The Honor of Spies

XII

[ONE]

Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade

Moron, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

1700 1 October 1943

"Ladies and gentlemen," Capitan Frade announced over the passenger-cabin speakers, "this is your captain. Welcome to Buenos Aires. The local time is five p.m. and, as you can see, it's raining."

"Ciudad de Rosario," the tower operator's voice came over his headset. "Follow the Follow-Me to the terminal. Be advised there is a band on horseback on the tarmac."

"There's a what?" Frade asked.

There was no reply from the tower. But when he turned Ciudad de Rosario onto the taxiway, there it was--a forty-trooper-strong, horse-mounted military band in dress uniforms getting soaked in the rain.

Frade turned to Capitan Manuel Ramos beside him and said, "Don't let those horses get in the prop wash. It'll be a Chinese fire drill."

Capitan Frade's copilot had no idea what a Chinese fire drill was, but he, too, had been thinking about the effect that the blast of air from the Constellation's four engines was going to have on the band's horses.

"Engineer, shut down Three and Four," Frade ordered.

"Shutting down Three and Four," the engineer replied. "What's going on?"

The Ciudad de Rosario taxied toward the tarmac. The horses didn't like the airplane, the noise it made, or the prop wash that had made its way around the Constellation from its left engines and was blowing the water from the rain-soaked tarmac at them. The tuba player and one of the kettle drummers lost their instruments when their mounts became unruly.

"Ah, ha!" Clete said. "Mystery explained. El Presidente is under one of those umbrellas."

Twenty or more people were under a sea of umbrellas in front of the passenger terminal.

"And so is the Papal Nuncio," Ramos replied.

"I'm going to stop it right here, Manuel," Clete said. "We don't want to drown the president."

"Especially not now," Ramos said.

"Why 'especially not now'?"

"Cletus, El Presidente didn't come out here with the band of the Second Cavalry to welcome us home. He came out to rub Brazil's nose in SAA's mud. We now have a transoceanic airline, and the Brazilians don't."

"If I knew you were so smart, Manuel, I would have let you land."

"If you had let me land, it would've been because you know I am a Numero Uno pilot," Ramos said. He demonstrated Numero Uno by holding up his left fist, balled, with the index finger extended.

Frade laughed.

"How about getting some ground power out here?" he said into his microphone.

A moment later, Clete saw the ground power generator being pushed toward them. And he could see something else in the sea of umbrellas that made his heart jump. Retired Sargento Rodolfo Gomez of the Husares de Pueyrredon was holding an umbrella over the mother of Clete's unborn child. Over only her. Rodolfo was getting soaked.

There is nothing in this world that I would rather do this instant than run down the aisle, open the door, and--the moment the stairway appears--run down it to Dorotea and wrap my arms around her.

But I can't do that.

"Tell you what, Manuel: While I shut it down, you go back in the cabin and pick some unlucky soul to get off first and deal with El Presidente."

"Cletus, that's your honor," Ramos said. "This would not have happened without you."

"That wasn't a suggestion. That's what they call an order," Frade said.

"I will be embarrassed. I was not the pilot in command."

That embarrassment will last until El Presidente pumps your hand.

"Well, I won't tell anyone if you don't," Frade said. "Do it, Manuel, please, as a favor to me."

"If you insist."

And when your picture appears on the front page of La Nacion, I will have one more good guy in my corner.

And if your picture is in the newspapers, the picture of Don Cletus Frade, master aviator and OSS agent, won't be.

"We have auxiliary power," the engineer reported.

"Shut down One and Two," Clete ordered. "Go, Manuel! Don't keep El Presidente waiting."

When Clete finally came out of the cockpit, he saw that someone else already had decided who was going to deplane first. The nuns and orphans were standing at the door.

Why did the steward do that?

He then saw the Jesuit priest bringing up the rear of that line, after the nuns, orphans, members of the Order of Saint Francis, and the other Jesuits.

Why? Because Father Welner "suggested" that to him.

What is that wily Jesuit up to?

Clete looked out a window.

Manuel Ramos and the older pilot whose name Clete could not remember were shaking hands with El Presidente and party, everybody under umbrellas.

Where the hell did all those umbrellas come from?

And the people holding them?

The band was playing. Trumpets and flutes only, plus a xylophone.

I guess the rain fucked up the drums.

El Presidente and one other man--a short, pudgy, middle-aged fellow wearing clerical vestments, a wide-brimmed hat, a huge gold cross, and a purple waistband--Christ, that must be the Papal Nuncio! What the hell is he up to?-- plus umbrella holders--God, there must be twenty of them. Where the hell did they all come from?--walked toward the stairway.

Two of the nuns started down the stairway, followed by two orphans. Then two more nuns, followed by four older orphans.

When they got to the tarmac, now shielded by umbrellas, the nuns curtsied before the Papal Nuncio and kissed his ring. The Papal Nuncio made what Clete thought was a gesture of blessing, then patted the orphans on the head.

Then El Presidente patted the orphans on the head.

Flashbulbs from at least fifteen photographers lit the scene.

The umbrella holders then led the nuns and the orphans toward two buses that Clete hadn't noticed before. The buses were parked beside a Mercedes limousine bearing diplomatic license plates.

The number on the plate--0001--caught Clete's eye.

Who the hell gets plate Number One? God?

Close, Cletus.

The Papal Nuncio gets diplomatic license plate Number One, that's who!

Now members of the Order of Saint Francis went through the ritual. They all kissed the Papal Nuncio's ring, but he did not pat their heads, and El Presidente gave them nothing but a smile and a quick handshake.

And then finally the Jesuits. When they had gone through the line, the Papal Nuncio and Father Welner, each with his own umbrella holder, walked to the Mercedes limousine and got in.

Clete turned and went into the galley, which was between the cockpit and the passenger compartment. He quickly found a bottle of brandy and a snifter. He half filled the glass, then took it and the bottle to one of the first seats, sat down, and took a healthy swallow.

A sudden memory filled his mind.

"This is a long goddamn way from our puddle jumper, isn't it, Uncle Jim?" he said softly but aloud, his eyes filling with tears and his voice on the edge of breaking. "Here I am having a little snort after flying this great big beautiful sonofabitch across the Atlantic!" He raised the glass, said, "Mud in your eye!" and drained it.

James Fitzhugh Howell, Clete's uncle, who had raised him and was really the only father he had known as a child and young man, had taught Clete to fly in a Piper Cub when he was thirteen.

He poured more cognac and estimated it would be another three or four minutes before he could leave the Ciudad de Rosario and go down the stairway and put his arms around Dorotea and feel her warmth and smell her hair.

Three minutes later, a familiar voice pleaded: "Please don't say it, Cletus."

"But they will," Clete said. "If we keep meeting this way on my airplane, people will talk."

El Coronel Alejandro Bernardo Martin of the Bureau of Internal Security slipped into the seat beside him.

Clete raised his glass in salute.

"How much of that have you had?" Martin asked.

"A lot. I try never to fly sober."

"We have to talk," Martin said, shaking his head.

"Not now, please, Alejandro. You may not believe this, but I have just flown this great big airplane back and forth across the Atlantic. I have earned this." He raised the glass again. "Care to join me?"

Martin said: "SS-Brigadefuhrer Manfred von Deitzberg has just flown across the River Plate to Montevideo. In one of your airplanes."

Clete looked at him, both eyebrows raised in surprise.

Martin went on: "Carrying the passport of an ethnic German Argentine--Jorge Schenck--who died in a car crash in 1938."

"I wondered why that sonofabitch came back," Clete said, "and what he wants."

"Well," Martin said, "Adolf Hitler himself has ordered the destruction of your airplanes--the big ones--as well as your elimination. And the elimination of the Froggers. And while von Deitzberg is here, to make sure Operation Phoenix is running smoothly. There's almost certainly more."

"Where are you getting all this?" Clete asked, adding incredulously, "Adolf Hitler?"

Martin nodded. Then he asked: "Where are you going from here?"

"First, to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, and then, first thing in the morning, to Mendoza. My Lodestar's at the estancia."

"You couldn't spend the night here? Either at your place on Libertador or the big house on Coronel Diaz? There's some people I want you to talk to."

"So far as the house on Coronel Diaz is concerned, the last time that Enrico and I went there"--he nodded toward Rodriguez, who was sitting across the aisle feeding brass-cased shells into his Remington Model 11 riot shotgun--"you might recall that 'members of the criminal element' tried to kill us. Dorotea's here . . ."

"I saw her. With Sargento Gomez and what looks like four of his friends standing with her."

". . . and I don't want some bastard taking a shot at her. And, so far as the house on Libertador is concerned, I'm not sure they've had time to finish fu migating."

"Fumigating? Rats?"

"In a manner of speaking. After my Tio Juan moved out, I had the whole house painted and fumigated."

"That was necessary?"

"I thought so."

The house on Libertador had been built by Clete's late granduncle, Guillermo Jorge Frade, who had the reputation of being very fond of both women and horse racing, not necessarily in that order. The master bedroom, which took up most of the third floor of his mansion, offered a place in which he could entertain his lady guests and watch the races in the Hipodromo across the street, either separately or simultaneously.

When Clete had first come to Argentina and made his peace with his father, his father had turned the mansion over to him. Clete had been in Guillermo Jorge Frade's enormous bed when the first assassination attempt had been made. The assassins came there after slitting the throat of the housekeeper, la Senora Mariana Maria Dolores Rodriguez de Pellano, Enrico's sister, in the kitchen.

And three days later, having learned of the attempted assassination, la Senorita Dorotea Mallin, whom Clete had thought of as "The Virgin Princess," had stormed into the bedroom, angrily berating Cletus for not having called her. In the discussion that followed, la Senorita Mallin had not only lost her virginity but become with child.

The memory of that had caused Clete's stomach to almost literally turn when his mind filled with images of Juan Domingo Peron and his thirteen-year-old paramour in the same bed. He wasn't sure that a coat of paint and a thorough fumigation would correct the situation, but it couldn't hurt.

"Your Tio Juan is one of the things we have to talk about," Martin said. "This is important, Cletus."

"You're asking," Clete said thoughtfully. "Usually, it's 'come with me or get tossed into the back of a BIS car in handcuffs.' "

"I'm asking," Martin said.

After a moment, Clete said, "Okay. I'll send Enrico to put Dorotea in the Horch. It's in the hangar. Then, just as soon as that crowd thins out, we'll drive to the house on Libertador. Under the capable protection of the stalwart men of the Bureau of Internal Security."

"Thank you," Martin said sincerely. And then he chuckled. "I was just thinking, honestly, that 'with Don Cletus's private army out there, it should be completely safe.' How many of your men are out there, anyway?"

"Mi coronel, I told Gomez to bring at least thirty," Enrico Rodriguez answered for him. "And I told him that if anything happened to Dona Dorotea or Don Cletus, I would kill him."

He pushed the bolt-release button on the side of the Remington Model 11. With a loud metallic chunk, it fed a brass-cased round of double-ought buckshot into the chamber.

Then Enrico stood up and walked down the aisle of the passenger compartment to the door.

[TWO]

Suite 308

Hotel Casino de Carrasco

Montevideo, Uruguay

1745 1 October 1943

SS-Brigadefuhrer Manfred von Deitzberg was a little surprised that everything so far had gone as smoothly as von Gradny-Sawz had said it would. Neither the immigration officers in Buenos Aires nor those here had questioned his Jorge Schenck passport.

Halfway across the River Plate, it occurred to von Deitzberg that the South American Airways Lockheed Lodestar was far more comfortable than the last transport aircraft he had flown in--the Heinkel, which had taken him from Berlin to the submarine pens at Saint-Nazaire.

That had triggered several thoughts, the first that he didn't care what he had to do to avoid it, he was not going to return to Germany aboard a gottverdammt U-boat. That had been immediately followed by the realization that he probably would not be returning to Germany by any means.

The conversation he had had with von Gradny-Sawz had brought that out in the open. Von Deitzberg had known it all along, of course, but even privately thinking that the war was lost had, until now, seemed treasonous.

How can the truth be treasonous?

Von Paulus had lost 100,000 men defending Stalingrad and had taken the 70,000 still alive into Russian captivity when he finally had to surrender.

Doenitz has had to call off the submarine interdiction of the supply convoys from the United States and South America because of his losses.

Africa has been lost. And Sicily has been lost.

The English and the Americans are in half of Italy, and when they have captured the rest of it, they would start planning the cross-Channel invasion of France, from England. Which would succeed.

How is facing facts with a military professional's eye treasonous?

I will, of course, continue to honorably perform my duty as a German officer as long as that is possible.

But my duty is not to throw my life away by throwing myself under the tracks of a Russian tank rolling down the Unter der Linden--as they will sooner or later.

Rather, my duty is to carry out my orders to establish a sanctuary here in South America from which the leaders of National Socialism can rise, indeed, phoenixlike from the ashes.

I am not being treasonous; I am being professionally realistic.

A taxi took von Deitzberg from the airport to the Hotel Casino de Carrasco on the shore of the River Plate. He was shown to a comfortable small suite on the third floor, from which he could see the beach.

On the SAA Lodestar, he had planned his first move. He would call von Tresmarck's home. If he was home, he would tell him first that no one was to know he was in Uruguay, and then to come to the casino hotel and to his suite. If he wasn't home, he would tell Inge--calling her "Frau von Tresmarck"; he was here on duty--to call her husband at the embassy, and tell him the same thing.

She will learn I'm here, and certainly hasn't forgotten what happened the last time I was. She will wonder if it's going to happen again. But since I didn't greet her charmingly, she will wonder if "Frau von Tresmarck" is in some kind of trouble. There is a certain appeal in making Inge a bit uneasy.

That plan fell apart from the start. There was no listing in the telephone book for the von Tresmarck residence. He knew it was in the neighborhood of Carrasco. He'd been there, but he wasn't sure exactly where it was, and he didn't want to get in a taxi and ride up and down streets looking for it.

There was nothing to do but call the German Embassy. The possibility existed that either the Uruguayan authorities or the gottverdammt OSS--or both--had tapped the embassy lines. But after thinking it over, von Deitzberg realized he had no choice.

A female answered the telephone.

"Senor von Tresmarck, please," von Deitzberg asked in Spanish.

"I'm sorry. El Senor von Tresmarck is not available."

"Perhaps he's at home. Could you give me that number, please?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I couldn't do that."

He switched to German: "Herr von Tresmarck is an old friend."

So did she: "I'm sorry, Mein Herr, I can't give out home numbers of embassy officers."

"Connect me with Herr Forster, please."

Von Deitzberg didn't want to talk to Forster either, but again realized he had no choice.

Konrad Forster, who was diplomatically accredited to the Republic of Uruguay as the commercial attache of the embassy, was actually Hauptsturmfuhrer Forster of the Geheime Staatspolizei of the Sicherheitsdienst. His mission was to report on the activities of Ambassador Joachim Schulker and of course on Sturmbannfuhrer Werner von Tresmarck, who was officially the embassy security officer. Reports on the latter went directly to the office of the Reichsfuhrer-SS, which normally meant to the desk of First Deputy Adjutant von Deitzberg.

But I'm not there. And if Forster reports that I'm in Montevideo and it comes to the attention of Himmler--as it almost certainly will--the Reichsfuhrer will wonder what I'm doing here when I'm supposed to be blowing up airplanes in Buenos Aires at the specific order of Der Fuhrer.

"Forster speaking."

"Konrad, this is Manfred," von Deitzberg said in German.

"Who?"

"The last time we saw one another was when you were being interviewed for your present assignment."

"Excuse me?"

"Listen to what I just said, and think, you Trottel !" von Deitzberg snapped.

After a long moment, Forster said, "Herr Brig--"

"Do not use my name!" von Deitzberg interrupted.

"Yes, sir."

"I'm in town unexpectedly, and I don't want anyone to know. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get in your car and drive to the Carrasco casino--"

"Right now?"

"No, a week from Thursday! You are trying my patience, Forster."

"Yes, sir."

"Drive your car--drive yourself in your personal car--into the basement garage. Come up to the lobby. I will be there reading a newspaper. Do not recognize me. Once you have seen that I have seen you, go back to the garage. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Von Deitzberg hung up.

Forster came into the lobby of the casino twenty-five minutes later.

He was a slight man in his early thirties who wore his black hair slicked down and just long enough to part. He wore wire-framed glasses, the lenses of which were round. The result was that he looked very much like Heinrich Himmler.

Forster did as he was ordered. He looked around the lobby, saw von Deitzberg, and then when he was sure von Deitzberg had seen him, turned and walked back to the elevator.

Von Deitzberg waited several minutes, then took the stairway to the basement garage. Forster was nowhere in sight, but a minute later the headlights of a small Opel sedan flashed. Von Deitzberg walked to the car and got in.

"You took long enough to get here, Forster," von Deitzberg greeted him.

"Herr Brigadefuhrer--"

"Do not use my name or rank," von Deitzberg interrupted him.

"--I had to go to my home to get my personal car, sir."

"I am here on a confidential mission for Reichsfuhrer-SS Himmler," von Deitzberg said. "I am using the name and identity credentials of an ethnic Argentine named Jorge Schenck. I will use that name if I ever have to contact you again. You will tell no one I am here."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, where is von Tresmarck?"

"In Paraguay, sir."

Von Deitzberg thought: What the hell is that degenerate sonofabitch up to? Then he said: "What's he doing in Paraguay?"

"It was in my report to the Reichsfuhrer-SS, sir. Von Tresmarck said he was on a mission for you."

"I didn't see your report," von Deitzberg said. "I was on another mission for the Reichsfuhrer-SS."

Actually, I was on a gottverdammt submarine.

"Actually, Konrad"--This should impress you, you jackass--"this mission is of such importance and the necessity for secrecy is such that I was transported to Argentina by U-boat. Obviously, I was unable to get your reports while aboard the submarine."

"I understand, Herr Br . . . Schenck, you said?"

"Schenck, Jorge Schenck," von Deitzberg furnished. "Don't forget that again!"

He let that sink in, then asked, "Von Tresmarck told you nothing more specific than he was on a mission for me?"

"That was all he told me, sir."

"Good," von Deitzberg said. "Sometimes he talks too much. The question then becomes: 'Which Paraguayan mission is he working on?' Did he travel alone?"

No, of course he didn't. And he and that goddamned whore I had marry him aren't anywhere near Paraguay. They, and God alone knows how much of the confidential special fund's assets, are in Brazil or Bolivia.

"Yes, sir."

"Then Frau von Tresmarck is here?"

"Yes, sir, as far as I know."

"As far as you know? She either is or she is not. Which is it?"

"I saw Frau von Tresmarck yesterday, sir. Sturmbannfuhrer von Tresmarck went to Paraguay twelve days ago, sir."

Inge didn't go?

Then what's he up to in Paraguay?

A little vacation with a homosexual lover?

"I'm sure she will be able to shed some light on the situation," von Deitzberg said. "What I want you to do now, Forster, is go to her home. Tell her I am here, impress upon her the need for secrecy, and then tell her to drive here to the casino garage, park her car, and then go to suite 308."

"May I suggest, Herr Schenck, that perhaps there would be more security if I drove you to the von Tresmarck home?"

"I considered that, of course. One of the problems is that I would have to return here eventually. That would mean either you or Frau von Tresmarck would have to drive me, and we might be seen together. This way . . ."

"Of course. I should have considered that."

"Yes, Forster, you should have. Now get going."

"Jawohl, Herr Schenck."

[THREE]

The knock came at the door of suite 308 forty-five minutes later.

"Finally!" von Deitzberg snapped.

He had spent the last fifteen minutes--he had estimated that it should take Inge no longer than thirty minutes from the time Forster had left the casino to get there from her home; wherever it was, it wasn't far--considering the very real possibility that she wasn't going to come at all. That as soon as she got her orders from Forster and he left, she had departed for parts unknown with whatever confidential special fund cash von Tresmarck had left behind when he went to Paraguay--if he actually had gone to Paraguay. And considering his options if that indeed proved to be the case.

He was obviously going to have to find the both of them, recover as much--if anything--as he could of the money they had stolen, and then eliminate the both of them.

And he had no idea how to do either. And no one to help him to do it.

That had caused him to first think that Anton von Gradny-Sawz would be absolutely useless in tracking them down, and then that the money he had promised Der Grosse Weinerwurst to buy them refuge wasn't going to be available.

And he had of course thought of Inge.

Put those thoughts from your mind.

What you have to do now is think about staying alive.

He walked quickly to the door and pulled it open.

"Guten abend," Inge von Tresmarck said.

She was wearing a skirt and a simple white cotton blouse through which he could see her brassiere.

She's better-looking than I remembered.

He took a step backward and coldly motioned her into the room. Then he pointed to a small couch.

She walked to it, sat down, crossed her legs, and looked at him.

"What is your husband doing in Paraguay?" he demanded.

"I didn't have any idea you were here, or were even coming," she said.

"Answer the question, Frau von Tresmarck."

She didn't immediately reply.

She's making up her mind what to say.

He walked to her and slapped her face.

"Answer my question!"

She put her hand on her cheek and looked at him with terror in her eyes and took a deep breath.

"I have no choice but to put my life in your hands," she said softly and more than a little dramatically.

She rehearsed that line! Gottverdammt Hure thinks she can play me the way she played those fools in the Hotel Am Zoo!

He slapped her again, this time in genuine anger.

"Your life has been in my hands since I sent you over here," he said. "What is he doing in Paraguay?"

"May I try to explain?" she said. "Please."

He glowered at her, then nodded.

"Make it quick," he said coldly.

"Herr Brigadefuhrer," she said, looking up at him, "I know about the confidential special fund."

What the hell does she mean by that? Of course she knows about that.

But, my God, she's not supposed to know anything about it! I made it very clear to that degenerate husband of hers that he was to tell her nothing about it; that if I ever learned she knew anything about it, he wouldn't live long enough to be transported to Sachsenhausen.

"You know about what?" he asked icily.

"The confidential special fund."

"Your husband told you something about--what did you say?--a 'confi dential fund'?"

"He didn't tell me. I found out."

"You found out what?"

Why is she looking at my stomach?

My God, I have an erection! That's what she's looking at!

"Everything," she said. "I knew he was doing more than his work for Operation Phoenix, and I wanted to know what."

"And?"

"And I found out. Everything."

He didn't reply immediately.

"That happens to me, too," she said softly.

"What?"

"When you slap me, it excites me, too."

She raised her hand and ran the tips of her fingers along his penis.

"Tell me," she said in an excited whisper.

"Tell you what?"

"Order me," Inge said huskily. "Order me to take it in my mouth."

When he had recovered his breath, von Deitzberg turned his head and looked at Inge. Her blouse was open and her brassiere had been pushed off her breasts. Her skirt had been raised over her hips.

God alone knows what happened to her underpants!

And then he remembered tearing them off.

He looked down and saw that his underpants and his trousers were around his ankles. He was still wearing his shoes.

He felt an urge to giggle.

"I have an idea," he said. "Why don't we take our clothes off the next time?"

She chuckled and smiled at him, and raised her hand to touch his cheek.

"Fine with me," she said.

"I heard Werner talking with Ramon--"

"Ramon being his lover?" von Deitzberg interrupted.

She nodded.

They were still in the bed. But the bedcovers had been taken off and von Deitzberg was naked under the sheet. Inge was sitting on the bed with her back propped against the headboard.

When Inge had gone to the bathroom, he had stripped, then hung his trousers and shirt neatly over a chair. Inge was wearing the terry-cloth robe she had found in the bathroom. It hung loosely on her and he could see her breasts.

"Who is this man?" von Deitzberg asked.

"A Uruguayan, of course. He's thirty-something. Not bad-looking. Doesn't look like a poufter."

"A what?"

"That's what they call queers here. It's English, I think. They use a lot of English words here."

"What does he do?"

"He owns a restaurant. Actually, several restaurants and a poufter bar."

" 'A poufter bar'?" he parroted, and chuckled.

"A poufter bar," she repeated, smiling. "That's where Werner met him."

"Would you say that Werner has told his poufter friend about the confidential special fund?"

She smiled and nodded.

"I'm sure he has."

Then both poufters have to be eliminated.

"How did you get to eavesdrop on their conversation?"

"Conversations, plural. A lot of them. I had to protect myself; Werner would throw me to the wolves and take pleasure watching them eat me."

"And how did you do this?"

"The first time, it was by accident. I'd told Werner I was going to Punta del Este--"

"Where?"

"It's a beachside resort about a hundred kilometers from here. I go there sometimes to lie on the beach."

And possibly to find someone who can give you what you're not getting from your poufter?

"Go on."

"And I had trouble with my car and couldn't go. I had to put the car in the garage. I was in my bedroom when I saw Werner drive up with Ramon. I suspected they came here when they thought I was gone."

"Not to Ramon's house? Apartment?"

"Ramon is married," she said.

"A married poufter?"

"He and Werner have that in common," Inge said. "Anyway, I was curious. I hid in my closet. Werner didn't see my car, but he looked into my bedroom. . . ."

"You have separate bedrooms?"

She nodded. "And when I wasn't there, they went to his. I could hear everything that went on in his bedroom. That was interesting. Werner is the woman. I thought it would be the other way. And when Ramon went home to his loving wife, I walked over here to the Casino and took a room. He didn't suspect a thing.

"Sometimes they didn't even--you know, do it. But they talked about what they should do with Werner's money--the money the Jews gave him; the confidential fund--and I found that fascinating. And then I started looking in his safe. I knew where he kept the combination; he could never remember it. All the details and property deeds--and of course the money waiting to be invested--were in there."

"So what are the poufters doing in Paraguay?"

"Werner is worried about you. He thinks you have concluded he knows too much and are going to order him back to Germany and send him to Sachsenhausen."

"I couldn't risk him running off at the mouth, either on his way to Sachsenhausen or once he was in there," von Deitzberg said.

"I thought about that too," she said matter-of-factly. "And I thought about you, that you should know, but how was I going to get in touch with you?"

"That raises several questions in my mind," von Deitzberg said. "What did you think I should know?"

"That Werner, especially after he decided the war is lost . . . Is the war lost, my darling?"

What does she think, that after we have rolled around like two dachshunden in heat, that we are now lovers, that she can call me "my darling"?

"Things do not look good," von Deitzberg said.

She nodded thoughtfully, then said: "Where was I? Oh, yes. Werner decided that even if you didn't order him back to Germany, the war was lost and he had to protect himself. That he had decided to take all the cash and go to Paraguay. With Ramon, of course."

Can I believe her?

Of course I can't believe her. She's a Hotel Am Zoo whore.

A very good one, to be sure, but a Hotel Am Zoo whore.

"Inge, why did you want to tell me all about this?"

"To whom else could I turn?"

"Why would you think I would help you?"

"That's what I meant when I said I have no choice but to put my life in your hands."

"Why, Inge, did you think I would give a damn?"

She exhaled audibly.

"Here goes. You knew all about me before you set me up with Werner . . ." True. I knew everything about you except your ability to sexually arouse me as no other woman ever has. Arouse and then satsify me.

". . . so you know that not only are we from the same background . . ."

Partially true. You are upper bourgeoisie. Your family had money. My family is noble but had no money. Where is she going with this?

". . . but also are survivors. When we're knocked down, we get up again."

That's at least partially true. I didn't quit when I was nearly on the dole in the army. I put up with it, starved, until I saw an opportunity to better myself.

"Is there a point to this, Inge?"

"And then there is the other thing."

"What other thing?"

"What happened to us the first time we were alone. And again just now."

Okay, now I understand. I wonder why I didn't see it coming?

She wants to buy my protection with her body.

Well, what the hell, let her think that. What have I got to lose?

When the time comes, I can eliminate her.

"Yes," he said, and gave in to the temptation to put his hand into the opening of the terry-cloth robe.

God, she's got a great body!

Control yourself, for Christ's sake!

He withdrew his hand as she put her hand on the sheet covering him.

"You said something about money in the poufter's safe?"

"About two hundred thousand American dollars and fifty thousand English pounds."

A pound is worth four point one U.S. dollars. She's talking about another $200,000. My God!

"Why so much?"

"Well, after they decided to go to Paraguay, Werner just about stopped sending money to Germany. They're going to take it with them when they go."

Well, if he left all that money here, he's going to come back for it.

"When do you think he'll be coming back?"

"I don't really know. Probably not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. They're driving, and the road from the Brazilian border isn't really safe at night.

God, am I glad I asked that question!

"As much as I hate to say this, Inge, you're going to have to put your clothing back on. . . ."

"Oh, really?" she said, and made a sad face.

"And go to your house and bring everything in the safe back here. Everything."

He saw the look in her eyes.

"You're going to have to trust me, Inge," he said, and took her hand. "Before this situation gets out of control and we're both in trouble."

She considered that a moment.

"How do you know you can trust me?" she asked. "I mean, I might just drive to the house, get the money, get back in the car, and go to Brazil myself."

She met his eyes when he didn't immediately reply.

Then he said: "But, as you said a moment ago, we're survivors, and then there's that other thing."

"Manfred, you're naughty!" Inge said. And then she asked, "You are going to take care of me, aren't you?"

"Of course."

"Say it. I'm a woman. I can usually tell when a man is lying."

"I'm going to take care of you, Inge."

Just as long as you don't cause me problems.

She kept looking into his eyes.

After a long moment, she said, "I hope I'm not making a fool of myself, but I believe you."

Inge slid off the bed and started collecting her clothing. She put on her brassiere and then picked up her torn underpants.

She held them out for von Deitzberg to see.

"You're naughty, Manfred. Look at what you did!"

He felt a stirring at his groin as he looked at her standing there wearing nothing but the brassiere.

"Well, I'll just have to get another pair at the house," Inge said, and dropped the underpants into a wastebasket.

"Don't do it on my account," he said. "I like you better without them."

"You're naughty, naughty, naughty!"

She walked to him and kissed him rather lasciviously.

"I like it," she said.

"In the morning, Major von Wachtstein--You remember him?"

"The Luftwaffe officer who flies that little airplane?"

"The Fieseler Storch. That's him. You know him?"

"Slightly."

"In the morning, he's going to fly to the airfield here. He should arrive shortly before ten. You will meet him and give him the money. That means it will have to be made into some kind of a package. I don't want von Wachtstein to know what it is."

"He doesn't know about the confidential special fund?"

"No, and I don't want him to. But there is another man, Anton von Gradny-Sawz, in the embassy, who does."

"And what's he going to do with the money, this other man?"

"He is going to buy some property for us in Mendoza, in case the Fuhrer is wrong about the Final Victory and we need someplace to go."

" 'We' as in you and this other man, or 'we' meaning you and me?"

"We meaning you and me," von Deitzberg said.

Now that I think about it, Inge might be very useful.

She buttoned her blouse before pulling on the skirt.

She did that on purpose.

And succeeded in making my hormones rage.

I wonder how long that will last.

[FOUR]

4730 Avenida Libertador

Buenos Aires, Argentina

2015 1 October 1943

Don Cletus Frade ran his fingers across the hair of Dona Dorotea Mallin de Frade, marveling at its color and softness.

"And you said there wasn't time," he announced.

"What?" she asked somewhat sleepily, raising her head from his chest to look up at him.

"Write this down," he said. "You are fortunate to have a husband who can always find time for a 'Wham, Bam, Thank You, Ma'am!' "

"My God!" she said.

"Yes, my child?" he asked sonorously.

She bit his nipple.

"Jesus Christ!"

"Get up and get dressed. Your guests are downstairs."

"Let 'em wait," he said.

Dorotea rolled away from him, put her feet against his hips, and pushed him out of the bed. He barely managed to avoid being dumped on the floor, but he succeeded in landing on his feet. He looked down at her.

"Don't let this go to your head, but you're the most beautiful thing I've seen--"

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"--in the last few hours."

She grabbed one of the pillows and threw it at him. He caught it and threw it back at her like a basketball.

Then he raised his arms and crawled across the bed on his knees.

"I never realized before how erotic a pillow fight can be," he said. "How about another quickie?"

She rolled out the other side of the bed.

"Get dressed, Cletus! I'm serious."

"How can you be serious? You're naked."

"Get dressed!"

"Party pooper," he said, and walked toward the bathroom.

When he came out several minutes later, she was back in the bed, covered by the sheet.

"You changed your mind?" he asked.

"Go, Cletus!"

"You're not coming?" he asked.

"He asked, hopefully," Dorotea said. "Relax, my darling. No, I'm not coming. This is Argentina. Women are not welcome in serious meetings between men. What I'm going to do is give you a few minutes and then go down the back stairs and eavesdrop from the pantry."

"With or without your clothes?"

"Go!"

There were nine men in the library when Clete walked in trailed by Enrico Rodriguez. One of them was Antonio LaValle, who had been el Coronel Jorge Frade's butler and whom Clete had not expected to see; he normally reigned over the staff of the big house on Coronel Diaz.

La Valle--following the English custom, he was called by his surname--was tending bar. Everyone in the library held a drink in his hand.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Clete announced.

He recognized only Coronel Alejandro Martin and Capitan Roberto Lauffer, who was aide-de-camp to El Presidente, General Arturo Rawson. But one of the younger men and a tall, ruddy-faced man wearing the uniform of an infantry colonel looked familiar. He couldn't come up with names, but he remembered now that the younger man was Martin's driver.

I really don't know how to handle this.

I can hug Lauffer. We became close during the Operation Blue coup d'etat.

But what about Martin? Does he want these other people--and who the hell are they?--to think we're pals?

To hell with it!

He went to Lauffer, said "Roberto," and hugged him and made kissing gestures. Then he went to Martin, said "Alejandro, we're going to have to stop meeting like this," and hugged him but did not make a kissing gesture. Then he turned to Martin's driver.

"I'm Cletus Frade," he said, offering his hand. "I know your face, but I can't come up with a name."

"Sargento Lascano, Don Cletus."

"Actually, Major Frade," Martin said, "he is Suboficial Mayor Lascano. Manuel does for me what Enrico did for your father."

"You mean he carries you home when you've been at the bottle?" Clete asked innocently.

The infantry colonel laughed.

"Major Frade has your number, old boy," he said in a crisp British accent.

Martin shook his head and went on: "It is more practical for our purposes to have him known as 'Sargento,' as it is for you to have people think you are simply Don Cletus."

Clete nodded but didn't say anything.

"Similarly, it is more convenient for el Teniente Coronel Jose Cortina, who is my deputy"--a stocky, middle-aged man walked up to Frade and shook his hand--"to be thought of as Suboficial Mayor Cortina."

Then the other stocky, middle-aged man in the library walked up to Frade and offered his hand.

"My name is Nervo, Major. I am a policeman."

"Actually," Martin said, "my good friend Inspector General Santiago Nervo is the chief of the Gendarmeria Nacional."

Another man put out his hand. "I am Subinspector General Pedro Nolasco, Major. General Nervo's deputy."

The infantry colonel brought up the rear of the line.

"Edmundo Wattersly," he said, crushing Clete's hand. "We've met, but I rather doubt you'll remember."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't."

"At your wedding. And of course during your father's funeral. Your dad and I were at the academy together, and then again at the Kreigschule. He used to call me his 'conduit to Berchtesgaden.' "

What the hell does that mean?

Clete nodded, then announced, "We have about half an hour until dinner--"

"We didn't invite ourselves to dinner . . ." Martin interrupted.

"--so may I suggest we get started with whatever this is?" Clete went on.

Martin finished, ". . . but I'm sure we all appreciate your hospitality."

"Dinner will be at nine, Don Cletus," Antonio La Valle said. "I'm afraid it will be simple."

"I'm sure it will be fine, La Valle," Clete said. "And that will be all, thank you. We can make our own drinks."

"Cletus," Wattersly said. "You don't mind me calling you that, do you?"

"Not at all."

"If you don't mind, Cletus, may Antonio stay? I've always found that useful."

"Excuse me?" Frade said.

"Your dad and I formed the habit, when we were planning Operation Blue, of having La Valle and Enrico around. They were our human stenographers, so to speak. Between them, they remember everything, and that way, there's no stenographer's pad left lying about, don't you know, to fall into the wrong hands."

Clete glanced at La Valle and then at Enrico, who nodded.

"Please stay, La Valle," Clete said, then added, "I would very much like a drink."

A moment later, La Valle extended one to him on a small silver tray.

"Gentlemen, if I may?" Martin asked, looked around, and then turned to Frade and began: "The night el Senor von Deitzberg came ashore from U- 405--on September twenty-eighth, three days ago--Nervo, Nolasco, Lauffer, and I met to discuss our options. Among the things decided--since we are agreed on what has to be done--was that we should meet regularly to share information. That first meeting was held yesterday at lunch between Lauffer and Nervo at the Circulo Militar. Lauffer and Nervo concluded that there were two additional people who should be involved, el Coronel Wattersly and yourself.

"I concurred. I got in contact with Edmundo, then I met you when you landed at Jorge Frade today. Let me be frank, Cletus. While el Coronel Wattersly fully agrees that you should be part of this, Inspector General Nervo is more than a little nervous. . . ."

"The question in my mind, Don Cletus," General Nervo said, "is where do your loyalties lie? Are you an Argentine or a Norteamericano?"

Clete met Nervo's eyes for a long moment.

What the hell. When in doubt, tell the truth!

"To tell you the truth, which you probably won't like, General, I'm both. I'm a serving officer of the United States Marine Corps--"

"And the Office of Strategic Services," Nervo interjected.

"--attached to the Office of Strategic Services. I am also legally an Argentine and the son--"

"Of an Argentine hero who was murdered by the Nazis," Wattersly said. "And someone who risked his life--for Argentina--during Operation Blue. That should satisfy you, Santiago."

Nervo grunted, gave Wattersly a dirty look, grunted again, and then said: "Don Cletus warned I probably wouldn't like his answer. I don't. But I like it a hell of a lot more than if he had said--as I expected him to--'Not to worry, I'm an Argentine. Trust me.' " He paused. "Okay. Let's get on with this."

"Let me ask you, Santiago," Martin said. "Do you--and you, Nolasco--believe what I told you of the disgusting operation in which Jews are permitted to buy their relatives freedom from German concentration camps--from German poison gas?"

Both men nodded.

"Cletus, is this man von Deitzberg in charge of that?" Martin asked. "Is that what he's doing here?"

"That's two questions. So far as I know, he's the highest-ranking SS officer involved--and it's an SS operation. I don't know if Himmler is involved. I wouldn't be surprised, but I don't know. As to what von Deitzberg's doing here, I'm sure both Operation Phoenix and the ransoming operation are involved, but there's more, I'm sure. I just don't know what."

"That brings us to Herr von Gradny-Sawz, the first secretary of the German Embassy," Martin said. "He is their liaison man with BIS in regard to the missing Froggers."

"And to the Gendarmeria Nacional," Nervo said. "You have them, Major Frade, right?"

Clete didn't reply.

"More than likely in one of two places," Nervo went on. "Either on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo or--this is my gut feeling--at Estancia Don Guillermo in Mendoza. Specifically at your house--what's it called?--Casa Montagna-- in the mountains."

That wasn't a question. Not only does he know, but he was giving me the opportunity to lie about it.

"They're at Casa Montagna," Frade said.

"Good God! Another bloody complication!" Wattersly exclaimed.

"Excuse me?"

"Carry on with this, Alejandro," Wattersly said. "I'll pick this up later."

"Well, as I was saying, von Gradny-Sawz invited me to lunch a couple of weeks ago at the ABC on Lavalle. During lunch, he just about asked for asylum, and told me that they--specifically el Senor Cranz, who is the commercial attache at their embassy and, until von Deitzberg got off the U-boat, was the senior SS man in Argentina--intended to kidnap Senora Pamela de Mallin, Cletus's mother-in-law, her son, and possibly Senor Mallin, and exchange them for the Froggers. He said something to the effect that he was 'morally offended at the involvement of an innocent woman and her fifteen-year-old son in this sordid business.' "

"Alejandro, I put Pedro on that," General Nervo said. "He had a talk with one of our more prominent kidnappers who said--and Pedro believes him--that neither he nor any of his friends had been approached, nor had he or they heard anything about kidnapping any of the Mallin family."

"And you believe that, Comandante?" Wattersly asked.

Nolasco nodded. "The man I talked to, Coronel, depending on what the general tells the court, is facing either five years or twenty-five behind bars. He is motivated to be as cooperative as he possibly can. And while we're on the subject, he volunteered the information that he's reliably heard that the assassination community is reluctant to work for our German friends, especially when that is connected with Don Cletus. They prefer to deal with people who don't shoot back . . . or at least don't shoot back as well as Don Cletus and Rodriguez do."

"Carrying that further," General Nervo said. "The people I have in the German Embassy have heard nothing about this kidnapping plot either. So what's it all about?"

Frade thought: So he has people in the German Embassy? Why don't I believe that?

Someone in his position would almost be expected to have "people" in the German Embassy.

But for some gut reason, I don't believe him. For one thing, it would be the last thing someone like him would volunteer without reason.

Martin shrugged and held both hands up.

"You're saying there never was a plan to kidnap my mother-in-law?" Clete asked.

"We're saying we don't know," General Nervo said. "If I were you, I wouldn't take your people off any of them. It's always easier to keep people than to get them back."

"Returning to Senor von Gradny-Sawz," Martin said. "Yesterday, he called to tell me that he had just spent several days with von Deitzberg, who was in Argentina covertly and using the identity of a deceased ethnic German-Argentine named Jorge Schenck; that von Deitzberg had told him that Hitler has personally ordered him to destroy South American Airways' new aircraft--"

"I want to hear about that," General Nervo said. "What the hell that whole thing is all about, as well as the plans to destroy the airplanes."

"--I misspoke a moment ago. Von Gradny-Sawz said that Hitler had personally ordered Himmler to have von Deitzberg 'deal with the airplanes.' "

"If you take that as being true," Wattersly said. "And I find it difficult to believe that Herr Hitler even knows about South American Airways. He has a pretty full plate before him at the moment. But if that is the case, one must then assume that Hitler knows von Whatsisname is here. And if that is true, one must assume that von Whatsisname is up to something important."

"Von Deitzberg," Martin said somewhat impatiently. "SS-Brigadefuhrer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg."

"Thank you," Wattersly said politely.

"Von Gradny-Sawz also said that von Deitzberg told him he is to 'eliminate' the Froggers wherever and whenever found, and do the same to Don Cletus," Martin went on. "And then he told me that von Deitzberg was going to be on this afternoon's SAA flight to Montevideo."

"He's really being helpful, isn't he?" Nervo said. "What do you make of that?"

"Generally, I have the feeling that he's trying to ingratiate himself with me so that he can find asylum here. So far as von Deitzberg flying to Montevideo is concerned, I had the feeling--feeling only, nothing to back it up--that he would not have been distressed had von Deitzberg been arrested at the border."

"Why didn't you have him arrested?" Nervo asked.

"I want to arrest him--if it comes to that--for something more than having illegally entered Argentina. Blowing up airplanes, for example. Or hiring members of our criminal community to have another go at my friend Cletus."

Nervo grunted.

Martin went on: "The thought occurred to me that once I had arrested him, what would I do with him? The president would have to be informed immediately, of course. And he would have questions. 'How did he get into Argentina? ' I would then have the choice between pretending I had no idea--in other words, lie--or telling the president about U-405."

"Which would make the president then wonder both how you knew about U-405," Capitan Lauffer said, "and why you didn't arrest him on the beach at Samborombon Bay."

"And that would involve el Coronel Schmidt and his Mountain Troops," Nervo said. "And the German SS men who also came ashore, whom Schmidt took with him to San Martin de los Andes. And why didn't you arrest the lot?" He turned to Lauffer. "Tell me, Roberto, what would El Presidente do if this was laid before him? Seek the wise counsel of el General de Division Manuel Frederico Obregon, the director of the Bureau of Internal Security, to see what he made of it?"

"I'm afraid, sir, that's just what he would do," Lauffer said.

"I don't swim well with my hands tied," Nervo said. "So confiding in El Presidente doesn't seem to be an option."

"If SS-Brigadefuhrer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg . . ." Wattersly began, and then stopped. "Was that right, Martin?"

"That was correct, Coronel."

". . . is the major problem, the solution seems obvious. Any suggestions, Rodriguez?"

Frade thought: What's he talking about? What obvious solution?

Certainly, he's not suggesting . . .

Enrico popped to his feet, came to attention, and barked, "If Don Cletus approves, mi coronel, the Nazi bastard will be dead before the sun sets tomorrow."

"Good chap!" Wattersly said.

"Let's see what the Nazi bastard is up to before we do that," Clete said evenly.

"But, my dear fellow, you heard what Alejandro said. What he's up to is blowing up your airplanes and then killing you and the Froggers, not necessarily in that order. I say nip the whole bloody thing in the bud."

"I'd like to see who he contacts here, people we don't know about," Frade said.

Nervo grunted.

"So would I," Nervo said. "We can always kill him later."

"Well, now that that's come up," Wattersly said, "I am a bit curious to see if he tries to contact Coronel Schmidt."

"The Mountain Troops guy?" Clete said. "I thought he was Juan Domingo Peron's good buddy."

"Not exactly, Old Boy," Wattersly said. "You're really not aware of the di chotomous feelings Erich has toward your Tio Juan?"

"That's Schmidt's name, 'Erich'?"

"Erich Franz Schmidt. His mother and mine are cousins," Wattersly said. He paused and looked between Martin and Nervo. "We're getting off the track a bit here, but I think he should hear this. Agreed?"

Martin nodded. Nervo said, "I agree."

"Erich believes--he's from Bavarian Roman Catholic stock; they tend to be devout and nonquestioning--that Stalin, Communism, embodies the Antichrist, and that Hitler and the Nazis are fighting on the side of God.

"He is not a fool. Foolish, sometimes, but not a fool. He fully understands that Juan Domingo Peron's fascination with Fascism and National Socialism is based not so much on religious conviction but on what's good for Juan Domingo Peron.

"Erich is offended by Peron's morality, as manifested in his sexual tastes. He was one of the colonels who went to discuss them with him. You've heard about that, of course?"

"No," Frade said simply.

"A number of his fellow coronels went to Juan Domingo and asked him, in essence, 'Juan Domingo, what about this thirteen-year-old girl?' To which he replied, 'What's wrong with that? I'm not superstitious.'"

"Jesus Christ!" Clete said. "Is that true?"

"Unfortunately," Wattersly said. "I know because I was a member of the delegation."

"That degenerate sonofabitch!" Inspector General Nervo said bitterly.

"Now," Wattersly went on, "when furthering the interests of the Germans--protecting the landing site at Samborombon Bay, for example, or shooting up your Casa Chica in Tandil--coincides with what Peron wants, Erich will do it. He is sure God wants him to.

"But, and this is the point of this, he does not want Peron to become president--and will do whatever he thinks is necessary to see that Peron doesn't."

"That's not in the cards, is it?" Frade asked.

"Edmundo hasn't touched on this, Cletus, so I will," Inspector General Nervo said.

That's the first time he's called me by my first name.

Does that mean he's starting to like me?

Or just a slip of the tongue?

"What all of us in this room are doing is trying to prevent a civil war," Nervo said. "None of us wants what happened in Spain to happen here. Brother killed brother. A half-million people died. Her cities lie in ruins. The Communists took the national treasury to Russia to protect it--then kept it. Priests were shot in the street. Nuns raped. Need I go on?"

"No, sir. I'm aware of the horrors of the Spanish Civil War."

Nervo nodded, then went on: "The reason I looked away when your father--and of course Edmundo--were setting up Operation Blue was that I knew your father would not permit that to happen here. With him in the Casa Rosada and Ramirez as minister of war, there would be no civil war. Nor would Argentina become involved in the war itself. At the time, I thought the war was not Argentina's business.

"Things changed, of course, when your father was assassinated. I assumed that General Ramirez would step into your father's shoes and become president. That didn't happen. Ramirez decided that as minister of war he could keep a tighter grip on things--I'm talking about the armed forces, of course--than he could from the Casa Rosada. He put General Rawson into the Casa Rosada. I now believe that was the right decision.

"What I should have seen and didn't--Martin did; Wattersly did; others did; I didn't--was that as it becomes apparent to the German leadership that they have lost the war, they are becoming increasingly desperate. Desperate is the wrong word. Irrational? Insane? Insane. That's the word.

"I should have seen that when they tried to assassinate you. The first time. Trying to assassinate the son of the man who was about to become president of the nation was insanity! And I certainly should have seen it when they assassinated your father. But I didn't.

"It was only when el Coronel Martin brought to me proof of Operation Phoenix and then this other unbelievable operation of ransoming Jews out of concentration camps that my eyes were really opened.

"Do they really believe the Americans are going to stand idly by while Hitler and Himmler and the rest of the Nazis--thousands of them--thumb their noses at them from their refuge in neutral Argentina?

"What the Americans would do is sail a half-dozen battleships up the River Plate and tell us to hand over the bastards. At which point proud and patriotic Argentines would set out to do battle with our pathetic little fleet of old de stroyers! I don't want the Edificio Libertador taken down by sixteen-inch naval cannon.

"Unfortunately, this is life, not a movie. A bugle is not going to sound and the cavalry will not charge across the pampas to set everything right overnight.

"I would estimate that from sixty to seventy percent of the officer corps of the army think all those stories about concentration camps and the murder of hundreds of thousands of people in them are propaganda in the newspapers, which are all controlled by Jews. They believe it is only a matter of time before the godless Communists are driven back into Russia, and the American and British are driven out of Italy and North Africa by the Germans, who have secret weapons they will unleash on the forces of the Antichrist, if not tomorrow, then next week."

He stopped.

"Sorry, I got a little carried away." He passed his whisky glass to La Valle. "May I have some more of Don Cletus's scotch, please, La Valle?"

"You're doing fine, General," Clete said.

"Hear, hear," Wattersly said.

Nervo didn't reply. He just looked between Frade, Martin, and Wattersly as he took several deep swallows from a whisky glass that La Valle had handed him so quickly that Clete decided La Valle must have had it waiting.

Finally, Nervo took a last sip, signaled La Valle for another, and went on, his voice now very calm.

"Within the officer corps of the Armada Argentina, I would estimate twenty- or twenty-five percent are German sympathizers. What that translates to mean, come the civil war, is that the navy--after the Nazis are hung, or forced to walk the plank, or simply shot--will be firmly in the hands of the pro-British forces, which means they will be able to bring the Casa Rosada, the Retiro train station, and Plaza San Martin under naval gunfire.

"At those locations, proud and patriotic soldiers--after standing the anti-Germans in the officer corps against a wall and shooting them for treason--will engage the Armada Argentina with field artillery.

"I'm not sure if you know this, Cletus, but everybody else in your library knows that this has happened before in the history of the Argentine Republic. I don't intend to let it happen again," Nervo said softly, then took another sip of his fresh drink.

"None of us do," Martin said.

"I'd say the general has summed up the situation rather well," Wattersly said.

Lauffer nodded.

"All right, Cletus," Nervo said. "Your turn. Tell us--the truth--about your airline."

Frade looked at him.

And now I'm going to have to lie.

Frade then bought a moment of thought by passing his empty glass to La Valle.

I really don't want to lie to Nervo--to any of these people--but I certainly can't tell them that SAA has already begun to infiltrate Gehlen's men into the country.

So what to do?

"When in doubt, tell the truth" isn't going to work here.

What about "The truth, part of the truth, but nothing about Gehlen"?

La Valle delivered a fresh drink to Clete, who took a sip, then began: "You're going to find this hard to believe, General, but here's what I know. President Roosevelt wanted to punish Juan Trippe of Pan American Airways because of Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh."

"The first man to fly across the Atlantic?" Nervo asked.

"Yes, sir. What happened is . . ."

It took five minutes--which seemed longer--for Clete to relate the story. Nervo never for a second took his eyes off Clete's while he listened.

"That's what I know, General," Clete finished.

"And you believe this story?"

"Sir, the proof is at Aeropuerto Jorge Frade: three Lockheed Constellation aircraft."

"Edmundo?" Nervo asked.

"That story is so incredible, I'm tempted to believe it," Wattersly said.

"Why was Father Welner on the first flight to Portugal?" Martin asked Frade.

"Yes," Nervo added. "Why?"

"He came to me just before we took off," Frade immediately answered. "He said that the Vatican wanted him to carry a message to the cardinal archbishop here that they didn't want to trust to their usual communications channel."

"And I'm sure that's true," Nervo said. "Jesuits don't lie. The message probably said, 'Bless you, my son, go and sin no more.' But I'd like to know why else Welner wanted to go to Portugal."

"We brought back a flock of nuns and priests and orphans," Clete said. "And the Papal Nuncio in Lisbon arranged for a block of seats on every flight and paid in advance."

"When was the last time, Alejandro, that Customs officers strip-searched a nun entering the country?" Nervo said. "Or even a Jesuit priest?"

Martin shook his head and chuckled.

"The Germans are occupying Rome," Nervo said. "Do you think the Holy Father has decided it's time to move the treasury? Or at least the larger diamonds in the vaults?"

"You're only saying that," Martin said, "because you're a Saint George's Old Boy and you've been corrupted by all those terrible things Father Kingsley-Howard told you about Holy Mother Church."

Nervo and Lauffler chuckled.

"Well, I'll tell you this, Alejandro," Nervo said. "We'll never find out why the Vatican is flying all these nuns and priests. Holy Mother Church--and especially Jesuits like Welner--has been in our business much longer than we have and is much better at it than we are."

"I daresay you're right," Wattersly said.

"You said something before, Coronel," Clete said. "Said you'd get back to it. Something involving Casa Montagna?"

"Oh, yes! I'm glad you remembered. About a week ago, my first cousin once removed Erich Franz Schmidt happened to bump into me at the Circulo Militar and told me that he had been thinking about the weapons cached at Estancia Don Guillermo. He told me he had been running some road movement exercises with his regiment and he had been thinking of sending one of them over there to see if the weapons were still there and, if so, to take possession of them. So they wouldn't fall into the wrong hands."

"Why would he tell you this?" Clete asked.

"I'm the deputy chief for operations on the General Staff," Wattersly replied. "And I might have heard one of his road movement exercises coincided with the attack on Casa Chica in Tandil."

"What did you tell him?" Nervo asked.

"I told him I was sure the weapons cache had been removed when General Rawson became president, but that I would look into it for him."

"Are they still there?" Nervo asked.

"Yes, they are," Clete said.

"And you left it at that, Edmundo?" Nervo asked.

"Except for telling him not to send troops to Estancia Don Guillermo until I got back to him. It might offend Don Cletus, and Cousin Erich knew how close Don Cletus was to El Presidente."

"Maybe you should get them out of there," Martin suggested. "God might tell Schmidt to go get them."

"They're not going anywhere," Clete said evenly. "I need them. My wife lives there."

"And the Froggers, right?" Martin asked.

"And the Froggers," Clete admitted.

"If Schmidt goes there, it would be with at least one company of Mountain Troops."

"I can hold that mountain against his entire regiment," Clete said, unimpressed.

"Which would start that civil war we've been talking about," Nervo said. "That can't be allowed to happen."

"Then you had better figure out a way to keep this guy away from Casa Montagna," Clete said.

"I can stall him for several weeks," Wattersly said. "I mean insofar as 'get ting back to him' is concerned. I can't guarantee he won't act on his own."

"You better see that he doesn't, Edmundo," Nervo said.

The library door opened and Dorotea Mallin de Frade stepped into the room.

"I realize I'm interrupting all the naughty stories, but dinner is ready, gentlemen," she said.

"You could not have appeared at a better time, senora," General Nervo said. "I think we have said all that needed to be said. Right, Martin?"

Martin nodded, then looked at Wattersly, who nodded and then looked at Clete, who nodded.

"General Nervo, darling, was telling this story about the two nuns and the Gendarme--"

"I don't want to hear it," Dorotea said.

General Nervo laid his hand on Cletus's arm and motioned for him to follow Dorotea out of the library.

I don't know what the hell it is, but the touch of his hand makes me think I have just passed inspection.