The Honor of Spies

X

[ONE]

The North Atlantic Ocean

North Latitude 35.42, West Longitude 11.84

1300 28 September 1943

On the night of 28 September 1943, 678 bombers of the Royal Air Force--312 Lancasters, 231 Stirlings, and 24 Wellingtons--plus five B-17s of the 8th U.S. Air Force, filled the skies over the German city of Hannover and dropped their mixed loads of high-explosive and incendiary bombs.

Halfway across the world, the Wewak area of New Guinea was attacked by forty U.S. Army Air Force B-24s. Twenty-nine P-38 Lockheed Lightning fighters accompanied the B-24s and shot down eight Japanese fighter aircraft without loss to themselves or the bombers they were protecting.

And, since just after noon on 28 September, Captain Archer C. Dooley Jr., commanding officer of the 94th Fighter Squadron, USAAF, had been flying his P-38, at an altitude of 22,000 feet, in lazy circles over the North Atlantic Ocean. He was about 100 miles south of the southern tip of Portugal and 200 miles west of the Straits of Gibraltar.

During that time, he had seen no other aircraft except the six other P-38s in the flight. Nor had he seen any ships of any kind on the ocean beneath him. Nor had he heard over his earphones what he had been told to expect: a Morse code transmission of three characters, dit dit dit, dit dah, dit dah. The code stood for S, A, A, and Captain Dooley had no idea what that meant either.

The silence in his earphones probably explained why the needle of a newly installed dial, labeled SIGNAL STRENGTH, on his instrument panel hadn't moved off its peg. The signal-strength indicator was connected to something else newly installed on the nose of his P-38, above the 20mm cannon and four .50-caliber machine guns. It was an antenna, in the form of a twelve-inch-diameter circle.

The antenna reminded Archie Dooley of the chrome bull's-eye mounted on the hoods of 1941 and 1942 Buick automobiles. And it caused him to think that he was now flying a Lockheed Roadmaster. Two years earlier, Archie's idea of heaven was to get Anne-Marie Doherty, wearing her Saint Ignatius High School cheerleader outfit, into the backseat of a 1942 Buick Roadmaster convertible. Neither was available to him in this life.

A Marine full bull colonel had impressed upon Captain Dooley--as they watched a guy who looked just like Howard Hughes install the antenna on Dooley's P-38--that the antenna was classified Top Secret, as was his mission, and that he was to take those secrets to his grave.

Further, the full bull colonel said, Dooley was forbidden to tell any of the pilots who would fly the mission with him anything more than he absolutely had to--which had not proved difficult, as he had only a very little knowledge to share:

He was to lead his flight to a position off the tip of Portugal, where he was to fly slow circles at 21,000 feet until the radio-direction-finding system detected the Morse code transmission of the letters S, A, A. He was then to fly to the source of the transmission, using the signal-strength meter as a sort of compass. The closer he got to the source of the transmission, the higher the needle on the signal-strength meter would rise.

On arrival at the source of the transmission, he would receive further orders.

While flying in slow circles waiting for the SAA signal, he would use new techniques--primarily low airspeed and fuel leaning--to increase the Lockheed Lightning's "dwell time." These techniques had been developed, the full bull colonel had told him, by Charles A. Lindbergh.

Captain Dooley was to "dwell" until he heard the transmission or until, in his judgment, he had only enough fuel, plus twenty minutes, to return to Sidi Slimane. In the latter eventuality, he would head for Sidi Slimane, and as he got closer, he was to listen for another Morse code signal--dit dit dit, dit dit dit, dit dah dit dit, which stood for S, S, L--and would use this signal to find his way home.

And then, all of sudden, there it was: dit dit dit, dit dah, dit dah.

The needle on the signal-strength meter quivered, as if it was trying to get off the peg.

Archie turned the Lightning's nose a shade to the right.

The needle--No question about it, he thought--came off the peg. Not far off, but off.

Then it fell back toward the peg.

Archie turned the nose a shade farther to the right.

The needle moved up again.

Archie held that heading.

The needle didn't move.

And then, a moment later, it edged upward again.

And this time it didn't fall back.

"Mother Hen to all Chicks. Form a V, below and behind me. Check in."

"Chick Three, I have you in sight."

"Chick Six on the tail of Three."

One by one, the others all checked in.

When Archie looked at the signal-strength meter, it was holding still.

Or maybe moving a little toward the center?

The compass showed they were headed toward the North African coast.

What the hell?

"Mother, where the hell are we going?"

"Maintain radio silence, goddamn it!"

Sixty seconds later, the needle was unmistakably headed back toward the peg.

Goddamn it! Now what?

Archie edged the nose to the right.

The needle dropped farther.

He edged the nose to the left.

The needle started to rise.

He held that course.

The needle continued to rise.

And then the needle began to drop.

What the hell! Is that goddamned transmitter moving, or what?

He moved the nose and the needle stopped dropping, then began to slowly rise.

"Mother, there's an--"

"Radio silence, goddamn it!"

"--airplane, a great big sonofabitch, at eleven o'clock, maybe two thousand above you."

Archie looked up and found it.

"Chicks, follow me, above and behind."

The needle was now almost at the maximum peg.

Archie edged back on the stick and advanced his throttles.

It's a Constellation, that's what it is.

Another one. The Marine full bull colonel and the guy who looked like Howard Hughes had flown into Sidi Slimane in one.

But this one isn't one of ours! There's no bar-and-star on the fuselage!

"Mother, what the hell is that? No American insignia."

"Above me and behind. And for the last fucking time: radio silence!"

Archie caught up with the Constellation and drew parallel to it.

He saw that painted on the three vertical stabilizers were identical flags, the design of which Archie could not remember ever having seen.

The fuselage was boldly lettered SOUTH AMERICAN AIRWAYS.

Archie pulled next to the cockpit, and a voice--an unquestionably American voice--came over his earphones: "Hello there, Little Lockheed. Where the hell have you been? I was getting a little worried you were lost."

"What the hell is going on here?" Archie blurted.

"The general idea," the voice said calmly, "is that you are to escort us into Portuguese airspace and keep the bad guys from shooting us down."

"Are you American, or what?"

"The bad guys can be recognized by the Maltese crosses on their wings and fuselages," the voice said. "You seen anything like that flying around up here?"

"Negative."

"Okay. Get above and behind me. You might want to put one or two of your little airplanes below and ahead of me on this course. I'll let you know when you can go home. Probably in twenty minutes or so."

[TWO]

Room 323, Hotel Britania

Rua Rodrigues Sampaio 17

Lisbon, Portugal

1845 28 September 1943

The reception of South American Airways Flight 1002 at Lisbon's Portela Airport had been strange.

Clete Frade had turned the P-38 Lightnings loose as soon as he was sure he was inside Portuguese airspace, then tuned one of the radio-direction-finding sets to the signal he was told would be transmitted from the Collins in the American Embassy.

He found that signal without trouble and homed in on it. When he tuned the second RDF to the frequency of the transmitter on Portela Airport, he didn't get a signal for a long time, and when it finally came on it was weak.

He was by then close enough to try contacting the Portela tower by radio, and that worked immediately. A crisp, British-accented voice quickly gave him the weather and the approach and landing instructions.

The landing was uneventful, and on the landing roll, the fuel gauges showed that he had enough fuel--more than two hours--remaining with which he could fly to Madrid or, for that matter, to Sidi Slimane.

That means we had a substantial tailwind.

And that means we will probably have a substantial headwind on the way home.

An ancient pickup truck with a FOLLOW ME sign in Portuguese, Spanish, and English had met them at the end of the landing roll and led them to the terminal. There, a farm tractor had pulled a wooden stairway--obviously brand new, painted in SAA red, and with the SAA legend on it--up to the airplane.

Two buses pulled up. A Portuguese immigration officer then came on board the Constellation and told the passengers to deplane and board the buses. When that had happened, more Portuguese came aboard and thoroughly, if courteously, examined the Constellation.

Then the crew--which included the extra SAA pilots and flight engineers, for a total of twelve people--went down the stairs, boarded the buses, and were taken to an office at the rear of a terminal building.

The aircraft's documents, plus the passports and flying certificates, were not only carefully examined but also photographed. And then finally the crew members themselves were photographed, as prisoners are photographed, in frontal and side views while holding chalkboards with their names handwritten on them.

Then their luggage was searched rather thoroughly.

And then they were released.

"Welcome to Portugal, gentlemen," a smiling immigration officer had said, and pointed to a door.

They went through it and found themselves in the passenger terminal.

There was no one in it except for two policemen sitting together, their legs crossed and extended, in a row of passenger waiting chairs.

There was a currency-exchange booth, closed, and even a new South American Airways ticket counter--the paint was fresh--but it, too, was closed. There was a brass bell on the counter--beneath a sign in Portuguese, Spanish, and English reading RING FOR SERVICE--yet banging on it proved fruitless.

Outside, there were three taxis, a Citroen and two Fiats, all small. Fitting twelve men--ten of them large--and their luggage into and on top of them was time-consuming. And then there was the problem of paying for the cabs when they arrived at the hotel.

Frade was reasonably certain that either Dulles or someone working for Dulles would be waiting at the hotel. He didn't think Dulles would have wanted to be seen in public with the "Argentines."

The hotel expected them. An assistant manager was summoned and he paid the cabdrivers. Then he bowed them into the hotel, where they went through the registry process. The desk clerk kept their passports, explaining that they would be returned when they checked out.

Frade didn't like that much, but there was nothing he could do about it. Finally, he was handed a room key and two bellboys--and they were actually boys; they looked to be no older than twelve--bowed him onto an open elevator and took him to the third floor and down a corridor.

They bowed him into the room. He gestured for them to go first, then followed them.

"May I offer my most profound congratulations, Capitan," Colonel A. F. Graham, USMCR, called in Spanish, "on your transatlantic flight, and also comment on how handsome you are in that splendiferous uniform?"

"Hear, hear," Allen W. Dulles said.

Graham, in civilian clothing, was sitting with Dulles at a dining table. There were two bottles of wine on the table and a cooler held a bottle of champagne.

Frade was surprised to find the both of them. He wondered idly how Graham had traveled to Portugal.

"Handsome doesn't have any money to tip the bellboys," Frade said in Spanish, then walked to the table.

Dulles took a wad of currency from behind the handkerchief in the breast pocket of his somewhat baggy gray suit, peeled off several bills, and handed them to one of the bellboys. Then he extended about half of the money he had left to Frade.

"That should hold you for a little while," Dulles said.

"Thank you," Frade said, and picked up one of the wine bottles.

"That's Monte do Maio," Dulles offered. "Something like a Merlot. Very nice. Baron de Rothschild owns the vineyard."

Frade poured wine into a glass, took a healthy sip, and then another.

Dulles asked, "How was the flight?"

"We made it," Frade said.

Graham stood up and began to unwind the wire-bound cork of the champagne bottle.

"Did you actually, just before you took off, tell your passengers to put their heads between their knees and kiss their asses good-bye?" Graham asked.

"Who told you about that?"

"A Jesuit priest," Dulles said. "And, as you should know, Cletus, while they have mastered the art of obfuscation, Jesuit priests never lie."

"How the hell do you know Welner?" Clete blurted.

"That's one of the things we need to talk about," Dulles said. "But let's wait until the colonel opens the champagne."

"We have a lot to talk about," Frade said.

At that moment, the cork came loudly out of the bottle and sailed across the room. Graham filled three glasses and passed two of them around.

"What are we celebrating?" Clete asked as they clinked glasses.

"You've been selected for the Naval Command and General Staff College," Graham said. "How about that?"

"With respect, Colonel, I'm not in the mood."

"To Cletus," Dulles said.

"Cletus," Graham said, and raised his glass.

"And to us," Dulles said, looking at Graham.

Graham touched Dulles's glass with his.

"Oh, how sweet it is to be proven right," he said.

"Amen," Dulles said.

They took a sip of the champagne.

"Do you think he'll apologize?" Graham asked.

"I am not going to hold my breath," Dulles replied.

Clete thought: What the hell?

Who's not going to apologize?

And for what?

Dulles turned to Frade and said, "For your general fund of knowledge, Major Frade, in the opinion of our beloved chief, Wild Bill Donovan, the chances of your being able to pull off this trip ranged from negligible to zero."

"Don't let this go to your head, Major Frade," Graham added, "but Allen and I are ever so grateful to you for proving Donovan wrong. That rarely happens."

Graham and Dulles took another sip of the champagne.

"Semper Fidelis, Major," Graham said. "Which reminds me: I have something from our beloved Corps for you."

He handed Frade an envelope. Frade opened it and found a U.S. government check and a complicated form.

"Your back pay, Major. If you'll endorse it, I'll take it back to Washington and deposit it for you. It is suggested that you purchase War Bonds with twenty percent of the total as your personal contribution to the war effort."

Clete shook his head and took a closer look at the form.

"Surprising me not at all, this is fucked up," he said.

"How so?"

"No flight pay."

"But you weren't flying, were you? Not Marine aircraft . . ."

"Jesus! You're kidding!"

"Not at all. But I checked that form. You did receive that munificent two-dollars-a-month payment that comes with your Distinguished Service Cross. Don't be greedy, Major."

Frade shook his head.

"And you are being paid six dollars per diem in lieu of rations and quarters from the day you volunteered for the OSS. That's a nice chunk of change."

"From which the sonsofbitches deducted the price of my watch," Frade said, holding up his wrist, to which was strapped what the U.S. Navy described as Watch, Hamilton, Chronometer, Naval Aviators, w/strap, leather.

"The Corps didn't give you that watch, Major," Graham said. "They issued it to you for use while flying their airplanes. When you stopped doing that, the Corps naturally wanted it back, and when that didn't happen, they presumed you had 'lost' it and deducted the price from your pay."

Frade tossed the check and the accompanying forms on the table and then picked up one of the wine bottles. He grunted derisively as he expertly pulled the cork.

"And as I mentioned, Major Frade," Graham said, "just as soon as you can be spared from your present duties, you have been selected to attend the Naval Command and General Staff College."

Frade looked at him warily. "What is this? 'Remind Frade he's a serving officer'?"

"That's part of it. It started out when the Marine Corps liaison officer--from Eighth and Eye; he keeps track of Marines in the OSS--came to me and asked when you could be expected to return from Brisbane."

"From where?"

"Brisbane. It's in Australia. Some people say 'Down Under.' This chap somehow got the idea that you are in Brisbane evaluating Marine fighter pilots' after-action debriefings so that we may learn more about Japanese capabilities."

"'Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive,'" Dulles quoted cheerily. "Sir Walter Scott, 1771 to 1832."

"What the hell is that Brisbane nonsense all about?" Clete asked.

Graham ignored the question and went on:

"He told me about your selection for C&GSC, and that he was concerned that you hadn't been paid since September 1942. So I told him to have a pay-check cut and I would get it to you. And then, frankly, it did occur to me, Major Frade, that it was about time to remind you again that you are indeed a serving officer of the Marine Corps."

"That wasn't likely to slip my mind," Frade said.

"Really? I've noticed that you haven't used the word 'sir' very much--as a matter of fact, not once."

"You're giving the orders and I'm obeying them, but if you're waiting for me to stand at attention and salute, don't hold your breath." He paused, chuckled, then added, "Sir."

Dulles laughed.

Graham, after a pregnant pause, said, "Under the circumstances, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"Okay, now that I'm here, now what?" Frade asked. "I think it's time you finally tell me what the hell this is all about."

"You haven't guessed?" Dulles asked.

"I spent eight or nine hours just now watching the needles on the fuel gauges drop and guessing. The only answer I came up with is that it's about time somebody told me."

"That's all?" Graham asked.

"When I saw the both of you, I guessed it was important. How did you get here, anyway?"

"Howard flew me to Sidi Slimane--an Air Force base in Morocco--in a Constellation."

"Howard's here?"

"He's in Sidi Slimane. We brought some Lockheed people with us. Howard's passing on some techniques to extend the range of the P-38 he got from Colonel Lindbergh. And we brought some Collins people with us to maintain the radio-direction-finding equipment."

"Why is the U.S. government being so helpful to South American Airways? I seem to remember you telling me SAA wasn't going to be connected with the OSS."

"Maybe I should have said 'directly connected,' " Graham said.

"I want to know what's going on, Colonel," Frade said. "That's a statement, not a question."

"Two things, Major Frade," Graham said. "One, you're not in a position to make statements; and, two, you don't have the Need to Know."

"Oh, hell," Allen Dulles said. "Tell him, Alex."

"Excuse me?" Graham asked icily.

"He does have the Need to Know, and you know it," Dulles said.

"I don't think so," Graham said. "He already knows far more than he should."

"That's why, in my judgment, he has the Need to Know about what's going on here."

"I disagree," Graham said.

"If you don't tell him, I will," Dulles said softly.

"The hell you will!" Graham exploded. "I forbid it!"

"It would be better if you told him," Dulles said. "But if you don't, I will. If I have to say this, I'm not subject to your orders."

"Leave us alone for a moment, please, Major Frade," Graham said.

"It would save time, Major Frade, if you stayed where you are," Dulles said. "Because there is nothing Colonel Graham can say to me in private that would keep me from telling you what's happening--and your role in it--when you came back."

Graham's face went white.

"Goddamn you, Allen!" he said.

"Your call, Colonel," Frade said. "Do I leave or not?"

After a long moment, Graham said, "Put the cork back in that wine bottle and sit down."

Frade did so.

"This is your call, Allen," Graham said. "So tell him."

"I would rather you did, Alex. But if you insist . . ."

"What specifically do you want to know, Major Frade?" Graham asked.

"Tell me what's going on with SAA. Start there, please."

Graham began: "Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely--"

"John Edward Dalberg-Acton, First Baron Acton, 1834 to 1902," Dulles offered.

Graham glowered at him for a moment, then chuckled.

"Princetonians, Major Frade," Graham said, "among other obnoxious habits, never lose an opportunity to show off their erudition. You may want to write that down."

Dulles chuckled.

Graham went on: "The case at hand being that of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Not only does he believe himself incapable of making a mistake in judgment, but considers anyone who dares challenge him to be disloyal and therefore to be punished.

"You've heard this before, I'm sure, but let me quickly recap it. Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh made the mistake of challenging FDR in several ways. First, he was active in the America First movement, which organization--headed by Senator Robert A. Taft--held that our involvement in a war in Europe would be disastrous.

"Next, while in Europe, prewar, he made the mistake of accepting an award for his contributions to aviation from fellow aviator--the former commander of the Richthofen Squadron, now commander of the Luftwaffe--Hermann Goring. Lindbergh compounded this grievous error by saying that in his judgment--and he was, after all, an Air Corps reserve colonel--the Luftwaffe was the best air force in the world, and not only because it was the largest.

"Such behavior, such disloyalty, could not be tolerated, of course. The first thing FDR did was tell the Air Corps they were not to call Colonel Lindbergh to active duty under any circumstances. Lindbergh then continued to work for Juan Trippe at Pan American Airways.

"This directed Roosevelt's anger to Trippe. 'How dare someone give employment to a scoundrel like Lucky Lindy?' Trippe was told to fire him. He objected, and I understand there was a nasty scene before Trippe finally gave in to FDR's wrath.

"Lindbergh then went to work for Lockheed.

"But Roosevelt was not finished with Trippe. How to punish the owner of an airline? By starting up another airline to compete with him. Where? What about Argentina? We have--that's the regal 'we,' of course--the OSS down there, right? So FDR summons Wild Bill Donovan and tells him to have the OSS start up an airline; he will see the aircraft are provided.

"Donovan thought the idea was insane. And so did I when I heard about it. But Donovan knew better than to make an issue of it. Both of us are aware of the dangers of arguing with Roosevelt--which, incidentally, since we are making you privy to things you shouldn't know, have grown more dangerous since FDR's health is failing--so we arranged to have airplanes sent to Argentina and told you to set up an airline.

"At that time--as I didn't want what I considered to be the airline nonsense to interfere with the other things you are doing down there--I told you there would be no OSS connection to your airline. But then . . ."

Graham paused and gestured for Dulles to pick up the narrative.

Dulles nodded and said, "Alex and I had rather urgent matters to discuss; we arranged to meet at an airfield in Newfoundland. Alex showed up in a Constellation flown by our mutual friend Howard. I had never seen one, nor knew anything of its capabilities. Once they had been explained to me, we decided that Constellations could be very useful to us."

Graham picked up the narrative again: "If I had gone to General Arnold and asked for Constellations for the OSS, he probably would have laughed at me. But Donovan could see their potential value. So he went to FDR and very skillfully suggested that the way to really stick it to Juan Trippe was to provide the airline we already had in Argentina with aircraft with which they could fly all over South America--Constellations--and possibly even establish service across the Atlantic.

"Roosevelt was enchanted with the idea. So you got your Constellations."

"And what am I supposed to do with them?" Frade asked.

"So far as Donovan and Roosevelt are concerned, all you are doing, so to speak, is rubbing Juan Trippe's nose in the mud. SAA is flying scheduled service between South America and Europe; Pan American is not. When the war is over, SAA will have a tremendous advantage over Pan American."

"And as far as you two are concerned?" Frade asked.

"That's what Colonel Graham has wisely changed his mind about telling you," Dulles said. "Recognizing not only that you do, in fact, have the Need to Know, but that it would not be wise to keep you in the dark."

"About what? You're implying that Donovan doesn't know."

"Unfortunately," Dulles said, "we simply can't take the risk of having what you're going to do get out. And it would get out if Donovan were privy to it."

"Which is?" Frade asked.

"Immediately, what we're going to do . . . ," Graham said, then stopped. "This is the business to which I didn't think you should be privy. It was my intention that you would know nothing about this. But Mr. Dulles disagreed . . ."

Dulles nodded.

". . . and," Graham went on, "I have deferred to what I really hope is his superior wisdom; we are 'agreed' to tell you. The German officer in charge of Abwehr Ost--Russian--intelligence is a lieutenant colonel by the name of Reinhard Gehlen. He is far more powerful than his rank suggests. He is vouched for by Admiral Canaris, and, like Canaris, is involved in Operation Valkyrie."

Frade considered that, then nodded.

"A delegate of Canaris," Dulles carried on, "came to us--right here in this hotel, as a matter of fact--with an interesting offer. Gehlen recognizes the war is lost; that it's just a matter of time. And a relatively short one, if Valkyrie succeeds and Hitler is removed. God only knows how long if Valkyrie fails and Hitler fights to the last member of the Hitler Youth, which he is entirely capable of doing.

"Anyway, Gehlen is willing to turn over to us all his assets, data, and--very important--agents-in-place. He has two reasons. He personally doesn't want to fall into Russian hands. More important, he doesn't want his family to fall into Russian hands."

"In other words," Frade said, "he's covering his ass and wants to set up his own private Operation Phoenix?"

"You could put it that way, I suppose," Dulles said. "But it's not black and white. In our way of life, things are seldom simple."

"His second reason," Graham went on, "is that he believes the United States will ultimately, inevitably, go to war with the Soviet Union--"

"So does my grandfather," Clete said.

"--in which case his information and especially the agents-in-place would be of great value," Graham finished.

"Do you think we're going to have a war with the Russians?" Clete asked softly.

"I don't think the possibility can be dismissed out of hand," Dulles said. "There are a number of knowledgeable people--General George Patton among them--who think we will."

"Among other things that Canaris's delegate offered to give us--in fact, did give us--are the names of Soviet spies in the Manhattan Project," Graham said.

"The Russians know about that atomic bomb?" Frade asked, his surprise showing.

Dulles nodded. "And are trying very hard to steal it for Mother Russia."

"Jesus Christ!"

"What Gehlen and Canaris want is for us to provide sanctuary for their men--and the families of their men--in South America."

"To which they will be flown, via Lisbon, by South American Airways?" Frade asked.

Dulles said, "There are two problems here with which I think you should be made familiar. Colonel Graham is--understandably--uncomfortable with you being aware of them."

"Which are?"

"Colonel Donovan and, of course, the President," Dulles said. "Perhaps I should have said, 'The President and, of course, Colonel Donovan.' "

Graham said, "What we should have done when Canaris made us this offer was refer it to Colonel Donovan. If we had done that, the chances are that Donovan would have gone to Roosevelt, strongly recommending that we make the deal. And the chances are that Roosevelt would have gone along with it."

"But you didn't go to Donovan with it?" Frade asked incredulously. "Is that what you're saying?"

Both Graham and Dulles nodded.

"Donovan, we decided, would have gone to Roosevelt," Dulles said, "which meant that others would learn of it. For example, Vice President Henry Wallace. Wallace is a great admirer of Joseph Stalin and the Soviet Union. He would have insisted that Russia, as our ally, has a right to any and all intelligence Gehlen would provide. And the President would have gone along with him; FDR really believes that Stalin can be trusted; more important, that he can control him.

"Mrs. Roosevelt believes both things, that the Soviet Union is a trustworthy ally and that her husband can control Joseph Stalin."

"Then how is it that the Russians 'don't know' about the Manhattan Project, the atomic bomb?" Frade said.

"There's a difference between not having been told about it and not knowing about it," Dulles said. "Of course they know about it. The question then becomes who told them about it, and how much they have been told. Or how successful their espionage has been . . .

"Since the Soviets don't officially know about it, and inasmuch as they are our trustworthy ally, and allies are not supposed to spy on one another, J. Edgar Hoover is having a hell of a time dealing with Russian spies. He's not even supposed to be looking for them. Counterintelligence is intended to keep the Germans and the Japanese from learning about it."

"But the Germans know about it?"

"In two ways," Dulles said. "Generally, because it's no secret in scientific circles that everyone is working to develop a nuclear bomb; and also, with some specificity, because Gehlen's agents in the Kremlin have access to the material the Soviet spies are sending. And I think we have to presume that the Germans are sharing at least some of their knowledge about the Manhattan Project with the Japanese."

"My God!"

"So after a good deal of thought, Colonel Graham and I decided we could not refuse what Gehlen and Canaris were offering, and also that we could not take the proposition to Colonel Donovan. That we would have to conceal the operation from him."

"Which is on its face disloyalty and more than likely constitutes dealing with the enemy," Graham said. "Which is one of the reasons I thought it would be best to keep you in the dark.

"And there is one other problem we avoid by not bringing Donovan and the President into this: Treasury Secretary Morgenthau. I would judge that he hates the Nazis and Hitler more than anyone else in the Cabinet. He's Jewish and he knows what the Germans have been doing to the Jews. Neither Mr. Dulles nor I can envision any circumstance in which Morgenthau would countenance our providing sanctuary in Argentina to any Nazis, no matter what benefits might accrue to the United States by so doing. We are both agreed that if this arrangement came to Morgenthau's attention and Roosevelt didn't immediately bring it to a halt, Morgenthau would go to the press with it."

There was a moment's silence.

"What are you thinking, Clete?" Colonel Graham asked.

That's the first time he called me anything but "Frade" or "Major Frade."

What the hell!

Clete shrugged, then said, "You asked, Colonel. What was running through my mind was that this operation gives a whole new meaning to the term 'insubordination.' "

"What I told myself when I considered this dilemma," Graham responded, "was that I have sworn an oath to defend the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic. Vice President Wallace, Morgenthau, and, for that matter, Eleanor Roosevelt, whose good intentions I don't question for a second, are in a position to cause the United States great harm. I am duty bound to keep them from doing it while I am engaged in something I really believe will help my country--and probably save a hell of a lot of lives in the process."

"When I took that oath," Frade said, "there was a phrase about obeying the orders of the officers appointed over me."

"Which is what you're doing," Graham said. "If this thing blows up in our face--as it very well may--Mr. Dulles and I are prepared to say that you knew nothing of what you just heard. I don't think it will do any good, but we'll do it."

Frade grunted, and there was another silence. Then he asked: "Are you going to tell me how I'm supposed to get these Nazis off the plane in Buenos Aires?"

"Let's start with the first two," Graham said. "Alois Strubel is an obersturmbannfuhrer--a major--in the SS. The Waffen-SS, but the SS. He and his sergeant major, Hauptscharfuhrer Otto Niedermeyer, fell for the Fatherland on the Eastern Front about two weeks ago. They were buried with military honors."

Frade's eyebrows rose, but he said nothing.

"Frau Strubel and their two children were apparently killed--their bodies were never found--in a bombing raid on Dresden on September 11. Frau Niedermeyer and their son were killed in a raid on Frankfurt an der Oder two days later, and buried in a mass grave the next day.

"When all these people arrive in Lisbon, which probably will be the day after tomorrow, the women will be wearing the regalia prescribed for the Little Sisters of the Poor--"

"They'll be dressed as nuns?" Clete said.

Graham smiled and nodded, and went on: "--which noble sisterhood roams the streets of Germany picking up children orphaned by the bombing. Through the largesse of chapter houses in Brazil, Paraguay, and Argentina, these children are taken from the war zone to those countries, where, it is to be hoped, they will be adopted by good Catholic families, but failing that, cared for in orphanages maintained by the Little Sisters of the Poor.

"There are already large numbers of these orphans in Lisbon awaiting transport, which until now, of course, had to be by ship."

"And that problem of moving people between South America and Europe," Dulles offered, "also affected the Vatican. As I'm sure you know, Cletus, the Vatican is sovereign; in other words, it is a nation according to international law. In every country there is a Papal Nuncio, a high-ranking clergyman who speaks for the Pope.

"He is in fact the ambassador, and the residence of the Papal Nuncio for all practical purposes is the embassy of the Vatican. And it is, of course, staffed as an embassy is staffed. And the Vatican has to move people--not only their 'diplomats' but also members of their various religious congregations--back and forth between Rome and South America.

"Somehow, the Vatican heard that South American Airways was going to establish scheduled service between Lisbon and Buenos Aires, with a stop in Belem . . ."

"I wonder who told them that?" Clete asked innocently.

". . . and they approached the SAA representative here . . ."

"I didn't know SAA had a representative here," Clete said.

"Oh, yes," Graham said. "A chap named Fernando Aragao."

"Where did he come from?"

"Connecticut, actually. He went to Brown, but we don't talk much about his time in the United States. He was born here and has Portuguese citizenship. Before this, he was in the business of exporting cork and sherry and other things to the States. You're going to have to work out the details of his employment with SAA when you're here, but for the moment I suggest you let Mr. Dulles finish what he was saying."

"What does this guy know about me?"

"Nothing he doesn't have to," Dulles said. "He does know that you both have files in the National Institutes of Health. Good chap; I'm sure you'll get along well. But, as I was saying, the Papal Nuncio here approached Senor Aragao, saying he was prepared to negotiate for a block of ten seats on every SAA flight between here and South America, said seats to be used for the transport of Roman Catholic religious. The Papal Nuncio further said that should there not be ten religious moving to South America on any one flight, he would like to use their empty seats to transport the orphans of the Little Sisters of the Poor, ones he wanted to move to South America but really hated to send on such a long ocean voyage."

"Jesus Christ!" Clete said.

"Payment is to be made in advance, in gold, pounds sterling, or dollars, in either Switzerland or Buenos Aires."

"Curiosity overwhelms me," Clete said. "How did the Papal Nuncio know to go to Senor Whatsisname?"

"Fernando has been here since early 1942," Dulles said. "During that time, he made a point to cultivate the fellow. They've become rather close friends. But let me continue: Fernando also told the Papal Nuncio that, whenever this is possible, SAA will carry such additional passengers as the Papal Nuncio may send--for whom there is space; unsold seats, in other words--at a special, lower price. As a gesture of respect for the Holy Father and the good works of the Church of Rome."

"I'll be a sonofabitch," Clete said. "Tell me, do you think the Papal Nuncio happens to know Father Welner?"

"I believe they're old friends," Dulles said. "I know that Father Welner is staying with the archbishop at his palace while he's here in Lisbon."

"So you two are really in bed with the Vatican," Clete said.

"Strategic services, like politics, makes for strange bedfellows," Dulles pronounced solemnly, then added, "Allen W. Dulles, April 7, 1893, to God Only Knows."

"Oh, God," Graham said, chuckling.

"On your return flight, Cletus," Dulles said, "you will be transporting eight Portuguese and Spanish diplomats, several Portuguese businessmen going to Brazil, some diplomatic couriers, a half-dozen or more Jesuit priests going to new assignments in South America under the supervision of Father Welner, eight Franciscan priests going to new assignments in South America, and four nuns of the Little Sisters of the Poor and a number of orphans in their care. Among the priests will be Obersturmbannfuhrer Strubel and Hauptscharfuhrer Niedermeyer, suitably attired. All the priests will be traveling on bona fide passports issued by the Vatican.

"Colonel Graham and I are agreed--with Fernando Aragao--that it would be best if you don't know which of your passengers are actually the Strubels and the Niedermeyers. They will make themselves known to you in Argentina. Your call, Clete."

"Makes sense," Frade said. "When do I get to meet Aragao?"

"He's going to meet you in the lobby and take you to dinner at nine," Graham said.

"How's he going to know me?"

"That splendiferous uniform should do it."

"One more thing, Cletus," Dulles said. "You will be carrying other passengers from time to time. Would you prefer not to know who they are?"

"Well, since I won't be on every flight or, for that matter, on most or even many of them--"

"I'm glad you brought that up," Graham interrupted. "Will it be any trouble for you to schedule yourself as a pilot at least once a month--better yet, once every three weeks?"

Frade thought about that, then nodded. "I can do that."

"And Aragao will make a monthly trip to Buenos Aires. Between those two things, he should be able to keep you up to speed."

"Okay. What kind of other passengers will SAA be carrying?"

"All kinds," Dulles said. "What comes immediately to mind are scientists we hope to get out, nuclear physicists and aeronautical engineers. The Germans have developed flying bombs--rockets, right out of Buck Rogers in the Twenty-fifth Century--and are working on others powered by jet engines. The 8th Air Force just about destroyed their base in Peenemunde in the middle of August, but they're frantically rebuilding it. We're going to try--Canaris is going to try--to get some of their people out. These weapons pose a hell of a threat to England, and the Russians are trying to steal rocket data, too."

"And I'm to find these people some place safe in Argentina, too?"

"That's the idea," Dulles said simply.

"Why not? Some days I just sit around watching the grass grow and wishing I had something to do to pass the time. I don't suppose I can get any help to do all this?"

"That would pose problems," Dulles said.

"What kind of problems?"

"Primarily that Donovan would like nothing more than to send someone down to Argentina, some calm, rational, experienced colonel who could really lash down the loose cannon. And who would sooner or later--probably almost immediately--find out what's going on and feel duty bound to report it."

"I didn't think about that."

Graham grunted. "You better remember to think, Clete." He looked at his watch and announced, "Allen, it's getting pretty close to eight."

"What happens at eight?" Frade asked.

"I catch the train to Madrid," Dulles said. "I have to get back to Bern."

He stood and put his hand out to Frade.

"We'll be in touch, Cletus," he said, nodded at Graham, and walked out of the room.

"I guess you're not coming to dinner with me?" Frade said to Graham.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Graham said. "The Sicherheitsdienst is all over Lisbon. I don't want them wondering what I have to do with SAA. And then I'm on the seven a.m. British Overseas Airways flight to Casablanca. I've got to get back to Caracas."

"Caracas?"

Graham nodded. "Two reasons. I've got to borrow some more money from your grandfather. And that's where Donovan thinks I am."

"Jesus Christ!"

Graham stood up and put out his hand.

"I suppose it would be a waste of breath to tell you to leave the cork in that wine bottle?"

"Yes, sir, Colonel Graham, sir, it would."

"Good luck, Clete. Keep up the good work. Now, endorse that check so I can get out of here."

[THREE]

The meeting with Fernando Aragao didn't go very much at all as Dulles and Graham had suggested it would.

When Clete, freshly showered and shaved and wearing his just-pressed SAA uniform, got off the elevator at five minutes to nine, there were four SAA captains in uniform already in the hotel lobby, two sitting together and two sitting alone.

Clete took a seat in an armchair. He picked up a copy of the Correio da Manha newspaper and pretended to be fascinated with it; he didn't want any of the other SAA pilots to courteously ask him to join them.

Although the Portuguese and Spanish languages are similar enough for Clete to be able to make sense of what he was reading, there was nothing of any interest to him whatever on pages two and three. Then he came upon a small, one-column advertisement at the bottom of page three. It announced that South American Airways was about to offer service to Belem and Buenos Aires and gave a telephone number to call for further information.

At ten past nine, a somewhat chubby fiftyish man with slicked-back hair and a finely trimmed pencil mustache came in through the revolving door that was the hotel's front entrance. He was carrying both an umbrella and a heavy leather briefcase. Clete instantly disliked him.

The man looked around and saw all the men in SAA uniforms. His face showed annoyance. Finally, he made his choice--the oldest SAA pilot, whose name Clete couldn't remember--and spoke to him. The captain shook his head and pointed toward Clete. The man came over.

"Capitan Frade?" he asked in Portuguese-accented Spanish.

Clete lowered the newspaper.

"Si. Senor Aragao?"

There was surprise on Aragao's face, quickly replaced by a smile and the announcement that his car was at the curb.

It was a gray 1940 Ford. It came with a cap-wearing chauffeur. They got in the backseat.

"Take us to the Hotel Aviz," Aragao ordered regally, then turned to Frade. "The restaurant at the Aviz is better, I think, than at the Britania, and, frankly, there's a better class of people."

Clete said nothing.

He thought: What a pompous asshole.

At the Aviz's restaurant, they were shown to an elaborately set table in a corner, and the moment they sat down, busboys put a screen of wooden panels around them.

"I don't suppose you know much about Portuguese wine," Aragao declared. "But if you like Merlot, there's a very nice Merlot type, Monte do Maio. I sent some over to Graham."

"I had some. Very nice," Frade said.

"Well, let's have some of that, and then we'll decide on what to eat."

"Thank you," Clete said politely.

I'm going to have to work with this guy, so the last thing I want to do is antagonize the sonofabitch.

Aragao ordered the headwaiter, the waiter, and the wine steward around so arrogantly that Clete thought they would probably bow and back away from the table and then spit in the soup they would serve them.

As soon as the wine was delivered--and Aragao had gone through the ritual of sniffing cork, then swirling wine around the glass and his mouth before nodding his reluctant approval--Aragao turned to Frade and announced, "Frankly, I expected a somewhat older man; I have a son your age."

Frade's anger flared. His mouth almost ran away with him. At the last instant, he stopped himself.

"Do you?" he asked politely.

"He's a Marine. He was on Guadalcanal. Now he's in the Naval Hospital in San Diego."

Oh, shit!

"I flew with VMF-225 on Guadalcanal," Clete said. "How badly was he hurt?"

"Rather badly, I'm afraid. But he's alive. Colonel Graham didn't mention your Marine service."

"No reason he should have," Clete said.

"I served with Graham in France in the First World War. We stayed in touch. And then, when the Corps said I was too old to put on a uniform, I'd heard rumors that Alex was up to something. I went to him and asked if there was anything I could do. And here I am."

He looked at Frade. Smiling shyly, he said, "Semper Fi!"

"Semper Fi, Senor Aragao," Clete replied with a grin.

Thank you, God, for putting that cork in my mouth!

In the next hour and a half, Clete learned a good deal more about the pudgy man with the pencil-line mustache and the slicked-back hair.

The briefcase contained all the paperwork for what the newly appointed Lisbon station chief of South American Airways had done, which included renting hangar space--"That may have been premature," Aragao had said, "as the nose of that airplane you flew in obviously won't fit in the hangar, much less the rest of it. Not to worry; I'll deal with it"--office space, arranging for office personnel, the ticket counter at the airport, and personnel to staff that, too.

The list went on and on.

It was only when he finally had finished all that that Aragao, almost idly, said, "While it can wait, one of these days we'll have to figure out how I'm to be repaid. This really came to a tidy amount."

"You used your own money to pay for all this?" Clete asked.

"I wasn't given much of a choice."

"May I ask what you did before you . . ."

"I'm Portuguese. I'm a fisherman. Someone once calculated that we provide twenty percent of the fresh seafood served in the better restaurants between Boston and Washington. And then, too, we import foodstuffs--anchovies, for example, and olive oil, that sort of thing--into the United States. My grandfather founded that business. I was born here and spent a good deal of time here before the war; no eyebrows rose when I showed up and stayed."

"Give me the account numbers and routing information, and as soon as I get to Buenos Aires, I'll have the money cabled."

Aragao smiled at him.

"Graham said he thought I'd like you."

[FOUR]

Portela Airport

Lisbon, Portugal

2245 30 September 1943

Capitan Cletus Frade of South American Airways, trailed by a flight engineer and one of the backup pilots, took a little longer to perform his "walk-around" of the Ciudad de Rosario than he usually did, and he habitually performed a very thorough walk-around.

He had an ulterior motive: He wanted to have a good look at the passengers as they filed down a red carpet to the boarding ladder, and the best place from which he could do so was standing under the wing, ostensibly fascinated with Engine Number Four.

The passengers had just been served their dinner, but in the airport restaurant. That would keep the weight of their dinner and the Marmite containers and the rest of it off the Ciudad de Rosario. Once on board, they would be served hors d'oeuvres, champagne, and cocktails. Capitan Frade had made it very clear to the chief steward that every empty bottle, soiled napkin, and champagne stem was to be taken off the aircraft before the door was closed.

The headwind he expected over the Atlantic Ocean worried him. Depending on how strong it was, every ounce of weight might well count if they were to have enough fuel to make it back across. And if not, at least he could see nothing wrong with erring on the side of caution.

Frade paid particular attention to the clergy and religious as they mounted the ladder. There were four nuns escorting half a dozen children. He didn't even try to guess which of them were the children of the two SS officers he was going to fly to Argentina. And any of the nuns could have been the children's mothers, except for one, who looked as if she was well into her eighties.

All but one of the Jesuits were in business suits, looking like Welner; the exception was wearing a black ankle-length garment. The Franciscans were all wearing brown robes held together with what looked like rope. They all wore sandals, and most of them did not wear socks. Clete had no idea which of them usually wore a black uniform with a skull on the cap.

When the last passenger had gone up the stairway, Clete motioned for the people with him to get on board, and then he followed.

As Frade walked down the aisle to the cockpit, Father Welner caught his hand.

"No kiss-anything-good-bye jokes, all right?"

Ten minutes later, Clete eased back on the yoke.

"Retract the gear," Clete ordered.

"Gear coming up," the copilot responded.

"Set flaps at Zero."

"Setting flaps at Zero," the copilot responded. A moment later, he announced: "Gear up and locked. Flaps at Zero."

"You've got it," Capitan Frade said, lifting his hands from the yoke. "Take us to 7,500 meters. Engineer, set power for a long, slow, fuel-conserving ascent to 7,500."

"Si, Capitan."

Ten minutes after that, there was nothing that could be seen out the windscreen.

"Passing through four thousand meters," the copilot reported.

"Give the passengers the oxygen speech," Clete said.

"Are we going to come across somebody up here, Capitan?"

"I decided I didn't want to waste any fuel trying to meet up with the Americans," Clete said. "And I'm hoping that if there are Germans up here, they won't be able to find us--you'll notice I have turned off our navigation lights--or if they do, we'll be able to outrun them."

"I agree, Capitan," the copilot said.

Clete looked at him.

He was crossing himself and mumbling a prayer.