The Honor of Spies

by W. E. B Griffin

  “So does my grandfather,” Clete said.

  “—in which case his information and especially the agents-in-place would be of great value,” Graham finished.

  “Do you think we’re going to have a war with the Russians?” Clete asked softly.

  “I don’t think the possibility can be dismissed out of hand,” Dulles said. “There are a number of knowledgeable people—General George Patton among them—who think we will.”

  “Among other things that Canaris’s delegate offered to give us—in fact, did give us—are the names of Soviet spies in the Manhattan Project,” Graham said.

  “The Russians know about that atomic bomb?” Frade asked, his surprise showing.

  Dulles nodded. “And are trying very hard to steal it for Mother Russia.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “What Gehlen and Canaris want is for us to provide sanctuary for their men—and the families of their men—in South America.”

  “To which they will be flown, via Lisbon, by South American Airways?” Frade asked.

  Dulles said, “There are two problems here with which I think you should be made familiar. Colonel Graham is—understandably—uncomfortable with you being aware of them.”

  “Which are?”

  “Colonel Donovan and, of course, the President,” Dulles said. “Perhaps I should have said, ‘The President and, of course, Colonel Donovan.’ ”

  Graham said, “What we should have done when Canaris made us this offer was refer it to Colonel Donovan. If we had done that, the chances are that Donovan would have gone to Roosevelt, strongly recommending that we make the deal. And the chances are that Roosevelt would have gone along with it.”

  “But you didn’t go to Donovan with it?” Frade asked incredulously. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  Both Graham and Dulles nodded.

  “Donovan, we decided, would have gone to Roosevelt,” Dulles said, “which meant that others would learn of it. For example, Vice President Henry Wallace. Wallace is a great admirer of Joseph Stalin and the Soviet Union. He would have insisted that Russia, as our ally, has a right to any and all intelligence Gehlen would provide. And the President would have gone along with him; FDR really believes that Stalin can be trusted; more important, that he can control him.

  “Mrs. Roosevelt believes both things, that the Soviet Union is a trustworthy ally and that her husband can control Joseph Stalin.”

  “Then how is it that the Russians ‘don’t know’ about the Manhattan Project, the atomic bomb?” Frade said.

  “There’s a difference between not having been told about it and not knowing about it,” Dulles said. “Of course they know about it. The question then becomes who told them about it, and how much they have been told. Or how successful their espionage has been . . .

  “Since the Soviets don’t officially know about it, and inasmuch as they are our trustworthy ally, and allies are not supposed to spy on one another, J. Edgar Hoover is having a hell of a time dealing with Russian spies. He’s not even supposed to be looking for them. Counterintelligence is intended to keep the Germans and the Japanese from learning about it.”

  “But the Germans know about it?”

  “In two ways,” Dulles said. “Generally, because it’s no secret in scientific circles that everyone is working to develop a nuclear bomb; and also, with some specificity, because Gehlen’s agents in the Kremlin have access to the material the Soviet spies are sending. And I think we have to presume that the Germans are sharing at least some of their knowledge about the Manhattan Project with the Japanese.”

  “My God!”

  “So after a good deal of thought, Colonel Graham and I decided we could not refuse what Gehlen and Canaris were offering, and also that we could not take the proposition to Colonel Donovan. That we would have to conceal the operation from him.”

  “Which is on its face disloyalty and more than likely constitutes dealing with the enemy,” Graham said. “Which is one of the reasons I thought it would be best to keep you in the dark.

  “And there is one other problem we avoid by not bringing Donovan and the President into this: Treasury Secretary Morgenthau. I would judge that he hates the Nazis and Hitler more than anyone else in the Cabinet. He’s Jewish and he knows what the Germans have been doing to the Jews. Neither Mr. Dulles nor I can envision any circumstance in which Morgenthau would countenance our providing sanctuary in Argentina to any Nazis, no matter what benefits might accrue to the United States by so doing. We are both agreed that if this arrangement came to Morgenthau’s attention and Roosevelt didn’t immediately bring it to a halt, Morgenthau would go to the press with it.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “What are you thinking, Clete?” Colonel Graham asked.

  That’s the first time he called me anything but “Frade” or “Major Frade.”

  What the hell!

  Clete shrugged, then said, “You asked, Colonel. What was running through my mind was that this operation gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘insubordination.’ ”

  “What I told myself when I considered this dilemma,” Graham responded, “was that I have sworn an oath to defend the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic. Vice President Wallace, Morgenthau, and, for that matter, Eleanor Roosevelt, whose good intentions I don’t question for a second, are in a position to cause the United States great harm. I am duty bound to keep them from doing it while I am engaged in something I really believe will help my country—and probably save a hell of a lot of lives in the process.”

  “When I took that oath,” Frade said, “there was a phrase about obeying the orders of the officers appointed over me.”

  “Which is what you’re doing,” Graham said. “If this thing blows up in our face—as it very well may—Mr. Dulles and I are prepared to say that you knew nothing of what you just heard. I don’t think it will do any good, but we’ll do it.”

  Frade grunted, and there was another silence. Then he asked: “Are you going to tell me how I’m supposed to get these Nazis off the plane in Buenos Aires?”

  “Let’s start with the first two,” Graham said. “Alois Strübel is an obersturmbannführer—a major—in the SS. The Waffen-SS, but the SS. He and his sergeant major, Hauptscharführer Otto Niedermeyer, fell for the Fatherland on the Eastern Front about two weeks ago. They were buried with military honors.”

  Frade’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing.

  “Frau Strübel and their two children were apparently killed—their bodies were never found—in a bombing raid on Dresden on September 11. Frau Niedermeyer and their son were killed in a raid on Frankfurt an der Oder two days later, and buried in a mass grave the next day.

  “When all these people arrive in Lisbon, which probably will be the day after tomorrow, the women will be wearing the regalia prescribed for the Little Sisters of the Poor—”

  “They’ll be dressed as nuns?” Clete said.

  Graham smiled and nodded, and went on: “—which noble sisterhood roams the streets of Germany picking up children orphaned by the bombing. Through the largesse of chapter houses in Brazil, Paraguay, and Argentina, these children are taken from the war zone to those countries, where, it is to be hoped, they will be adopted by good Catholic families, but failing that, cared for in orphanages maintained by the Little Sisters of the Poor.

  “There are already large numbers of these orphans in Lisbon awaiting transport, which until now, of course, had to be by ship.”

  “And that problem of moving people between South America and Europe,” Dulles offered, “also affected the Vatican. As I’m sure you know, Cletus, the Vatican is sovereign; in other words, it is a nation according to international law. In every country there is a Papal Nuncio, a high-ranking clergyman who speaks for the Pope.

  “He is in fact the ambassador, and the residence of the Papal Nuncio for all practical purposes is the embassy of the Vatican. And it is, of course, staffed as an embassy is staffed.
And the Vatican has to move people—not only their ‘diplomats’ but also members of their various religious congregations—back and forth between Rome and South America.

  “Somehow, the Vatican heard that South American Airways was going to establish scheduled service between Lisbon and Buenos Aires, with a stop in Belém . . .”

  “I wonder who told them that?” Clete asked innocently.

  “. . . and they approached the SAA representative here . . .”

  “I didn’t know SAA had a representative here,” Clete said.

  “Oh, yes,” Graham said. “A chap named Fernando Aragão.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  “Connecticut, actually. He went to Brown, but we don’t talk much about his time in the United States. He was born here and has Portuguese citizenship. Before this, he was in the business of exporting cork and sherry and other things to the States. You’re going to have to work out the details of his employment with SAA when you’re here, but for the moment I suggest you let Mr. Dulles finish what he was saying.”

  “What does this guy know about me?”

  “Nothing he doesn’t have to,” Dulles said. “He does know that you both have files in the National Institutes of Health. Good chap; I’m sure you’ll get along well. But, as I was saying, the Papal Nuncio here approached Señor Aragão, saying he was prepared to negotiate for a block of ten seats on every SAA flight between here and South America, said seats to be used for the transport of Roman Catholic religious. The Papal Nuncio further said that should there not be ten religious moving to South America on any one flight, he would like to use their empty seats to transport the orphans of the Little Sisters of the Poor, ones he wanted to move to South America but really hated to send on such a long ocean voyage.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Clete said.

  “Payment is to be made in advance, in gold, pounds sterling, or dollars, in either Switzerland or Buenos Aires.”

  “Curiosity overwhelms me,” Clete said. “How did the Papal Nuncio know to go to Señor Whatsisname?”

  “Fernando has been here since early 1942,” Dulles said. “During that time, he made a point to cultivate the fellow. They’ve become rather close friends. But let me continue: Fernando also told the Papal Nuncio that, whenever this is possible, SAA will carry such additional passengers as the Papal Nuncio may send—for whom there is space; unsold seats, in other words—at a special, lower price. As a gesture of respect for the Holy Father and the good works of the Church of Rome.”

  “I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Clete said. “Tell me, do you think the Papal Nuncio happens to know Father Welner?”

  “I believe they’re old friends,” Dulles said. “I know that Father Welner is staying with the archbishop at his palace while he’s here in Lisbon.”

  “So you two are really in bed with the Vatican,” Clete said.

  “Strategic services, like politics, makes for strange bedfellows,” Dulles pronounced solemnly, then added, “Allen W. Dulles, April 7, 1893, to God Only Knows.”

  “Oh, God,” Graham said, chuckling.

  “On your return flight, Cletus,” Dulles said, “you will be transporting eight Portuguese and Spanish diplomats, several Portuguese businessmen going to Brazil, some diplomatic couriers, a half-dozen or more Jesuit priests going to new assignments in South America under the supervision of Father Welner, eight Franciscan priests going to new assignments in South America, and four nuns of the Little Sisters of the Poor and a number of orphans in their care. Among the priests will be Obersturmbannführer Strübel and Hauptscharführer Niedermeyer, suitably attired. All the priests will be traveling on bona fide passports issued by the Vatican.

  “Colonel Graham and I are agreed—with Fernando Aragão—that it would be best if you don’t know which of your passengers are actually the Strübels and the Niedermeyers. They will make themselves known to you in Argentina. Your call, Clete.”

  “Makes sense,” Frade said. “When do I get to meet Aragão?”

  “He’s going to meet you in the lobby and take you to dinner at nine,” Graham said.

  “How’s he going to know me?”

  “That splendiferous uniform should do it.”

  “One more thing, Cletus,” Dulles said. “You will be carrying other passengers from time to time. Would you prefer not to know who they are?”

  “Well, since I won’t be on every flight or, for that matter, on most or even many of them—”

  “I’m glad you brought that up,” Graham interrupted. “Will it be any trouble for you to schedule yourself as a pilot at least once a month—better yet, once every three weeks?”

  Frade thought about that, then nodded. “I can do that.”

  “And Aragão will make a monthly trip to Buenos Aires. Between those two things, he should be able to keep you up to speed.”

  “Okay. What kind of other passengers will SAA be carrying?”

  “All kinds,” Dulles said. “What comes immediately to mind are scientists we hope to get out, nuclear physicists and aeronautical engineers. The Germans have developed flying bombs—rockets, right out of Buck Rogers in the Twenty-fifth Century—and are working on others powered by jet engines. The 8th Air Force just about destroyed their base in Peenemunde in the middle of August, but they’re frantically rebuilding it. We’re going to try—Canaris is going to try—to get some of their people out. These weapons pose a hell of a threat to England, and the Russians are trying to steal rocket data, too.”

  “And I’m to find these people some place safe in Argentina, too?”

  “That’s the idea,” Dulles said simply.

  “Why not? Some days I just sit around watching the grass grow and wishing I had something to do to pass the time. I don’t suppose I can get any help to do all this?”

  “That would pose problems,” Dulles said.

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Primarily that Donovan would like nothing more than to send someone down to Argentina, some calm, rational, experienced colonel who could really lash down the loose cannon. And who would sooner or later—probably almost immediately—find out what’s going on and feel duty bound to report it.”

  “I didn’t think about that.”

  Graham grunted. “You better remember to think, Clete.” He looked at his watch and announced, “Allen, it’s getting pretty close to eight.”

  “What happens at eight?” Frade asked.

  “I catch the train to Madrid,” Dulles said. “I have to get back to Bern.”

  He stood and put his hand out to Frade.

  “We’ll be in touch, Cletus,” he said, nodded at Graham, and walked out of the room.

  “I guess you’re not coming to dinner with me?” Frade said to Graham.

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Graham said. “The Sicherheitsdienst is all over Lisbon. I don’t want them wondering what I have to do with SAA. And then I’m on the seven a.m. British Overseas Airways flight to Casablanca. I’ve got to get back to Caracas.”

  “Caracas?”

  Graham nodded. “Two reasons. I’ve got to borrow some more money from your grandfather. And that’s where Donovan thinks I am.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Graham stood up and put out his hand.

  “I suppose it would be a waste of breath to tell you to leave the cork in that wine bottle?”

  “Yes, sir, Colonel Graham, sir, it would.”

  “Good luck, Clete. Keep up the good work. Now, endorse that check so I can get out of here.”

  [THREE]

  The meeting with Fernando Aragão didn’t go very much at all as Dulles and Graham had suggested it would.

  When Clete, freshly showered and shaved and wearing his just-pressed SAA uniform, got off the elevator at five minutes to nine, there were four SAA captains in uniform already in the hotel lobby, two sitting together and two sitting alone.

  Clete took a seat in an armchair. He picked up a copy of the Correio da Manhã newspaper an
d pretended to be fascinated with it; he didn’t want any of the other SAA pilots to courteously ask him to join them.

  Although the Portuguese and Spanish languages are similar enough for Clete to be able to make sense of what he was reading, there was nothing of any interest to him whatever on pages two and three. Then he came upon a small, one-column advertisement at the bottom of page three. It announced that South American Airways was about to offer service to Belém and Buenos Aires and gave a telephone number to call for further information.

  At ten past nine, a somewhat chubby fiftyish man with slicked-back hair and a finely trimmed pencil mustache came in through the revolving door that was the hotel’s front entrance. He was carrying both an umbrella and a heavy leather briefcase. Clete instantly disliked him.

  The man looked around and saw all the men in SAA uniforms. His face showed annoyance. Finally, he made his choice—the oldest SAA pilot, whose name Clete couldn’t remember—and spoke to him. The captain shook his head and pointed toward Clete. The man came over.

  “Capitán Frade?” he asked in Portuguese-accented Spanish.

  Clete lowered the newspaper.

  “Sí. Señor Aragão?”

  There was surprise on Aragão’s face, quickly replaced by a smile and the announcement that his car was at the curb.

  It was a gray 1940 Ford. It came with a cap-wearing chauffeur. They got in the backseat.

  “Take us to the Hotel Aviz,” Aragão ordered regally, then turned to Frade. “The restaurant at the Aviz is better, I think, than at the Britania, and, frankly, there’s a better class of people.”

  Clete said nothing.

  He thought: What a pompous asshole.

  At the Aviz’s restaurant, they were shown to an elaborately set table in a corner, and the moment they sat down, busboys put a screen of wooden panels around them.

  “I don’t suppose you know much about Portuguese wine,” Aragão declared. “But if you like Merlot, there’s a very nice Merlot type, Monte do Maio. I sent some over to Graham.”

  “I had some. Very nice,” Frade said.

  “Well, let’s have some of that, and then we’ll decide on what to eat.”