The Honor of Spies

II

[ONE]

4730 Avenida Libertador

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1525 12 August 1943

When Cletus Frade came down the stairs into the basement garage of the mansion, he looked--and felt--both very tired and upset. He also felt grimy. He was wearing the same clothing--except for underwear that he had changed twice--he had put on forty-odd hours before in Los Angeles: a polo shirt and khaki trousers, and battered Western boots. Once he had arrived in Argentina, where it was winter, he had added a fur-collared leather jacket, the breast of which had sewn to it a leather patch bearing a stamped-in-gold representation of Naval Aviator's wings and the legend C. H. FRADE 1LT USMCR.

Except for maybe six hours spent on the ground taking on fuel, buying food (usually sandwiches), visiting some really incredibly foul gentlemen's rest facilities, and changing his linen, he had been either at the controls of a Lockheed Lodestar or catching what sleep he could lying in the aisle between the seats in the passenger compartment.

Finally, the Lodestar had touched down, twice, in Argentina.

The first time had been at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, where he had dropped off Mr. Wilhelm Fischer, a South African, and where Frade's wife had told him the bad news:

That she had gone to Casa Chica the previous afternoon with provisions for Sergeant Stein and the others and found only a nearly destroyed Casa Chica, large pools of blood on the airstrip, and nothing and nobody else. Stein was gone, and so were Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez, the Froggers, The Other Dorotea, and the dozen ex-Husares de Pueyrredon peones who were supposed to be guarding the place.

There hadn't been time then to do anything about that. The SAA Lodestar was due at Aerodromo Jorge Frade in Moron in an hour--he had sent a telegram from Brazil announcing their Estimated Time of Arrival--and if it didn't land more or less on time, el Coronel Martin, who Frade was sure would be there to meet him, would suspect that the Lodestar had landed somewhere else. For example, at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.

And taking into account what Dorotea had told him had happened at Casa Chica, it was also quite possible that Martin would be waiting at Jorge Frade with a warrant for his arrest as at least a conspirator in the kidnapping, or whatever it might be called, of the Froggers.

Clete Frade did the best with what he had. And what he had was his own Lodestar and someone who could fly it--SAA's chief pilot, Gonzalo Delgano. Delgano would not be suspected by Martin of having anything to do with the Froggers because Delgano was actually a BIS major charged by Martin with keeping an eye on Frade.

Frade had somewhat turned Delgano. The day before, during a fuel stop at La Paz, Bolivia, he had appealed to Delgano. And Delgano had, if not changed sides, then--after praying for guidance and being swayed by his concept of a Christian Officer's Code of Behavior--decided that he was morally obliged to help Frade smuggle Herr Fischer/Oberstleutnant Frogger into Argentina aboard the Lodestar.

If the whole thing had blown up--and it looked as if it had--and everything came out--as it inevitably would--Delgano was in deep trouble. But neither Frade nor Delgano thought el Coronel Martin would be waiting at Jorge Frade with handcuffs for both of them. With a little bit of luck, Delgano could just go home from the airfield.

Or get in a car and drive to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and fly the Frade Lodestar, with Oberstleutnant Frogger and the others of Frade's OSS team, across the River Plate to sanctuary in Uruguay.

Frade had ordered that everything the OSS owned on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo be prepared for demolition and for all the OSS personnel to be prepared to get on the Lodestar at a moment's notice.

Then he and Delgano had flown the SAA Lodestar to Aerodromo Coronel Jorge Frade in Moron, where neither was surprised to find el Coronel Martin waiting for them.

Not with handcuffs, but with the announcement that el Coronel Peron had some new information regarding the missing Froggers that he wished to discuss with Frade, and he thought that it would be a good idea for Frade to hear what he had to say.

"Not in the next couple of days, Don Cletus. Right now," Martin had said. "I'm afraid I must insist. You can follow me to the house on Libertador and then go home."

"How am I going to follow you?"

Martin pointed toward one of the hangars. Frade looked and saw Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodriguez standing beside one of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo's Ford station wagons.

On the way to the house on Libertador, Enrico had told Frade what had happened at Casa Chica, told him that the Froggers were safe and well protected in one of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo's casas, and shown him a thick stack of photographs that Sergeant Stein had taken at Casa Chica.

The meeting was brief. Afterward when Frade came down the stairs into the basement garage of the mansion, both very tired and upset, he was annoyed but not surprised to find Martin still waiting for him.

"Alejandro, what a pleasant surprise," Frade said sarcastically. "We're going to have to stop meeting this way; people will talk."

Enrico was with him, his riot shotgun held vertically against his leg. Martin was not amused by Frade's wit.

"That didn't take long," Martin said.

"Well, we didn't have much to talk about," Frade said.

"What did he have to say?"

"Very little after I told him I knew he was there when my Casa Chica was machine-gunned."

"Excuse me?"

Frade took the sheaf of pictures from the pocket of his leather jacket and handed them to Martin.

Martin tried very hard and almost succeeded in suppressing his surprise at the photographs.

"I didn't hear about any bodies," Martin blurted. "Where are they now?"

"God only knows," Frade said. "Why did you insist I come here, Alejandro?"

Martin took a moment to consider his reply, then said, "I thought perhaps el Coronel Peron could make the point that either kidnapping--or aiding and abetting the desertion of--German diplomats was a very dangerous thing to do."

"You thought what happened at Casa Chica was in the nature of a warning?" Frade asked.

"I didn't know it was anything like this," he said. "It happened while you were in the United States?"

Frade nodded. "Yesterday. You really didn't know?"

Martin shook his head.

"Did they get the Froggers?" he asked.

"The who? Next question."

Martin looked at him for a long moment, then asked: "Anything else of interest to me happen upstairs?"

"Well, I told him I wanted him out of this house by tomorrow. That was about it."

While many people knew the mansion to be el Coronel Peron's residence, and many even thought he owned it, the fact was that it belonged to Cletus Frade, and Peron had been using it as a sort of tolerated unwelcome guest.

Martin, who knew who owned the house, shook his head in disbelief.

"Actually, what I said was, 'Tio Juan, you degenerate sonofabitch. You're going to have to find someplace else for your little girls. I want you out of here by tomorrow.' That was after he waved his pistol at me."

"He did what?" Martin asked incredulously.

"For a moment I thought he was going to shoot me. But then Enrico chambered a round in the riot gun and he thought better of it. Now that I've had a couple of minutes to think it over, I almost wish he had tried. The tragic death of Juan Domingo in his godson's library because poor old Enrico didn't know his shotgun was loaded would have solved a lot of my problems."

"And now?"

"Now, nothing. I told him that if I even suspect an attempt is made on my life, my wife's life, or the life of anybody close to me, the photographs--and some other material I have--will be made public. The only people who know what happened upstairs just now are Enrico and me. And now you."

Martin considered that for a long moment.

"I'm sure you understand, my friend, that it isn't a question of if this situation will erupt but when. I really don't see Peron trying to kill you--at least personally--but there are a number of others who would like to see you out of the way."

Karl Cranz, for instance, Martin thought.

Cranz would be very unhappy indeed about the failure of the Tandil operation. Cletus Frade was making enemies left and right.

Frade nodded.

"We did not have this conversation," Martin went on. "What happened tonight was that I insisted you come here, as el Coronel Peron asked me to do, and waited here only until I was sure that you had met with him."

Frade nodded again.

The two shook hands.

"Enrico," Martin said, "I'm very glad there was no accident because you didn't know your shotgun was loaded."

Enrico nodded at Martin but said nothing.

Martin walked across the garage to a 1939 Dodge sedan. The driver saw him coming and had the engine started before he reached the car. Martin got in the front seat and the car drove off.

"We go to the estancia now, Don Cletus?" Enrico asked.

"I need a bath first," Frade said. "I haven't had one since I left Los Angeles.

Wives--write this down, Enrico--don't like men who smell."

"The apartment in the Hotel Alvear?" Enrico asked when they had gotten into a 1941 Ford Super-Deluxe station wagon.

"The house," Frade answered. "Hotel managers don't like men who need a bath any more than wives do."

[TWO]

1728 Avenida Coronel Diaz

Palermo, Buenos Aires

1620 12 August 1943

"There is a silver lining in every black cloud, Enrico," Frade said as they approached the huge, turn-of-the-century mansion. "Now that my Tio Juan is out of Uncle Willy's house--and after I have it fumigated--we can use that instead of this."

Enrico pulled the station wagon up to the massive cast-iron gates and tapped the horn. When there was no response in sixty seconds, he tapped it again.

"What I think we have here is one more proof that when el patron is away, the mice will play," Frade said.

When there was no response to the second tooting of the horn, Frade said, "Go open the gate."

Enrico got out and shoved the left gate open. From painful experience--he had scraped the fender of his 1941 Buick--Frade knew that as massive as they were, both of the gates had to be opened for an American car to pass. The house had been built before the arrival of the automobile.

Frade slid across the seat, intending to close the driver's door and drive the car inside himself.

He had just reached for the door when he saw Enrico take his pistol--an Argentine manufactured-under-license version of the 1911 Colt .45 ACP self-loading pistol--quickly work the action, and assume a crouching two-handed firing stance.

Frade grabbed Enrico's Remington Model 11 riot shotgun from where it was held in a clip against the dash, with the butt riding on the transmission hump, and dove out the open door.

He heard both the .45 firing and the sharper sound of something else firing as he hit the sidewalk. One of the windows in the Ford shattered.

Just to be sure, he worked the action, and a brass-cased shell flew out of the weapon.

I now have five.

He ran around the front of the Ford and stood up with the shotgun at his shoulder. There was a black 1938 Peugeot sedan stopped in front of the house. There were three men in it, one driving and two firing pistols. One had just taken aim at Frade when he staggered backward with a load of double-aught buckshot from the Remington in his chest. Clete had just taken a bead on the driver--the other man with the pistol was nowhere in sight--when the man's head exploded when a 230-grain, soft-nose lead bullet from Enrico's .45 struck him in the mouth.

It was suddenly very quiet. Clete could hear a car shifting gears. Without realizing he was doing it, Clete used the USMC signal for advance on the left to Enrico and they ran to opposite ends of the Peugeot. The third man was lying on the street in a growing pool of blood from his head.

Enrico crossed himself, then cursed.

Clete felt a little light-headed, and steadied himself on the Peugeot.

"Don Cletus, you are all right?"

"Hunky-dory," Frade said. "We better call the cops."

The moment he said it, he saw that would be unnecessary. Two policemen were coming down the street at a run on the left, and a third from the right.

After a moment, Clete realized that the cops were calling for him to drop the gun. He made a gesture of surrender and laid Enrico's shotgun on the roof of the Peugeot.

Enrico Rodriguez was not cowed by the police.

"This is Don Cletus Frade," he bellowed. "How dare you point a gun at him?"

This was followed by an order: "Get on the telephone and report to el Coronel Martin of the BIS that an assassination attempt has been made on Don Cletus Frade!"

[THREE]

The Embassy of the German Reich

Avenida Cordoba

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1640 12 August 1943

The commercial counselor of the embassy of the German Reich looked up with annoyance when there was a knock at his office door.

"Whoever that is, get rid of him," he ordered softly. "I am not available."

Fraulein Ingeborg Hassell, a middle-aged woman who wore her graying hair drawn tight against her skull, ending in a bun at the nape of her neck, quickly stood up and went to the door and opened it. A moment later, she closed the door and announced:

"It's Gunther Loche, Herr Cranz. He said it's important."

Cranz's eyebrow rose, and he made a Let him in gesture with his well-manicured fingers.

Fraulein Hassell opened the door and signaled for Loche to enter.

Cranz smiled warmly at Loche.

"I gather you have something to tell me about our friend, Gunther?"

"Yes, sir," Loche said. He was now standing almost at attention. His eyes flicked nervously at Fraulein Hassell.

"Be good enough, please, Fraulein Hassell, to give Gunther and me a moment?"

She went through the door and closed it after her.

"So what have you to tell me, Gunther?" Cranz asked.

"Herr Cranz, some men attempted to kill Frade as he was opening the gates of his house on Avenida Coronel Diaz."

"And?"

"Frade and his bodyguard killed them. There were three of them. Frade used a shotgun and his bodyguard a pistol."

This was not what Cranz hoped to hear.

"Frade was not injured?"

"No, sir. Neither he nor his bodyguard."

"And the men who did this: You think they all died?"

"Yes, sir. They were all dead."

Well, there's the silver lining in the dark cloud. If they're dead, the police can't tie me or Raschner to this.

"You did very well, Gunther," Cranz said. "There's one more thing I want you to do. Go to Herr Raschner's apartment and tell him--and absolutely no one, no one, else--what you just told me."

SS-SD-Sturmbannfuhrer Erich Raschner, his "deputy commercial attache," had organized the hit for Cranz.

"Jawohl, Herr Cranz."

"And send Fraulein Hassell back in here, will you, please, on your way out?"

"Jawohl, Herr Cranz," Loche barked. He gave Cranz the straight-armed Nazi salute, barked "Heil Hitler!" did an about-face, and marched to the door.

Cranz shook his head and waited for Fraulein Hassell to reappear.

When she had, he said, "Please set up a meeting for eight-thirty tomorrow morning between the ambassador, Herr Gradny-Sawz, Kapitan zur See Boltitz, and myself."

Fraulein Hassell nodded.

"Please ask the ambassador if we might use his office. And tell Herr Raschner to make sure that he inspects the ambassador's office for listening devices."

She nodded again.

He smiled warmly at her. "And now where were we, Fraulein Ingeborg, when we were so rudely interrupted?"

[FOUR]

1728 Avenida Coronel Diaz

Palermo, Buenos Aires

1705 12 August 1943

Police of varying ranks had come to the scene, but the interrogation of Frade and Rodriguez had been stopped by a telephone call from the Bureau of Internal Security, which announced it was taking over the investigation and that el Coronel Martin was en route.

When Martin arrived at the mansion ten minutes later, he found two policemen guarding the door of the library, and Frade and Rodriguez inside. Frade was sitting in an armchair with a glass in his hand and a bottle of Johnnie Walker on the low table in front of him.

"Alejandro, what a pleasant surprise," Frade said. "But we're going to have to stop meeting this way; otherwise people will talk."

Martin had not been amused when Frade had said it before, and he was not amused this time either.

"What happened?" Martin asked.

"Enrico was opening the gate when people started to shoot at us," Frade said. "Who the hell are they? Were they?"

"All we know so far is that the car was stolen," Martin said. "If I had to guess, I'd say the dead men were members of the criminal element."

"God, you're a veritable Sherlock Holmes!" Frade said. "And I'll bet they followed us here from Libertador, right?"

"If I had to guess, I'd say they followed us from Aerodromo Coronel Jorge Frade to Libertador and then followed you here. I can't ask them, of course, as they are no longer with us."

Clete, after first taking a sip, laid down his glass of scotch whisky, picked up a telephone, and dialed a number from memory.

"Tio Juan, this is your godson, Cletus. Three members of the criminal element just tried to kill Enrico and me. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt and accepting that you just didn't find the time immediately to call your German friends and call them off. But if I were you, I'd call them right now."

Then he hung up.

He looked at Martin, who shook his head.

"You don't really think el Coronel Peron had something to do with what happened here, do you?" Martin asked.

"I think his German friends had a lot to do with it."

"But you have no proof?"

"As you said, the people who tried this are no longer with us."

"Hypothetically speaking: What if one or more of them were still with us? What if one or more of them said, 'Si, senor. We were hired by'--let's say Commercial Attache Karl Cranz--"

"You mean SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Cranz?"

Martin ignored the interruption.

He continued: "Or perhaps Sturmbannfuhrer--excuse me, Deputy Commercial Attache Raschner--to carry out this dastardly deed. I'm sure both of them would regard the charges as absurd. But that's moot. Cranz and Raschner have diplomatic immunity; they don't even have to answer any of my questions. The worst that could happen to them would be being declared persona non grata and told to leave Argentina. That would cause a diplomatic incident, at the very least, and the Germans would, tit for tat, expel a like number of Argentine diplomats from Berlin. And on the Condor that flew the Argentines home there would be the replacements for Cranz and Raschner."

"Why am I getting the idea that you think the Argentines should stay in Berlin?"

"I have no idea. And I denounce as scurrilous innuendo that the Argentine agricultural attache in Berlin, who was a classmate of mine at the military academy, has any connection with the Bureau of Internal Security."

"Suggesting that someone has a connection with the BIS is a terrible thing to say about anybody," Frade said.

"I thought you might feel that way," Martin said, and then went on: "Earlier in his career, I just remembered, my classmate was privileged to serve in the Husares de Pueyrredon under your late father."

Frade picked up his glass, took a deep swallow of his scotch whisky, then said, "How interesting. So tell me, Alejandro, what happened here tonight?"

"My initial investigation tends to suggest that three known members of the criminal element were observed by the police trying to break into these premises. When the police challenged them, the criminals fired at them. The superior marksmanship of the police prevailed, and the malefactors unfortunately went to meet their maker."

Frade considered that a moment, nodded his acceptance, and then asked, "Can you get Rodriguez's weapons back from the cops?"

"The 'cops'? Oh, you mean the police. Why would the police have the suboficial's weapons?" Martin said. He nodded, then added, "It's always a pleasure to see you, Don Cletus. But we're going to have to stop meeting like this, lest people start to talk. I can show myself out. I'm sure you're anxious to get to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and the charming Dona Dorotea."

"Just as soon as I have a shower," Frade said. "Enrico will show you out."

When Enrico came back into the library a minute or so later, he had the Remington Model 11 in one hand, the .45 pistol stuck in his waistband, and a leather bandolier of brass-cased shotgun cartridges hanging around his neck.

"How are we going to get home?" Frade asked.

"When I put the Ford in the garage, I will see," Rodriguez said. "I think the old Buick is down there."

"And what happens to the Ford?"

"I will have it taken to el Coronel's garage at the estancia. I don't know about the window glass, but we can repair the other damage."

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

Rodriguez made a deprecating shrug and extended the pistol to Frade.

"I don't think I'll need that in the shower, Enrico."

"You are the one who taught me, Don Cletus, that one never needs a weapon until one needs one badly."

"Point taken, my friend," Frade said, and took the pistol.

[FIVE]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila

Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

2055 12 August 1943

The "old Buick" Enrico thought he would find in the basement garage of the mansion had been there. It was a black 1940 Buick Limited four-door "touring sedan." In other words, a convertible. It had a second windshield for the rear seat, spare tires mounted in the fenders, and enormous extra headlights on the bumper. It had been el Coronel's pride and joy until he had acquired a Horch--an even larger car--in Germany. Once that had been taken off the ship in Buenos Aires, he had never driven the Buick again. But he hadn't wanted anyone else driving the Buick, so it had been, so to speak, put to pasture in the mansion basement until he could decide what to do with it.

The black Buick was the only vehicle on the two-lane macadam road crossing the pampas. There were 300,000 square miles of the pampas--an area roughly half the size of Alaska, a little larger than Texas, and just about twice as big as California--which ran from the Atlantic Ocean just south of Buenos Aires to the foothills of the Andes Mountains. The name came from the Indian word for "level plain."

The road was straight as an arrow, but as the speedometer hovered between seventy and eighty miles an hour, the headlights illuminated nothing but the road itself and a line of telephone poles marching at hundred-meter intervals beside it.

Enrico Rodriguez was driving. His shotgun was propped between the door and the dashboard. His pistol and the bandolier of shells were on the seat beside him. Cletus Frade sat in the front passenger seat, asleep, his head resting against his window.

Rodriguez took his right hand from the steering wheel, leaned across the front seat, and almost tenderly pushed Frade's shoulder.

It took several more pushes of growing force before Frade wakened. But when he did so, he was instantly wide awake, looking quickly around as if he expected something to be going wrong.

"We are nearly home, Don Cletus," Enrico said.

Frade looked out the windows, then said what he was thinking: "How the hell can you tell?"

All that could be seen out the Buick's windows were the road and the telephone poles. There was nothing whatever to indicate where they were on the more than eight-hundred-square-kilometer Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, or, for that matter, where they had been or were going.

"I know, Don Cletus," Enrico said. "In ten, eleven minutes, we will be home."

"Then why didn't you wake me in ten, eleven minutes?"

"I thought you might wish to use the shaving machine, Don Cletus," Enrico said. "There should be one in the glove box. Your father believed a gentleman should always be shaved."

And yet another comparison I have failed with my father, Frade thought as he felt his chin.

And Enrico's right. I need a shave. I should have shaved when I showered. Maybe I had other things on my mind, like the look on that poor bastard's face when he took the load of double-aught buck in his chest.

Frade was uncomfortable using the Remington electric shaver; it had been his father's. But finally, after a moment's hesitation, he took it out and plugged it into the cigar lighter hole and, as the razor's blades hummed, started rubbing it against his face.

Two minutes after he started, Enrico slowed the Buick to a crawl, crossed himself, and muttered a prayer.

Now Frade knew where they were and why Enrico was praying--they were passing the spot where Frade's father had died. He didn't like to think about that.

Six minutes later, the three-row-thick stand of enormous poplars that surrounded the casa grande--"the big house"--protecting it from the winds of the pampas, appeared on the horizon.

A minute after that, the estancia airfield began to come into focus. A twin-engine Lockheed Lodestar, painted a brilliant red, was sitting in front of the hangar, dwarfing the four Piper Cubs parked beside it. Two peones on horseback sat watching it. When the Buick came closer still, Frade saw that they were cradling rifles in their arms and that a large fire extinguisher on wheels was beside the left engine of the Lodestar.

The plane was, as he had ordered it to be, ready to go at a moment's notice.

One of the gauchos doffed his flat-brimmed cap.

When the Buick passed through the outer line of poplars, the "big house" was visible beyond the inner two rows of trees. The term was somewhat misleading. There was indeed "a casa grande"--a rambling structure surrounded on three sides by wide porches--but the inner rows of poplars also encircled a complex of buildings. These included the small church La Capilla Nuestra Senora de los Milagros, seven smaller houses for the servants and the senior managers of the estancia, a large stable beside a polo field, the main garage, and "el Coronel's garage."

To which the shot-up station wagon will soon be taken--with a little luck, outside the view of Dorotea.

Between the second line of poplars and the line closest to the "Big House" was the English Garden, covering more than a hectare. Today, looking more than a little out of place, three more peones sat on their mounts, rifles cradled in their arms, as the horses helped themselves to whatever carefully cultivated flowers seemed appetizing.

The peones respectfully removed their wide-brimmed hats and sort of bowed when they saw Frade in the Buick. He returned the greeting with a sort of military salute. When he'd first become patron of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, he had returned their gesture with a wave, as a salute was obviously inappropriate between himself, a Marine major, and Argentine civilians.

Waving had made him feel like he was pretending to be the King of LaLa-Land, condescendingly acknowledging the homage of his loyal subjects. Enrico had solved that problem by telling him that not only was there universal military service in Argentina, but el Coronel, and before him, el Coronel's father, Don Cletus's grandfather, also el Coronel Frade, had encouraged the "young men of the estancia" to enlist in the Husares de Pueyrredon Cavalry Regiment for four years, rather than just doing a year's conscript service.

The result was that just about most of the more than one thousand male peones of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo had been soldiers at one time. Frade thought, but did not say, that the real result was that he had, if not a private army, then a private battalion at his command. And lately he had cause to think he might have to use it.

So now Frade tossed a salute when el Patron was saluted or otherwise acknowledged.

They passed through the inner line of poplars and rolled up to the big house. There were three more peones on horseback. And three people sitting bundled up against the winter chill in wicker chairs on the verandah. One was a tall muscular man in white riding britches, glistening boots, and a thick yellow woolen sweater. A beautiful sorrel mare tied to a hitching rail showed how he had come to the big house. Next to him was a large man in full gaucho regalia. A Ford Model A pickup truck parked nose-in against the verandah was his mode of transportation. Beside the gaucho, Dona Dorotea Mallin de Frade sat in a wicker armchair.

Frade did not see, however, whom he expected to see, and the moment he stepped out of the car, he asked, "Where's 'Wilhelm Fischer'?"

"Hello, my darling," the blonde said in British-accented English. "I'm so happy to be home. And how is every little thing with my beloved mother-to-be wife?"

"Hello, my darling," Frade said, "I'm so happy to be home. And how is every little thing with my beloved mother-to-be wife? And where the hell is 'Wilhelm Fischer'?"

She pointed to La Capilla Nuestra Senora de los Milagros, and when Frade looked at it, he saw there were two more peones on horseback, one in front of the chapel, the other to one side.

"He's not going anywhere he shouldn't, Major," the gaucho sitting on the porch said. "He asked if he could go to the church, and I figured, why not?"

The gaucho--despite his calf-high soft black leather boots, with billowing black bombachas tucked into them, loose white shirt with billowing sleeves, broad-brimmed black hat, wide silver-studded and buckled leather belt, wicked-looking fourteen-inch knife in a silver scabbard, and faultless command of the Spanish language--was not actually a gaucho.

For one thing, the last time he had been on a horse, it had been a pony at a Coney Island amusement park in Brooklyn. He had been six at the time, had fallen off, had his foot stepped on, and had since kept the vow he had made then to never again get on the back of a horse. He had acquired his Spanish from what he perhaps indelicately referred to as his "sleeping dictionary"--which was to say when he had been serving as a chief radioman at the U.S. Navy's Subic Bay facility in the Philippines. He was Lieutenant Oscar J. Schultz, USNR, and known as "El Jefe," which was Spanish for "The Chief."

"I need to talk to him," Frade said, and started to walk toward the church.

"Why don't you leave him alone?" Dorotea Mallin de Frade asked, on the edge of plaintively.

When her husband ignored her, she shook her head, got out of her wicker chair, and walked off the verandah to follow him.

Oberstleutnant Wilhelm Frogger, wearing a business suit, was on his knees at the communion rail of the chapel when Frade walked in.

In his pocket was a passport identifying him as Wilhelm Fischer, a vineyard owner and vintner, of Durban, South Africa.

Frade had carefully opened and then closed the heavy door behind him when he entered the church. He didn't think Frogger sensed that he was no longer alone.

Dorotea Frade tried to do the same, but a sudden burst of wind was too much for her and the door slammed noisily shut.

Frogger's head snapped to see what was happening, and then he returned to his prayers. Twenty seconds later, he stood up and walked down the aisle between the pews to Frade.

"You have learned what has happened to my parents?" he asked.

"God must have been listening," Frade said. "They're alive and well."

"Cletus! What a terrible thing to say!" Dorotea exclaimed.

"What, that his father and mother are alive?" Frade responded. "And I have something else to say, Colonel, that will probably upset my wife."

Frogger waited for him to go on, but didn't say anything.

"Your mother, sir, apparently believes that Hitler is a great man and that National Socialism is the hope of the world; she would, I am sure, do whatever she can to make her way back to the German Embassy. You'll understand I couldn't permit that to happen before you came here. Now that you are here, I must presume that she will know or learn--or guess--something of your relationship with Colonel von Stauffenberg, Major von Wachtstein, and Kapitan zur See Boltitz. Something, in other words, about Operation Valkyrie. I think your father shares your opinion of Hitler, but I'm not sure of that, and I can't take any chances. I absolutely cannot take the risk that your mother or father ever find themselves talking to any Germans under any circumstances. You take my meaning?"

Frogger met his eyes, then nodded. "I understand, Major."

Dorotea asked, obviously surprised, "He knows Peter? And Karl? And what's Operation Valkyrie?"

"I'll explain later," Frade said.

Her face showed she didn't like the response, but she didn't challenge it.

"I have to be absolutely sure we understand each other, Colonel," Frade said.

"I know the rules of the game we're playing, Major."

"That's a poor choice of words. It isn't a game."

"We understand each other, Major," Frogger said. "When will I be permitted to see my parents?"

"They're about three kilometers from here. But it's late, and I think it would be better if we went there first thing in the morning."

Frogger nodded but did not reply.

"Can you ride?" Frade asked.

"Of course."

"All right, then. I'll have Rodriguez have horses brought here at first light. Too early?"

"First light will be fine with me."

"Rodriguez and I'll go with you. I think that you should know that if it wasn't for Rodriguez, your parents would be dead, at the hands of some SS troops who came ashore from the U-405. He saved your parents' lives at no small risk to his own."

"Then I am, of course, grateful beyond--"

Frade silenced him by raising his hand.

"Rodriguez is a retired Argentine sergeant major who is not very fond of Germans. This is largely--but not entirely--because he was seriously wounded in the successful assassination attempt on my father, with whom he served all of his adult life. The assassination was ordered by either Himmler himself or someone close to him. Argentines carry grudges a long time."

What the hell, I'm going to have to tell her sooner or later--why not now?

Get it over with. . . .

"But while we're on the subject, Colonel, the Germans have twice attempted to assassinate me, most recently a couple of hours ago."

"Cletus, my God!" Dorotea exclaimed.

Frade looked at her and said, "All they managed to do was shoot up the Ford station wagon pretty badly."

He turned back to Oberstleutnant Frogger.

"I've just jumped on you, Colonel, for using the word 'game.' This is why; this isn't a game."

"Where did they try to kill you?" Dorotea asked softly.

"In front of the house on Avenida Coronel Diaz. I went there to take a shower. Three guys in a stolen Peugeot. Now deceased." He paused, looked between them, and went on: "In a massive understatement, I've had a busy day. What I want to do now is get a sandwich or something, then go to bed. We can talk some more in the morning, if you'd like."

"Fine," Frogger said.

"Rude question: How well do you ride? We have gentle mounts and the other kind; mostly the other kind."

"I think one of the gentle mounts, please. I really would prefer to wait for a Valkyrie maiden to carry me to Valhalla than get there--after having come all this way--by breaking my neck falling off a horse here."

He smiled shyly at Frade, and a hint of a smile crossed Frade's lips.

[SIX]

The Embassy of the German Reich

Avenida Cordoba

Buenos Aires, Argentina

0845 13 August 1943

Kapitan zur See Karl Boltitz had been told by Fraulein Hassell that the meeting had been called by Manfred Alois Graf von Lutzenberger. Lutzenberger was a small, very thin, slight, balding--he wore what was left of his hair plastered to his skull--fifty-three-year-old who served as Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the German Reich to the Republic of Argentina. But the moment Boltitz walked into the ambassador's elegantly furnished office and saw "Commercial Attache" Karl Cranz, he knew the meeting had been called by Cranz.

Boltitz, a tall, rather good-looking blond man of thirty-two, was the embassy's naval attache.

"I am so glad that you could find time in your busy schedule for us, Herr Kapitan zur See," Cranz greeted him, smiling.

"Am I the last to arrive?"

"Rather obviously, wouldn't you say?" a man's voice asked just on the edge of nastily.

Boltitz turned toward the voice and saw Anton von Gradny-Sawz. A tall, almost handsome, somewhat overweight forty-five-year-old with a full head of luxuriant reddish-brown hair, von Gradny-Sawz was the embassy's first secretary. Boltitz considered him the typical Austrian: charming to superiors, condescendingly arrogant to those lower on the ladder. Boltitz also privately thought of him as "Die Grosse Wienerwurst."

"Mr. Ambassador," Boltitz said, looking back at Lutzenberger, "I am truly sorry to be late. I didn't know of the meeting until I came in, on time for my nine o'clock appointment with you."

Lutzenberger smiled--barely--but said nothing directly in reply.

"This meeting has been called at the request of our commercial attache," von Lutzenberger said, and gestured toward Cranz.

"This is going to be one of those meetings that never happened," Cranz said with a smile.

This got the expected and dutiful polite laughter.

"Everyone is, of course, aware that our distinguished co-worker, Foreign Service Officer Grade 15 Wilhelm Frogger, and the charming Frau Frogger are among the missing," Cranz began. "There are a number of theories about this, to which we will turn in a moment, but before that, I'm afraid that I must inform you that we must add Obersturmfuhrer Wilhelm Heitz and five of his fine men to the list of the missing."

"What happened to them?" von Gradny-Sawz asked in great surprise.

"The good news is they were not guarding those things placed into their hands when they went missing, and that those things are, as of--as of when, Raschner?"

"Oh eight fifteen, Mein Herr," Erich Raschner, a short, squat, phlegmatic Hessian, replied.

Boltitz thought that Raschner, at forty-five, was the second-oldest and second-most-dangerous man in the room--second in longevity to Ambassador von Lutzenberger and second in capacity for ruthless cruelty and cold-blooded murder only to Cranz.

And between those two, it's almost a tie.

"The special shipment was safe as of quarter past eight this morning," Cranz continued.

"I don't understand," von Gradny-Sawz said.

"That's the purpose of this meeting, Anton," Cranz said softly. "To, as well as I am able to do so, make you understand. May I continue?"

Von Gradny-Sawz flushed but didn't reply.

"This situation involves our good friend Oberst Juan Domingo Peron," Cranz went on. "To whom I went to see if he could be of some help in locating Herr and Frau Frogger for us.

"You will recall that when they went missing, several theories were floated about. One held that they didn't wish to be returned to Germany, that they suspected there were those who believed they were the traitors here in the embassy. Another was that they were in fact the traitors. I frankly never gave the latter much credence.

"Still another theory was that they had sold out to Herr Milton Leibermann, the 'legal attache' of the American Embassy. Although we have nothing concrete to support this theory, I haven't completely discounted it. That obscene Hebrew is not nearly as stupid as he appears, and God only knows what he has been able to learn about our Uruguayan operation from the local Jews.

"And, of course, the name of Don Cletus Frade came up. I think we should all be prepared to admit that in judging this enemy of the Third Reich we all erred. That flamboyant cowboy act of his fooled us all. He is a very skilled and dangerous intelligence officer, and worse, very well connected with the president of Argentina and many of its senior army officers. In that regard, I think we must be objective and admit that the elimination of Oberst Frade was ill-advised; all it did was antagonize the Argentine officer corps and permit young Frade to ingratiate himself with them."

He paused to ask rhetorically, "Does Frade have the Froggers?" and then answered his own question:

"I just don't know. When I went to Oberst Peron, the oberst seemed to think this was a possibility. He said it had come to his attention that there was unusual activity at a small house, Casa Chica, Frade owns some distance from his estancia, near a place called Tandil. The late Oberst Frade used it, according to Peron, for romantic interludes with our Hansel's mother-in-law."

"Our Hansel" was Luftwaffe Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein, the embassy's assistant military attache for air. He was married to Alicia de Carzino-Cormano, the youngest daughter--she was twenty--of la Senora Claudia de Carzino-Cormano, a widow who was one of the most wealthy women in Argentina.

"Peron said Casa Chica is quite charming--a small house on a mountainside, with a stream running past, far from curious eyes. That description was why I thought there might be something to Oberst Peron's notion that Don Cletus Frade might have been behind the disappearance of the Froggers and might in fact have them there.

"I asked Herr Raschner to look into it, and he sent Gunther Loche down there to make discreet inquiries.

"And I must say our Gunther did a good job," Cranz went on. "The details of what he found are unimportant except that they convinced me that there was a very strong likelihood that the Froggers were enjoying the hospitality of Don Cletus Frade.

"You will recall that shortly before SS-Brigadefuhrer von Deitzberg returned to the Fatherland, he issued orders that the security of the Reich demanded that the Froggers be eliminated wherever and whenever found. In the absence of orders to the contrary from Berlin, von Deitzberg's order remained in force. And I considered it my duty to carry out that order.

"The question then became, 'Now that we have found the Froggers, how do we eliminate them?'

"Gunther reported there were at least ten of Don Cletus Frade's peones tending the two milk cows at Casa Chica, under the supervision of a man named Rodolfo Gomez, who we know is a retired cavalry sergeant who usually spends his time guarding Dona Dorotea Frade. That suggested that some of the peones might have military experience of their own. This theory was buttressed by Gunther's report that, except for several of them armed with Thompson submachine guns, they were all armed with Mauser rifles.

"That then raised the question, 'How do we do what we feel has to be done? Where do we get the necessary forces to overcome a dozen or so well-armed men?'

"Raschner, in his usual tactless manner, quickly pointed out to me that the solution was right there in front of my nose. And--I always like to see that credit goes to where it belongs--came up with the solution to our problem.

"You will recall that Oberst Peron arranged with the commander of the Mountain Troops in San Martin de los Andes--a dedicated National Socialist and friend of Germany--to provide the security for the discharge of the special cargo from U-boat 405 at Samborombon Bay.

"So what I proposed to Peron was that he arrange for a suitable force of these men--say, forty men; two truckloads; about what they provided for Samborombon Bay--to be quietly moved to Tandil on a routine road-march maneuver.

"The Mountain Troops, noticing unusual activity at the late el Coronel Frade's little love nest, would investigate. Ten or a dozen gauchos, even those with prior military service--or perhaps because of that service--would not attempt to resist forty Mountain Troops, especially if they were armed with two water-cooled Maxim machine guns.

"The Froggers would be released, Oberst Peron could claim the credit for their being found and liberated, and Don Cletus Frade would have a good deal of explaining to do."

"That's absolutely brilliant, Herr Cranz," von Gradny-Sawz said.

"So Oberst Peron thought," Cranz said dryly. "But please let me continue. What was brilliant, Herr von Gradny-Sawz, was Raschner's modification to that plan. At Raschner's suggestion, I suggested to Oberst Peron the one flaw in the plan, and the solution for the flaw.

"Actually, if the plan Peron and von Gradny-Sawz thought was so brilliant had played out, it would have left us with the problem of the Froggers being alive. Getting them back to Germany would have been difficult at best, and once there, God only knows what they would have said to save their miserable lives.

"As I was saying, I suggested to Oberst Peron that there was a possible flaw in what he now thought of as his plan: What if, rather than the Froggers, Casa Chica held some dear friends of Don Cletus Frade--or, for that matter, Hansel's mother-in-law, la Senora Carzino-Cormano herself? Oberst Peron and the Mountain Troops would look pretty foolish if they trained machine guns on prominent Argentines having a more or less innocent romantic holiday in the countryside.

"I also proposed a solution to the problem: that the Mountain Troops bring with them Obersturmfuhrer Heitz and half a dozen of the other SS men enjoying the hospitality of the Mountain Troops.

"They could, I suggested, since they knew--and none of the Argentines knew--what the Froggers looked like--"

"How did they know?" von Gradny-Sawz interrupted. "Heitz and his men have never been to Buenos Aires; they went directly to San Martin de los Andes from Samborombon Bay."

"Bear with me, please, von Gradny-Sawz," Cranz said. His tone was icy.

Boltitz thought: Cranz doesn't like Die Grosse Wienerwurst any more than I do. I suspect the only reason he hasn't ordered him back to Germany is that he knows he's going to need a scapegoat sooner or later, and Gradny-Sawz will be the man.

"Before I was interrupted," Cranz went on, "I was saying, I suggested to Oberst Peron that the SS men could identify the Froggers and solve that problem.

"He thought that was a splendid idea. Then, when we had the schedule, Raschner met the little convoy some fifty kilometers from Tandil and had a private word with Obersturmfuhrer Heitz.

"The plan that agreed with Peron, you will recall, was for the Mountain Troops to surround the house and put the machine guns in place. Obersturmfuhrer Heitz would then reconnoiter the house to determine if it actually held the Froggers. If it did, he would return to the road and call for the occupants of the house to give up the Froggers.

"According to the story I got from Oberst Peron, Heitz had just about reached the house when someone fired at him. He naturally returned the fire--"

"Who shot at him?" von Gradny-Sawz asked.

Cranz gave him a withering look.

"That was a little theater, Gradny-Sawz," Cranz said. "His returning the hostile fire was a cue to his men to open fire. Can you grasp that?"

Von Gradny-Sawz did not reply.

"Which they immediately did," Cranz went on. "At that point, Oberst Peron, apparently having decided discretion was the better part of valor, ordered the Mountain Troops back onto their trucks and called to the men manning the machine guns, the storm troopers, to stop firing. Considering the roar of the guns, it is not surprising that they couldn't hear him. Or didn't understand his Spanish. In any event, they continued to fire.

"By the time that was straightened out, they had pretty well shot up the house. In Oberst Peron's professional military opinion, no one in the house could possibly have lived through the machine-gun fire.

"But Oberst Peron hadn't counted on the Froggers being killed at the hands of the Mountain Troops. It would have been embarrassing for the Mountain Troops and for him, personally, if that came out.

"Obersturmfuhrer Heitz heroically volunteered to stay behind with his men when the Mountain Troops drove off. They would make sure that whoever had been in the house was in fact dead, and then deal with the bodies. Then one of the trucks would come back and pick them up.

"The truck returned for Heitz and his men when planned--that is to say, after nightfall. By then the press of his other duties had forced Oberst Peron to return to Buenos Aires, and the Mountain Troops, now all crammed into the other truck, were on their way back to San Martin de los Andes.

"The truck that went back for Heitz was under the command of a lieutenant. He reported to Oberst Peron that they found the bodies of Obersturmfuhrer Heitz and his men in several places on the approaches to Casa Chica.

"Interestingly, there were no bodies in the house, or any blood to suggest that anyone in it had been wounded. It was the lieutenant's professional opinion that the people in the house had been warned of the coming attack and were prepared for it. In the lieutenant's opinion, Don Cletus Frade's gauchos had watched from a distance as the empty house was machine-gunned and as the trucks drove away.

"And then, when Heitz and his men, satisfied there was no one left alive in the house, approached it to make sure the Froggers were among the dead--Heitz's orders were to bury the Frogger bodies somewhere on the pampas where they would never be found--they were ambushed."

He paused to let them consider that.

Then finished: "And now the bodies of Obersturmfuhrer Heitz and his men are buried where they will never be found on the pampas. The Mountain Troops lieutenant correctly decided that that was the option preferable to his having to explain at a roadblock what he was doing with the bullet-ridden bodies of half a dozen men in his truck. And so we have another example of what the Scottish poet Robert Burns had in mind when he wrote, 'The best laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft a-gley.'"

"Our traitor strikes again," von Gradny-Sawz said solemnly.

"You think so, Gradny-Sawz?" Cranz asked.

Boltitz thought: Wienerwurst, you are about to have that foot that's in your mouth shoved up your fat ass.

"Herr Cranz, you yourself said the gauchos had been warned."

"And they probably had," Cranz agreed. "But by whom? Only Sturmbannfuhrer Raschner and I knew the details of the operation. And trust me, Gradny-Sawz, on my SS officer's honor, neither of us betrayed the Fatherland.

"One possibility which must be considered, I suggest, is that, in addition to the gauchos tending the milch cows, there were gauchos elsewhere, and when two army trucks bearing the markings of the Mountain Regiment came down the road, they telephoned to Casa Chica. 'It may be nothing, Pedro,'" Cranz said in a mock Spanish accent, " 'but there are two Mountain Regiment trucks headed your way.' "

"I didn't think of that possibility," von Gradny-Sawz admitted.

"Well, perhaps your talents lie in the diplomatic area, rather than the military," Cranz said. "Nor in the field of intelligence."

Cranz gave von Gradny-Sawz a long moment to consider that, then went on: "So where are we now? The black side of the picture is that the Froggers are not only still alive, but by now are far from Casa Chica.

"And since we must presume that if there were gauchos watching the exercise, they saw both the Mountain Troops and Oberst Peron.

"But I would rather doubt that they would bring this matter to the attention of the Argentine government. That would put Don Cletus Frade in the awkward position of explaining what he had at Casa Chica that was of such interest to Oberst Peron and, of course, the SS-SD.

"Now, with regard to Major Frade of the OSS: He landed in one of South American Airways' new Lockheed Lodestars at the Aerodromo Coronel Jorge G. Frade in Moron at five past one yesterday afternoon. His copilot was SAA Chief Pilot Gonzalo Delgano.

"They were met by el Coronel Alejandro Bernardo Martin, the Chief of the Ethical Standards Office of the Bureau of Internal Security, and by Sergeant Major Enrico Rodriguez, Cavalry, Retired. They went directly from the airfield to Don Cletus's house across from the Hipodromo on Libertador, which is currently occupied by Oberst Peron. We can presume that the faithful Sergeant Major Rodriguez told Don Cletus what had transpired at Casa Chica as they drove from the airport.

"I was aware that Oberst Peron had asked el Coronel Martin to bring Frade to him, the idea being that Peron would have a friendly, perhaps even fatherly, word with Frade about the foolishness of attempting to harbor the Froggers.

"Raschner and I, without confiding in Oberst Peron, had come up with an idea to send the Widow Frade an unmistakable message of exactly how dangerous it is to assist traitors to the German Reich. I will get to that shortly."

"The Widow Frade?" Boltitz asked.

"I'll get to that shortly, Boltitz. Pray let me continue."

"I beg pardon," Boltitz said.

Cranz nodded his acceptance of the apology, then went on: "Loche reported that Frade went to see Peron only after Martin very strongly insisted that he do so. Loche also reported that there was nothing on the airplane but cargo, presumably spare parts for the Lodestars.

"Since Raschner has so far been unable to get someone into the Frade mansion on Libertador, I didn't know what had transpired during their short meeting until Peron called me last evening and told me.

"I think we may also assume that el Coronel Martin had heard--possibly before Frade returned--at least something of what transpired. We know, of course, that Chief Pilot Delgano is actually Major Delgano of the Bureau of Internal Security, and that his role with SAA is to make sure that SAA does nothing against Argentine neutrality, with the secondary mission of keeping an eye on Frade generally.

"And knowing that Delgano would inevitably hear of what had happened at Casa Chica, I suspect that Dona Dorotea Frade would report to the authorities that there had been an attack for unknown reasons by a roving band of bandits, or whatever, on the house.

"We just don't know. We will have to find out. Raschner's working on that, and we all know how good our Erich is at that sort of thing.

"We do know what Oberst Peron told me on the telephone last night, and I'm afraid it was proof that once again I committed the cardinal sin of underestimating one's enemy.

"Frade lost no time whatever, it seems, in showing Oberst Peron that he had photographic proof that Peron had been at the machine guns with Heitz and his men, as well as photographs of the bullet-riddled bodies of Heitz and his men.

"He also told Peron that he had photographs of the map SS-Brigadefuhrer von Deitzberg had given him of postwar South America."

"Excuse me?" von Gradny-Sawz asked, visibly confused.

"Oh," Cranz said. "That's right. You weren't made privy to that, were you, Gradny-Sawz?"

Neither was I, Boltitz thought. I have no idea what he's talking about.

But he is intimating that Wienerwurst was the only one who doesn't know.

"No, I wasn't," von Gradny-Sawz said, somewhat petulantly.

Did someone steal your ice-cream cone, Wienerwurst?

"It was a map prepared by the Army Topographical people showing South America after our Final Victory," Cranz explained. "Briefly, Uruguay and Paraguay will become provinces of Argentina."

I will be damned. Is that a fact, or something created to dazzle Peron?

"Frade told Peron that the first time he suspected an attempt was made on his life or on the lives of anyone close to him, the photographs and the map would be placed in the hands of the president of the Argentine Republic and appear in the world's newspapers."

"He's bluffing," von Gradny-Sawz said firmly.

"Possibly, even probably," Cranz said. "But we don't know that, do we, Gradny-Sawz? And do we want to chance he is not?"

Von Gradny-Sawz did not answer.

"Finally," Cranz said, "Frade told Peron he wanted him out of his house by today. And then--after Frade was attacked--he called Peron and said he was going to give Peron the benefit of the doubt, that Peron simply had not had the time to call his German friends off before the attack, but that he suggested that Peron should make that call now."

"What attack on him?" Boltitz asked.

"According to today's La Nacion," Cranz said conversationally, "three criminals bent on robbing the Frade mansion--actually, it didn't say 'Frade mansion'; it said 'a residence on Avenida Coronel Diaz'--were interrupted by alert police and died in a gun battle that followed."

And that explains the message you were going to send to the Widow Frade, doesn't it, you murderous bastard?

"To recapitulate, gentlemen: Both operations--eliminating the Froggers in Tandil and eliminating Frade here--failed. The only good thing to come out of it is that we have further leverage with Oberst Peron.

"We must presume that the Froggers are still alive. That situation is unacceptable. I think we can safely presume that Don Cletus Frade has them. Or at least had them. There has been a report that a British cruiser in Rio de Janeiro took aboard a middle-aged couple, but until we know it was the Froggers, we must presume it wasn't them."

He looked around the room.

"Any questions, comments?"

"We have to get rid of Frade," von Gradny-Sawz said solemnly.

"You think so, Gradny-Sawz?" Cranz asked softly.

"To me it is self-evident."

"Let me tell you what is self-evident to me, Gradny-Sawz, and probably to these other gentlemen. We have been sent a message by el Coronel Martin. And that message is that he knows we have failed, for the second time, to remove el Senor Frade from the scene. Otherwise, you see, Gradny-Sawz, el Senor Frade would be facing criminal charges for manslaughter. He could probably successfully plead self-defense, but it would be all over the newspapers.

"If that happened, people would ask, Gradny-Sawz, who could possibly want to assassinate the son of one of Argentina's beloved sons, who was himself assassinated. Give your imagination free rein, Gradny-Sawz, and guess who would come under suspicion. The French, perhaps? The Uruguayans?

"Do you think it's possible people would suspect us? And if that came to pass, do you think that Frade's photographs, sure to be introduced at his trial, would serve to confirm that suspicion?

"Our mission, Gradny-Sawz, is to ensure the Argentines think of Germany as an honorable ally in the battle against the godless Communists. Having it come out that we are even remotely connected with the assassination of el Coronel Frade, the two failed assassination attempts on his son, and the incident at Casa Chica would hardly serve to confirm the image we are trying to project, would it?"

Von Gradny-Sawz looked very uncomfortable.

"Well, I'll tell you what, Gradny-Sawz," Cranz went on. "You come up with a plan that absolutely precludes the possibility that photographs of Juan Domingo Peron with a group of SS personnel at a machine gun, the bodies of those SS personnel sometime later, riddled with bullets, and a map showing what looks like the Third Reich's plans for South America appearing in La Nacion or any other newspaper, and I will give you permission to eliminate Don Cletus Frade yourself.

"And while you're doing that, I will inform SS-Brigadefuhrer von Deitzberg that it is my professional judgment that this American OSS sonofabitch poses an immediate threat to Operation Phoenix and the other operation and has to be dealt with. I will seek SS-Brigadefuhrer von Deitzberg's wise advice and direction on how to do that, as I can think of no way to do anything that would not cause an international incident that would pose serious problems to Operation Phoenix.

"Except, of course, to send Boltitz home with von Wachtstein to charm the sonofabitch as best they can, and to learn as much as they can about what he's up to. Understand, Gradny-Sawz? The Yankee OSS sonofabitch has got us cornered. And I'm not going to be the man responsible for the failure of Operation Phoenix."

He let that sink in a moment, then stood up.

His right arm snapped out in front of him.

"Heil Hitler!" he barked, then marched out of the room.

[SEVEN]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila

Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

1230 13 August 1943

Don Cletus Frade, wearing khaki trousers and a yellow polo shirt, came out onto the shaded verandah of the big house carrying a bottle of Bodega Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon '39, two long-stemmed wineglasses, a long black cigar, and a corkscrew bottle opener.

Two people hurried after him. One was a plump female in her late forties wearing a severe black dress, Elisa Gomez. The other was Enrico Rodriguez, wearing a business suit and cradling his twelve-gauge Remington Model 11 riot gun in his arms. Around his neck was a leather bandolier of brass-cased double-aught buckshot shells.

"All you had to do was ring, Don Cletus," Elisa Gomez chided him as she took the bottle from him. Her tone suggested that the chief housekeeper of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo was not in awe of its patron.

"I humbly beg your pardon," Frade said, deeply insincere.

She shook her head, quickly uncorked the wine, poured a taste in one of his glasses, and waited for his reaction. He swirled the wine, sniffed at the glass, and finally took a sip. And grimaced.

"I think I've been poisoned," he announced.

She shook her head, filled the glass, and marched into the house.

"Enrico, why do I think she doesn't like me?" Frade asked.

"Don Cletus, she loves you," Enrico said, and then added, "And you know it."

Frade lowered himself onto a leather-cushioned wicker armchair, crossed his battered Western boots on the matching footstool, bit the end from the cigar, and then lit it carefully with a wooden match. Then he picked up the wineglass and took a healthy sip.

Five minutes later, a glistening black 1940 Packard 160 convertible coupe drove through the windbreak of trees that surrounded the heart of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. Frade had been waiting for the Packard to appear. As soon as the car had left Estancia Santa Catalina on a road that led only to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, its presence had been reported to the big house by one of Frade's peones.

Clete thought the Packard was gorgeous. It had been the top of the Packard line, except for limousines, and only a few--no more than two hundred--had been manufactured. Beneath its massive hood was the largest Packard Straight-Eight engine, which provided enough power for it to cruise effortlessly and endlessly at well over eighty miles an hour. It was upholstered in red leather and had white sidewall tires.

Each front fender carried a spare tire and wheel, and sitting on the front edge of the fenders was the latest thing in driving convenience: turn signals. With the flipping of a little lever on the steering wheel, one of the front lights flashed simultaneously with one on the rear, telling others you wished to change direction, and in which direction.

The Reverend Kurt Welner, S.J., stepped out of the Packard, put on his suit jacket--shooting his cuffs, which revealed gold cuff links adorned with some sort of gemstone--then walked up the shallow flight of stairs to the verandah.

Enrico, who was sitting in a folding wooden chair, got respectfully to his feet. Frade didn't move.

"Welcome home," Welner said.

"Thank you," Clete said. "But you could have told me that at Claudia's 'Welcome Home, Cletus' party tonight. What are you up to?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"You could have done that tonight, too, or on the phone."

"In person."

"About what? Be warned: If I don't like the answer, no wine flows into your glass."

"Is this one of those days when you're determined to be difficult?"

"Probably."

"Well, one of the things on my mind is that you have to go to the Recoleta cemetery within the next couple of days."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because the brothers want to see if you approve of their cleaning of the Frade tomb."

"Since I don't think you're trying to be funny, you can have a little wine."

"You are so kind," Welner said as he sat down in the other wicker chair.

Frade poured wine into the priest's glass.

"Being kind gets me in all kinds of trouble," Frade said. "By 'the brothers,' you mean the monks who run the cemetery?"

"No. I meant the brothers. Are you interested in the difference between monks and brothers?"

"Spare me. Why did they clean the tomb?"

"Because the marble was dirty, and I understand there was a little corrosion here and there."

"I think I'm beginning to understand. In addition to my saying 'thank you,' they would not be offended if I slipped them an envelope stuffed with money?"

"That would be very nice of you, if you should feel so inclined."

"Am I supposed to believe that you drove all the way over here from Claudia's just to tell me that?"

"I had a few other things on my mind."

"For example?"

"How did you find the United States?"

"Well, I set the compass on north-northwest, and eventually, there it was, right out in front of the airplane."

The priest shook his head tolerantly.

"Things went well?"

"All the pilots of South American Airways now have their air transport rating, if that's what you're asking."

"The problem of insurance has been resolved?"

"It's a done deal," Frade said.

"That's good to hear."

"Why do I have this feeling that, having beat around the bush long enough, you are about to get to your real reason for coming over here?"

"I happened to be driving past your house on Avenida Libertador--"

"Ah-ha! And was that before or after your spies on the premises--"

"Getting right to the point, Cletus: Why did Juan Domingo Peron suddenly stop accepting your kind hospitality?"

"Now that you mention it, it probably had something to do with what I said to him."

"And what was that?"

"If I remember correctly, and I usually do, what I said was, 'One more thing, Tio Juan, you degenerate sonofabitch. You're going to have to find someplace else for your little girls. I want you out of here by tomorrow.' Or words to that effect."

"You didn't!" Welner blurted.

"Tell him, Enrico."

The priest looked at Enrico, who nodded.

"Are you out of your mind, Cletus?" Welner asked.

"Not so far as I know. I confess to being a little annoyed with my godfather at the time."

"About what?"

"Well, just before I said that, he pointed a pistol at me. I get very annoyed when people point pistols at me. And so does Enrico. For a couple of seconds there, I thought Enrico's shotgun might go off and cause a tragic accident."

Welner again looked at Enrico, who again nodded.

"What set this off?" Welner asked.

"Well--are you sure you want to know?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Saved by the belle," Frade then said.

"Excuse me?"

"Belle with an 'e' at the end. As in: 'Belle on horseback.' Drink your wine, Father, before the posse gets here and the sheriff tries to shut us off before dinner."

When Frade had awakened that morning, he'd been alone in bed. It was long after first light, and Dorotea was nowhere around. He found a note stuck with a blob of Vaseline onto the bathroom mirror:

Darling, I didn't have the heart to wake you. Madison and I have taken Mr. Fischer to see his family. Be back for lunch or earlier. Dorotea.

Frade now pointed at the break in the trees, and Welner looked where he pointed.

A line of people on horseback, led by Dona Dorotea and trailed by Wilhelm Fischer, Captain Madison R. Sawyer III, and half a dozen peones, was coming toward them at a walk.

This was lost on Father Welner, but there was more than a passing similarity to a scene in a Western movie where the posse returns from cutting off the bandits at the pass. Everyone but Fischer was holding a long arm either cradled in the arm or upright, with the butt resting on the saddle. Dorotea had a double-barreled shotgun, and Sawyer a Thompson submachine gun with a fifty-round drum magazine. Everything else was there except dead bandits tied across saddles.

Dorotea, Sawyer, and Fischer walked their horses to the verandah, dismounted, tied the horses to a hitching rail, and went onto the verandah.

"Howdy," Frade said. "How about a little something to cut the dust of the trail?"

Dorotea looked at her husband and shook her head. Then she kissed her husband affectionately and the priest formally.

"Father, this is Mr. Wilhelm Fischer," Dorotea said. "He's come all the way from South Africa to see how we grow grapes and make wine. Willi, this is Father Welner, an old and dear friend."

Frade saw the look on Welner's face.

"Hey, Padre," Frade said as Welner and Fischer shook hands, "you ever hear that curiosity killed the cat?"

The priest did not reply directly.

"Welcome to Argentina, Mr. Fischer," he said.