--he didn't know I was in the house, of course--'I curse the day that depraved gringo sonofabitch walked through our door!'?"

"He actually said that?"

"It may have something to do with me going to be the father of his first grandchild."

"But why 'depraved'?"

"That probably has something to do with me marrying his daughter."

"His opinion of you doesn't seem to bother you much."

"It bothers me a lot, even when I think that a married man--married to a really great woman like Dorotea's mother--who had a mistress doesn't have a hell of a lot of right to ride up on the high horse of righteousness."

"You know the mistress? Ex-mistress?"

"Why does that make me think you know her?"

"I wouldn't know her, Cletus, if she walked into Dona Claudia's party on the arm of a diplomat."

Frade nodded at Martin. Somehow, the nod expressed thanks.

[FIVE]

Office of the Ambassador

The Embassy of the German Reich

Avenida Cordoba

Buenos Aires, Argentina

0930 20 September 1943

Major Hans-Peter von Wachtstein walked into the office carrying a thick sheaf of eight-by-ten-inch photographs. He was in civilian clothing. Gunther Loche, carrying a nearly identical stack of photographs, followed him.

Von Wachtstein laid the photographs on Ambassador von Lutzenberger's desk and motioned for Loche to do the same thing. Then von Wachtstein came to attention, clicked his heels, gave the Nazi salute, and said, "Heil Hitler!"

Loche tried and almost succeeded in doing the same simultaneously.

Ambassador von Lutzenberger returned the salute.

Commercial Attache Karl Cranz glowered at von Wachtstein.

Anton von Gradny-Sawz demanded, "Where in the world have you been?"

There was no expression on the face of the naval attache, Kapitan zur See Karl Boltitz.

Von Wachtstein pointed to the two stacks on von Lutzenberger's desk.

"Since six this morning, Herr von Gradny-Sawz, I have been up to my ears in chemicals in the photo lab. As you can see, there are a great many photographs."

"There were a great many photographs in the press, von Wachtstein," Cranz said. "Presumably you've seen them?"

"No, sir."

"Have a look, von Wachtstein," Cranz said, and pointed to the conference table. There were at least a dozen newspapers spread out on it. On the front pages of all of them were photographs--sometimes just one, more often two and even three or four--of what had happened at Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade the previous afternoon.

Just about all of them had a photo of the SAA Constellation coming in for a landing. And there were shots of the Constellation as it taxied up to the hangar with Argentine flags flying from holders at the cockpit windows. Others showed Gonzalo Delgano saluting General Rawson, of Rawson embracing Delgano, of Rawson, hands on hips, looking up with admiration--maybe even awe--at the enormous airplane.

"Take a look at that one, von Wachtstein," Cranz said, pointing to a photo of a beaming General Rawson embracing Cletus Frade. He then read aloud the cutline under one of the photos:

" 'The President of the Republic embraces Don Cletus Frade, Managing Director of South American Airways. Frade is the son of the late and beloved Coronel Jorge G. Frade, whose monument is now the airport named in his memory, from which the new aircraft will soon begin to fly to Europe.' "

He paused, looked at von Wachtstein, and challenged, "Well?"

"Excuse me, Herr Cranz?"

"Wouldn't you say you've been wasting your time, 'up to your ears in chemicals ,' printing photographs that were already spread across the front page of every goddamn newspaper in Argentina?"

Von Wachtstein's face tightened, but his voice was under control when he said, "With respect, Herr Cranz, I don't think our engineers could do much with newspaper photographs of the Constellation."

"What did you say?" asked von Gradny-Sawz.

"I'm sure our engineers will be very interested in the photographs I took of the Constellation."

"Why?"

"Because it is the fastest, largest long-range transport aircraft in the world," von Wachtstein said.

"You're not suggesting that it is a better aircraft than our Condor?" von Gradny-Sawz pursued.

Help came from an unexpected source:

"Obviously, von Gradny-Sawz, it is," Cranz said. "Von Wachtstein is suggesting our engineers will want to know as much about it as they can learn."

"I didn't think about that," von Gradny-Sawz said.

"Obviously," Cranz said dryly. "And he's right. It is going to be a problem for us in several areas. Propaganda Minister Goebbels is going to be very unhappy when this story--these pictures--appears in newspapers all over the world. And the Americans will make sure that it does."

"But it's not a new airplane," von Gradny-Sawz argued.

"Yes, it is, you Trottel !" Cranz snapped. "And it has never before (a) been in the hands of anyone but the Americans or (b) used to transport people across the Atlantic from a third-rate country--"

"More people and faster," von Wachtstein interjected.

Cranz nodded and went on: "Suggesting that the Americans have so many of them they can spare some for Argentina."

If von Gradny-Sawz took offense at being called a Trottel--which translated variously as "moron," "clown," but most often as "blithering idiot"--there was no sign of it on his face.

Cranz continued: "If this comes to the attention of the Fuhrer--they try to spare him distractions, but I suspect this distraction will come to his attention--I suggest that it is entirely likely that the Fuhrer will order that it be shot out of the sky . . ."

"It's an Argentine aircraft," Ambassador von Lutzenberger said.

Cranz glared at him for a moment. Then he admitted, "Good point. Which means he's likely to order its destruction without the services of the Luftwaffe. In other words: here, by us."

"Well, then, I guess that's what we're going to have to do," von Gradny-Sawz said solemnly. "Destroy it here, on the ground."

Cranz glowered at him for a long moment but in the end did not reply directly. Instead, he turned to von Wachtstein.

"What I'm having trouble understanding, Major von Wachtstein, is why the arrival of this airplane, this whole business of Argentina getting an aircraft capable of flying across the Atlantic Ocean, came as such a surprise to you."

"I'm not sure I understand the question, Herr Cranz," von Wachtstein replied.

"Your mother-in-law is a member of the board of directors of South American Airways, is she not?"

"Yes, sir, she is, but--"

Cranz shut him off with a raised hand.

"And Herr Duarte, whose son died a hero at Stalingrad, and who is reliably reported--by Ambassador von Lutzenberger, now that I think about it--to have said he has come to look upon you as a son, is also a member of that board, is he not?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you heard nothing of this at all from either of them? Is that what you're saying?"

"The first I heard anything at all about what happened yesterday was when Senor Duarte telephoned me to say that something was going on at the airport--SAA's private airport, Aeropuerto Jorge Frade--at five o'clock. Duarte had no idea what, but said that Senor Frade had suggested I be invited."

"Senor Frade suggested to Senor Duarte that you be invited?"

"That's what I was told, sir."

"That was very courteous of him," Cranz said sarcastically.

"I think he wanted to rub my nose in it, Herr Cranz."

"Excuse me?"

"When Frade returned from California, after getting the SAA pilots their certificates, or licenses, or whatever they had to have to get insurance, Senora de Carzino-Cormano gave a dinner--a supper, to be precise--at Estancia Santa Catalina. Frade made a point of telling me that he had seen the Constellation aircraft at the Lockheed factory."

"Why would he want to do that?" von Gradny-Sawz asked.

"I think it was to annoy my sister-in-law."

"I was there," Boltitz said, smiling. "Senorita Isabela de Carzino-Cormano is--how do I say this?--a great admirer of Lufthansa Kapitan Dieter von und zu Aschenburg. As soon as Frade began extolling the merits of the Constellation, Senorita Isabela leapt to defend the Condor. She called upon von Wachtstein for support, and, ever the gentleman, von Wachtstein did so.

"I don't think I understand," Cranz said.

"When Frade said the Constellation flew at so many kph, von Wachtstein assured everyone that the Condor was fifty kph faster; when Frade said the Constellation could fly at ten thousand meters, von Wachtstein said the Condor routinely flew at twelve thousand meters . . ."

"Everyone at the table had seen the Condor, Herr Cranz," von Wachtstein said. "No one had seen even a picture of the Constellation."

"Von Wachtstein made Frade look the fool," Boltitz said. "No one believed him."

"As well they shouldn't have. Americans are notorious for their boasting," von Gradny-Sawz offered.

"Unfortunately, Gradny-Sawz," Boltitz said, "the Constellation is everything Frade said it was. And when Frade saw the chance to get his revenge on von Wachtstein, he took it."

"Which, of course, he may now have, on reflection, regretted," von Wachtstein said. "Once I was invited out there, he could hardly tell me not to take photographs."

Cranz, who had not looked at von Wachtstein's photographs before, now went to von Lutzenberger's desk and picked up one of the stacks. He went through it carefully, then picked up the second stack and examined each of them.

"I now see what you mean, von Wachtstein," he said. "I thought I was going to see--how shall I put this?--postcard views of that airplane, like those in the press. Your photographs are of technical features, parts of the airplane. I can see where they would be of great value to an aeronautical engineer."

"That's what I intended to do, Herr Cranz."

"If what I just said sounded something like an apology, von Wachtstein . . ."

"No apology is necessary, Herr Cranz, and none was expected, sir."

"An apology is called for, and you may consider that one has been offered."

"I can only repeat, sir, that no apology is necessary."

"Indulge me, von Wachtstein. Accept my apology."

"Yes, sir."

"When is the next Condor flight due here?" Cranz asked.

"Either tomorrow or the day after," Boltitz said.

"And will return to Germany when?"

"If weather permits, they usually leave as soon as they can after forty-eight hours."

"Between now and then," Cranz said to von Wachtstein, "you--and Loche--will be up to your ears in those chemicals you spoke of. I want four copies of each photograph--in addition to the sets you have already made."

"Yes, sir."

"Three sets of these will go to Berlin on the Condor," Cranz announced. "One for General Galland and the second for Reichsmarschall Goring and the third for Reichsfuhrer-SS Himmler."

"May I suggest a fourth set, Herr Cranz, for Canaris?" Boltitz said.

"Why not?" Cranz replied. "Make five sets, von Wachtstein."

"Yes, sir."

"Let me confess that I am being political," Cranz said. "I think we would all agree that the only officer who will do something useful with them is General Galland. Well, perhaps Canaris can find something useful in them. The Reichsmarschall gets a set because he would be uncomfortable if the Fuhrer asks him about this airplane and he knew little or nothing about it. And the Reichsfuhrer gets a set because I think when the Fuhrer orders the destruction of this aircraft, he is going to turn again to the SS. If the SS could so successfully liberate Il Duce . . .

"If that is the case, the Reichsfuhrer will lay that responsibility on me. When that happens--and I confidently predict it will--I am, we are, going to be ready. We will have plans prepared to destroy all three of this aircraft, on the ground or in the air.

"Our assistant attache for air is obviously the best-qualified person to do this. The task is herewith assigned to him. Sturmbannfuhrer . . . excuse me, Deputy Commercial Counselor Raschner will lend his talents to the operation, which I of course will supervise.

"Has anyone any comments?"

No one had.