The Honor of Spies

IX

[ONE]

Office of the Assistant Military Attache for Air

The Embassy of the German Reich

Avenida Cordoba

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1130 24 September 1943

Commercial Attache Karl Cranz pushed open the door to Assistant Military Attache for Air Major Hans-Peter von Wachtstein's office without knocking.

He found Kapitan Dieter von und zu Aschenburg sitting on a small couch and holding a cup of coffee. Von Wachtstein was sitting at his desk, his feet resting on an open lower desk drawer.

"Aschenburg, Untersturmfuhrer Schneider tells me you have one of the diplomatic pouches," he accused without any preliminaries.

"I did have one of them," von und zu Aschenburg said evenly. "Actually, I had all of them. I gave all but one to your untersturmfuhrer."

"You can give it to me," Cranz said. "Right now."

"I can't do that. Ambassador von Lutzenberger has it."

"The ambassador has it?" Cranz asked dubiously.

"Would you like to see the acknowledgment of receipt he signed?"

Cranz nodded.

Von und zu Aschenburg produced a small printed form and showed it to him.

Cranz examined it carefully. He then said, "The standard procedure here is that SS-Untersturmfuhrer Schneider takes possession of all diplomatic pouches at the airport."

"I'm just a simple servant of the state, Herr Cranz," von und zu Aschenburg said on the edge of sarcasm. "When an obersturmbannfuhrer wearing the cuff band of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler comes into my cockpit at Tempelhof, takes one of the pouches--there were a half-dozen--and tells me that this one is from Reichsfuhrer-SS Himmler and that I am to give it personally to Ambassador von Lutzenberger--and to no one else--I try very hard to do just that. I didn't think I needed give your untersturmfuhrer an explanation. I just told him not to worry, I had it."

As if a switch had been thrown, Cranz's arrogant annoyance was suddenly replaced with smiling charm.

He handed the receipt back to von und zu Aschenburg with a smile.

"I'm glad you didn't give an explanation invoking the Reichsfuhrer to Schneider. He probably would have pissed his pants." He smiled again, then went on, "I didn't mean to jump on you, Aschenburg. But we have been expecting that pouch from Reichsfuhrer-SS Himmler, and when it wasn't among the others . . . Well, you understand."

"Not a problem," von und zu Aschenburg said. "I understand."

"Nevertheless, I apologize."

Von und zu Aschenburg made an It's unnecessary gesture.

"We expected you yesterday," Cranz said. "Something went wrong?"

"Headwinds," von und zu Aschenburg said.

"Pardon me?"

"When we shot our position just before the fuel gauges indicated half remaining, we weren't nearly as far across the Atlantic as we should have been. I turned back. And tried again last night."

"Would you explain what you just said? 'Shot our position'? What does that mean?"

"Did you ever notice, on the Condor, that there is a sort of plastic bubble on the fuselage? Just over the rear of the flight deck?"

"No," Cranz said with a chuckle. "I confess I haven't."

"Are you really interested in all this, Herr Cranz? Any of it?"

"Fascinated."

"Okay. In exactly the same way as the master of a ship shoots the stars with a sextant . . ."

The door opened again. This time it was Fraulein Ingeborg Hassell, von Lutzenberger's secretary.

"The ambassador would like to see you, Herr Cranz."

Cranz smiled at von und zu Aschenburg.

"Well, we'll have to get back to this. And soon. I'm really fascinated."

"Any time."

Cranz walked quickly out of the room. He did not close the door behind him.

Von und zu Aschenburg got to his feet and closed the door.

"What the hell was that all about?" he asked.

Von Wachtstein shrugged.

"I have no idea, but whenever Cranz smiles at me the hair on the back of my neck stands up."

"If you can rely on that, Hansel, you just might live through this war."

"I wonder what the chances of that really are?" von Wachtstein asked seriously.

Von und zu Aschenburg met his eyes, then shrugged, holding up his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Changing the subject, I really would like to have a look at that airplane."

"That might just be possible," von Wachtstein said. "I think I know how that can be arranged. It'll cost you, though."

Von und zu Aschenburg asked, with his eyebrows, what he meant.

"I'm not sure you're up to it," von Wachtstein said. "You're probably very tired from flying that far."

"Come on, Hansel!"

"If my sister-in-law, Senorita Isabela, were--how do I phrase this delicately?--satisfied with her relationship with you . . ."

"Screw you, Hansel."

"Precisely. Congratulations, you picked up on that right away. If El Bitcho, for reasons I won't--being an officer and a gentleman--discuss was really pleased with you--more precisely, satisfied after you . . ."

"Enough, Hansel!" von und zu Aschenburg said, but he was smiling.

". . . and wanted to show her appreciation, you, being the silver-tongued devil you are, you could probably talk her into convincing her mother, who is on the board of South American Airways, that it would be the courteous thing to show a Lufthansa pilot the newest addition to their fleet."

"Why do I think you're serious?"

"I am."

"What about Frade?"

"He's not here. He's got one of them in Chile . . ."

"They've got more than one?"

Von Wachtstein nodded, held up three fingers, and continued: ". . . teaching his pilots how to land in Santiago. He won't be back for a couple of days. Not that I think he'd really mind you getting a good look. He loves to show off that airplane. The other two are here. SAA pilots and flight engineers are getting checked out on them, usually by flying them back and forth to Montevideo. I think if El Bitcho talks nice to her mommy, Claudia can arrange a tour of one of them for you."

"That woman is a shark. The last time I had teeth marks on my neck for a week!"

"My mother-in-law did that to you?" von Wachtstein said, feigning shock.

"Your sister-in-law, Hansel."

"I don't know about a shark, but Isabela does remind me of a piranha."

"A what?"

"A small fish," von Wachtstein said, and held his hands about ten inches apart to show the size. "Native to this part of the world. Razor teeth, powerful jaws. They swim in . . . What do you say for fish when you mean packs, herds?"

Von und zu Aschenburg shrugged to show he had no idea.

"Anyway," von Wachtstein went on, "they have a show for tourists on the River Piranha. They kill a small pig and throw it in the water. The piranhas appear in less than a minute. Lots of them. When they pull the pig out a couple of minutes later, there's nothing but the skeleton."

"You actually saw this, or it is a quaint folk legend?"

"I saw it on my honeymoon. Alicia wanted me to see it. She said that would happen to me if I ever even thought of hiding my sausage in the wrong--anyone's but hers, in other words--hard roll."

"And are you a faithful husband, Hansel?"

Von Wachtstein nodded.

"Because of this carnivorous fish?"

"Because I'm in love, believe it or not. That's why I want to live through this war."

Von und zu Aschenburg met his eyes, then fell silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, "Well, let's go pay my respects to Senorita Piranha. I really want to take a look at that Constellation. You sure it won't get you in trouble here? Sucking up to the American enemy?"

"Not at all. It will be in the line of duty. Cranz will be pleased."

"Why?"

"It will be what is known as reconnoitering the enemy. I'm supposed to come up with a plan to make sure that SAA does not establish a one-stop service to Lisbon."

"How are you supposed to do that?"

"I don't know. Right now we're in the planning stage."

"What are you going to do, Hansel? Aside from warning Frade?"

"I don't know, Dieter," von Wachtstein admitted.

He kicked his desk drawer shut, stood, and made an exaggerated gesture bowing von und zu Aschenburg out of the room.

[TWO]

Office of the Ambassador

The Embassy of the German Reich

Avenida Cordoba

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1150 24 September 1943

"Baron von Wachtstein would like to see you for a moment, Exzellenz," Fraulein Ingeborg Hassell announced.

"Give me a few seconds, please," von Lutzenberger said, and quickly swept into his desk drawer a large manila envelope and a letter, and then--as an afterthought--took the yellow diplomatic pouch from which he had taken the manila envelope and also put it in the well of his desk.

Then he signaled for Fraulein Hassell to show in von Wachtstein. When von Wachstein entered, Kapitan Dieter von und zu Aschenburg was on his heels.

"We're sorry to disturb you, Exzellenz," von Wachtstein said politely, and then, looking around the room, added, "Gentlemen."

Cranz and von Gradny-Sawz were sitting at von Lutzenberger's conference table.

Von Wachtstein went on: "But I have an idea to get Kapitan von und zu Aschenburg onto one of the Constellations. I'd like to ask permission to try."

"How are you going to do that?" the ambassador asked.

"Senorita de Carzino-Cormano is a friend of the kapitan. I think she can suggest to her mother that it would be a courtesy to give von und zu Aschenburg a tour."

"And you think Frade would allow that?" von Gradny-Sawz challenged sarcastically.

"He's in Santiago, Herr Gradny-Sawz."

"And why would Senorita de Carzino-Cormano want to do this?" von Gradny-Sawz challenged.

"Open your eyes, for God's sake, Gradny-Sawz," Cranz said. "She looks at von und zu Aschenburg like he gives milk." He smiled at von und zu Aschenburg. "I was about to commend you for being willing to make any sacrifice for the cause, Aschenburg, but then I thought that your . . . charming . . . the lady isn't really going to be that much of a sacrifice, is it?"

"May I suggest I know the lady better than you do?" von und zu Aschenburg said. "But I really would like to get a look at one of those airplanes."

"I wish she were as interested in me as she is in you," Cranz said. "I would happily make the sacrifice you're implying."

There was dutiful laughter.

"Go ahead," Cranz said. "What have you got to lose?"

"As a gentleman, I obviously must decline to answer that question," von und zu Aschenburg said.

"With your permission, Exzellenz?" von Wachtstein asked.

"Let me know how it comes out," von Lutzenberger said.

Von und zu Aschenburg and von Wachtstein left, closing the door after them.

Cranz got up, walked to the door, locked it, and then went back to the conference table.

"May I have another look at that, please?" Cranz asked.

Von Lutzenberger handed him the letter that had been inside the manila envelope, the only thing that the diplomatic pouch had held.

"Von Wachtstein knows nothing of this, right?" Cranz asked. "You didn't let anything slip, Gradny-Sawz?"

"Of course not."

"And Boltitz?" Cranz pursued.

"No, he doesn't know anything about this. The only people who do are in this room, plus of course Raschner."

"I want it kept that way," Cranz said. "And your covert identity arrangements . . . Everything is in place?"

"Including, as of yesterday, a nice flat--two servants included--in a petit-hotel at O'Higgins 1950 in Belgrano."

Cranz nodded and said: "So all that remains is to see Oberst Peron, to get those Mountain Troops to provide security on the beach, and to move the special shipment and the SS guard detail to San Martin de los Andes. The latter may pose a problem."

"How so?"

"The incident at Frade's house upset Oberst Peron," Cranz said. "But I think I can deal with him."

[THREE]

Apartamento 5B

Arenales 1623

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1750 24 September 1943

El Coronel Juan Domingo Peron was in uniform, but his tunic was unbuttoned and his tie pulled down, when he came out of his apartment onto the elevator landing. He was not smiling.

"Commercial Counselor" Karl Cranz was not surprised. The portero in the lobby of the building had told Cranz--as he obviously had been instructed to do--that Peron was not at home, and it had been necessary to slip him ten pesos--and, when that didn't work, ultimately fifty--before he was willing to forget his instructions and telephone Peron's apartment only when Cranz was on the elevator and it was too late to stop him.

"Mi coronel," Cranz said as charmingly as he could, "please believe me when I say I would not intrude on your privacy were it not very im - portant."

Peron did not reply to that directly. Instead, he said, "I didn't know you knew where I lived, Cranz."

"I went to the Frade house on Libertador, mi coronel. The housekeeper told me."

That was not true. The housekeeper in the Frade mansion across from the racetrack on Avenida Libertador had--and only reluctantly--told him only that el Coronel Peron no longer lived in the mansion and that she had no idea where he had moved.

It had cost Raschner two days of effort and several hundred pesos to get the address, which came with the information that he was sharing his new quarters with his fourteen-year-old "niece."

"That woman has a big mouth," Peron said unpleasantly.

"Mi coronel, I have to have a few minutes of your time," Cranz said.

"Why?"

"Another special shipment is about to arrive. We need your help."

The news did not seem to please Peron.

"Wait," he ordered curtly. He turned and went back into his apartment and closed the door.

Cranz instantly decided he was going to give Peron three minutes--180 seconds--to reopen the door before he pushed the doorbell. He looked at his wristwatch to start the timing.

One hundred and seventy seconds later, Peron pulled the door open and motioned for Cranz to come into the apartment.

Cranz found himself in a small foyer. Three doors--all closed--led from it. The only furnishing was a small table with a lamp sitting on it, and a squat jar holding two umbrellas.

"Well?" Peron asked.

"We had word from Berlin today--there was a Condor flight--giving the details of a new special shipment," Cranz said. "We need your help again; el Coronel Schmidt and his Mountain Troops."

"The last time I had the Mountain Troops 'help' you, Cranz, at Tandil, it was nearly a disaster. It was a disaster, and it could have been much, much worse."

"You're a soldier, mi coronel. You know as well as I do that things sometimes get out of hand. The SS officer who let things get out of hand at Tandil paid for it with his life."

"I almost paid for his letting 'things get out of hand' with my life," Peron said.

"It was a very bad situation, mi coronel. We cannot ever let something like that happen again."

"No, we can't. If you came here to suggest that I be anywhere near where the special shipment will be landed, or have anything to do with it, I must disappoint you."

"Mi coronel, it was not my intention--everyone recognizes how important you are to all those things we are trying to do, and that we would be lost without you--to suggest that you go to Samborombon Bay, or that the Mountain Troops go to the beach. We are prepared to handle the landing operation ourselves.

"But what I was hoping is that you would see the wisdom of authorizing another 'road march exercise' for Schmidt's Mountain Troops. In addition to the special shipment, there will be another SS security detachment. An officer and ten other ranks--"

"To be taken to San Martin de los Andes, you mean?"

"And we realize that both you and el Coronel Schmidt have expenses"--Cranz took a business-size envelope from his pocket and extended it to Peron--"which we of course are happy to take care of."

After a moment, Peron took the envelope and glanced inside. It was stuffed with U.S. one-hundred-dollar bills.

There were 250 of them, none of them new. They had come from the currency in the special shipments. The $25,000 in American currency was equivalent to almost 100,000 Argentine pesos, a very substantial amount of money. And American dollars were in demand. German Realm Marks had virtually no value in the international market.

For a moment, Peron appeared to be on the verge of handing the dollar-stuffed envelope back to Cranz.

"You will handle the landing operation itself?" Peron asked. "You can do that?"

"I believe we can, mi coronel. But looking at the worst-case scenario: Even if something went terribly wrong on the beach, this would not involve the Mountain Troops at all. They wouldn't be anywhere near the beach."

Peron considered that for a moment.

Then he slipped the envelope into his right lower tunic pocket. The deal had been struck. The Mountain Troops would take the special shipment and the SS men to San Martin de los Andes.

Cranz wondered how much--if any--of the $25,000 Peron would share with Oberst Schmidt.

Probably none.

"Tell me about the kidnapping planned for Senor Mallin," Peron said. "I should have heard about that; I should not find myself in the position of having to ask."

"Excuse me, mi coronel?"

"I think you heard me, Cranz."

"I don't know a Senor Mallin."

"He is Cletus Frade's father-in-law," Peron said. "And Don Cletus apparently believes that someone is planning to kidnap him."

"Mi coronel," Cranz said after a just-perceptible hesitation, "I know nothing of an attempt to kidnap anyone."

Peron's eyes tightened; it was obvious to Cranz that Peron didn't believe him.

"I give you my word of honor as a German officer, mi coronel."

Peron looked into his eyes for a long moment.

"For lunch today, I went to the Yacht Club," Peron said. "As we drove up, I saw Senor Mallin's car. He drives a Rolls-Royce drop-head coupe--"

"Excuse me, a what?"

"Canvas roof," Peron explained impatiently. "It was parked on the curving drive leading up to the main entrance of the Yacht Club. Behind it was a Ford station wagon, of the Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. In it were three men whom I recognized as former soldiers of the Husares de Pueyrredon. Inside the foyer, at the door to the main dining room, there was another. He recognized me from our service together. I asked him what he and the others were up to. He said, 'Don Cletus believes the goddamn Nazis are going to try to kidnap Don Enrico Mallin. If they try it, we will kill them.' "

" 'The goddamn Nazis'?" Cranz blurted.

"They believe 'the goddamn Nazis' assassinated el Coronel Frade," Peron said pointedly. He paused, then added, "As you well know, Cranz."

"Mi coronel, all I can do is repeat, again on my officer's honor: I know nothing of a planned kidnapping."

"Has it occurred to you, Cranz, has it occurred to anyone, that if something like that happened, Cletus Frade would certainly make good on his threat to ensure that the photographs taken of me at Tandil would be published?"

"Of course it has, mi coronel. And we will do nothing that would cause that to happen."

"If those photographs came out--and/or the photograph Cletus Frade has of the map of the South American continent after the Final Victory, which Brigadefuhrer von Deitzberg was kind enough to give me--not only would my usefulness to the cause end, but General Rawson would be inclined--almost be forced--to seriously consider declaring war on the Axis."

"Mi coronel, again, on my word of honor . . ."

"I don't think this kidnapping is a product of my godson's feverish imagination, Cranz. As we have learned, he is a very capable intelligence officer. He didn't move his wife to Mendoza so she could take in the mountain air."

"Well, I'll get to the bottom of this. You have--"

"I know, your word," Peron interrupted. "And tell Ambassador von Lutzenberger this, Cranz. I have taken certain actions to protect myself in the event something like this happens. The result of that would be more than a little embarrassing to everyone in the German Embassy. Understand this: Juan Domingo Peron is not expendable."

"I will get to the bottom of this."

"Once you tell me the date of the arrival of the special shipment, I will get word to you when and where the Mountain Troop convoy will be."

Peron pushed open the door to the elevator foyer and gestured for Cranz to go through it.

"Buenas noches, Senor Cranz. I will expect to hear from you shortly."

[FOUR]

Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade

Moron, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

1205 27 September 1943

Cletus Frade was pleased but not really surprised to see SAA's Lodestar Ciudad de Mar del Plata taxi up to the terminal. Flight 107, daily nonstop service from Mendoza, was right on schedule; it was due at noon.

Five minutes one way or the other really cuts the mustard.

Neither, three minutes later, was he really surprised to see a visibly pregnant, truly beautiful blond young woman carefully exit the aircraft as the first deplaning passenger.

Now that he had time to think about it, when he had spoken with Dorotea on the Collins late the night before, she hadn't protested at all when he said there was really no reason for her to come to Buenos Aires to see him off. That should have told him she intended to come to Buenos Aires to see him off and was not interested in his opinion on the subject.

He stepped out of the passenger terminal as she walked to it.

"My God, you're beautiful!" his wife greeted him. "Now I'm really glad I came!"

Frade was wearing the uniform of an SAA captain.

"Humberto's idea," Clete said, kissing Dorotea. "They're going to take pictures. I feel like the driver of one of those sightseeing whatchacallums. . . ."

"What?"

"At the New York World's Fair, 1939-40, they had little sightseeing trains that ran all over. The drivers had uniforms just like these. Powder blue with gold buttons and stripes. They'd announce things like, 'And to your left, ladies and gentlemen, is the General Motors Pavilion.' "

"You're right," Dorotea said, and giggled. "They did. God, don't tell anyone."

"You were there?" he asked, surprised.

"Daddy took us," she said. "We could have met."

"In 1939, you were fourteen years old."

"We went in 1940, I was fifteen."

"In 1940, I was a Naval Aviation cadet en route to Pensacola. I wasn't interested in fifteen-year-old girls."

"Only because you hadn't met this one."

"Possibly," he agreed.

"When do you go?" she asked.

He looked at his wristwatch.

"Seventeen minutes," he said. "Time and SAA wait for no man. Even General Rawson."

"He's coming?"

"He's supposed to be coming. And so, if we're really lucky, is my Tio Juan."

"If he does, behave."

"I will, if you promise to be on the three-thirty flight back to Mendoza."

"I'll be all right, don't worry about me." Dorotea looked past Clete and nodded toward a convoy of cars driving onto the tarmac. "Here's the president."

"And there's God's representative," Clete said, pointing to the terminal, from which the Reverend Kurt Welner, S.J., had just emerged. "If he tries to sprinkle my airplane with holy water, I'll have Enrico shoot him."

"Don Cletus, you should not say things like that," Enrico said, genuinely shocked.

"He's coming over here," Dorotea said.

"He's seen my uniform."

"Good afternoon, Father," Dorotea and Enrico said almost in unison.

"I need to talk to you, Cletus," Welner said with no other preliminaries.

"About what?" Clete asked.

"It's a good thing he loves you," Dorotea said. "Otherwise, your tone of voice would make him angry."

"I need a favor," the priest said.

"Oh?"

"More than that, to use your phrase, I'm calling in all my favors."

"What do you want?" Frade asked.

"Have you got room for one more?"

"You want to go to Portugal?" Frade asked incredulously.

"And if you don't have room, start deciding who really doesn't need to be aboard," the priest said.

"What the hell is going on?"

"I'd rather tell you privately."

"I have no secrets from these two, as you damned well know. What's going on?"

"I have heard from Rome . . . ," Welner said.

"By telegraph, or a voice from a burning bush?"

"Cletus!" Dorotea snapped. "For God's sake!"

Welner put up a hand to silence her.

"The Vatican . . . perhaps the Holy Father himself . . . has a message for the cardinal-archbishop they both don't wish to entrust to the usual means of communication, and also wish to get to the cardinal-archbishop as soon as possible."

"And you just happened to mention in passing to the cardinal-archbishop that you just happen to have a friend who just happens to be going to Portugal and then coming right back?"

Welner nodded.

"What's the message, I wonder?" Clete said more than a little unpleasantly. " 'Hey, Archbishop, you got a spare room?' "

"Clete, what are you talking about?" Dorotea snapped, both in confusion and in anger.

"Maybe the Holy Father has decided it's time to get out of Dodge," Clete said. "The Germans are occupying Rome, except for Vatican City, and the only thing keeping them out of Vatican City are maybe one hundred--maybe a few more--Swiss Guards wearing medieval uniforms and armed with pikes."

"I can't imagine any circumstance under which the Holy Father would leave the Vatican at this time," Welner said. "And what's keeping the Nazis out of the Holy City is world opinion."

"'World opinion'?" Clete parroted. "Wow! Now, that should really scare Hitler."

"I won't beg you, Cletus," Welner said.

Frade met the priest's eyes for a long moment.

"Enrico, take his bag and put it, and him, on the airplane," Frade said. "And then you stay on it."

"Thank you," Father Welner said.

"De nada," Clete said sarcastically, the Spanish expression for "It is nothing."

Capitan Roberto Lauffer, the heavy golden aiguillettes of a presidential aide-de-camp hanging from each shoulder, quickly walked up to them. He kissed Dorotea, and quickly shook hands with Father Welner and Cletus, and then announced, "Cletus, the president wants to wish you luck."

Dorotea went to the stairway--now draped in bunting--with him.

"Behave yourself," Clete said. "I'll be back in a week."

"What was all that about with Father Welner?"

This may be the last thing I'll ever say to my wife; I'm not going to lie to her.

"He was lying to me, sweetheart. I don't know why, or what about, but he was lying to me."

"Then why are you taking him?"

"I owed him, and he called the debt."

She laid her hand on his cheek.

"When you get to the top of the stairs, remember to turn, smile, and wave at the people."

"Take care of our baby."

"Take care of our baby's father."

He kissed her very gently on the forehead. She squeezed his hand, and then he quickly went up the stairs.

At the top, he turned and waved at the crowd on the tarmac.

There was applause and cheers.

Undeserved.

I am really not qualified to fly this thing across the Atlantic Ocean.

What's probably going to happen is that I'm going to dump this thing somewhere in the ocean and take all these people with me.

On the way to the cockpit, he stopped by Father Welner's chair.

"Start praying. We're going to need it."

The copilot--What the hell is his name?--was already strapped into his seat and wearing headphones.

"Add 150 kilos to our gross weight," Clete ordered as he sat down. "We have an unexpected extra passenger."

"Si, Senor."

Gonzalo Delgano had naturally--he was, after all, SAA's chief pilot--wanted to sit in the left seat. Or failing that, if SAA's managing director pulled rank and wanted to be pilot-in-command, to at least be copilot on the first transatlantic flight.

Clete had told him that it just didn't make sense for both of them to be on the same flight, which stood a fairly good chance of winding up in the drink. Clete promised Delgano he would be pilot-in-command on the first paying-passenger flight.

There was a seed of truth in Clete's position. It was also true that Clete believed a commanding officer should not order anyone to do anything he was not willing to do himself.

But the real reason was that there were some things about the flight Clete did not want Delgano to know. Not that Delgano was going to run off at the mouth. But he probably would have told el Coronel Martin that Clete expected to be met off the coast of North Africa by U.S. Army Air Force P-38 fighters flying off the Sidi Slimane U.S. Army Air Force Base in Morocco.

Word of the Connie's departure from Buenos Aires would reach Spain long before the airplane did. Colonel Graham--and Allen Dulles, which made it twice as credible--thought that there would be a genuine risk of the Germans sending fighters to shoot down the Constellation--possibly, maybe even probably, from Spanish airfields that they secretly were using.

"The Argentine brave, but foolhardy, attempt to emulate German TransOceanic commercial air service, sadly, but predictably, ended in tragedy. Their airplane simply vanished somewhere in the Atlantic."

The American fighters would be guided to the rendezvous point by the Collins radio. They would home in on the airplane much as an airplane would home in on a landing field.

Once the rendezvous had been made, SAA Flight 1002 would home in on a radio-direction-finding signal from another Collins radio secretly installed in the U.S. Embassy building in Lisbon, which was conveniently located less than a mile from Lisbon's Portela Airport.

The P-38s would linger over the Portuguese coast long enough to ensure that the Constellation had landed safely. If Allen Dulles suspected that all was not as it should be at the Portela Airport, the radio in the embassy would order the Constellation to divert to Sidi Slimane, to which it would be escorted by the American fighter planes.

Clete stuck his head out the window and saw that the bunting-draped stairway had been pulled back.

He fastened his shoulder harness, put his headset over his ears, and pushed the switch activating the public address system.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "this is your captain. Welcome aboard SAA Flight 1002, one-stop service to Lisbon, Portugal. We are about to take off. Please fasten your seat belts."

He paused, then smiled and went on. "Then place your head between your knees and kiss your ass good-bye."

The copilot looked at him in shock.

Clete repeated the message in Spanish.

The copilot first smiled, then giggled, then laughed almost hysterically.

"Get on the horn and get us taxi and takeoff," Clete ordered.

Still laughing, the copilot reached for his microphone.

"Flight engineer, you awake?" Clete asked over his microphone.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, let's wind up the rubber bands and see if we can get this big sonofabitch off the ground."

"Starting Number Three, sir."

There was the whine of the starters and then the sound of an engine--somewhat reluctantly--coming to life. The aircraft trembled with the vibration of a 3,250-horsepower Wright R-3350-DA3 engine running a little rough.

In a moment, it smoothed out.

"Starting Number Four."

The second engine started more easily.

"I have Three and Four running and moving into the green," Clete said.

"Confirmed, Captain."

"We are cleared to taxi, Captain," the copilot reported. "We are Number One for taxi-off."

"Thank you. Disconnect auxiliary power."

"Disconnecting auxiliary power."

"I have auxiliary power disconnected," Clete said after a moment. "Three and Four in the green. Engineer, start Number Two."

"Starting Number Two."

"See if you can get us to the threshold without running over anything big."

"Jorge Frade, SAA 1002 taxiing to the threshold of Runway Three Zero."

"Engineer, start Number One."

"Starting Number One."

"Jorge Frade clears 1002 to take off as Number One."

Two minutes after that, Frade said, "I have everything in the green."

"Confirm all green," the flight engineer said.

Clete then ordered: "Copilot, pay close attention. I am now going to try real hard not to bend our bird."

"Yes, sir," the copilot said, smiling.

"Take-off power, please," Clete ordered.

Five seconds later, the copilot reported, "Ten Zero Two rolling."

The pilot-in-command tried very hard to spot the mother of his unborn child on the tarmac, but could not.

[FIVE]

Office of the Ambassador

The Embassy of the German Reich

Avenida Cordoba

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1620 27 September 1943

First Secretary Anton von Gradny-Sawz was already in Ambassador von Lutzenberger's office when Commercial Attache Cranz appeared at the door.

Von Gradny-Sawz was drinking coffee and eating pastry.

Cranz felt his temper flare.

Gottverdammt Wienerwurst!

"You should have waited for me," Cranz snapped. "I had to ride all the way back in the cab of that goddamned truck. And then take a taxi here."

"Herr Cranz, Herr Raschner came to me, told me you could see no point in waiting any longer for U-405, so we left," von Gradny-Sawz said on the edge of self-righteousness.

"Aside from the inconvenience von Gradny-Sawz caused you--I'm sure inadvertently--were there any problems?" von Lutzenberger asked somewhat coldly.

He's reminding me that he's the ambassador, the ultimate authority.

What we really should have is a rule--a simple order from the Fuhrer would do it--saying that ambassadors are in charge of everything but the missions and activities of the SS.

Himmler's title, after all, is Reichsprotektor.

If that isn't the most important responsibility any German official but the Fuhrer has, I'd like to know what is.

And here is this canape-pusher sitting with the Wienerwurst, stuffing his face with pastry and asking me what I've been up to.

What I have been doing, Exzellenz, is standing in the rain in the dark on the goddamned beach in the middle of nowhere for four hours waiting to see a flash from a signal lamp I knew goddamned well wasn't coming.

While I am doing this, the gottverdammt Wienerwurst is sitting in his car a kilometer from the beach, stuffing his fat fucking face with something--when he's not sleeping--while I am getting soaked to my skin and catching pneumonia.

And then the sonofabitch leaves me there, and I have to spend four hours in the cab of a goddamn truck getting back to Buenos Aires.

Cranz--as he had trained himself to do--smiled as he tried to rein in what he realized was a dangerous tantrum.

And then suddenly the flaming rage was gone, as if it had been washed away with a sudden torrent of ice water. He knew he was now in full control of himself.

My God, why didn't I think of this before?

Von Lutzenberger is behind this kidnapping operation!

He's been here forever. He knows his way around Buenos Aires.

He's the goddamned ambassador, the senior German officer. He doesn't have to tell me he's hired some of the local thugs to kidnap Mallin, much less ask my permission.

If he succeeds, Berlin will think he's a genius, the man who got the Froggers back when I failed to do that.

And he will tell everyone the reason he took it upon himself to deal with the situation was because neither I nor Raschner could.

And because we also failed to eliminate that goddamned American, Frade.

If we've proven we're not smart enough to eliminate Frade, why should he have turned to us to carry out an operation requiring the skill and finesse of an experienced diplomat?

And he doesn't care whether or not Frade makes good on his threat to give the photographs of Peron with the SS in Tandil to the press. Or that map von Deitzberg gave Peron.

God, that was stupid of von Deitzberg!

Actually, von Lutzenberger probably hopes that happens. Then not only does SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Cranz look like an incompetent moron, but so does SS-Brigadefuhrer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg.

And it won't matter that we can explain what happened to Himmler. Even if Himmler believes us, we still will have committed the worst sin of all--making the SS look stupid in the eyes of the Fuhrer. And that the Reichsfuhrer will not forgive.

And if von Lutzenberger's kidnapping operation fails--that goddamned Frade has his private army guarding Mallin; and they have proved they know what they're doing--all he has to do is back off and pretend he knows nothing about it.

Hinting, of course, that SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Cranz may know something about it.

"Cranz and Raschner were more than a little embarrassed that they had no idea the Froggers were going to desert."

Is anybody in this with him?

Certainly not von Gradny-Sawz. Von Lutzenberger doesn't think the Wienerwurst can be trusted any further than I do.

Von Wachtstein?

Probably not. Although he could be useful in knowing where and when Mallin would be someplace.

Boltitz?

Now, that makes a little sense. He's close to Canaris, and I have never trusted that sonofabitch. Or sailors in general.

So what do I do now?

"Were there any other problems, Cranz?" von Lutzenberger asked again.

"Excuse me, Exzellenz, I was lost in thought," Cranz confessed, smiling. "No, Exzellenz, there were not. I have communicated with Oberst Schmidt and set up the rendezvous points for tomorrow. All that remains to be done is for Raschner and me to be on the beach of Samborombon Bay at half past four tomorrow morning. And, of course, for von Gradny-Sawz to be prepared to drive Brigadefuhrer von Deitzberg here once he is safely ashore."

He turned to von Gradny-Sawz and smiled. "Gradny-Sawz, could I impose on you again to drive me down there? Let Raschner ride in the truck with our Gunther tomorrow."

"Of course," von Gradny-Sawz said. "Pick you up at midnight?"

"I would really appreciate it," Cranz said.

"My pleasure," von Gradny-Sawz said.

[SIX]

Aboard U-405

South Latitude 36.05, West Longitude 57.17

Samborombon Bay, River Plate Estuary

0430 28 September 1943

Kapitanleutnant Wilhelm von Dattenberg had just spotted the first light from the shore when SS-Brigadefuhrer Manfred von Deitzberg climbed awkwardly up through the hatch to the conning tower.

It was dark, there was wind from the direction of the beach, and there was a cold drizzle. Von Dattenberg and the signalman standing beside him were wearing oilcloth hooded jackets. Von Deitzberg was in civilian clothing, including a top coat and a homburg hat.

"Send, Zero Seven," von Dattenberg ordered his signalman.

"Zero Seven, aye aye, sir," the signalman replied, tapping the key of the signal lamp.

"Well?" von Deitzberg asked.

Von Dattenberg ignored the question.

"Shore sends, Nine Nine sir," the signalman reported.

"Send, One Five," von Dattenberg ordered.

"One Five, aye, sir."

"We have established contact with the beach," von Dattenberg said to von Deitzberg. "I have just sent them code for 'Commencing disembarkment.'"

He picked up a telephone handset.

"Open two and five. Put boats on deck and inflate. I want a line on every man on deck."

"What happens now?" von Deitzberg asked, his tone implying that whatever that was, he reserved the right to correct anything of which he did not approve.

"I have ordered the rubber boats to be brought onto the deck," von Dattenberg said. "There are, in all, four of them. They will be inflated and put over the side. Two trips to the beach will be necessary, presuming nothing goes wrong.

"How the boats will be loaded is up to you, Herr Brigadefuhrer, by which I mean it is your decision whether you want to be put ashore first, or whether you would rather wait until some of your men are ashore. Each boat will carry six men, two of whom will be my sailors.

"We are approximately a thousand meters offshore. I estimate it will take fifteen minutes to row ashore, and probably ten for the boats to return here."

"Why the difference?"

"Coming back to the ship, the rubber boats will be lighter and the wind will be behind them."

"Why can't you go closer to the beach?"

"We would run aground, Herr Brigadefuhrer," von Dattenberg said simply.

Von Deitzberg was quiet for a moment, then he said, "I think it would be best to put the SS men ashore first. I will go with the special shipment when we know all is well on the beach."

"Whatever you wish, Herr Brigadefuhrer," von Dattenberg said, then picked up the telephone again.

"Send the SS men to the deck, put a line on each of them, and load them into the rubber boats as soon as possible."

"What is that? 'Put a line on each of them'?" von Deitzberg asked. "You've said that before."

"That's a safety measure, Herr Brigadefuhrer. In case they fall into the water."

"There's a risk of that?"

"Yes, there is. The hull is curved and slippery."

And if God is in his heaven, you arrogant SS sonofabitch, you will take a bath.

[SEVEN]

Cafe Dolores

Dolores Railway Station

Dolores, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

0845 28 September 1943

When the dark green--almost black--1941 Buick Roadmaster sedan pulled into the parking area and stopped, a clean-cut young man in a business suit suddenly appeared and walked quickly to the car.

"Senor . . . ," the driver of the Buick said, not in alarm, but warily.

"That's Sargento Lascano, Pedro, relax," the middle-aged, muscular, balding man in the passenger seat said as he opened the door and got out.

"Buenos dias, senor," Sargento Manuel Lascano said.

"Nice suit, Lascano," the muscular man said. He was Inspector General Santiago Nervo, chief of the Special Investigations Division of the Gendarmeria Nacional. He was de facto, if not actually de jure, Argentina's most powerful policeman.

Sargento Lascano had spent five of his twenty-three years in the army, and almost all of that in the infantry, and almost all of that in remote provinces. Just before the coup d'etat that had made General Arturo Rawson the president of Argentina, Lascano had been transferred to the Edificio Libertador headquarters of the Ejercito Argentino for "special duty."

Having been selected as the most promising among ten candidates for training as an intelligence agent, it was intended that he receive a final vetting for suitability by the then-el Teniente Coronel Alejandro Martin--the chief of the Ethical Standards Office of the Argentine Bureau of Internal Security--by "working with him" for a week or two.

The coup d'etat had changed all that. Sargento Lascano had been given responsibilities during the chaos of the coup far beyond his expected capabilities and handled them remarkably well. Martin had been promoted to coronel, and Lascano had been given the credentials and authority of a BIS agent--and, although this was not made public, the promotion to warrant officer that went with them--and became officially what he had been during the coup, assistant to Martin.

"Thank you, senor," Lascano said. "Senor, el coronel suggests you park your car in the garage over there." He pointed. "They are expecting you."

"Who are we hiding from, Lascano?" Nervo asked.

"Just about everybody, senor."

"Where's your jefe?"

"There is a room in the cafe."

"Go park the car, Pedro," Nervo said, and then asked, "Is he welcome in the cafe?"

"You are Subinspector General Nolasco, senor?" Lascano asked.

"You didn't recognize him, right?" Nervo said sarcastically.

"Guilty," the driver said.

"El coronel said Subinspector General Nolasco is welcome, sir."

"Congratulations, Pedro," Nervo said. "Martin trusts you. Go park the car and then join us."

The room in the back of Cafe Dolores was small and crowded. The tables had been pushed together and held a number of telephones.

To take advantage, Nervo decided, of the railway telephone network.

Large maps were pinned to the walls.

There were now ten people in the room. El Coronel Alejandro Martin and "Suboficial Mayor" Jose Cortina--Nervo knew the stocky, middle-aged man to be both a longtime BIS agent and actually a teniente coronel--were seated at the end of the pushed-together tables. Both were in civilian clothing. Lascano had followed Nervo into the room.

A half-dozen other men in civilian clothing were at the table manning the telephones and two typewriters.

And there was someone else whose presence surprised Nervo: a tall, good-looking man in his late twenties who was wearing the uniform of a capitan of cavalry, the de rigueur cavalry officer's mustache, and the heavy golden aiguillettes of an aide-de-camp.

Nervo knew Capitan Roberto Lauffer to be the president's aide-de-camp and more: As with Lascano, the chaos of the coup d'etat had seen Lauffer given responsibilities far beyond those ordinarily given to young captains.

The successful coup had moved General Rawson into the president's office in the Casa Rosada and put Lauffer in the adjacent office, where he had become, again de facto if not de jure, chief of staff to the president.

"People will talk, Alejandro, if it comes out we're meeting like this," Nervo said.

Martin smiled, then chuckled, then, shaking his head, laughed heartily out loud.

"Was it that funny?" Nervo asked.

"Whenever I run into Don Cletus Frade, he offers that same tired joke," Martin said. "Is Nolasco with you?"

"He's parking the car. What the hell is going on here?"

"Why don't you all go have a coffee?" Martin said to the men manning the telephones and the typewriters. They quickly got to their feet and left the room.

Deciding that Martin was going to wait for Nolasco before explaining what was going on, Nervo walked to the wall of maps and studied them. One of them--actually three, patched together--showed the national routes between where they were and San Martin de los Andes. Pins--Probably indicating some sort of checkpoints, Nervo decided--were stuck along the route.

There were maps, of different scales, of the highways leading to Buenos Aires, of the neighborhood of Belgrano in Buenos Aires, and of the area around Samborombon Bay, all stuck with pins.

Nervo turned to look at Martin, his eyebrows raised questioningly. At that moment, Nolasco entered the room. His face registered surprise when he saw Lauffer.

"Subinspector," Lauffer said.

"Capitan."

"I have been rehearsing my little speech about what you are about to hear," Martin said. "And about asking you to give me your word it doesn't leave this room. But I've decided not to ask that of you. You are all going to have to make that decision yourselves. What I've decided to do--as my friend Frade would say--is roll the dice and see what happens. Go ahead, Cortina."

Cortina stood and walked toward the wall. Then he stopped. Lauffer had put his high-crowned uniform cap on the table. He held his riding crop--a standard accoutrement for a cavalry officer.

"May I?" Cortina asked.

Lauffer nodded.

Cortina walked to the map and pointed the riding crop at the map of Samborombon Bay.

"At approximately oh four-thirty today," Cortina began, "the German submarine U-405 began to land, using rubber boats, two German SS officers and ten other ranks of the SS and a large wooden crate onto the beach at this point on Samborombon Bay.

"One of the SS officers we believe to be SS-Brigadefuhrer Manfred von Deitzberg, first deputy adjutant to the Reichsfuhrer-SS Himmler. The identity of the other--junior--SS officer we do not know. We believe he is the officer in charge of the detail guarding the wooden crate."

"Is that the same Von Whatsisname who was here before?" Nervo asked. "The German general?"

"Yes," Martin replied, then added: "Santiago, this will go more quickly if you hold your questions until Cortina finishes."

"Okay."

"Waiting for them on the beach were Karl Cranz, ostensibly the commercial attache of the German Embassy, who is an SS-obersturmbannfuhrer; the deputy commercial counselor, Erich Raschner, who is an SS-SD-sturmbannfuhrer; half a dozen Argentinos of German extraction; and a closed Chevrolet two-ton truck that is registered to Senor Gustav Loche, of Buenos Aires, who is the father of Gunther Loche, who is employed by the German Embassy. Father and son were on the beach.

"Everyone was loaded onto the truck, which then drove to this point, near Dolores--about two kilometers from here--where von Deitzberg detrucked and got into a Mercedes sedan--diplomatic license tags--driven by the first secretary of the German Embassy, Anton von Gradny-Sawz. That car took off in the direction of Buenos Aires.

"Twenty minutes ago, the car passed this checkpoint"--Cortina pointed with the riding crop--"which leads us to suspect that it is headed for the petit-hotel at O'Higgins and Jose Hernandez in Belgrano, which von Gradny-Sawz recently leased. We should know that for sure in an hour or two.

"The truck then proceeded to this point"--Cortina pointed again--"on the road to Tres Arroyos. There is a field there in which Company B of the 10th Mountain Regiment had bivouacked overnight while on a road march exercise. The SS officer and his men left Senor Loche's truck and got into two trucks belonging to Company B.

"Cranz and Raschner conferred briefly with el Coronel Schmidt, commander of the 10th Mountain Regiment, and then everybody left. Herr Loche's truck, carrying the Argentinos who had been on the beach, plus Cranz and Raschner, headed up National Route Two toward Buenos Aires--"

He paused and pointed at another map.

"--and twenty minutes ago passed this point. Thirty minutes ago, the Mountain Troop convoy passed this point--" He pointed at another map. "It seems logical to presume they are on their way home to San Martin de los Andes."

Cortina turned his back to the map.

"Does el Coronel wish to add anything?"

Martin said, "No. You covered everything very nicely. But the Inspector General might have a question."

" 'Might have a question'?" Nervo asked. "Jesus Christ! I don't know where to start!"

"Maybe at the beginning?" Martin asked.

"How the hell did you know where and when the submarine was going to be in Samborombon Bay?"

"An American friend told me."

"Your friend Frade?"

"No. I understand Don Cletus is on his way to Lisbon."

"Another American friend, then. You are going to tell me who?"

"He speaks Spanish like a Porteno, and wears--convincingly--the garb of a gaucho. There is a rumor that he is a U.S. Navy officer working for something called the OSS."

"And he's a friend of yours?" Subinspector General Nolasco asked in credulously.

Martin nodded.

"How did your gaucho friend know about the submarine?" Nervo asked.

"They had a radio device, called a radar, which allows them to see things on the River Plate almost to Uruguay. At night. Even through fog."

"And this machine is where, did you say?"

"There's a rumor it's on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo."

"You seem to have become very friendly with our American friends," Nervo said.

"I didn't plan it, but that seems to be the way it's turned out," Martin admitted.

"That's what it looks like."

"You're sure it was el Coronel Schmidt?"

"Yeah. This is the second time he's used his trucks to get Germans from Samborombon Bay to San Martin de los Andes. This time I think we have photographs of him."

"Think?"

"The film should be at the Edificio Libertador by now, being processed."

"What's in the wooden crate?" Nolasco asked.

"Money or gold. Or diamonds, other precious metals. Probably some of each."

"A crate full?" Nolasco asked incredulously.

"You didn't tell him about Operation Phoenix, Santiago?"

"He told me. I didn't believe it," Nolasco admitted.

"Didn't, or don't?"

"I'm starting to believe it."

"Then maybe you'd also believe that machine guns from el Coronel Schmidt's Mountain Regiment are what just about took down Don Cletus's house in Tandil." He paused, then added: "And that there are photographs of el Coronel Juan Domingo Peron standing beside those machine guns."

"You asked me to back off from that, and I did," Nervo said. "Peron was there, and you have pictures of him?"

"Peron was there, and Don Cletus has pictures."

"You believe that?" Nervo said. "Not that I wouldn't believe anything I heard about that degenerate sonofabitch."

"I believe it," Martin said. "The question now becomes: Do you believe what Cortina just told you?"

"Yeah, I believe it," Nervo said. "You're not smart enough to come up with this yourself."

"Thank you."

"The question I have is: What are you going to do with it?" Nervo said.

"I know what I'm supposed to do with it."

"If you took this to Obregon, you and everybody connected with you would be dumped in the River Plate halfway to Montevideo," Nervo said.

El General de Division Manuel Frederico Obregon was director of the Bureau of Internal Security.

"He's another asshole who thinks Hitler and the Nazis are saving the world from the Antichrist," Nolasco said bitterly.

"That thought, both of those thoughts, have run through my mind," Martin said.

"What about taking it to Rawson?" Nervo said. "Lauffer?"

It was obvious that Lauffer was choosing his words before speaking them.

"I really like General Rawson," he said. "He's a good man, but . . ."

"Not very strong, right?" Nervo said sarcastically.

Lauffer did not respond directly.

"Just now, I was thinking that if I went to him with this, the first thing he'd do would be to ask General Obregon what he thought."

"In that case, you and Martin both would be swimming with your hands tied behind you in the River Plate," Nervo said.

"What does your American OSS friend, Don Cletus, suggest should be done about this?" Nolasco said. "Obviously, he knows about it. And--I just thought of this--since he does know, why doesn't he just take it to the newspapers? Here and everyplace else in the world?"

"What the Americans have decided to do is wait until the war is over and then grab all the money the Germans have sent here, and the things the Germans have bought with it."

"How are they going to know about all that?" Nolasco said.

"I would suspect, Pedro, that the Froggers are telling them," Nervo said sarcastically. He looked at Martin. "Frade does have the Froggers, right?"

Martin nodded.

"You know where?"

Martin nodded again.

"Where's where?"

"In for a penny, in for a pound, to quote the beloved headmaster of our beloved Saint George's School, Santiago," Martin said. "They're at Frade's Casa Montagna in Mendoza."

"And, presumably, the weapons el Coronel Frade cached there for the coup d'etat are still there?"

Martin nodded.

"You two are Saint George's Old Boys?" Lauffer asked.

They nodded.

"Me, too."

"I know what," Nervo said, deeply sarcastic. "Let's call Father Kingsley-Howard and tell him what we're all up to these days."

They all laughed.

"So what are we going to do?" Martin asked.

Nervo said: "I shall probably regret this as long as I live--which under the circumstances may not be long--but I vote to go along with Don Cletus. Do nothing, but keep an eye on the miserable bastards. Especially on our own miserable--and sometimes degenerate--bastards."

No one said anything.

"The reason I say that is that I can't think of anything else we can do," Nervo added.

"Neither can I," Martin admitted. Then he looked at Lauffer. "Lauffer?"

"I think we should pool our intelligence," Lauffer said. "I'm sure that each of us knows something the others should."

Martin considered that a moment.

"You'd be the one to do that. If Santiago and I started getting chummy, people would talk."

"Perhaps, Comisario General," Lauffer said, "you'd be able to find time in your busy schedule to take lunch with me one day at the Circulo Militar? El Presidente eats there three or four times a week, and of course while I have to accompany him, I am rarely invited to share his table."

"That's very kind of you, Capitan. Call me anytime you're free."