Victory and Honor

[ONE]

Executive Officers’ Quarters USS Bartram Greene DD-201 River Plate Estuary, Argentina 1900 12 June 1945

There came a knock at the stateroom door. Lieutenant Colonel Cletus H. Frade, USMC, who was lying on the bunk, called, “Come!”

A very tall, very thin, ascetic-looking lieutenant commander opened the door and entered the stateroom.

Frade put down his copy of that day’s Buenos Aires Herald and looked at him.

The visitor said evenly, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Colonel, but I believe naval courtesy requires that all naval personnel come to attention when the captain of a man-o’-war enters a living space, even when said captain is junior.”

Frade chuckled and pushed himself off the bunk.

“Until just now, Commander, I didn’t know you were the captain.”

“I have that honor, sir. My name is R. G. Prentiss, and I am the captain.”

Frade nodded.

Captain Prentiss said: “Colonel, we have a somewhat awkward situation here. I have been ordered by COMMATL—”

“By who?”

“Commander Atlantic,” Captain Prentiss furnished, “has ordered the Greene to transport you to NAS Pensacola. Colonel Flowers has informed me that you are the subject of an investigation by Naval Intelligence. Is that your understanding of the situation?”

“That pretty much sums it up.”

“Under these circumstances, Colonel, while you will be afforded the courtesies to which your rank entitles you, there are several conditions I feel necessary to impose.”

“Shoot,” Frade said. “Figuratively speaking, of course, Captain.”

“You will mess with the officers in the wardroom. Pushing that button”—he pointed—“will summon my steward, who will take care of your laundry, et cetera, and bring you, if you wish, coffee and doughnuts from the galley. You will not engage in conversation with the ship’s company—the sailors—at any time, and will converse with my officers only when I or my executive officer is present.”

“That’s that sort of roly-poly lieutenant who brought me down here when I came aboard?”

“His name is Lieutenant John Crosby, Colonel. You are not permitted to leave ‘officer’s country’—do you know what that means, Colonel?”

“I’d hazard a wild guess that’s where your officers hang out.”

Prentiss nodded. “And you are not permitted to be on the bridge. You may, should you desire, go to the flying bridges on either side of the bridge itself.”

Frade waited for him to go on.

“I think I’ve covered everything. Any questions, Colonel Frade?”

“I guess I missed supper, huh, Captain?”

Captain Prentiss turned and left the cabin without speaking.

[TWO]

Executive Officers’ Quarters USS Bartram Greene DD-201 South Atlantic Ocean off Brazil 0805 15 June 1945

Captain Prentiss knocked at the door, was given permission to enter, and did so.

Frade, who had been sitting at the fold-down desk, stood.

“I had hoped to see you at breakfast, Colonel.”

“It’s a little chilly in there for me, Captain.”

“I had planned to read this aloud to the wardroom,” Prentiss said, and handed Frade a sheet of paper. “That was transmitted in the clear, Colonel.” FOR SLATS FROM LITTLE DICK

POPPA SAYS YOUR SUPERCARGO REALLY GOOD GUY

TREAT HIM ACCORDINGLY

Frade handed the paper back without comment.

“My roommate at Annapolis,” Captain Prentiss explained, “Colonel J. C. Wallace, was called ‘Little Dick.’ He called me ‘Slats.’”

“I understand why people could call you Slats, Captain. But it would not behoove me as a field-grade Marine officer to ask why you called your roommate Little Dick.”

Prentiss grinned. Then he said: “Actually, one of the reasons was because his father, Vice Admiral Wallace, is called Big Dick.”

“Oh.”

“Colonel, you now have freedom of the ship, including the bridge. And I would be pleased if you would join me now for breakfast. I assure you, it will be much warmer in the wardroom than it has been.”

“Thank you.”

“All of my officers, and me, have been wondering exactly what it was that caused you to give Colonel Flowers the finger as we let loose all lines.”

[THREE]

Navy Pier Pensacola, Florida 0915 25 June 1945

Captain Prentiss and Lieutenant Colonel Frade were standing on the flying bridge of the USS Bartram Greene DD-201 as she was being tied up to the pier. Frade was in a Marine summer uniform he’d never worn before.

“I would hazard the guess, Clete, that that’s your welcoming party,” Prentiss said, nodding toward an officer standing beside a Navy gray Plymouth sedan on the pier.

“I’m crushed, Slats. I was expecting a brass band and a cheering crowd.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Prentiss said, tapping the Navy Cross on Frade’s chest, “where you got that.”

Frade glanced down at it, then replied: “In a hockshop on Bourbon Street in New Orleans. I bought a pair of those”—he tapped the binoculars hanging from Prentiss’s neck—“and the hockshop guy threw that in for free. I thought it looked nice, so I pinned it on.”

“Is that also where you got the Wings of Gold? In a New Orleans pawnshop?”

“No. A very long time ago, in another life, I got those here.”

“I’ll walk you to the gangway,” Prentiss said.

“Thanks for the ride, Slats.”

“In other circumstances, Clete, I would have been delighted to have you aboard.”

Prentiss and Frade reached the gangway just as it was lowered into place. The Navy officer—they were close enough for Frade to be able to see that he was a spectacles-wearing, mousy-looking lieutenant commander with the insignia of the Judge Advocate Corps where the star of a line officer would be, above the stripes on his sleeve—now stood waiting to come aboard.

Frade said: “I don’t see any reason I can’t get off, do you?”

Prentiss shook his head.

“Permission to leave the ship, sir?” Frade said.

“Granted.”

Frade saluted Prentiss, then the colors flying aft.

Prentiss offered his hand.

“Good luck, Clete.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

The JAG officer saluted as Frade stepped off the gangway.

Frade returned it.

“You are Lieutenant Colonel C. H. Frade, sir?”

“Guilty—for lack of a better word.”

The JAG officer ignored that. He said, “I’m Lieutenant Commander McGrory, Colonel. I have been appointed your counsel.”

He offered his hand. Frade was not surprised that McGrory’s grip was limp.

“We have a car, sir,” McGrory said.

A sailor opened the rear door of the Plymouth and Frade got in. As the car started down the pier, Frade saw that Prentiss was standing on the deck of the Greene watching them drive away.

When they were on Navy Boulevard, which would take them to Main Side, Naval Air Station, Pensacola, Frade said, “Exactly what are you going to counsel me about, Commander?”

“Certain allegations have been laid against you, Colonel . . .”

“What kind of allegations?”

“. . . and naval regulations provide that you are entitled to counsel while you are being interviewed with regard to these allegations.”

“In other words, you’re not going to tell me?”

“The specifics of the allegations will be made known to you in formal proceedings, Colonel.”

“And when are these formal proceedings going to take place?”

They were now at the gate to Main Side, Naval Air Station, Pensacola.

A perfectly turned-out Marine corporal took a look at the Plymouth, popped to attention, saluted, and bellowed, “Good morning, Colonel! Pass.”

Clete returned the salute, remembering the first time he’d come through this gate.

Life had been much simpler then.

All Second Lieutenant Frade, USMCR, had to do was learn how to fly the Marine Corps’ airplanes—and that wouldn’t be hard, as he had been flying since he was age twelve—then go to the Pacific and sweep the dirty Japs from the sky, whereupon all would be well with the world and he could go back to Big Foot Ranch, Midland, Texas, and get on with his life.

The Plymouth entered Main Side.

“What about the formal proceedings, Commander?” Frade asked.

“Inasmuch as no charges have been laid against you, Colonel, your status is that of a Marine officer returning from service abroad. Regulations prescribe certain things must take place for all returning officers. We will deal with that first.”

Two hours later, the medical staff of Naval Hospital, Pensacola, after a thorough examination of his body, determined that Lieutenant Colonel Frade not only was free of any infectious diseases—including sexual—that he might have encountered in his foreign service, but also that his general condition was such that he could engage in flight.

An hour after that, the Disbursing Office, NAS Pensacola, determined that inasmuch as he had not flown for more than three years the minimum four hours per month that was necessary to qualify for flight play, and inasmuch as on several occasions he had been paid flight pay in error, that flight pay would have to be taken from the amount of pay he was now due.

As would $102.85, the cost to the government of one Watch, Wrist, Hamilton, Naval Aviator’s Chronometer, which had been issued to First Lieutenant C. H. Frade, USMCR, VMF-221, on Guadalcanal and never been returned.

He left the Disbursing Office $1,255.75 richer, most of it in new twenty-dollar bills. It made quite a bulge in his tunic pocket.

The Housing Office, NAS Pensacola, took three of the twenties as a deposit against damage to Room Twenty-three, Senior Officers Quarters, and another twenty as a deposit for a telephone that they hoped to connect within seventy-two hours.

The Housing Office also required him to sign a statement acknowledging he understood that the presence of female guests in his quarters at any time was proscribed, and that violation of the proscription could result in court-martial or such other disciplinary action as the base commander might elect to impose.

Thirty minutes after that, Lieutenant Commander McGrory, sitting at his desk in a spotless office, said, “We have a little problem, Colonel.”

“I’m breathless with anticipation, Commander.”

“Your home of record is Big Foot Ranch, RFD Number 2, Box 131, Midland, Texas. Is that correct?”

Well, some people think I live on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo outside Buenos Aires, but what the hell!

“That’s correct.”

“Unfortunately, that’s outside the twenty-four-hour zone.”

“What the hell is the twenty-four-hour zone?”

“Officers in your status cannot be placed on leave to any address from which he cannot return, when so ordered, to NAS Pensacola within twenty-four hours. Hence ‘twenty-four-hour zone.’”

“Am I going on leave?”

“Officers returning from overseas service are automatically granted a thirty-day leave. Providing, of course, that their leave address is within the twenty-four-hour zone. Perhaps you might consider going to one of the fine hotels or motels on Pensacola Beach and having Mrs. Howell join you there. The beaches here are absolutely beautiful.”

“Mrs. Howell?”

“Mrs. Martha Howell, your adoptive mother, of the Midland address, is listed as your next of kin. Isn’t that correct?”

I have a wife and two children, but I don’t think this is the time to get into that.

“That’s correct. Tell me, Commander, how far is it, timewise, from here to New Orleans?”

“You have a family member in New Orleans, Colonel?”

“My grandfather.”

And who is the last person in the world I need to see right now.

If the Old Man hears what’s going on with me—and I would have to tell him—ten minutes after that two senators and his pal Colonel McCormack of the Chicago Tribune will be coming to my rescue.

“I’ll need his name and address, Colonel. And his telephone number.”

What the hell, I’ll call the house and see if the Old Man is there.

If he is, I’ll hang up. If he’s not . . .

“The address is 3470 Saint Charles Avenue, New Orleans. My grandfather’s name is Cletus Marcus Howell. I don’t know the phone, but I’m sure it’s in the book.”

“And your grandfather is sure to be there?”

“Absolutely. At his age, getting around is very difficult.”

Please God, let the Old Man be in Washington, Venezuela, Dallas, San Francisco—anywhere but on Saint Charles Avenue.

“You understand, Colonel, that I am taking your word as a Marine officer and gentleman about your grandfather and that address?”

“I understand, Commander.”

“Well, then, I happen to know there is a three-forty train to New Orleans. You’ll just have time to make it.”

[FOUR]

3470 Saint Charles Avenue New Orleans, Louisiana 1955 25 June 1945

“The Howell Residence,” Jean-Jacques Jouvier said when he picked up the telephone. He was an elderly, erect, very light-skinned black man with silver hair. He wore a gray linen jacket. He had been Cletus Marcus Howell’s butler for forty-two years.

“No, Mister Cletus, he’s in Venezuela.”

He took the telephone from his ear and held it in his hand and looked at it.

Then he looked at the pale-skinned blond woman standing at the door to the library.

“That was Mister Cletus, Miss Dorotea,” he said.

“Where is he? What happened? Why did you hang up?”

“I didn’t hang up, Miss Dorotea. Mister Cletus did. When I told him that Mister Howell was in Venezuela, he said, ‘Get out the Peychaux’s Bitters, the rye, and crack some ice. I’ll be right there.’ And then he hung up.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jean-Jacques,” Dorotea said.

“Mister Cletus—and Mister Howell—really like a Sazerac or two before dinner, Miss Dorotea. It’s a cocktail. Rye whiskey . . .”

“And something bitter and cracked ice,” Dorotea said. “While you crack the ice, Jean-Jacques, I’ll change into something suitable to welcome our boy home.”

[FIVE]

Arnaud’s Restaurant 813 Bienville Street, New Orleans 2145 25 June 1945

“I can’t believe you ate two dozen of those things,” Doña Dorotea said to Don Cletus.

“They call them oysters, my love, and I ate two dozen of them because the oysters in Argentina are lousy. And as to the two dozen? You know what they say about oysters. . . .”

Dorotea confessed she didn’t know what was said about oysters, so he leaned over and whispered in her ear what magical qualities were said about oysters.

“I really hope that’s true,” Dorotea said. “Will they give you back your money if they don’t work?”

“Somehow I suspect all of these will work just fine.”

“And afterward?”

“I think I’ll sleep.”

“You know what I mean, Cletus.”

“I honest to God don’t know, sweetheart. You know what Mattingly told me. You told me that Team Turtle is out of reach of the Secret Service. Mattingly said there will be friends to help. I was treated like an admiral on the Greene—I told you—after there was a radio message from some friend of somebody.

“I don’t know what to think about that Navy lawyer in Pensacola, McGrory. He could be a friend who put me on leave to hide me, or he could just be a pencil-pusher who put me on leave because the book said that’s what to do. The only thing I know for sure is that I have to stay out of the clutches of the Secret Service for as long as I can to give Mattingly the time to get General Gehlen and his people set up.”

“Eventually, darling, they are going to have you in their clutches. Then what?”

“I will lie to them as convincingly as I can for as long as I can.”

“You realize you sound like Peter? You’re going to do your duty, no matter what?”

“There’s a slight difference between Peter and me. While I don’t think Secretary Morgenthau likes me very much, dear, I really can’t see him skinning me alive.”

“What are your chances of going to prison?”

“I really don’t think it will go that far.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t think that’s very encouraging.”

“It’s the best I can do, sweetheart.”

The waiter appeared.

“May I bring you another Sazerac, madam? Sir?”

“Not for me, thank you,” Dorotea said. “I’ve already had too many of them.”

“I’ll have another, thank you,” Cletus said and, looking at Dorotea, added, “Actually, those are my plans for the indefinite future. Drink lots of Sazeracs and eat lots of oysters.”

The waiter smiled. “Sounds like a good plan, sir.”

“It’s the only one I have,” Clete said, looking at Dorotea.

“That being the case,” Dorotea said, and turned to the waiter. “Bring me another, too, please. No oysters. But a broiled white fish of some kind.”

“May I suggest the trout Pontchartrain?”

“Just so long as it’s broiled and white,” Dorotea said.

[SIX]

3470 Saint Charles Avenue New Orleans 1715 18 July 1945

“I’ll get it, Jean-Jacques,” Dorotea called out in the house. “I’m at the door.”

She pulled it open. A tall and muscular Navy commander stood there, a thick silver cord hanging from his shoulder.

“Mrs. Howell?”

“No, I’m Mrs. Frade. Mrs. Howell is my mother-in-law. Please come in, Commander.” She then raised her voice. “I think you had better come out here, darling. I think the other shoe has just dropped.”

“Mrs. Frade, I’m looking for Lieutenant Colonel Cletus Frade. Your brother, perhaps?”

“No, he’s my husband, something he’s been keeping a dark secret from the U.S. government for reasons he hasn’t elected to tell me.”

Clete appeared at the library door, carrying one of his sons in his arms and holding the hand of the other one.

“Colonel Frade?”

“Guilty.”

“My name is Portman, Colonel. I’m Rear Admiral Sourer’s aide-de-camp. The admiral’s compliments, Colonel. The admiral desires that you attend him immediately. In uniform, please, Colonel, and bring with you sufficient uniforms for a week.”

“And those are the Colonel’s children,” Dorotea said. “Something else I suspect he hasn’t told the Marine Corps.”

“Have I walked into a family argument?” Commander Portman asked.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Dorotea said.

“She’s been drinking Sazeracs,” Clete said. “They make some women romantic and some belligerent.”

“You have no complaints in the romantic department,” Dorotea said. “Even if you’re hiding me from the goddamn Marine Corps.”

“What happened, Commander, is that I told her when they checked my records at Pensacola, there was no record of our marriage—”

“Or of the boys,” Dorotea furnished.

“You really should look into it, Colonel,” Commander Portman said. “Your wife and children are entitled to dependent status. A monthly check comes with that.”

Frade looked askance at Portman, and thought, You sonofabitch, you’re enjoying this!

“And you know how we need the money,” Dorotea said. “Oysters by the dozen aren’t cheap. Can I offer you a Sazerac, Commander?”

“Well, perhaps while Colonel Frade is getting into his uniform. Thank you.”

“Where are we going, Commander?” Frade asked.

“Sorry, I can’t get into that, sir.”

“I thought if we’re headed for Pensacola, I could get my records fixed.”

“We’re not going to Pensacola. I can tell you that. Colonel, the admiral doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

There was a Navy Chevrolet staff car at the curb. From it, the last thing Clete saw was Dorotea standing on the porch, holding one of their sons in her arms and holding the hand of the other. The older boy was crying.

“Okay. She can’t hear. Where are we going?”

“To the airport. I can tell you that much.”

There was a Constellation at the airport, with U.S. NAVY on the fuselage and wings, and blue plates with the silver stars of a rear admiral in holders beside the pilot’s window and the passenger door.

Portman waved Frade up a set of stairs ahead of him.

A white-jacketed steward got out of a seat and motioned for Clete to enter the passenger department.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” he said.

The interior of the passenger compartment was unlike any Clete had ever seen. It looked more like a living room than anything else, with chairs and couches facing in both directions, and tables scattered between them. There was even a small bar, tended by another white-jacketed steward.

Clete remembered hearing that “admiral” meant “prince of the sea.”

“Colonel Frade?”

Clete found himself facing an erect, middle-aged man in a white shirt, collar open and tie pulled down, no jacket, and wearing suspenders.

Clete came to attention.

“Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Frade reporting to the admiral as ordered.”

“Welcome aboard, Colonel. I’m Admiral Sourer.”

“Sir, may I ask the admiral where we’re going?”

“No. But as soon as my junior aide gets back from Arnaud’s with our dinner, we’re going wheels-up for there. Sit down, Colonel, enjoy the ride.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The first stop was Boston. When they took off from Boston and headed just about due east, Clete first thought they were headed to Europe.

Probably Prestwick, Scotland. That’s within the Connie’s range.

Hell, the Connie could make it direct to Berlin.

Are we headed to Berlin?

Why the hell would a two-star admiral be going to Berlin?

[SEVEN]

Tempelhof Air Base Berlin, Germany 1445 19 July 1945

“Stay on board, Colonel,” Admiral Sourer said, “until we get through this arriving VIP nonsense. I’ll send Portman to fetch you.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

There was a squad of senior Army brass waiting at the foot of the stairs, and an Army band. One of the Army officers was an erect, tough-looking two-star, and Clete decided he was looking at the legendary General I. D. White.

He looked for Mattingly but didn’t see him.

Frade still had no idea what was going on. Admiral Sourer had quizzed him skillfully and at length on the flight to Boston, but had not made any accusations. Or threats of Leavenworth, either, if Clete didn’t fess up that he was smuggling Nazis from Germany to Argentina.

Admiral Sourer trooped the line of Hell on Wheels tankers, shook hands with the tough-looking two-star Clete was now pretty sure was I. D. White, and then climbed into a 1940 Packard limousine and, preceded and followed by M-8 armored cars, roared off the tarmac.

Commander Portman appeared at the passenger door and waved for Clete to debark.

A car—an Opel Kapitän, a Chevrolet-sized sedan now bearing U.S. Army markings—was waiting for them.

“Can I ask now if we’re going to Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask where we’re going?”

“To Potsdam. To a place called Sans Souci. It means ‘without care.’ It belonged to Crown Prince Wilhelm of the Hohenzollern dynasty.”

“Can I ask why we’re going to ‘care less’?”

“I think that means more ‘care free’ than ‘care less.’ And, no, you can’t ask why we’re going there.”

It was about a twenty-minute drive from Tempelhof to Potsdam, through areas that were about equally utter destruction and seemingly untouched in any way.

They crossed a very well-guarded bridge, then entered an equally well-guarded area. Finally, they were at sort of a palace. The palace seemed surrounded by heavily armed troops.

A full colonel very carefully examined both Portman and Frade, and their identity cards, then passed them to a captain, who led them into the building and then into a small room that looked as if it had at one time been some medium-level bureaucrat’s office.

Admiral Sourer was alone in the room, sitting on a hard-backed chair by a small desk.

“That’ll be all, Jack, thank you,” Sourer said.

“I’ll be outside, sir.”

He had no sooner closed that door than another door opened and a middle-aged man walked in.

“How was the flight, Sid?” the man asked.

“Eleven hours nonstop from Boston, Mr. President. You really should have taken the Connie when Hughes offered it to you.”

Harry S Truman looked at Cletus Frade.

The President said: “So, this is the guy who’s got Henry in a snit?”

“Lieutenant Colonel Frade, Mr. President,” Sourer said.

“Do you drink, Colonel?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

“Good, because the admiral is a teetotaler, and I really want a drink—I have really earned a couple of drinks in the last couple of hours—and I don’t like to drink alone. Bourbon all right, Colonel?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

“Ask the steward outside, please, Sid, if we have a time problem.”

“Certainly.”

The President looked at Frade. “I don’t have time to skirt around the edges of this, Colonel. So getting right to it: If I told you that yesterday afternoon I took Marshal Stalin aside and told him the United States has new bombs, each with the explosive power of twenty thousand tons of TNT, and I couldn’t detect an iota of surprise in him, what would you say?”

“Sir, Mr. President, what you told him wasn’t news to him. There are Soviet spies all over the Manhattan Project.”

“Where’d you get that?”

“From General Gehlen, sir.”

“From what I understand, Colonel, General Gehlen is a Nazi sonofabitch about as bad as any other, and worse than some.”

“Sir, I respectfully suggest you have been misinformed.”

“A lot of people try to misinform me. Don’t you try it when you tell me what you know of the deal Allen Dulles made with Gehlen.”

Admiral Sourer returned with a whiskey glass in each hand.

“I like it neat,” the President said as he took the glass. “Is that all right with you, Colonel?”

“Yes, sir, that’s fine.”

“Sid, he’s going to tell us what he knows of the Dulles-Gehlen deal,” Truman said, and gestured for Frade to start.

After a slight hesitation, during which he realized, almost as a surprise, that if any man had the right to know everything, it was the President of the United States, Clete related everything he knew about the deal.

The President, when Clete finished, nodded thoughtfully.

“Colonel,” he then said, “for years now—back to when I was in the Senate, I mean—officers—good, senior, experienced officers—have been coming to me to help them get the OSS shut down. When I became President, the pressure on me really built. Finally, I decided that all those officers couldn’t be wrong. I really admire General Donovan, but the bottom line was that it was Donovan versus just about every senior officer except Eisenhower. And you couldn’t call Ike an enthusiastic supporter.

“So I decided the OSS had to go. On September twentieth, an Executive Order will be issued disbanding the OSS—”

“With all possible respect, Mr. President, that’d be a terrible mistake,” Clete blurted.

“Hold your horses, son. Even ‘with all possible respect,’ lieutenant colonels are not supposed to volunteer to their commander in chief that he is about to make a terrible mistake.”

Clete didn’t reply.

“Even when you’re right, Colonel,” Truman said. “Now, the minute the word got out that I was shutting down the OSS, that terrible organization that wasn’t worth the powder to blow it up, a funny thing happened. Just about everybody from J. Edgar Hoover to the secretary of the Treasury Henry Morgenthau got me in a corner and let me know they’d be happy to take the OSS organization under their wing.

“So that started me to think. If the OSS was so useless, why did they want it? I had an idea, and I took it to Sid—Admiral Sourer—here and asked him. We’re old friends. He’s not career Navy. Like me, he was a weekend warrior in the Navy Reserve when I was making my way up to colonel in the National Guard. The admiral told me what I was beginning to suspect on my own. All the generals and admirals and diplomats and bureaucrats didn’t hate the OSS. They hated Wild Bill Donovan, and the reason they hated Donovan was that he was independent. They couldn’t control him.

“And now they want to absorb the OSS into their little empires because they think that will make them stronger.

“Well, Colonel Frade, that’s not going to happen. I am now convinced—especially because of the trouble the goddamn Russians are certain to cause us . . .”

He paused, then went on: “Let me go off on a tangent on that one. At one o’clock this afternoon, I told General Marshall to shut off all aid to the Soviets immediately, today.”

“Jesus, Harry!” Admiral Sourer said.

“The sonsof bitches have to be taught they can’t push Harry Truman around the way they pushed poor sick FDR around.”

“And that Bess isn’t Eleanor?” Sourer asked innocently.

“Bess keeps her nose out of politics, and you know she does,” Truman said. “And we’re getting off the subject. Getting back to it. A month or so after the OSS is shut down—as soon as I can—I am going to set up an organization, call it the Intelligence Agency or something like that, that will take the place of the OSS.

“Now, since I can’t name Wild Bill Donovan, Alec Graham, and Allen Dulles to run it, for the obvious reasons, I had to find somebody else. He didn’t have to be too smart—”

“Go to hell, Harry,” Sourer said dryly.

“—so I settled on Rear Admiral Sidney W. Sourer, United States Naval Reserve, to head the new agency. Which brings us to you, Colonel: Allen Dulles has convinced me we can’t afford to lose General Gehlen and his intelligence assets. One sure way to lose him is for Morgenthau to lay his hands on you or any of your people or—especially—any of the Nazis you have smuggled into Argentina. I want the truth now. Can you prevent that from happening in the next few months with damned little—no—help from anybody until Sid—Admiral Sourer—is up and running with the new agency?”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. President. I really think I can.”

Truman looked at him for a long moment.

“So do I. I really think you can,” the President said. Then he laughed. “When I heard you made the Secret Service take off their trousers . . . what did I say, Sid?”

“You said, ‘That young officer is apparently capable of anything.’”

“That’s what I said, and that’s what I meant.”

He put out his hand to Clete.

“Thank you, Colonel Frade. I hope to see you again, and soon.” The President paused. “But right now, the thing to do is get you back to Argentina and out of sight. Sid, can we send him in that fancy airplane of yours? Can that make it to Argentina?”

“Not a problem, Mr. President.”

“Then it’s done. Sid, you can come back to Washington with me on The Independence.”

“There’s a couple of problems with that, Mr. President, as far as I’m concerned,” Frade said. “The first is that your Connie can take us only as far as one of our air bases in Brazil; it would cause too much attention in Argentina.”

“And what else?”

“The military attaché in our embassy in Buenos Aires is not one of my admirers.”

“You’re speaking of Colonel Richmond C. Flowers?” Admiral Sourer asked. “I know a good deal about him.”

“Yes, sir. And if he finds out I’m back in Argentina, it’ll be all over Washington in a matter of hours.”

“Sid?” President Truman asked.

“By the time you get to Buenos Aires, Colonel Frade,” Admiral Sourer said, “Colonel Flowers will be en route to his new assignment. Nome, Alaska, comes to mind.”

“Anything else, son?” the President asked.

“My wife and sons are in New Orleans.”

“We can’t have that,” the President said. “Sid . . .”

“By the time you get to Brazil, Colonel, I think your family will also be there,” Admiral Sourer said.

“Is that it?” the President asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Have a nice flight, Colonel,” the President of the United States said.

He turned and, sipping his bourbon, walked out of the room.

[EIGHT]

357 Roonstrasse, Zehlendorf Berlin, Germany 1710 19 July 1945

“They’re in the garden, Colonel,” one of Tiny’s men said when Frade walked into the house.

Clete was afraid to ask just who that meant, and didn’t.

Then he saw Karl Boltitz, Siggie Stein, and Heinrich and Gerhard sitting at a small table. With Graf von Wachtstein.

Hansel’s back!

Thank you, God!

Frade announced: “Okay, everybody up. We have a plane to catch.”

“Says who?” Stein asked.

“Since you asked, says the President of the United States. Our orders are to hide in Argentina from the Secret Service until things settle down a little.”

“Why do I think he’s telling the truth?” von Wachtstein asked.

“Why is it you still have skin?”

“Because I am smarter than anyone thought I am.”

“How did you do in Bremen, Karl?”

“Pretty well, Clete,” Boltitz said. “So far as the subs are concerned, the sooner I get to Argentina the better.”

He looked at the boys, then back at Clete, and asked, “How much time do we have?”

“None. Let’s go.”

The men all stood.

Heinrich and Gerhard remained in their seats, their gazes glued to the table.

“You guys don’t want to go to Argentina and meet Uncle Siggie’s nice nun?” Clete asked.

The boys looked up at each other.

Then Heinrich looked at Clete and said, “Excuse me? We can go?”

“Of course you can go,” Frade said.

“Can you do that, Cletus?” von Wachtstein asked.

“What? Of course I can! I am the world’s greatest expert in smuggling Germans into Argentina. If you don’t believe me, just ask the secretary of the Treasury.”