Dulles chuckled. “I have to say this, Alex: You realize that we are giving aid and comfort to the enemy, betraying our Russian ally, and agreeing to deceive not only our boss but the President?”
Graham’s face was sober as he nodded his understanding.
But then he smiled.
“It’s in a good cause, Allen. Now get on the phone and get von und zu back in here so we can tell him he’s got a deal.”
[THREE]
Aboard MV Ciudad de Cádiz
South Latitude 26.318
West Longitude 22.092
0625 11 September 1943
Kapitänleutnant Wilhelm von Dattenberg paused at the interior door to the bridge, waited to be noticed, and when that didn’t happen, asked, “Permission to come onto the bridge, Kapitän?”
Von Dattenberg, a slim, somewhat hawk-faced thirty-two-year-old, was wearing navy blue trousers, a black knit sweater, and a battered, greasy Kriegsmarine officer’s cap, which was sort of the proud symbol of a submarine officer.
Capitán José Francisco de Banderano, master of the Ciudad de Cádiz, who had been standing on the port flying bridge holding binoculars to his eyes, turned to look at von Dattenberg. José de Banderano looked very much like Wilhelm von Dattenberg—in other words, more Teutonic than Latin—but was a few years older. He was wearing blue trousers and a stiffly starched white shirt with four-stripe shoulder boards.
“You have the freedom of this bridge, Capitán,” de Banderano said. “I thought I told you that. Four or five times.”
“I must have forgotten.”
Von Dattenberg walked onto the flying bridge and looked over the side. His vessel—U-405, a type VIIC submarine—lay alongside, the German naval battle flag hanging limply from a staff on her conning tower.
Her diesels were idling; if necessary, she could be under way in a minute or two and submerged a few minutes after that. It was unlikely that she would have to do that. They were just about equidistant from Africa and South America, in the middle of the Atlantic, and off the usual shipping lanes.
The chief of the boat was in the conning tower, resting on his elbows. Two seamen were manning a machine gun.
“Morgen!” von Dattenberg called. He had “the voice of command”; it carried.
The seamen popped to attention. The chief of the boat looked up and waved his right arm in a gesture that was far more a friendly wave than a salute.
A white-jacketed steward touched von Dattenberg’s arm and, when he looked, handed him a steaming china mug.
“The capitán asks that you join him for breakfast, Capitán.”
“Thank you,” von Dattenberg said, and walked off the flying bridge into the wheelhouse, then through it to the chart room, and from there to the door to the master’s cabin.
De Banderano waved him in. A table had been set with a crisp white tablecloth and silver. A steward—not the one who had given von Dattenberg the coffee—immediately began to deliver breakfast.
It was an impressive display of food. They were served a basket of breads and rolls, thin slices of ham rolled into tubes, a plate of curled butter, and another of jams and marmalades.
De Banderano poked at the ham tubes with his fork, then announced: “A ham steak, please, Ricardo. Two eggs, up.”
“Yes, sir,” the steward said, and looked at von Dattenberg. “Capitán?”
“Not for me, thank you,” von Dattenberg said, then immediately changed his mind. “Yes, please. Same thing.” He met de Banderano’s eyes. “God only knows when I’ll eat this well again.”
“Yes, sir.”
The steward had just poured von Dattenberg another cup of coffee—this time into a delicate Meissen cup sitting on a saucer—when the third mate, serving as officer of the deck, appeared at the door.
“Excuse me, Capitán. There is a submarine dead ahead at maybe three kilometers.”
“Can you read her flag?”
“No, sir. The submarine could be anything.”
“Perhaps it’s Swiss,” de Banderano said. “Have the Oerlikons manned just in case. I have never trusted the Swiss navy.”
Von Dattenberg chuckled.
The odds against any submarine but a U-boat not immediately submerging when spotting a ship were enormous. And there was no Swiss navy.
The Ciudad de Cádiz had a half-dozen Oerlikon 20mm machine guns mounted in various places in her superstructure, all but two of them behind false bulkheads that could be swung quickly out of the way.
“Yes, sir.”
The third mate returned before von Dattenberg and de Banderano had finished their coffee.
“The Oerlikons are manned, sir, and we have notified the U-405.”
“Very well,” de Banderano said. “Capitán von Dattenberg and I will be on the bridge shortly.”
“Send, Lie along our port side,” Capitán de Banderano ordered the seaman standing beside him with a signaling lamp.
“Lie alongside our port side. Aye, aye, sir,” the signalman said, and began tapping his key.
“That’s the U-409,” von Dattenberg said.
“You know her? Her master?”
“I don’t know if I do or not,” von Dattenberg said.
“Submarine sends, Will lie along your port,” the signalman reported.
“Very well,” de Banderano said. “Make all preparations to take passengers and cargo aboard, with refueling and replenishment of food supplies to follow. Have the galley prepared to feed her crew. Have the table set in the wardroom to feed officers. Alert the laundry.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the third mate responded.
“Take the helm, Señor Sanchez.”
“I have the helm, sir,” Third Mate Sanchez said.
“Why don’t we go below, Capitán, and greet our visitors?” Capitán de Banderano suggested.
By the time de Banderano and von Dattenberg had made their way from the bridge to the just-above-the-waterline Seventh Deck, enormous watertight doors in the Ciudad de Cádiz’s hull had been slid upward and a huge cushion—lashed-together truck tires—was being lowered into place.
Lines were tossed aboard by sailors on the submarine, and hawsers then fed to the submarine from the ship. The U-409 was pulled carefully against the cushion.
A gangway was slid from the deck of the ship onto the submarine. Two men walked toward it as it was lashed into place. One was dressed, as was von Dattenberg, in a sweater and trousers topped off by an equally battered hat. Despite his neatly trimmed full beard, the captain of the U-409 looked very young.
The man with him was in a black SS uniform, its insignia identifying him as an SS-brigadeführer. He was pale-faced, and the uniform was mussed.
And probably dirty, von Dattenberg thought.
The captain of the U-409 walked up the gangway, stopped, raised his arm in a salute, and said, “Permission to board, Kapitän?”
The SS-brigadeführer pushed past him onto the ship.
De Banderano returned the salute. “Granted. Welcome.”
The SS-brigadeführer threw his arm straight out in the Nazi salute and barked, “Heil, Hitler!”
Von Dattenberg returned the salute more than a little sloppily.
De Banderano just looked at him.
“Take me to the kapitän, please.”
“I’m the master of the Ciudad de Cádiz.”
“Kapitän, I am SS-Brigadeführer von Deitzberg. I have your orders.”
“You have my orders?” de Banderano said as if surprised.
Von Deitzberg handed him an envelope. As de Banderano tore it open, the submarine captain walked to them, gave a military salute—as opposed to the Nazi salute—and said, “Kapitänleutnant Wertz, Kapitän. I have the honor to command U-409.”
De Banderano returned that salute and offered his hand.
“Von Dattenberg, U-405,” von Dattenberg said.
“Aside from this gentleman,” de Banderano said, nodding at von Deitzberg, “what have you got for us?”
�
��One more SS officer, an obersturmführer; ten SS of other ranks; and one wooden crate.”
“I was thinking more of mail,” de Banderano said.
“And a packet of mail.”
“Why don’t you send for that?” de Banderano said. “And then we’ll see about feeding you and getting you a bath and some clean clothing.”
“The crate, the special shipment, and my men are more important than the mail,” von Deitzberg said. “Get them on here first.”
“After you’ve gotten the mail, Capitán, you can bring aboard everything else that comes aboard,” de Banderano said calmly.
He handed the orders von Deitzberg had given him to von Dattenberg.
“I didn’t give you permission to show him those orders!” von Deitzberg flared.
“There’s one thing you should understand, Señor von Deitzberg. I am the master of this vessel. I don’t need anyone’s permission to do anything, and no one tells me what to do.”
Von Deitzberg colored, but he didn’t say anything.
“Capitán von Dattenberg,” de Banderano said. “Why don’t you take Capitán Wertz to your cabin, get him a bath and some clean clothing, and order him breakfast.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“And then, when the crate and the SS personnel who are so important to him are safely aboard, we’ll see about getting this fellow a bath and something to eat.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” von Dattenberg said, and turned to Wertz. “If you’ll come with me, Kapitän?”
Kapitänleutnant Wertz waited until von Dattenberg had closed his cabin door before he announced, “I think I like this Spanish kapitän.”
“He’s a good man.”
“And he’s not impressed with SS-Brigadeführer von Deitzberg.”
“He doesn’t seem to be.”
“Everybody at Saint-Nazaire was. I wanted to throw up.”
“Why am I getting the idea you don’t like the brigadeführer?”
“The only nice thing I can say about that SS bastard is that he got seasick the moment we hit the deep water outside Saint-Nazaire, and stayed that way whenever we were on the surface—and we were on the surface most of the way.”
Von Dattenberg smiled but said nothing.
Wertz warmed to his subject as he began pulling off his clothing.
“He showed up at the pens like royalty. And all of our never-leave-the-port superiors fell all over each other trying to kiss his ass. He has four fucking suitcases, big ones.”
“Where did you stow them?”
“We took off four torpedoes to make room for them. And the crap those storm troopers had with them.”
“Well, there are torpedoes aboard the Cádiz. This is a floating warehouse.”
Von Dattenberg, as Wertz went on, realized that the cork was out of the bottle: “When I showed the SS sonofabitch my cabin, and graciously, in the tradition of the naval service, showed him the fold-down bunk and told him I would sleep there, and that he could use my bunk, he said, ‘I really think you should find some other accommodation.’ ”
“Jesus!”
“So I moved in with my Number One, and we played hot sheets all across the Atlantic.”
“Well, he is an SS-brigadeführer.”
“Who showered at least twice a day, usually throwing up in the stall—which was sort of funny—and then complained about how long it took my men to clean up after him. He used up more fresh water taking showers than my crew got to drink.”
Kapitänleutnant Wertz was now down to his shorts, which were once white but now gray and oil-stained.
“If he hadn’t been seasick all the time, I’d have thrown the sonofabitch over the side—or shot him out of a tube and reported he had died gloriously for the Führer.”
“Take it easy, Wertz,” von Dattenberg said seriously. “You don’t want anyone hearing you talk like that.”
Now there was concern on Wertz’s face.
“Except another U-boat skipper, of course,” von Dattenberg added to ease his mind. “And now that you’ve told me the brigadeführer suffers terribly from mal de mer, I’ll do my best to stay on the surface until we’re nearly where we’re going with him.”
“Where are you going?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“No, and sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“I’d love to tell you, just to piss him off, but that would be dangerous for both of us.”
Wertz nodded his understanding.
“Go have your shower,” von Dattenberg said. “There’s fresh clothing on the bunk, and while you’re doing that, I’ll order your breakfast. Ham and eggs?”
[FOUR]
Wardroom
MV Ciudad de Cádiz
0915 11 September 1943
SS-Brigadeführer Manfred von Deitzberg, now attired in an ordinary seaman’s blue shirt and trousers, was eating—wolfing down—his breakfast of ham steak and eggs and fried potatoes at the master’s table in the wardroom.
“You were hungry, weren’t you?” Capitán de Banderano asked, smiling.
Von Deitzberg, obviously making an attempt to pour some oil on what he recognized as troubled waters, smiled at both von Dattenberg—who was sitting across from him at the table—and de Banderano, who was tilted back in his chair at the head of the table.
“Obviously, I am not cut out to be a mariner,” he said. “I haven’t had much to eat but crackers and tea for days.”
“So Capitán Wertz said,” de Banderano said. “Well, you can make up for that now.”
“You have a dry cleaning facility on here? The steward said something . . .”
“There is a dry cleaning machine aboard,” de Banderano said. “And a laundry. And stocks of uniforms for the men from the Unterseebooten. Unfortunately, no SS uniforms. We don’t see many SS men.”
“And the food! This is marvelous ham! And fresh eggs! Where do you get all this?”
“Either in Montevideo or Buenos Aires. We enter those ports, usually alternately, every two weeks or so. We top off our fuel tanks and take on stocks of fresh food.”
“With which you replenish the Unterseebooten,” von Deitzberg said.
“We do.”
“And you have no trouble getting into and out of those ports?”
De Banderano shook his head.
“Let me ask you this, Kapitän. Could I leave your ship in either port without being noticed?”
“My orders—you gave them to me, didn’t you read them?—say that I am to land you and your men and that crate at Samborombón Bay in the River Plate estuary.”
“I’m not talking about the SS men. I meant just me.”
“I’m not saying it would be impossible, but I don’t think I want to take that risk. The authorities watch me pretty close in both places. They suspect—know—what we’re doing. But so long as I don’t violate their neutrality, they leave me alone. If I was caught smuggling something ashore—you, for example—they wouldn’t let me into their ports again. That would mean there would be no fresh food, and, more importantly, no diesel fuel for the Unterseebooten.”
When von Deitzberg didn’t reply, de Banderano went on: “And then we have our orders. You and your men are to be put ashore on Samborombón Bay.”
“Orders are subject to change,” von Deitzberg said. “Presumably you are in radio contact with Berlin?”
“Let me explain how that works,” de Banderano said, a touch of impatience in his voice. “With rare exceptions, we do not communicate with the station. It’s in Spain, by the way. It used to be in North Africa, but now the Americans are there. There was such a transmission today. One word. The code word for ‘shipment received; proceeding.’
“We don’t want anyone finding us out by triangulation, which they would most likely do if we sent long messages. We receive our orders, which are encrypted by an Enigma machine, from the station in Spain. The enemy cannot locate a radio receiver by triangulation.
“Tomorrow, when you and your men are
aboard U-405, and she has sailed for Samborombón Bay, and U-409 resumes patrol, I will transmit a two-word message. One will be the code word for U-405 proceeding according to orders, and the second the code word for U-409 resuming patrol.
“En route to Argentina, the station will transmit specific orders to Capitán von Dattenberg giving him the details regarding where you and your men are to be put ashore in the rubber boats.
“I don’t intend to jeopardize this system by transmitting a long message in which you will attempt to justify to Admiral Canaris putting you ashore in Montevideo or Buenos Aires despite the risks that would pose to not only your mission, but also mine. Do you understand, Señor von Deitzberg?”
After a long moment, von Deitzberg smiled. “Of course. I simply didn’t understand. As I said before, I am not a mariner.”
[FIVE]
ABC Restaurant
Lavalle 545
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1320 18 September 1943
“There it is, on the left,” Anton von Gradny-Sawz said, pointing as he leaned forward in the rear seat of the embassy’s Mercedes.
“Jawohl, Herr von Gradny-Sawz,” Günther Loche said crisply.
“Pick me up in an hour and a half, Günther,” von Gradny-Sawz ordered as Loche pulled into the curb. “At ten minutes before three.”
“Jawohl, Herr von Gradny-Sawz.”
“Get yourself some lunch during that time, but before, before you eat, find a public telephone—there’s a booth at the intersection of Lavalle and Carlos Pellegrini—and call the embassy and tell Ambassador von Lutzenberger or Fräulein Hässell—no one else; keep trying until you get one or the other—that I am taking lunch with el Coronel Martín and possibly someone on his staff at the ABC; that I expect to be finished before three and will then go to the embassy.”
“Jawohl, Herr von Gradny-Sawz.”
“Now, Günther, who are you going to call, and when, and what are you going to say?”
“Before I eat, Herr von Gradny-Sawz, I am to find a public telephone, and call the ambassador or Fräulein Hässell and tell them you’re having lunch with el Coronel Martín at the ABC restaurant, and expect to be finished before three, and after that will go to the embassy.”
The Honor of Spies Page 24
