Victory and Honor

[ONE]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province Republic of Argentina 1050 12 May 1945

“When this is over,” Clete announced after everybody had filed into the quincho, “the bar will open. In the meantime, sit down, have a cup of coffee, and pay attention to our boss.”

There are all sorts of quinchos, structures originally built of poles supporting a thatched roof, designed to keep people out of the sun and rain while watching meat grill on the wood-fueled parrilla. The Big House’s quincho was somewhat more elaborate. At least three generations of Frades had used it to entertain not only their friends but the senior employees of the Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. There was a large number of the latter.

This quincho was a substantial brick building large enough to seat fifty people at what in America would be called picnic tables. The roof was covered with red Spanish tiles, and there was a complete restaurant-size kitchen to complement the twenty-foot-long parrilla. And there was a well-stocked bar.

“Thank you, Colonel Frade, for that enthusiastic introduction,” Dulles said dryly, and sat down on one of the wooden plank tables.

“There’s good news and there’s bad news,” Dulles began. “As you’re aware, the very good news is that the Germans have surrendered unconditionally, and as soon as we’re finished here, we’ll have a drink to celebrate that.

“The bad news is that the end of any war is a dangerous time. Some argue that it can be more dangerous than during the war, because on the losing side there can be breaks in chains of command and in discipline, and lawful orders can either be lost in the chaos or be outright ignored—or both. Nor is it unusual among those on the losing side for there to be instances of every man for himself. I’ll get more into that in a moment.

“While Germany has surrendered, the fact is the war is not over for us. You won’t be sent to the Pacific. But you won’t be going home, either, because you’re needed here. And concerning that, the other bad news—there’s so much of it I hardly know where to begin—is that the OSS shortly will cease to exist.”

That announcement caused a sudden anxious energy in the quincho . Some of the Turtles suddenly sat upright, causing the wooden legs of their seating to screech across the tile floor. Others blurted a mix of “What?” and “I’ll be damned!”

Clete Frade popped to his feet and extended his right arm over his head, the palm of his hand out. “Hold it down. Let Mr. Dulles continue.”

There then came some audible sighs, but the room turned quiet again. Frade returned to his seat.

Dulles went on: “Believe me, I don’t like it any better than you men. But I’m afraid that we—the OSS—had it coming. Let me go off on that tangent. I’m sure you will all be shocked to hear that the Army, the Navy, the State Department, and the FBI have never liked the OSS. They’ve had to put up with us because the OSS enjoyed the protection of President Roosevelt. The OSS was his idea. The moment Roosevelt died the pressure on President Truman to disband us began. It increased with the German surrender. It isn’t a question of whether the OSS will be shut down, but when.

“So far as the OSS in Argentina is concerned, organizationally Team Turtle is de jure subordinate to the OSS station chief, Colonel Richmond C. Flowers, USA, who is the military attaché at our embassy in Buenos Aires.

“De facto, Team Turtle is directly subordinate to Colonel Graham and, to a lesser degree, myself. While Majors Ashton and Pelosi, who have been accredited to the embassy, are de jure subordinate to Colonel Flowers, de facto Colonel Flowers has been told that he does not have either the authority to tell them what to do or the ability to question them as to what they are doing.

“In a manner of speaking, Flowers is Marshall’s man in the OSS. His allegiance is to General Marshall, not to General Donovan. You understand, of course, that when I refer to the chief of staff of the Army, I am not referring to General George Catlett Marshall personally, but to one or more of his subordinates who know his desires and will try hard to satisfy them. That would include his deputy chief of staff or someone even lower on that chain of command. Or—almost certainly—the assistant chief of staff for intelligence, and others lower on that chain of command.

“Everyone still with me? If there are questions, please ask them. Because what I’m about to tell you concerns not only some of your fine work being completely destroyed, but also what you may well face in the very near future.”

He paused and looked around the room.

There were more than a few expressions of curiosity. But no questions.

“Okay,” Dulles said with a nod, then went on: “Shortly after Colonel Flowers was named OSS station chief for Argentina and told that he had no control over Team Turtle, he complained to General Marshall that, because of all the things Team Turtle was doing, he had nothing to do. Marshall—or, as I said before, one of his loyal underlings—complained to General Donovan. In an attempt to spread oil upon the troubled waters, Donovan threw Marshall a bone.”

He paused, then said with a smile, “How’s that for a masterful double cliché?”

That got him chuckles, and Master Sergeant William Ferris applauded and called, “Hear! Hear!”

Dulles then said: “That bone being the care and maintenance of the files Team Turtle had been keeping that listed or else, which banks and which safety-deposit boxes in all the money and precious stones, et cetera, resided that Herr Doktor Goebbels and other National Socialist officials had been sending to Argentina to fund their Operation Phoenix. The release of the intel was done, I must say, over Colonel Frade’s most strenuous objections. But when ordered by General Donovan to turn over said files to Colonel Flowers, Colonel Frade dutifully did so.”

“How’s that for a masterful stupid decision?” Frade asked bitterly.

“You had no choice, Clete,” Dulles said evenly. “It was an order.”

“I could have given Flowers half of the files, a quarter of them,” Frade argued. “He wouldn’t have known the difference, and we would have had at least some of that money and those valuables left to grab. But, no, I gave the bastard everything we had on Phoenix.”

“As you were ordered to do,” Dulles repeated, and then stopped. “I am about to talk out of the other side of my mouth on the subject of obeying orders. When Colonel Flowers made an unwise decision vis-à-vis those files—”

“‘Unwise decision’?” Frade parroted. “How about a masterful double stupid decision?”

Dulles smiled at him.

“If you like,” Dulles said, “I will rephrase: When Colonel Flowers, to ensure those files would not fall into the wrong hands, made his masterful double stupid decision to take the files out of the embassy and place them in the safe in his home, he thus unwittingly permitted parties unknown—”

“Otherwise known as el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón,” Frade interrupted again.

“—to gain surreptitious access to them and photograph them, thus permitting the holders of the various bank accounts and safety-deposit boxes to move the assets elsewhere before they could be seized by the Argentine government on Germany’s unconditional surrender.

“On learning that there were no assets to be seized, Colonel Flowers suspected that Colonel Frade had not only intentionally given him false data when ordered to turn over the files to him but had given the bona fide data to, quote, some of his Argentine friends, close quote. And then reported his suspicions as fact to the assistant chief of staff for intelligence.

“Flowers, of course, had no way of knowing that, in addition to turning over the files to him, what Colonel Frade had actually done was make copies of everything and given those copies to the legal attaché of the U.S. Embassy, Mr. Milton Leibermann, and informed General Donovan that he had done so.

“Mr. Leibermann notified the FBI that he had come into possession of the files, the accuracy of which he had verified, from Colonel Frade.

“On receipt of this communication, J. Edgar Hoover called General Donovan and asked why Colonel Frade had been so obliging, inasmuch as officers of the OSS and the FBI in Argentina were forbidden to communicate with one another. General Donovan told him that Frade had been so concerned the files would be compromised once they were in the hands of Colonel Flowers that he felt justified to place a copy of them into the hands of the FBI.

“And so it came to pass, as it says so often in the Bible, that when the assistant chief of staff for intelligence, in righteous indignation, called upon General Donovan with Colonel Flowers’s suspicions vis-à-vis Colonel Frade, General Donovan was able to tell him they were unfounded. ‘General, the data Frade furnished Colonel Flowers was accurate. Ask J. Edgar Hoover, who has a copy.’

“The assistant chief of staff for intelligence apparently contacted Director Hoover, for that was the last either Donovan or the OSS heard of the matter.

“I think it reasonable to assume, however, that the assistant chief of staff for intelligence did indeed discuss the matter with Colonel Flowers. I also think it reasonable to assume that they refused to relieve Colonel Flowers for cause because that would have been tantamount to admitting the officer forced upon the OSS was grossly incompetent.

“Getting back to what I said at the beginning, the bad news here is that when the OSS is inevitably disbanded, Team Turtle personnel will be reassigned. That almost certainly means everyone will be assigned to the Office of the Military Attaché—in other words, to Colonel Flowers.

“And as soon as the OSS is disbanded—and probably before, possibly as soon as tomorrow—Colonel Flowers is going to try to assume authority over all of you.”

“Fuck him,” Tony Pelosi blurted.

“Please permit me to associate myself with Major Pelosi’s position,” Major Ashton said.

That earned them some chuckles.

“While orders are orders,” Dulles said, “there is a loophole here: Until the OSS is formally disbanded, and until Colonel Flowers is ordered to assume command, so to speak, the status quo will prevail. He will not have the legal authority to issue orders to any of you.

“I think, however, that he will try. If he fails, he will have lost nothing. If he succeeds, the advantages to him are obvious. Victors write history. He will write the history of why the plan to have Operation Phoenix assets seized failed, and Colonel Frade’s gross incompetence—and perhaps his disloyalty—will be the reason.”

“Mr. Dulles,” Lieutenant Oscar Schultz asked, “two questions.”

“Shoot, Jefe,” Dulles said.

Jefe—“chief” in Spanish—made reference both to the Brooklynborn Schultz’s former status as a Navy chief radioman and to what he was called by the workers of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. Fluent in Spanish, Schultz often could be found in what he called his gaucho outfit—a broad-brimmed black hat, loose white shirt with billowing sleeves, billowing black bombachas tucked into calf-high soft black leather boots, and a wide silver-studded and buckled leather belt carrying a fourteen-inch knife in a silver scabbard.

“Make that three questions,” the old sailor said. “But if I get the right answer to question one, I won’t have to ask the other two.”

Dulles, Frade, and Ashton immediately took Jefe’s meaning.

Frade and Dulles laughed.

Ashton said, “Good thought!”

Schultz pulled his wicked knife from its scabbard, looked at it admiringly, then began, “A quick and simple fix for this problem—”

“Sorry, Jefe,” Dulles interrupted. “As General of the Army Eisenhower was denied permission by President Roosevelt to remove a problem named Charles de Gaulle by shooting him, this deputy director of the OSS herewith denies you permission to remove a problem named Colonel Richmond C. Flowers by shooting or any other lethal means.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Schultz said, his tone genuinely disappointed, and slipped his blade back in the scabbard.

That caused general laughter.

“Even though,” Dulles added, “the gentleman in question clearly deserves it.”

More laughter.

“And your other two questions?” Dulles asked.

“How much time do we have before they shut down the OSS?”

“I really don’t know,” Dulles replied. “Much depends on what happens in the Pacific. Or, more precisely, President Truman’s perception of what will happen there. If he thinks that the war will continue for some time, he may decide that the OSS might prove useful and not shut us down immediately. On the other hand, if he thinks the Emperor will surrender—or seek an armistice, or something unexpected happens . . .”

Dulles met Frade’s eyes for a moment.

Clete thought: He’s talking about that superbomb, that “atomic” bomb!

“. . . in the near term, he may decide the OSS is no longer needed.”

Schultz was not satisfied with that answer.

“Time frame?” he pursued.

“From tomorrow to possibly as late as October or November. Sorry, Jefe, that’s really the best I can do.”

“And what are our priorities during that time?”

“Right now there are two. I’m not sure which priority is most important; both could be. Immediately, I would lean toward protecting the Gehlen operation. Because if President Truman hears about it—especially via Treasury Secretary Morgenthau—he will very likely order that the OSS be shut down that instant. And then probably order the arrest of everybody concerned with the Gehlen operation.

“I think that alone explains the absolute necessity for keeping it a secret. But let me express further how important it is: A moment ago, I said that you could not take out Colonel Flowers despite his having proven to be a danger to the OSS. That said, if Colonel Flowers were to learn of the Gehlen operation, and was about to pass what he had learned, or even thinks he had learned, on to anyone—”

“Then we could shoot him?” Schultz interrupted.

“That’s a very tough call to make, Jefe, and we would have to be absolutely sure the Gehlen operation was in imminent danger of being compromised. But . . .”

“Understood,” Schultz said, nodding.

Dulles added, “Colonel Frade, I think it important that you understand that.”

“I understand,” Clete said. “And what I want everyone else to understand is that we are not going to take out Colonel Flowers until I am sure we have to. I’ll make that decision. Everybody got that?”

There were nods and mumbles of “Got it” and “Okay.”

“Not good enough,” Clete said. “You will respond, Mr. Schultz, by saying, ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Army personnel will respond by saying, ‘Yes, sir. I understand the order.’”

There was something in the tone of his voice that discouraged either wisecracks or insubordination.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Schultz said.

This was followed by multiple, overlapping, replies of “Yes, sir, I understand the order.”

“Thank you,” Frade said. “Please continue, Mr. Dulles.”

“The second problem falls under what I mentioned earlier,” Dulles said, “about the dangers unique to the end of a war. There has been a great deal of confusion—and, at times, outright chaos—leading up to the Germans agreeing to surrender unconditionally. And now afterward. Accordingly, the intelligence that we have, and continue to gather, is all over the chart. Some of it is solid and reliable. And some is so wild that it boggles the mind.”

“Let’s hear the wild stuff,” Pelosi said.

Schultz, sitting next to Pelosi, looked at him and chimed in: “Yeah, I’d like to hear something worse than the news that we’re being disbanded and taken over by our worst nightmare.”

There were a couple chuckles.

“I’ll save the outrageous for later,” Dulles said. “But I will say now that it fits with some of what you’ve already dealt with—specifically the Phoenix program, which of course we know existed and therefore lends some credibility to the wildest of scenarios. And it shares the common thread of U-boats still at sea—possibly as many as sixty submarines, but maybe only twenty. Our intelligence, as I said, is all over the chart. We know a great deal about some of these subs, almost nothing about others. And knowing nothing means we haven’t the first idea if their crews plan to follow orders to surrender their vessels and crews—or if they have their own plans, either missions meant to be executed at war’s end, or perhaps instances of every man for himself—or, in this case, every vessel for itself. Of all these U-boats, however, we are particularly interested in two, U-234 and U-977.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Dulles,” Boltitz interrupted. “With regard to U-234, if memory serves, she’s a Type XB U-boot, a minelayer pressed into service as a cargo carrier—long range, able to cover more than eighteen thousand nautical miles if running on the surface. And I know that U-977 is a Type VIIC.”

Dulles grinned. “I take it you have a connection with submarines, Karl?”

Boltitz nodded. “Peter and I. We know Kapitänleutnant Wilhelm von Dattenberg well. He was master of U-405, also a VIIC.”

“The last information I have,” Dulles said, “is that von Dattenberg still is her captain. How do you two know him?”

Von Wachtstein offered: “Peter and I were together in school at Philipps University in Marburg an der Lahn.”

“And,” Boltitz added, “I served five patrols under von Dattenberg.”

“I wasn’t aware that you had been a submarine officer, Karl,” Dulles said.

“I went from U-boots to Admiral Canaris’s staff. I thought at the time that my father was responsible. I now believe Willi von Dattenberg was. I found out that he was—he and his father were—close to Canaris. But if that’s the case, how did Willi escape the SS after the failure at Wolfsschanze?”

“Karl,” Dulles said, his tone almost that of a kindly schoolmaster, “the SS isn’t—wasn’t—nearly as infallible as they would have people believe.”

“I’ve had that thought, too, sir,” Boltitz said. “It’s what permits me to think that the possibility my father may have escaped their net isn’t for certain pissing into the wind.”

“We all devoutly pray the same, and that you’re standing at the rail with your back to the wind,” Dulles said. “I think your submarine experience may prove to be quite valuable. It might well be something Colonel Frade’s defense counsel can use when he is court-martialed for breaking you out of Fort Hunt.”

This produced a round of chuckles and laughter.

“All right,” Dulles went on, “I was about to say, ‘Talking about submarines, starting at the beginning,’ but I just realized I don’t know where the beginning is. So, starting with what we do know: We know with some certainty that when Grand Admiral Doenitz issued the cease hostilities order on May fourth, sixty-three U-boats were at sea. Five of them complied with their orders to hoist a black flag and proceed to an enemy port to surrender, or to a neutral port to be interned.

“We have unreliable information that forty-one of them have been scuttled by their crews, possibly to prevent the capture of whatever may be onboard in something called Operation Deadlight. We don’t know how many were actually sunk, and we have no boat identification.

“Assuming these subs were either surrendered and/or sunk, that means forty-six from sixty-three leaves us seventeen U-boats unaccounted for.

“These could be part of another intel report—one of somewhat dubious reliability—that says a total of twenty submarines sailed from ports in Norway, primarily Bergen, for Argentina, between May first and May sixth.”

“That many?” Frade said. “And we know nothing about them?”

Dulles shook his head. “Not really. We have no identification of which boats are supposed to have done this. And if true, that’s quite a sizable operation.

“But what we do know with some certainty is that U-234 sailed from Narvik on April sixteenth, two weeks before these twenty are supposed to have headed for Argentina. The mission of U-234 was a special one”—he glanced at Karl—“and I think it may explain the presence of Vizeadmiral Boltitz in Norway.”

“Mr. Dulles, can you elaborate on that?” Karl said.

“We suspect your father may have gone there to take control of the U-boat—and particularly its cargo—to keep her from sailing after the bomb took out Hitler.”

“What the hell is aboard that sub?” Frade said.

“According to our information, U-234 was bound for Japan with a varied and very interesting cargo, some of which was either not listed on the manifest at all or listed under a false description. That is to say, in addition to a ton of mail—which, of course, almost certainly includes cash and diamonds—we’re told that U-234 took aboard five hundred sixty kilograms of uranium oxide. And passengers included both Nazi and Japanese officers, as well as certain scientists, two of whom the OSS was actively pursuing prior to the German surrender.”

“What’s that about?” Ashton asked. “That uranium?”

Dulles met Frade’s eyes for a moment before replying, “German scientists have been working on what might be called ‘an explosives amplifier.’ I don’t know much more than that about it . . .”

The hell you don’t! Frade thought.

You told me that uranium is what’s in the atom bomb.

“. . . except that we really don’t want the Japanese to get their hands on it. What I do know is that we can’t permit U-234 to get to Japan. And General Smith and I are agreed that it can’t get there.”

“General Smith?” Ashton asked.

“General Walter Bedell Smith, Eisenhower’s chief of staff,” Dulles clarified, and then saw something on Ashton’s face. “Why did you just nod understandingly, Ashton? Who else did you think I might be talking about?”

Ashton looked mildly uncomfortable, glanced at Frade, then shrugged. “Actually, until just now, I was wondering why the OSS deputy director for European operations had come to this backwater of the war. ‘He must certainly have more important things on his plate right now.’”

“And now you think you understand?” Dulles said.

“At first, I thought your purpose, sir, forgive the vulgarism, was to cover Eisenhower’s ass vis-à-vis the Gehlen operation. He’s privy to it, isn’t he?”

“Is that what you understood?” Dulles asked softly, ignoring the question. “That was your analysis?”

“Yes, sir. That is, until you mentioned that half-ton of uranium oxide and then General Smith. I would guess that General Smith is one of the very few officers privy to the secret of the atomic bomb. That’s really why we have to take out U-234, isn’t it?”

Dulles glanced at Cletus Frade, then said, “Major Ashton, tell me what you know about—what did you say?—an ‘atomic’ bomb.”

“I know the Germans were trying to build one, and I know that we are.”

“And how did you come into this information, Major Ashton?” Dulles asked softly.

Dulles locked eyes momentarily with Frade again.

Frade shook his head to deny responsibility.

“Clete didn’t tell me, sir,” Ashton said.

“Clete didn’t even come close to it,” Technical Sergeant Jerry O’Sullivan offered. “All he told any of us was to keep our eyes and ears open to any mention of uranium, and to tell him immediately if we heard anything at all.”

“And, except for this one instance with Niedermeyer, we didn’t hear anything,” Ashton said.

“Niedermeyer?” Dulles said.

“Oberstleutnant Otto Niedermeyer—the first of two of Oberstleutnant Gehlen’s officers to arrive in Argentina—is the source of my information, sir.”

Ashton looked from Dulles to Frade, then back to Dulles, and went on: “Clete sent Jerry and me to San Martín de los Andes to see what, if anything, we might get Niedermeyer to tell us. Cutting to the chase, after we’d had a couple of drinks—more than a couple; in vino veritas, so to speak—I asked him why he thought you, sir, had trusted Colonel Gehlen. He replied, words to this effect, because Gehlen had given you the names of the Russian spies operating in the Manhattan Project, which he told me was the code name for our attempt to build an atomic bomb.”

“And once in possession of this information, what did you do with it?” Dulles asked evenly.

“I took it to Clete.”

“And?”

“Clete told me I was not to mention it to anyone, and then he sent me back to San Martín de los Andes to tell Niedermeyer that if Clete ever heard Niedermeyer had told this story—or anything at all about the Manhattan Project—to anyone else, Clete personally would shoot him.”

Dulles locked eyes with Frade again. Frade’s face showed that he was pleased with Ashton’s report of his “atomic bomb” behavior.

Dulles shrugged, shook his head, and exhaled audibly.

He then said: “Another masterful double cliché has suddenly popped into my brain: As no secret is safe if more than one person knows it, I guess we have to accept that the cow has escaped through the open door of the barn and there is no point in trying to get it back in.

“The truth is that Argentina is no longer a backwater of this war. As I started to say a moment ago, General Smith—and, yes, he is privy to the Manhattan Project—and I are agreed that we simply cannot permit U-234 to reach Japan. There are other reasons for me being here—despite other important things on my plate—but based on what credible information we have, sinking or, in an ideal world, capturing U-234 is perhaps the most important reason of all.

“And the reason Argentina is no longer a backwater is because General Smith and I agree again that U-234 cannot reach Japan without refueling at least once and that any refueling will have an Argentine connection.

“Naval experts at Eisenhower’s headquarters have suggested a scenario involving those twenty submarines which are alleged to have sailed for Argentina from Norway during the period from May first to May sixth.

“This scenario proposes that the subs are tankers. Manned by as few people as possible, they would rendezvous with U-234 at either a planned location or one determined by radio contact with her. The fuel would be transferred, the crew of the tanker submarine would transfer to U-234, and then the tanker submarine would be scuttled.”

Dulles looked at Boltitz.

“Karl, your opinion of this?”

Boltitz looked at Dulles, nodded, and after a moment’s thought said: “I’m not saying it couldn’t be done. But I can see a number of problems with it. As you would expect, refueling a submarine at sea is not anywhere near the same thing as an automobile pulling up to a service station. There would have to be large-capacity pumps and a substantial quantity of hose aboard either U-234—which, considering how much cargo she is carrying, seems unlikely—or on each of the tanker submarines. Are that many pumps available, that many hoses, in Norway? I rather think not.

“Further, transfer at sea between submarines is hazardous. There would be considerable risk that U-234 would be damaged in the process—either by collision or fire or explosion.

“U-234 does have aboard enough fuel to bring her from Norway to Argentina—a distance of some seven thousand nautical miles—presuming she cruised at best speed to conserve fuel, which means quite slowly.

“That problem, the great distance between Europe and here, is what made the replenishment ship program necessary. And, as we well know, replenishment ships are no longer available, thanks to parties who shall remain nameless.”

Those members of Team Turtle who did not grin either grunted or made some other sound of acknowledgment.

Boltitz continued: “A scenario that occurs to me as more feasible is that U-234 may be slowly making her way here at best speed for fuel efficiency. Meanwhile, the tanker submarines are making their way here at a higher rate of speed. They might be traveling in pairs, but more likely alone, to lower the chance of loss in case they were detected.

“In either event, either sailing together or rendezvousing at some prearranged point, one of them would transfer its fuel to a second, and then be scuttled, with her crew moving to the other.

“This could be repeated with other pairs of submarines, with the ultimate result being that, say, two hundred miles off the Argentine coast, there would be four—possibly more—submarines with full tanks, ready to fill the tanks of U-234. After doing so, they again would scuttle whatever empty vessels and the remainders would accompany U-234 to Japan.”

“That does make sense,” Frade thought out loud.

After a moment, Dulles said: “All right, then. Let’s put this line of thought on the back burner for the moment and discuss U-977. Most of what we have heard about her sounds like the product of fevered imaginations. About the only thing we know with absolute certainty—as Karl has confirmed—is that she is a Type VIIC—”

“Which is the same U-boot type as U-405,” Karl Boltitz offered.

Dulles motioned for him to continue.

“She’s sixty-seven meters in length,” Boltitz then said. He paused. “My apology. That’s two hundred and twenty feet. She draws fifteen feet. She carries a crew of approximately fifty, and is armed with fifteen torpedoes—four tubes forward, one aft—and a small 8.8cm deck gun. Her surface range, at twelve miles per hour, is more than eight thousand miles. Untersee—submerged, if you will—she can run only eighty miles. And to avoid detection, she would certainly run most of the distance submerged to schnorchel depth—only surfacing for a couple hours a night—meaning it could possibly take U-977 months to reach here. The snort is not strong, and thus the captain must limit her speed to six knots.”

“Schnorchel?” Frade repeated.

Boltitz nodded. “‘Snort’ for short. You would call it a snorkel. It is a tall tube that rises from the conning tower to above the surface so that the U-boot can take in fresh air while running submerged.”

“Thank you, Karl,” Dulles then said. “Okay, our information is that U-977, under command of twenty-four-year-old Oberleutnant Heinz Schäffer, left Kristiansand, Norway, to begin a routine patrol on May second. She had arrived there on April thirtieth.”

“That sounds suspicious,” Boltitz said. “It takes more than two or three days to prepare a boat for patrol. Could it be that she was made ready for sea elsewhere and went to Kristiansand to pick up something?”

Dulles looked at Boltitz, then turned to Clete Frade.

“Colonel Frade, this is where the outrageous part begins. I’m afraid that I’ve already gone on long enough, to the point where everyone not only needs a libation but, I believe, deserves one—”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Frade said.

“—but just one,” Dulles continued, “until after we have finished with the business. Which I promise won’t take long.”

[TWO]

All the men in the quincho stood at their wood-plank tables, all holding their drinks aloft in their right hand.

“In the words of Aristotle, ‘We make war that we may live in peace,’” Allen W. Dulles solemnly intoned. “To victory in Europe!”

The room filled with the parroting of “To victory in Europe!” and the chanting of “Hear, hear!”

After everyone had taken a sip of their drinks, Dulles motioned for them to take their seats.

“Drink up, gentlemen,” Dulles then said. “The alcohol should help make what I’m about to share with you seem at least a little plausible.”

“Great!” Oscar Schultz said. “Now we get the outrageous stuff.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Tony Pelosi put in, and tapped his glass to el Jefe’s.

Dulles then glanced at Karl Boltitz and said: “I take it that everyone recalls what our U-boat expert said about the short period of time that U-977 spent in dock at Kristiansand before heading to sea?”

“That she was made ready for sea elsewhere,” Pelosi offered, “and went to Norway to pick up something?”

“Yes, except not ‘something.’ Rather, ‘someone.’”

“Who?” Clete Frade said.

“What fevered imaginations have come up with is that U-977 went to Norway to pick up Adolf Hitler and his new wife, to transport them to safety in Argentina.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Jerry O’Sullivan blurted. “Everybody knows they committed suicide. Hitler married her, then shot her, then bit on a cyanide capsule.”

“On May one,” Dulles said, “Grand Admiral Doenitz went on the radio and announced that Hitler had met a hero’s death on the battlefield.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Tony Pelosi said.

“That suggests,” Dulles went on, “that Hitler died—or that Admiral Doenitz wants us to believe he died—on April thirtieth, or even earlier. We’ve heard he took his life on April twenty-eighth. Timewise, there would have been plenty of time for him to fly to Norway and get aboard U-977.”

“Presuming he wasn’t dead,” O’Sullivan said with some sarcasm.

“According to Zhukov,” Dulles said, “he isn’t dead, and neither are Frau Hitler, Martin Bormann, Herr Doktor Goebbels, and a half dozen other important Nazis. Suggesting, if true of course, that Operation Phoenix was indeed known all the way to the top.”

“According to who did you say, Mr. Dulles?” Clete asked.

“Marshal of the Soviet Union Georgi Konstantinovich Zhukov,” Dulles said. “The victor of the Battle for Berlin. Eisenhower’s counterpart.”

“He actually said that?” Peter von Wachtstein asked.

“His interpreter told Ike he said just that, and that most of them, including Mr. and Mrs. Hitler, are on their way to a safe haven in Argentina. If nothing else, this bit of what my gut tells me is disinformation is a classic example of why our having Gehlen’s intel about the Russians is absolutely critical. They are not to be trusted.”

“Jesus!” Frade said. “It’s incredible. Ike can’t believe him, can he?”

“Ike thinks it has something to do with General I. D. White,” Dulles said.

“Who’s he?”

“The commanding general of our Second Armored Division. General White not only moved into what will be the American sector of Berlin without asking Ike, but he also ignored Zhukov’s order that he was required to wait for permission. The rape of Berlin—which has been ghastly—bothered General White. He ordered the Russians out of the American sector. When they refused to go, he issued a proclamation stating that anyone but Americans found with a weapon in the American sector would be presumed to be Germans refusing to obey the surrender order and would be shot on sight. As would rapists, armed or not.”

“Good man!” Ashton said, raising his glass in salute. “Here’s to General White.” He took a sip, then looked at Frade and added, “Colonel, no disrespect intended, but can I go work for him when we’re disbanded?”

That earned him a couple chuckles and at least one grunt of agreement.

Dulles went on: “White could have started World War Three right there, but after a half dozen of Zhukov’s troops had in fact been shot, the Russian caved in and ordered all his troops out of the American zone. Eisenhower believes, not with a great deal of conviction, that what Zhukov is up to, in case there is anything to the inevitable rumors that Hitler did not commit suicide and escaped Berlin, is to blame it on General White. In any event, Eisenhower has ordered the OSS to look into it as a high priority, and David Bruce is doing just that.”

“The OSS guy in London?” Frade asked.

Dulles nodded.

“I’m surprised Bruce didn’t turn that wild-goose chase over to you,” Frade said.

“It was the other way around, Clete. Unfortunately for poor David, he takes his orders from me.”

“I’m afraid to open this can of worms,” Schultz said, “but how the hell was Hitler supposed to get out of Berlin? It was surrounded, right?”

“Yes, it was, Jefe,” Dulles said. “But we’ve heard that Hanna Reitsch flew into Berlin on April twenty-eighth, just before Hitler’s suicide, and then supposedly flew out with the newly appointed chief of the Luftwaffe, General Robert Ritter von Greim, a day or two later.”

“I thought,” Ashton said, “that we had total air superiority over Berlin. How did this Hanna Reitsch manage to do that?”

“The story is that a Fieseler Storch landed on the Unter den Linden,” Dulles said. “Is that possible? Who do I ask, von Wachtstein or Frade, if that’s possible?”

“It’s possible,” von Wachtstein immediately replied. “No problem whatsoever.”

“What’s the Unter den Linden?” Clete asked.

“A wide boulevard near the Reichschancellery,” von Wachtstein explained. “It used to be lined with linden trees. You could get in and out of there in a Storch without much trouble at all.”

“Presuming,” Dulles said, “that there were not perhaps fifty or so Russian fighters in the area supporting the Red Army who would welcome the opportunity to shoot down such an airplane.”

“Who’s this Hanna Reitsch flying the Storch?” Frade said. “How good a pilot is he?”

Von Wachtstein laughed.

He then explained: “Hanna Reitsch is a woman, Clete. And she’s a much better pilot than you or me.”

Clete raised his eyebrows and nodded. After a moment’s thought, he offered: “And Russian fighters wouldn’t be a problem for the Storch if the pilot knew what she was doing.”

“What?” Ashton challenged. “You think a fighter couldn’t shoot down that little observation plane.”

“Once upon a time, Bacardi,” Clete said by way of explanation, “on an island far, far away called Guadalcanal, a Marine pilot was flying around over the jungle in a Piper Cub that he ‘borrowed’ from the Army. He was directing artillery fire and suddenly became aware of a string of tracers coming his way. He looked over his shoulder and saw that he had two Zeros on his tail. Not knowing what to do, he made a sharp right turn and went down on the deck. The Zeros made a three-sixty and had another go at him.

“The Marine went even lower in his humble Cub, then made another right turn. The first Zero flew over him, and the second tried to make a right turn and flew into the trees. The first Zero made two more passes at the little Piper Cub and then gave up. I tried to claim the Zero that went into the trees as a kill, but they said no dice. For one thing, you can’t claim a kill if the enemy plane went down because of pilot error, and for another, you can’t claim a kill if you are flying a Piper Cub stolen from the U.S. Army.

“So, to answer your question, Major Ashton, a female who is a better pilot than Hansel or me, flying a Storch—which stalls at about thirty miles an hour—would have no trouble avoiding Russian fighters.”

Dulles said, “You’re agreed that it’s possible that Hanna Reitsch could have flown Hitler—for that matter, any two people—from Berlin to Norway. Is that so, Peter?”

“Yes, sir. It’s possible,” von Wachtstein replied. “I submit, however, that the real question is: Is it plausible?”

Dulles looked at him a long moment. He said: “We have to proceed on that possibility. The mission obviously is to locate U-997. How nice it would be if we could capture her. And even if the outrageous tale proves to be exactly that—the Hitlers and others are not aboard—then she most certainly will be carrying other valuables.”

“How the hell can we possibly do that?” Frade said. “Definitely not with SAA’s aircraft or certainly not Peter’s Storch. We’d need heavily armed military assets in order to actually capture a sub—and certainly to sink one, if it came to that.”

“Right, Cletus. What’s been discussed is that there are enormous numbers of long-range aircraft—bombers, B-17s and B-24s—now available in Europe to search for submarines. But I don’t think that’s going to be of much help except in the waters between Norway and the English Channel. Once the submarines get into the Atlantic—as some of them probably have already—they will head southwest for the Atlantic and soon be beyond the range of any aircraft looking for them.

“Similarly, although a bomb group has already been ordered to Sidi Slimane in Morocco, I don’t think it will be of much use. As soon as they can get there, the submarines will be deep into the Atlantic, beyond the reach of aircraft.

“At some point west of Europe and North Africa, Eisenhower’s—SHAEF’s—authority ends, and the military command is that of the Navy. They will be ordered—as soon as I can get to Washington and convince Admiral Leahy of the necessity to do so—to begin searching for these submarines. I don’t think they’ll have much luck, but the effort will have to be made.

“Insofar as sending B-17s and/or B-24s here to Argentina or Brazil, that has been considered and decided against. Brazil has asked for such aircraft in the past and, in the probably justified belief that they would use them against Argentina, their request was denied. And obviously we couldn’t send them to Argentina and not to Brazil.

“So, what happens now is that when I get to Washington, I am going to try to get you authority to call upon the B-24s we presently have at Canoas should you need them to deal with any enemy submarines you find, either offshore or within Argentine waters.

“That brings us back to that basic premise. The best—indeed almost the only—hope we have to either sink or capture the submarines in question is Team Turtle. And in doing so, you will not only be up against the Nazis involved in Operation Phoenix but against substantial numbers of our countrymen, in and out of uniform.”

Dulles stopped, looked thoughtful as he sipped his drink, then went on:

“Considering how everyone now has the OSS in their crosshairs, I was about to make an attempt at giving you a stirring pep talk about overcoming great obstacles. Then I remembered the best pep talk I ever heard. How many of you have seen the movie Knute Rockne, All American? With Pat O’Brien playing Rockne?”

I don’t believe this! Clete thought.

Our distinguished OSS deputy director is going to inspire us by quoting from a movie?

Is that the booze talking?

Everybody indicated that they had seen the motion picture, and Clete now saw some of the men showing curious expressions.

“All right then,” Dulles went on. “There was a scene in that motion picture where Coach Rockne went to the hospital bed of one of his players who was terminally ill. At the moment, I can’t think of his name, either in the film, or in real life—”

“Gipp,” Master Sergeant William Ferris furnished. “They called him the Gipper.”

“Right,” Dulles said.

“The actor’s name was Richard Reagan,” Frade said. “He’s now the only aerial gunner in the Air Force who’s a captain.”

“His name is Ronald Reagan,” Ashton quickly corrected him. “And he’s a first lieutenant in the Signal Corps making those venereal disease movies they make everybody watch.”

“You know,” Schultz chimed in, “you pick up some dame in a bar, diddle her, and two weeks later your dick drops off.”

That produced laughter.

“Clark Gable is the only commissioned officer aerial gunner in the Air Forces,” Ferris said. He then quoted Gable’s most famous line: “‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!’”

“You would if it was your dick about to drop off,” Schultz said.

More laughter.

Clete saw the look on Dulles’s face.

“Silence on deck!” Frade barked.

And when he had it, Clete said, “Please go on, Mr. Dulles.”

“I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” Dulles said. “And it was my mistake to open the bar so soon.”

Frade said, “Inasmuch, sir, as we obviously need a pep talk, I really wish you would. Please, sir.”

After a long moment, Dulles shrugged.

“Very well,” he said. “I think I should make the point that not all motion-picture actors in uniform find safe sinecures for themselves. Jimmy Stewart is also in the Air Forces. He has led his B-17 group on twenty-odd missions over Germany and was recently promoted colonel. Closer to home, Captain Sterling Hayden, a Marine, has been infiltrating fellow members of the OSS into—and out of—Albania for some time.”

He paused to let that sink in.

Ashton then popped to his feet, stood at attention, and said, “Sir, I started that unfortunate silliness. I hope you will accept my apology.”

“We are all under something of a strain, Major,” Dulles said after a moment. “No apology is necessary. Please take your seat.”

Ashton did, and after a moment, Dulles said: “Now, where was I? Oh, yes, in the film Rockne goes to the bed of the terminally ill football player known as the Gipper. As difficult as this will obviously be, try to think of me as the character, the Gipper, that Lieutenant Ronald Reagan played.

“This is what he said to Coach Rockne: ‘Rock, sometime when the team is up against it and the breaks are beating the boys, tell them to go out there with all they’ve got and win one for the Gipper. I don’t know where I’ll be then, but I’ll know about it and I’ll be happy.’”

There was silence in the quincho.

Frade thought: The silence of embarrassment.

“The point I had hoped to make,” Dulles said, “and obviously failed so completely to make, was that I know that Team Turtle is really up against it. But I haven’t seen a suggestion that any of you are thinking of throwing in the towel. And I wanted you to know how much I appreciate that. I’m proud to be associated with all of you.”

There was a moment’s silence.

Then O’Sullivan stood up.

“And I want you to know, Mr. Dulles, that this Irishman will be proud for the rest of his life that he was privileged to work for you.”

Ashton stood and said, “Hear, hear!” and began to applaud.

Five seconds later, everyone was on his feet and applauding.

I’ll be goddamned, Clete thought. Mister deputy director of the OSS looks like he’s going to blubber.

Dulles finally found his voice.

“Colonel Frade,” he said, “I would suggest that these proceedings are at the point where you may reopen the bar.”

That caused the applause to increase in volume.

“Thank you, all,” Dulles said, then drained his glass. “Now, let us really celebrate victory in Europe.”

[THREE]

Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 0905 13 May 1945

As the Red Lodestar turned onto a taxiway, Clete Frade saw that two of the Constellations he’d arranged to have brought down from Los Angeles were already painted in the South American Airways color scheme. Another was in a hangar being painted, and the other two were parked waiting for their new paint jobs.

And then he saw two familiar men walk out onto the tarmac from the passenger terminal. One was his uncle, Humberto Duarte, managing director of the Anglo-Argentine Bank and director for finance of South American Airways. The other was the vice president, secretary of War, and secretary of Labor and Welfare of the Argentine Republic, el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón.

Shit! Tío Juan!

What’s that sonofabitch want?

“Do you see what I see?” Peter von Wachtstein asked from the copilot’s seat as he turned the aircraft from the taxiway to the tarmac.

“Don’t let anyone off the plane until I say so,” Clete said, and quickly unstrapped his seat belt and shoulder harness. He was at the fuselage door in the passenger compartment before von Wachtstein had stopped the plane in front of the passenger terminal.

The original idea the previous day—that after the meeting and lunch Clete would fly Dulles in one of the estancia’s Piper Cubs to Jorge Frade, where he would board South American Airways Flight 717 to Canoas—had failed by increments. First, Clete flying anybody anywhere was obviously out of the question once the bar had been reopened.

The alternative plan—that a South American Airways pilot would fly an Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Piper Cub conveniently at Jorge Frade to the estancia, pick up Dulles, and fly him back to Jorge Frade so he could catch a plane to start flying to Washington—went out the window during lunch.

There had still been a great deal to talk about with Dulles:

How was the current status of Boltitz and von Wachtstein going to be affected by the German surrender?

What was to be done with the Germans who had been brought to Argentina in the deal with Oberstleutnant Gehlen? They were divided into three groups—the Good Gehlen Germans, Good Germans, and Nazi Germans—and one answer to that question obviously would not fit all.

There had been no satisfactory answers to these questions. Dulles said that he was either going to have to look into the problem, or they would just have to wait and see what developed, or Clete would just have to use his best judgment.

About three in the afternoon, Clete had realized the discussions were getting nowhere.

“All we’re doing here is kicking a dead horse,” Frade announced. “Or, to quote the distinguished Kapitän zur See Boltitz, ‘All we’re doing here is pissing into the wind.’ I suggest we knock it off. In the morning, on the way to Mendoza, we’ll drop Mr. Dulles off at Jorge Frade in time for him to catch SAA’s oh-nine-thirty Flight 701, nonstop Lodestar service to Rio de Janeiro.”

At that point, Dulles had raised his hand, and when he had everyone’s attention said, “One final thought, Colonel Frade. I am aware that circumstances beyond my control are leaving everyone here—and especially you, as commanding officer—out on a limb. The only thing I can do—and do herewith—is order that any orders you consider it necessary to give will be presumed to be based on my authority.

“In other words, Clete, do what you think should be done. I’ll take responsibility for any action of yours.”

Frade approached Perón and Duarte on the tarmac at Aeropuerto Jorge Frade. Argentine social protocol dictated that Frade wrap his arms around his uncle and make kissing noises with their faces in close proximity. That was fine with Clete; he really liked his uncle.

But the same protocol applied to his godfather, which wasn’t quite the same thing. And Clete had hated every second of their greeting.

That faint tinkling sound is drops of ice falling to the tarmac after a less-than-warm embrace with my Tío Juan.

“When I called San Pedro y San Pablo,” Humberto Duarte then announced, “Dorotea said you were on your way here. So Juan Domingo and I came to intercept you.”

“So I see. What’s up, Humberto?”

Perón cleared his throat, then answered for him: “President Farrell is aware that I am a director of SAA, Cletus, and he called me to see how soon a special flight could be set up to go to Germany. I naturally called Humberto.”

“The President himself did, did he?” Clete said in an unimpressed tone that Perón could not mistake.

Clete felt all of Argentina’s recent presidents—Rawson, Ramírez, Farrell—were flawed, but especially Edelmiro Julián Farrell.

Farrell had overthrown Ramírez in a bloodless coup d’état, masterminded—Clete was sure, but could not prove—by el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón. Because one of General Farrell’s first acts as president of the Provisional Government of Argentina was to name Labor Secretary Perón to the additional posts of vice president and minister for War.

Farrell had also summoned Clete to the Pink House, where he told him that “as a dear friend of your father from our days at the military academy” he had been pleased that Clete had been wise enough not to accept a position in General Ramirez’s government.

Farrell added that he had deeply regretted having to depose Ramirez.

“But P. P. simply seems unable to understand that Germany and Italy are fighting our fight—Christian civilization against the Antichrist, the Russian Communists.”

That shortsightedness had confirmed to Clete that Farrell was not to be trusted. And his opinion hadn’t changed when a year later, almost to the day, President Farrell conveniently announced that the Argentine Republic was now in a state of war with Germany, Italy, and Japan.

It all caused Clete to wonder: What would’ve happened had my father indeed become president? Would he have shown similar deficiencies?

“Yes, Cletus,” el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón now replied arrogantly, “el Presidente himself.”

Clete said: “Exactly what kind of a special flight?”

Clete watched Perón mentally consider his answer.

Just what are you really up to now, you sonofabitch?

“In military terms,” Perón then replied officiously, “a reinforcement and replacement flight. Our diplomatic personnel in Germany not only have been under an enormous strain lately, but may not even have enough to eat or adequate shelter.”

“You want me to fly some diplomats to Germany?” Frade asked incredulously.

“President Farrell and Foreign Minister César Ameghino do. You would take some diplomatic personnel there, to replace the diplomats whom you would then bring home. Plus some supplies—food and medical supplies, that sort of thing—to support our embassy.”

“I’m sure the Americans and the British would be happy to see that food and medical attention would be made available to the embassy personnel,” Clete said. “And, for that matter, see that they got safely to Sweden or Switzerland. Now that I think of it, that’s probably already been done.”

“I’m sure that Minister Ameghino has considered his options,” Perón said, “and concluded that sending a plane is the thing to do.”

Frade looked between Perón and Duarte, and thought:

Whatever this is all about, it has nothing to do with rushing aid to a clutch of abused diplomats.

Damn it! What is this sonofabitch up to?

My God! Has he got Hitler stashed somewhere? And he wants me to go over there so the sonofabitch can fly to sanctuary here in comfort?

That’s more absurd than Hitler on a U-boat!

I didn’t believe that bullshit—and neither did Dulles—about Hitler and his girlfriend taking off from some tree-lined street in Berlin and flying to Norway in a Storch to board the sub.

Perón looked toward the new Constellations, then went off on a tangent: “I presume those are the new aircraft you acquired?”

“That’s them, five Connies,” Clete said.

“I wasn’t aware until this morning, when we got here, that we were even contemplating such an investment,” Perón said.

“The executive board approved the purchase, Juan Domingo,” Duarte offered. “I’m sure that you were sent a copy of the minutes of that meeting.”

“Presumably, these five new aircraft would solve the problem of not having enough aircraft?” Perón said.

Frade shook his head and said, “Having aircraft available is not the problem. What is a problem is that I can’t fly into Germany without clearance. You do know what’s going on over there, right?”

“You think it’s necessary for you to personally fly the relief mission?” Perón asked.

You don’t like that? Fuck you, Tío Juan!

“If an SAA aircraft is going to be flown into Germany, I’ll fly it.”

“You have a reason?” Perón pursued.

“Let’s say I want to protect my investment in SAA,” Clete said.

“Perhaps, with your contacts, your information about conditions in Germany is better than mine,” Perón said.

Does he know Dulles is here?

“Germany will be—probably already has been—divided into four zones,” Clete said. “Russian, English, French, and American. Berlin itself will be sort of an island in the Russian zone, and also divided into four zones. We would need permission from either Eisenhower’s headquarters or the French, whoever is controlling the airspace, to fly across France into Germany—as a matter of fact, it would probably be better to have permission from the Spaniards to fly across Spain into France—and I don’t know if we can get it.”

“Request has been made for whatever permissions are required from the appropriate ambassadors in Madrid and Paris,” Perón said regally. “I cannot imagine their denying it.”

Frade held his gaze a long moment, then said: “You get me the clearances and I’ll do it. I’ll be back from Mendoza tomorrow. Say, anytime twenty-four hours after that.”

“Why are you going to Mendoza?” Perón asked.

That’s none of your fucking business, Tío Juan!

“I have business there, Tío Juan.”

“You know, Cletus, if I didn’t know better, I’d say Major von Wachtstein was sitting in your airplane. That fellow looks just like him.”

No use trying to deny it.

“That’s Peter,” Clete said. “Now that he’s been released from his POW camp, he needed a job. SAA hired him.”

“That was unusually quick for him to be released from POW status, wasn’t it?”

“What I heard was that the Americans released him as soon as the surrender was signed. Sort of a reward for his contributions to the war effort.”

“Please give him my regards,” Perón said.

“I’ll do that.”

“I’ll tell President Farrell and Foreign Minister Ameghino that you see no problems with the relief flight.”

“None but getting the clearances,” Clete said.

“Thank you,” Perón said.

After another icy embrace, Perón marched into the passenger terminal.

Humberto then embraced Clete and looked into his eyes.

“Whatever you’re thinking of saying, don’t,” Clete said.

“You do have a very strange relationship with your godfather, don’t you?”

Clete laughed, then punched Duarte fondly on the arm.

As he turned to walk toward the Red Lodestar, he saw Dulles, Boltitz, and von Wachtstein at the foot of the stairs and starting toward him.

Damn it, Hansel! So much for keeping everyone on the aircraft.

[FOUR]

“Trouble?” Allen Dulles asked Clete when they’d stopped near the nose gear of the Red Lodestar.

“I don’t know exactly. It’s damn sure out of left field. The president and the foreign minister—with how much input from Perón, I don’t know—want me to take a Connie into Germany, presumably Berlin, ostensibly to take a replacement diplomatic crew in, and bring the diplomats that are there back here. And to take supplies of food, medicine, et cetera with me.”

“Interesting,” Dulles said.

“I thought so,” Clete said. “And it’s just what we don’t need—another diversion.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

Frade shrugged. “I guess I’m going to take a Connie into Germany.”

“Is that wise?”

“It looks like I don’t have much of a choice,” Clete said. And then he had another thought, and said it aloud: “But, yeah, I do think it’s wise. Maybe I can meet Colonel Gehlen, since we’re agreed that getting him and his people out still is our priority.”

“I’d like to go with Clete,” von Wachtstein suddenly said.

Dulles and Frade looked at him in surprise.

Peter explained: “I’d like to see that my father’s body, presuming I can find it, is taken to Schloss Wachtstein and buried with my mother and my brothers.”

Dulles said: “Peter, I appreciate your feelings, but—”

“I’d like to go, too,” Boltitz put in. “I want to see if I can find out what happened to my father.”

“And I can appreciate that, too,” Dulles said, “but—”

“Perhaps I also could learn something about the U-boots we’re interested in,” Boltitz argued.

“I’m not sure that any of you going over there is a good idea,” Dulles announced. “And there is a simple solution to the problem. When I get to Washington, I’ll call David Bruce—he’s with Eisenhower, wherever that might be—and tell him to tell Ike to have SHAEF deny SAA permission to enter occupied Germany.”

Frade grunted, then looked past Dulles and saw Enrico Rodríguez coming toward them, and the women milling on the tarmac near the foot of the stairs.

“What did that sound mean?” Dulles challenged.

Frade turned to look at him and said, “That policy didn’t last long, did it?”

“Excuse me?”

“I seem to recall you telling me that since I was out on a limb, I was free to do what I think should be done.”

Dulles studied Frade for a long moment.

“Touché, Colonel Frade,” he said finally. “I also recall saying I would take responsibility for any action of yours. So, what I’ll do when I get to Washington is call David Bruce, tell him I’m sending you over there, and tell him to do what he can for you.”

“Thank you,” Frade said.

“One final comment, Clete,” Dulles said. “Please consider that when General Donovan, as he so often does, refers to you as ‘our loose cannon,’ he’s unfortunately often right.”

“Ouch!” Frade said.

Dulles put out his hand. Clete took it, then ordered, “Enrico, see that Mr. Dulles gets on his plane.”

“Sí, Don Cletus.”

Dulles was barely out of earshot when von Wachtstein asked, “Was that a polite way of making it easier for you to tell Karl and me that we cannot go to Germany?”

“Probably, Hansel,” Clete said, “but the problem for you and Karl is not Dulles. It’s those two.” He nodded toward the back of the Lodestar, where Alicia von Wachtstein was sitting with Miss Beth Howell. “As far as I’m concerned, you guys need their permission, not Dulles’s.”

Clete knew that neither woman was going to be remotely thrilled to hear that the men they loved—and had just been reunited with—were about to leave them for war-torn Germany.

“I would suggest, Karl,” Clete said as they stood on the tarmac, “based on my long experience with a live-in woman, that you not broach the subject of you going to Germany with me until we’re on our way back from Mendoza. Unless you really meant that vow of celibacy you took.”

Von Wachtstein laughed.

Boltitz’s face turned red.

“Clete,” Karl said, “I have been meaning to discuss my relationship with Beth with you.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you have, Karl. Confession is good for the soul!”

Von Wachtstein laughed again, this time louder.

“What are you three laughing about?” the baroness called.

“I don’t think you really want to know, Alicia,” Clete called back. “In case anybody needs to ‘freshen up,’ do it now. As soon as Dulles’s plane takes off, we go wheels-up for Mendoza.”