Victory and Honor

[ONE]

Hotel Britania Rua Rodrigues Sampaio 17 Lisbon, Portugal 1705 18 May 1945

Ambassador Claudio de Hernández was sitting at the hotel’s bar with Fernando Aragão when Frade, Delgano, Stein, Vega, and Peralta walked in.

Stein deposited a heavy, dripping burlap sack on the bar.

The barman appeared, looking askance at the burlap bag.

“Where have you been all day?” Ambassador de Hernández asked. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Have a sniff of the bag and take a guess,” Frade said.

“I beg your pardon?”

Frade sniffed loudly and pointed at the burlap sack.

“After you pour us a little of that splendid Altano Douro 1942,” Frade ordered the barman, “please ask the chef to join us.”

Aragão sniffed the bag and smiled.

“I really thought you were kidding,” he said.

“I never kid about whiskey, women, or fishing,” Frade said. “Aside from Vega getting a little seasick, everything went . . . swimmingly.”

“You have been fishing?” Ambassador de Hernández asked incredulously. “In the ocean?”

“That’s where the fish usually are, Mr. Ambassador.” Frade then added, “You’re in luck, Fernando. There’s even enough for the ambassador and the diplomats.”

The chef, an enormous fat man in stained kitchen whites, appeared.

“Slide Siggie that tray, Mario,” Frade ordered, pointing down the bar. “Siggie, put a sample of our fruits of the sea on the tray for the chef’s edification.”

Stein dipped into the bag, came out with three large fish fillets, and arranged them on the tray.

The chef bent over and sniffed them, then punched them with his index finger.

“Caballa,” he said.

“Yes,” Frade said. “In English, they say ‘mackerel.’ These are from what a norteamericano would call a ‘king mackerel.’”

“And fresh,” the chef said approvingly.

“Mere hours ago, they were swimming. Into your capable hands, my friend, I entrust them.”

“I usually bake the whole fish,” the chef said.

“Indulge me,” Frade said. “I am Argentine, and the whole world knows we’re crazy. For now, I want you to dribble a little olive oil on the fillets, lay some lemon slices on top, and grill them. Serve them with some fried potatoes and a small salad. Can do?”

The chef nodded. “Can do.”

“After first selecting the best-looking fillets,” Frade then ordered, “which you will serve to us just as soon as you can, serve the leftovers to the diplomats traveling with South American Airways with the compliments of Chief Pilot Delgano.”

The chef nodded again.

Then Frade said: “They will taste much better if you drink a little Altano Douro as you grill them. Put a bottle for the chef on Señor Aragão’s bill, Señor Barman.”

Ambassador de Hernández’s face showed that he believed Frade was either crazy or drunk. Or both.

The chef smiled, picked up the burlap sack, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Frade looked at de Hernández. “You were looking for me, Mr. Ambassador? Why?”

“The overfly permission has come, Señor Frade. But only as far as Frankfurt am Main.”

“We are supposed to go to Berlin,” Frade challenged.

“I know,” the ambassador said more than a little lamely.

“What does Buenos Aires have to say about this?”

“About this specifically, nothing.”

“And about things in general?” Frade pursued. “What about the assurance of either the Foreign Ministry or the President that no attempt will be made to smuggle Nazis to Argentina on SAA’s airplane?”

“There has been no response to that specifically, Señor Frade.”

“Then we’re not going,” Frade said.

“There was a message from el Coronel Perón, routed via the embassy, to Señor Nulder, which Señor Nulder shared with me.”

“And are you going to tell me what it said?”

“It said that the Foreign Minister was doing everything he can to get the necessary overfly permissions, as the president is very anxious to relieve the diplomatic contingent in Berlin as soon as possible.”

“We already knew that, didn’t we?” Frade said.

Frade then took an appreciative sip of the Altano Douro, sighed audibly, and announced: “Well, if the secretary of Labor and Retirement Plans tells us that General Farrell is anxious to relieve the diplomatic contingent in Berlin as soon as possible, I don’t see that we, as patriotic Argentines, have any choice. Have the passengers at the airfield no later than five-thirty tomorrow morning, Mr. Ambassador.”

“That early, Señor Frade?”

“We have already lost more than a full day, haven’t we, Mr. Ambassador, waiting for you to come up with the flyover permissions? I don’t want to lose any more time.”

“I’ll pass that to Señor Nulder right away,” Ambassador de Hernández said. He then stood and excused himself.

When the ambassador had gone, Delgano softly asked, “Half past five in the morning, Cletus?”

“I didn’t say we would be there at that unholy hour. I think we should try to get off the ground at, say, nine.”

[TWO]

Aboard Ciudad de Rosario Approaching Frankfurt am Main, Germany 1235 19 May 1945

When Clete Frade had announced that Peter von Wachtstein would fly Ciudad de Rosario from Lisbon to Frankfurt am Main in the left seat, and that he would fly as copilot, the faces of the three SAA pilots showed they didn’t like it at all.

Frade remembered what he had learned in the Marine Corps: When there is dissension in the ranks, try explaining your reasons.

He told them: “Von Wachtstein has flown all over Spain, France, and Germany. None of us has. And we don’t have reliable charts. We’re going to have to fly by the seat of our pants, looking out the window to see where we are. And Peter is the only one of us who’ll know what the hell he’s looking at.”

“But, Cletus,” Gonzalo Delgano protested, “von Wachtstein has less time at the controls of a Constellation than anybody else.”

Rule Two: If reasoning doesn’t work, apply a two-by-four with great force to the temples of the dissenters.

“Actually, Gonzalo, there’s an even more important reason von Wachtstein will fly in the left seat.”

“Which is?”

“I said so. Any further questions?”

Delgano’s face reddened, but he didn’t argue further.

Once they were in the cockpit, von Wachtstein suggested that while crossing Spain they take advantage of the Constellation’s capabilities to become inconspicuous. The Connie could cruise at twenty thousand feet at better than three hundred miles per hour. At that altitude they would be hard to see from the ground, and even if there were contrails, the natural presumption would be that they were an Allied bomber. Further, von Wachtstein said, the Spanish had no aircraft capable of climbing that high to investigate, and even if they tried, any Spanish aircraft would have trouble catching up with the Connie.

“What the Spaniards have are Luftwaffe rejects,” von Wachtstein said. “Nothing as fast as the Connie.”

You just lucked out again, Cletus Frade.

You put Hansel in the left seat impulsively. And he just showed you it was the right thing to do.

“Let’s do it,” Frade ordered.

On takeoff, they navigated by dead reckoning, flying southeast across Portugal toward Spain while climbing to an altitude of twenty-two thousand feet. The weather was clear, and there were only a few isolated clouds.

They had been airborne just about an hour when von Wachtstein said, “Take a look at three o’clock, Clete. That’s Madrid. Now, let’s see if we can find the Pyrenees.”

“Clete,” von Wachtstein said, “did you ever see pictures, or maybe a newsreel, of crazy Spaniards running away from bulls down a narrow street?”

Clete thought a moment, then said, “Yeah.”

“They do that in Pamplona,” he said, and pointed. “Which means that we’re about to fly over the Pyrenees. The last time I was here, I was flying an Me-210 and the oxygen wasn’t working. So, I had to fly through them. Very interesting experience.”

“Welcome to France,” von Wachtstein announced, pointing downward at the snowcapped Pyrenees mountains. “Now, let’s see if we can find Lyon.”

“God, I hope that isn’t what I think it is,” von Wachtstein said.

“What do you hope it isn’t?”

“Köln. You know, where the aftershave lotion comes from.”

“You mean Cologne.”

“That’s what I said,” von Wachtstein said. “If it is Köln, we’re too far north.” He shoved the yoke forward. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

“Please keep in mind this aircraft is not a fighter plane. Try not to tear the wings off.”

“That’s Köln, all right. That’s the cathedral. Christ, the whole city is destroyed!”

“My God!” Clete said, looking at square miles of utter destruction.

“Welcome to the Thousand-Year Reich, Herr Oberstleutnant,” von Wachtstein said.

“It’s hard to believe,” Clete said.

“Well, now that we’ve found the Rhine, I suppose we better go the rest of the way close to the ground.”

“Well, there’s what’s left of Frankfurt am Main,” Peter announced.

“The airport is to the south.”

“That looks as bad as Cologne,” Clete said. “Jesus, there’s hardly a building left standing.” He paused. “There’s one. A great big building.”

“The I.G. Farben building,” von Wachtstein said.

He pointed the Constellation toward it.

Clete saw the altimeter was indicating fifteen hundred feet.

They dropped another five hundred feet before flashing over the huge building that stood unscathed in the rubble.

“You’re going to give our passengers heart failure,” Clete said. “Jesus, there’s an American flag on that building!”

“The Americans must have decided they were going to need it and did not bomb it,” von Wachtstein said matter-of-factly. “Now, let’s see if we can find the airport. You have the tower frequency?”

Von Wachtstein shoved the throttles forward and raised the nose of the Constellation as Clete dialed in the radio.

“Frankfurt Air Base, this is South American Airways Double Zero Four.”

There was no response after several calls.

“Take us to five thousand feet, Peter. l’ll try another frequency.”

“Going to five thousand.”

“Frankfurt, South American Double Zero Four.”

There was no answer on the new frequency.

“Clete, we have company,” von Wachtstein announced.

Clete looked past von Wachtstein and saw a twin-tailed Lockheed P-38 fighter.

It was so close that Frade could count seven swastikas—signifying seven kills—painted on the nose. Next to those was the picture, a drawing, the image of something else. It looked like an automobile with crossed lines going through it.

What the hell is that?

He shot down seven German airplanes and a convertible?

The pilot was holding up a piece of cardboard with numbers lettered on it with a grease pencil.

Clete tuned the radio to the frequency on the piece of cardboard.

He keyed the microphone: “Hello, there, Little Brother. You’re our welcoming committee?”

“Constellation aircraft, make an immediate, repeat, immediate one-hundred-eighty-degree turn to the right, maintaining altitude.”

“Why should we do that?”

“Because I said so, goddammit! Commence one-eighty now!”

“Do it, Peter,” Clete ordered.

Von Wachtstein cranked the yoke hard to the right.

“If one of our diplomats was taking a leak,” Clete said, “he just pissed all over the wall. Or himself.”

“Constellation, maintain course and altitude.”

“Little Brother, could you point us toward the Frankfurt Air Base? And give me the tower frequency?”

“You are on a course for Rhein-Main,” the P-38 pilot announced. “Do not deviate from this course.”

“And the tower frequency?”

The P-38 pilot gave it.

“Frankfurt Rhein-Main, this is South American Double Zero Four.”

“South American Double Zero Four, Rhein-Main. Be advised that there is a flight of four P-38 aircraft in your vicinity. They will guide you to the field. Begin descent to three thousand now.”

“South American Double Zero Four commencing descent to three thousand.”

There was a four-lane divided highway running close to the airport. Two lanes were empty, save for a few trucks and Jeeps. The other two were crowded as far south as Clete could see with lines of gray-uniformed soldiers.

“What the hell is that?” Clete asked.

“The Frankfurt/Heidelberg autobahn,” von Wachtstein said.

“I meant the soldiers.”

“Prisoners, I suppose, being marched to POW compounds.”

The runway was clear, but down its length were half a dozen obviously freshly and hurriedly repaired bomb craters. There were crashed or abandoned German aircraft all over the field.

Two U.S. Army bulldozers were pushing damaged aircraft away from the grassy area next to the runway, moving them into a pile.

As von Wachtstein completed the landing roll and then stopped, waiting for the promised FOLLOW ME vehicle to show up, he started pointing at various damaged aircraft and softly reported:

“That’s a Focke-Wulf Fw-190. Good fighter. I used to have a squadron of them—

“That’s a Messerschmitt Bf-109. I also used to have a squadron of them—

“The one with three engines, the transport, is a Junkers Ju-52. We called them ‘Tante Ju,’ for Auntie Ju. Not much like the Connie, is it?—

“My God, there’s a Messerschmitt Me-323 Gigant!”

Clete then said, “There’s the FOLLOW ME,” as a Jeep with black-and-white checkered flags flying from its backseat drove onto the runway in front of them.

It led the Ciudad de Rosario down taxiways, on either side of which were still more abandoned Luftwaffe aircraft—some of them looking completely intact and ready to fly—to what was left of a three-story, concrete-block building.

There was a wooden sign: WELCOME TO RHEIN-MAIN AIR BASE.

“And there’s our welcoming party,” Clete said.

“And look what somebody’s driving,” von Wachtstein said.

“I’ll be goddamned,” Clete said.

There were ten vehicles waiting for them. Two buses—German ones, obviously just requisitioned from the fallen enemy—two U.S. Army six-by-six trucks, two three-quarter-ton weapons carriers, and three Chevrolet staff cars. Plus, parked a short distance from them, a Horch convertible sedan identical to the one at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, except this one was entirely black.

Leaning against the door was a tall, startlingly handsome U.S. Army officer, a yellow scarf around his neck. His sharply creased trousers were tucked into a pair of highly shined boots of a type Clete had never seen before. He carried a 1911-A1 Colt .45 ACP semiautomatic pistol in a shoulder holster. The eagles of a full colonel were pinned to his epaulets and the triangular insignia of an armored division was sewn onto his sleeve.

“Why do I think he’s in charge?” von Wachtstein asked.

“Because he looks like General Patton?” Clete replied.

“Mi coronel, I think this is one of the times you should wear your SAA uniform,” von Wachtstein said as a truck-mounted stairway was being backed up to the Connie’s passenger door.

There was another full bull colonel waiting for them when Clete, the last to debark, jumped to the ground from the bed of the stair truck. He saw that the last of their passengers was boarding one of the buses and that their luggage was being loaded onto one of the six-by-six trucks by soldiers.

The rest of the crew—all the pilots but Gonzalo Delgano—plus both stewards, and even Enrico Rodríguez, were being loaded onto one of the three-quarter-ton trucks.

The colonel waiting for them was short and pudgy. He wore glasses. His uniform, which had the flaming sword insignia of SHAEF on the sleeve, needed pressing.

Clete thought he and the other colonel, who was still leaning on the Horch, looked as if they were in different armies.

“Welcome to Germany,” the pudgy colonel said in flawless Spanish. “My name is Colonel Albert Stevens, and at the moment, I’m the senior officer of SHAEF Military Government in Frankfurt. SHAEF has just begun moving from France into the I.G. Farben building. I’ve been assigned to look after you. And you are, sir?”

“Gonzalo Delgano, mi coronel. I am chief pilot of SAA.”

The colonel offered his hand, then looked at Clete and von Wachtstein.

“I am Captain Frade,” Clete said, “and this is Captain von Wachtstein.”

“Von Wachtstein?” Colonel Stevens said. “That sounds pretty German.”

“There are a great many Germans in Argentina, Colonel,” Peter said.

“Well, you won’t be flying to Berlin today. The Russians are being difficult. We’re working on the problem, and by tomorrow I’m sure everything will be settled. So, what we’re going to do is take your passengers into Frankfurt, to the Park Hotel, which is near the railroad station. Because there’s just not room for everybody at the Park, we’re going to put your crew up here, in what used to be the Luftwaffe officers’ quarters. There’s a mess hall—not fancy, but adequate—and I think you’ll be comfortable.

“We’ll leave your aircraft right where it is and service it, and of course place it under guard. I recommend that you not leave the air base. That seems to cover everything. Is there something you need?”

“We’ve got fresh meat aboard,” Frade said. “We’re going to need several hundred pounds of ice to keep it from going bad.”

“That may pose a problem,” Colonel Stevens said.

“Which I’m sure you can solve, Colonel,” the natty colonel suddenly said.

Frade had not seen him walk up. Now that the natty colonel was standing beside Colonel Stevens, their sartorial difference was even more striking. And Frade now saw that the natty colonel’s uniform had pinned to the breast parachutist’s wings with three stars on them.

“I think the Argentine diplomats have been counting on their countrymen bringing them some decent meat, don’t you?” the natty colonel went on.

“You think it’s important obviously,” Colonel Stevens said, his tone making it clear he had just received an order he didn’t like.

“Yes, I do.”

“Then we’ll get some ice,” Colonel Stevens said.

“Thank you,” the natty colonel said, and started to walk back to the Horch.

Who the hell is this guy? Frade wondered, then decided that it was a question an SAA captain should not ask.

“If you’ll get into the three-quarter, gentlemen,” Colonel Stevens said, “you’ll be taken to your quarters. I’ll see you in the morning.”

[THREE]

The Luftwaffe officers’ quarters building was half destroyed, but the rooms to which an Air Forces sergeant took them were just about intact, except all the windows and the mirrors in the bathrooms were cracked or missing.

Frade had just sat on his bed—there were no chairs—when the natty colonel walked in.

The colonel greeted him: “I love your uniform, Captain—or should I say ‘Colonel’?—it looks like something General Patton would design.”

He put out his right hand.

His left hand held a bottle of Haig & Haig Pinch scotch whiskey.

As Frade shook hands, he was reminded of the story General Bendick had told about The Dawk showing up at Fighter One with two fistfuls of medicinal bourbon bottles.

“Sir, who are you?”

“Bob Mattingly, Colonel. We both work for Allen Dulles. And to set the ambience for our relationship, when no one senior to me is around, you may call me Bob. And with your permission, I will call you Clete.”

“Fine,” Frade said. “Bob, did you think of glasses to go with the scotch?”

“As a member of Oh, So Social, how could I forget a social amenity like that? The Air Forces sergeant who brought you here is getting us some as we speak.”

“Where’d you get the Horch, Bob?”

“The what? Oh, the car. It belongs to the Prince of Hesse. I pressed it into service. Magnificent machine, but I learned on my way here that it won’t go faster than fifty. Fifty kilometers. I finally decided it’s a parade car, designed to pass through hordes of screaming Nazis”—he paused and mockingly mimed Nazis giving the straight-armed salute—“but not designed to be used on the road.”

Clete laughed.

He said: “You’ve got it in low range, four-wheel drive. There’s a lever on the floor, next to the gearshift.”

“You know the car?”

“As a fellow member of Oh, So Social, I of course know everything about such social amenities as fine motorcars.”

Enrico Rodríguez stuck his head in the doorway. Frade motioned for him to come in. He did, followed by Stein, Boltitz, von Wachtstein, and Delgano.

“I know who you are, Sergeant Major,” Mattingly said in fluent Spanish. “Mr. Dulles told me Colonel Frade is never far from a man with a shotgun looking for someone to shoot.”

“A sus órdenes, mi coronel,” Rodríguez said.

“But these gentlemen—”

“SAA’s chief pilot, Gonzalo Delgano,” Frade said, pointing, “who is also a colonel in the Bureau of Internal Security. Karl Boltitz, former—”

“Trusted associate of Admiral Canaris,” Mattingly interrupted. “We’re working on finding your father, Kapitän. The last word we have is that he’s not dead. We just don’t know where he is.”

“Thank you,” Boltitz said.

“And that must make you Major von Wachtstein?” Mattingly asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Frade added: “And that’s Siggie Stein, our commo expert.”

Stein and Mattingly were shaking hands when the Air Forces sergeant appeared with a tray of glasses.

Mattingly was pouring generous drinks into them when another face appeared at the door.

It was an Air Forces lieutenant colonel. He wore a pink Ike jacket, pink trousers, a battered cap with a crushed crown, and half Wellington boots. A certain swagger—and the way he wore his uniform cap—identified him as a fighter pilot. He didn’t look as if he was old enough to vote, and in fact had been eligible to do so for only the past three weeks.

“And who, Colonel, might you be?” Colonel Mattingly inquired.

“My name is Dooley,” the very young officer said.

“Archer C. Dooley, commanding the 26th Fighter Group?” Mattingly inquired.

“Deputy commander,” Dooley corrected him. “How did you know that?”

“As Colonel Frade and I were just discussing, Colonel, we are members of an organization that knows everything. Sergeant, does that telephone communicate?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you see if you can get General Halebury on it for me?”

“Yes, sir,” the Air Forces sergeant said.

“Colonel, what—”

“Colonel Dooley,” Mattingly interrupted him, “patience is a virtue right up there with chastity. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”

He took the telephone the Air Forces sergeant was holding out to him.

“Bob Mattingly, General,” he said into it. “I have Colonel Dooley with me. I wonder if you could give the colonel his marching orders over the telephone?” He paused to listen, then added, “Thank you, sir. Doing so will save a good deal of time.”

He handed the telephone to Dooley.

“Colonel Dooley, sir,” Dooley said, then listened for no more than thirty seconds and concluded the conversation: “Yes, sir, that’s perfectly clear.”

Then he took the handset from his ear and looked at it.

“And what did General Halebury have to say, Colonel Dooley?” Mattingly asked.

“He said that until I hear differently from either you or him, I am assigned to you; that I am to do whatever I’m ordered to do and not ask questions.”

“With a few minor exceptions, that’s it. How did you come here, Colonel? How, not why?”

“I came in a staff car, if that’s what you mean, sir.”

“Which has a driver? Or did you drive it yourself?”

“I’ve got a driver. There’s a group regulation that says majors and above have to have a driver.”

“And what kind of a staff car is it, Colonel?”

“A requisitioned Mercedes—a convertible sedan.”

“And is it adequately fueled for a round-trip to a destination some forty miles from here?”

“I just filled it up, sir.”

“Sergeant, if you would be good enough to pour Colonel Dooley a drink, you may then leave us.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the sergeant was gone, Mattingly said, “Now, Colonel, you may tell us why you came here.”

Dooley looked at the drink in his hand.

“Can I ask what’s going on around here, Colonel?”

Mattingly nodded. “After you tell us why you came here.”

“I wanted to see who was flying that Argentine Connie that I kept from flying into East Germany,” Dooley said.

“That was you in the P-38?” Frade said.

“You were flying the Constellation?” Dooley replied.

“He was,” Clete said, pointing at von Wachtstein.

“‘East Germany’?” von Wachtstein parroted. “What’s that?”

“Technically, it is the Soviet zone of occupied Germany,” Mattingly said.

“And in another couple of minutes,” Dooley said, “you’d have been over it, Captain—and probably got your ass shot down.”

“By the Russians?” von Wachtstein asked.

“Why would the Russians shoot down an unarmed Argentine passenger aircraft?” Siggie Stein asked.

“Maybe they don’t like Argentines,” Frade offered.

“Unfortunately, Clete,” Mattingly said, “there is a slight but real chance—one-in-three or -four, I would judge—that you would’ve been taken under fire by Russian aircraft had not Colonel Dooley here caused you to alter course. Or have been ordered—this is my most likely scenario—to land at Leipzig and interned. You were east of Fulda when Colonel Dooley turned you.”

“Now I want to know what the hell’s going on,” Frade said.

“I recognize that voice. You’re the guy on the radio,” Dooley accused. “You’re the wiseass who called me Little Brother!”

“I plead guilty to both charges and throw myself on the mercy of the court,” Frade said.

“I wondered what that Little Brother business was all about,” von Wachtstein said.

“As a fighter pilot, Colonel Dooley,” Frade said, “I’m surprised you don’t know that the wings of your P-38 are a minor design variant of the wings of a Constellation. Hence ‘Little Brother.’”

“What do you know about what fighter pilots should know, wiseass?” Dooley exploded.

“Well, I agree with those who say most of them should not be allowed in public without their psychiatric nurses,” Frade said, smiled, and sipped his whiskey.

“With certain exceptions, of course,” von Wachtstein chimed in.

“Fuck you, too!” Dooley exploded.

Frade and von Wachtstein laughed.

“Before this gets any further out of hand, Colonel Dooley,” Mattingly said, “for your general fund of knowledge, I think I should tell you that these gentlemen are pulling your chain.”

Dooley was Irish. Once his ire was ignited, it did not go out easily.

“Meaning what?” Dooley demanded.

“They are—or were—fighter pilots.”

“And then we grew up and they let us fly real airplanes,” Frade said.

He and von Wachtstein laughed again.

“That one,” Mattingly said, pointing to von Wachtstein, “received the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross from the Führer himself for his services as a fighter pilot. And that one”—he pointed to Frade—“had seven, I believe they’re called ‘meatballs,’ painted on the nose of his Grumman Wildcat.”

Dooley looked at Frade.

“No shit?” he asked. “Seven Jap kills?”

Frade nodded, then said, “But no convertibles. What the hell was that on your nose?”

“None of your fucking business,” Dooley flared anew.

“What did you do, pop some poor bastard out for a Sunday drive?” Frade pursued.

“Go fuck yourself,” Dooley said.

“All right, enough!” Mattingly said. “I’ll stand you all to attention, if that’s what I have to do.”

Dooley looked at von Wachtstein and said, “You’re telling me he was a Kraut fighter pilot? What the fuck . . . ?”

“Stand to attention, Colonel!” Mattingly ordered. “I said enough.”

“I’d like to know about the convertible,” von Wachtstein said, his tone of voice no longer joking or mocking.

“Go fuck yourself,” Dooley said.

“You’re at attention, Colonel!” Mattingly said, coldly furious. “You say one more word without permission and I’ll send you back to General Halebury under arrest pending trial for insubordination!”

Dooley stood to attention.

After sixty seconds, which seemed much longer, Mattingly asked, “Is your temper and foul mouth under control, Colonel Dooley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stand at ease,” Mattingly said, then turned to von Wachtstein. “Was your question about the convertible serious, von Wachtstein, or more of this sophomoric bantering?”

“It was serious, sir. I had a reason for asking.”

“Answer von Wachtstein’s question, Colonel Dooley,” Mattingly said.

Dooley shook his head, exhaled audibly, and with visible reluctance said, “When we were in Tunisia, we were flying interdiction missions—shoot anything that’s moving—and I shot up a Kraut staff car on the desert.”

“And then had it painted on your nose?” Frade asked disgustedly. “Jesus Christ!”

“That’s enough out of you, Clete,” Mattingly said.

Dooley went on: “I didn’t have it painted on my plane until General Halebury made it mandatory. That was much later, after we came to Europe. He said painting swastikas on the noses inspired junior officers.”

“And you didn’t?” Mattingly asked.

“When General Mattingly issued the order, I had four kills. What they were was that powered glider, the ME-323—”

“The Gigant,” von Wachtstein said and, when he saw Clete’s look, added, “We saw one just now. Very large aircraft, originally designed as a glider. Then they added four engines. It carries a great deal, very slowly.”

Clete, remembering, nodded.

“I got my four kills on one day,” Dooley said. “They were flying low across the Mediterranean at maybe one hundred twenty-five miles an hour. It wasn’t aerial combat; it was murder. So I never painted swastikas for them on my nose. And then we’re getting ready for the invasion, in England, and Halebury issues the order to paint kills on the nose. Still, I don’t. And he sees my plane and eats my ass out. So then I painted four swastikas and the staff car on my nose.”

“I saw seven swastikas,” Clete said.

“I got two Messerschmitt Bf-109s and a Focke-Wulf Fw-190 after the invasion.”

“Do you remember where you strafed the staff car?” von Wachtstein asked softly. “And when?”

Dooley looked at him curiously, but after a moment answered: “About half past three on the afternoon of April seventh, 1943. Right outside Sidi Mansour, Tunisia. I remember that because when I got back, my squadron CO and the exec didn’t—and I got the squadron and my railroad tracks. Why do you want to know? Is it important?”

“You made just the one pass?” von Wachtstein asked. “You didn’t go back to make sure everybody was dead?”

“There were just two people in the car,” Dooley replied. “Both in the front seat. I saw the car go off the road and turn over. There was no need to make a second pass. Why do you need the details?”

“On the afternoon of seven April 1943, near Sidi Mansour, while riding in a staff car, a friend of mine serving in the Afrikakorps was attacked by an American P-51 Mustang. His car went off the road and overturned. Were you flying a P-51, Colonel?”

Dooley nodded. “You knew this guy?” he asked.

Von Wachtstein nodded. “Quite well. We were good friends. He told me what had happened to him. His name was Claus von Stauffenberg. Oberstleutnant Graf Claus von Stauffenberg—the officer who later saw it as his duty to try to kill Hitler.”

“The guy with the bomb under the table that didn’t go off?” Dooley asked.

“The bomb went off,” Mattingly said. “But the force was deflected from Hitler by the massive leg supporting the table. Hitler lived, and later that day the SS stood Colonel von Stauffenberg against a wall on Bendlerstrasse in Berlin and executed him with Schmeisser submachine-gun fire.”

“I don’t know how to handle something like this,” Dooley said. “If I’m supposed to say I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Hell, I was sorry when I did it.”

“Colonel, for what it’s worth,” von Wachtstein said, “I can assure you Claus would bear you no hard feelings. You were doing your duty, as he did his.”

“The details match too closely for this to be a coincidence,” Mattingly said, as if to himself. “I would say it is what happened.”

“Yeah,” Dooley said. “His version of what happened and mine match too closely.”

“There is one detail von Wachtstein didn’t tell you, Colonel Dooley,” Mattingly said. “Some time later, Peter’s father was executed, in a very cruel manner, for his role in the bomb plot.”

Mattingly poured a half-inch of scotch in his glass and tossed it down.

“Well, I hope that everybody is now very sorry for all the cruel things you’ve been saying to one another, and that we can now play nice and maybe even get on with the business at hand.”

The comment—and the tone of his voice—made everyone smile or chuckle.

“Which is?” Frade asked.

“First, I tell Colonel Dooley that everything he sees or hears from now on is top secret, and that if he ever—now or ever—breathes a word of it to anyone, he will be soundly spanked, or castrated with a chain saw, or both.”

That earned him more smiles and chuckles.

“And to answer Colonel Frade’s question about what happens now, what happens now is that we drive out into the countryside, to Kronberg im Taunus, where after we get something to eat I will tell you what happens now. You know Kronberg im Taunus, von Wachtstein?”

“The Schlosshotel, Colonel?”

Mattingly nodded.

“It used to be a club for senior officers,” von Wachtstein said.

“It has been requisitioned as the headquarters of the Forward Element of OSS SHAEF,” Mattingly said.

“Is that what you guys are?” Dooley asked. “OSS? I knew it had to be something like that.”

“Colonel, I told you before that patience is a virtue right up there with chastity. This time, write it down. Von Wachtstein, can you find the Schlosshotel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why don’t you lead the way in Dooley’s car? We will follow you in the Horch, presuming Frade can show me how to get it out of low gear.”

“I know the Schlosshotel,” Enrico Rodríguez said. “And how to get there.”

“And he also knows how to get a Horch out of low range,” Frade said. “I suggest you let him drive.”

“Splendid idea,” Mattingly said. “That will permit you and me to ride in the backseat and acknowledge the roar of the party faithful.”

Mattingly then mimed waving regally at an imaginary crowd.

[FOUR]

Frankfurt am Main, Germany 1815 19 May 1945

“Not very pretty, is it, Clete?” Mattingly asked as Enrico drove them down what was a narrow alley through the rubble of what had been a suburban area of Frankfurt am Main.

Only some walls of a few buildings were left standing. Here and there, gray-faced men and women searched the rubble for whatever they could salvage.

“It’s unbelievable,” Frade said.

“And you ain’t seen nuttin’ yet. Berlin is worse.”

“You’ve been to Berlin?”

“I flew over it in a puddle jumper,” Mattingly said, “as the Russians were taking it.”

He saw the look on Frade’s face and went on: “In North Africa, before I was called to the priesthood of the OSS, I was a tank battalion commander in Combat Command A of Second Armored Division—”

“I saw the armored division patch,” Clete said.

“—Colonel I. D. White commanding,” Mattingly went on. “I was visiting him—by then he was a major general and commanding Hell on Wheels—when he had his bridges across the Elbe and was about to head for Berlin. Ike ordered him to hold in place. The general was slightly miffed. He kicked the windows out on his command post—you know, an office on the back of a six-by-six truck.”

“Really?”

“Hell hath no fury that remotely compares to I. D. White in a rage,” Mattingly said. “But eventually he calmed down a little. Then he looked at me and said, ‘I’d really like to know what’s going on there, but as I am under a direct order that not one man of Hell on Wheels is to go there, I can’t send somebody to find out.

“‘But it has just occurred to me, Colonel, that you are no longer under my command. If you asked to borrow one of my Piper Cubs, I would of course make one available to you. And I don’t have the authority to tell you where you can or cannot go, do I?’”

“So I said, ‘Point taken, General. General, have you got a puddle jumper you could let me use?’ And I got in it and flew over Berlin.”

“And?”

“One of the first things I saw was Red Army troops—they use Asiatics as assault troops—neatly lined up to gang-rape women in the streets. They are not very nice people, Clete.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“When we flew over the Reichstag, there was a large gasoline fire merrily burning in the inner courtyard, outside the Hitler Bunker. I can’t be sure, of course, but I suspect I was watching the incineration of Der Führer and his bride. Or perhaps the Goebbels family, Mommy, Daddy and the six children to whom Mommy had just fed cyanide pills. Whoever it was, the sickly smell of burning flesh was without question.”

“I’d heard of the burning bodies but not the gang-raping troopers,” Clete said, and once again said, “Jesus Christ!”

“At that point three MiG-3 fighters appeared and suggested, by shooting tracers in front of us, that we were not welcome, and we took the hint and flew back across the Elbe.”

“They tried to shoot you down?”

“They made it clear they were capable of doing so if we didn’t go back where we belonged.”

“They’re supposed to be our allies, for Christ’s sake.”

“General Patton suggests that we’re going to have to fight them sooner or later, and I suspect he may be right.”

“My God!”

“Quickly changing the subject,” Mattingly said. “Where we’re going now is to the Schlosshotel Kronberg, which—along with this car—I have requisitioned for the OSS. One of my guys had been there before the war, and suggested that since we could use it, we add it to the Don’t Hit Under Any Circumstances target list for the Eighth Air Force.”

“You had the authority to do that?”

“Ike now likes the OSS. Particularly Allen Dulles, David Bruce, and their underlings, including this one. Yeah, I had the authority to do that. But that’s what they call a two-edged sword. If that weren’t true, I wouldn’t have been saddled with this ‘deal with the Russians’ business.”

“I don’t understand,” Frade confessed.

“Why don’t we wait until we’re all together? Let me finish about the Schlosshotel.”

“Sure.”

“It was built in the 1890s by the Dowager Empress Victoria of the German empire, and named Schloss Friedrichshof. Her husband, Frederick III, was the emperor. Damn the expense, in other words, nothing’s too good for Ol’ Freddy.

“In 1901, the Empress’s youngest daughter, Princess Margaret of Prussia, inherited it from her mother. Margaret married Philip, Prince of Hesse, and the castle was part of her dowry.

“And now, so to speak, I have—or the OSS has—inherited it from His Highness.”

He looked at Frade.

“Did I say something amusing?”

“No. I was just thinking you sound like a history professor.”

“As a matter of fact, I was a history professor. Sewanee. The University of the South. Actually, I was professor of history and romance languages.”

“I’ll be damned. How did you wind up as a tank battalion commander?”

“You ever hear that an officer should keep his indiscretions a hundred miles from the flagpole?”

Frade nodded.

“Same thing applies to a professor, particularly one at an institution operated by the Episcopal Church. I solved my problem once a month by driving into Memphis, where I became a second lieutenant in Tank Company A (Separate) of the Tennessee National Guard. Second lieutenants, as I’m sure you remember, are expected to drink and carouse with loose women.”

“You were a weekend warrior?” Frade said, laughing.

“Indeed I was. And when we were nationalized, Company A was sent to Fort Knox, Kentucky. They broke it up, and I found myself assigned to the 325th Mechanized Infantry, Major I. D. White Commanding. When they assigned him to Second Armored, Hell on Wheels, White took me with him.

“And then one day, in North Africa, Allen Dulles showed up at General White’s headquarters—White was then colonel commanding Combat Command A—and he asked me if I would be willing to accept an unspecified assignment involving great danger and parachuting behind enemy lines. I told him I would not. General White said, ‘Bob, I won’t order you to go, but I think you should.’

“The next thing I knew I was in Scotland learning how to jump out of airplanes and sever the carotid artery with a dagger.”

“Why did Dulles recruit you?”

“I speak Russian, German, French, Italian, Spanish, and a little Hungarian. That had a good deal to do with it. I’ve got sort of a flair for languages.”

“So do I.”

“Dulles told me,” Mattingly said.

“Did you parachute behind enemy lines?”

“Twice into France and once into Italy.”

“That’s what those stars on the jump wings mean?”

“Uh-huh. And speaking of uniforms, when we get to the castle, we’re going to have to get you some uniforms. You can’t run around Berlin looking like a doorman. And we’ll have to get you some identification.”

They were now out of Frankfurt, moving rapidly down a two-lane, tree-lined highway. The headlights picked out here and there where trees had been cut down to serve as barriers, and where wrecked American and German tanks and vehicles had been shoved off the road.

[FIVE]

Schlosshotel Kronberg Kronberg im Taunus, Hesse, Germany 1920 19 May 1945

Following Dooley’s Mercedes, Enrico steered the Horch around a final corner and suddenly the hotel was visible. The massive structure looked like a castle. It was constructed of gray fieldstone and rose, in parts, five stories high. Lights blazed from just about every window. There was no sign of damage whatever.

“Hermann the butler—I kept him on—tells me that when I ordered the lights turned on, it was the first time they’d been on since September 1939,” Mattingly said.

Frade now saw something both unexpected and somehow out of place. An Army sergeant, a great bull of a black man with a Thompson submachine gun hanging from his shoulder, was marching a file of soldiers—all black, all armed with M-1 rifles—up to the entrance. After a moment, Clete realized that the sergeant was changing the sentries on guard.

“Stop right in front, Enrico,” Mattingly ordered.

When they got out of the car, the sergeant bellowed, “Ten-hut” and saluted crisply. Mattingly returned it as crisply. Clete, at the last second, kept under control his Pavlovian urge to salute.

People in doormen’s uniforms should not salute.

Everybody got out of the two cars and started up the stairs.

As they reached the entrance, a huge door was pulled inward by a very elderly man who had trouble doing so.

“Thank you,” Mattingly said in German, then added to Frade, “Faithful retainers. There’s about two dozen of them.”

“They don’t want to leave?”

“We feed them, generously, so there’s some they can take home. There’s not much food anywhere in Germany.”

Mattingly led the party across an elegantly furnished foyer into a well-equipped bar.

Someone in the bar called “Attention” and everybody stood.

“At ease,” Mattingly called.

Clete guessed that there were thirty or more men. All but a few were in uniform, half of these adorned with the standard rank and branch insignia. The other half had blue triangles around the letters U.S. sewn to the uniform lapels and to the shoulders where unit insignia were normally shown. There were perhaps eight men in civilian clothing, some of it close to elegant, some of it looking like it had come from the Final Reduction racks at Goodwill.

Mattingly led them through the bar to a smaller—but not small—room holding a large circular table and its own bar. There was an elderly man in a white jacket standing behind the bar.

“Would you please ask the general to join us?” Mattingly courteously ordered the barman in German. “And then that will be all, thank you.”

He signaled for everyone to take places around the table.

“This room is secure,” Mattingly announced. “I have it regularly swept. The result of that is that you’ll have to pour your own drinks—Honor System. A quarter for whiskey, ten cents for beer. There is a jar on the bar.”

He pointed and then went on: “The rule is that when any German enters the room, you stop your conversation in midsentence and don’t resume talking until the German has left. And I don’t mean that you can change the subject. I mean not a word. Clear?”

He looked around at everybody to make sure he had made the point.

The door opened. A slight, pale-faced man with sunken eyes, very thin hair, and wearing a baggy, nondescript suit came in.

“What I said before does not apply to this gentleman,” Mattingly said to the table, then raised his voice and addressed the man entering the room: “Good evening, sir.”

The man walked to where Frade was sitting with Mattingly and wordlessly offered his hand.

“General Gehlen,” Mattingly said, “this is Colonel Frade.”

Frade hurriedly got to his feet and put out his hand. He was surprised at Gehlen’s firm grip as he said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, General Gehlen.”

“I understand, Colonel,” Gehlen replied, “that you have been taking very good care of my men.”

How the hell could he know that?

“I have to tell you, sir,” Frade said, “that I have about half of them confined.”

“I rather thought you might consider that necessary,” Gehlen said. “But you are forgiven, providing, of course, that you’ve brought the money.”

He’s making some kind of joke.

Mattingly’s face shows he understands the joke.

But what the hell is he talking about?

“Excuse me, General?” Frade asked.

“The money, Clete,” Mattingly said. “Graham’s half a million dollars. Please don’t tell me you don’t have it.”

Oh, shit!

“I wasn’t told to bring any money,” Frade said. “And that half a million I signed for—I thought those were funds for other OSS business. My wife’s got it put away in the safe in our house in Buenos Aires.”

“The best-laid plans of mice and men,” General Gehlen said.

“Clete, how soon can you get it here?” Mattingly asked.

“I was about to say on the next SAA flight to Lisbon. But that won’t work. The only SAA pilots I’d trust with it on are this rescue-the-diplomats mission.”

“Well, then you’ll just have to go get it,” Mattingly said. “That’s what, ten, twelve days at the most? I can have some money flown from London. Not that much. But enough to get started. You do have the money, right? You can get it here?”

Clete nodded, then said, “What’s it for?”

“That’s something else we’ll get into after we have a drink and our supper.”