The Honor of Spies

by W. E. B Griffin

  “The Führer is, as Churchill would say, ‘as mad as a March hare,’” von Deitzberg said. “And the war is lost. And we both know it.”

  Von Gradny-Sawz felt faint.

  “Let’s clear the air between us, Anton,” von Deitzberg said, looking into von Gradny-Sawz’s eyes. “I have studied your dossier carefully and made certain inquiries.” He let that sink in for a long moment, and then went on. “I know, for example, that your own deviation from the sexual norm is that you like to take two—or three—women into your bed.”

  Jesus Christ!

  “Which frankly sounds rather interesting,” von Deitzberg continued. “And I also know that you have violated the law by illegally exporting from the Fatherland some $106,000 plus some gold and diamond jewelry—family jewelry. How much is $106,000 worth in pesos, Anton?”

  After a moment, von Gradny-Sawz said, “With the peso at about four to the dollar, a bit more than 400,000 pesos.”

  I have just confessed my guilt!

  What the hell is going on here?

  “And how far do you think that will take you when you try to find a new life here? You’ll have to buy an apartment or a house, and buy groceries, in addition to what it’s going to cost you to grease the necessary Argentine palms.”

  Von Gradny-Sawz did not reply.

  “I’m sure you read Reichsführer-SS Himmler’s letter to Ambassador von Lutzenberger; the envelope was not sealed,” von Deitzberg went on. “The last paragraph of which is significant: The Führer has told the Reichsführer-SS to have me deal with destroying the aircraft of the OSS airline. You saw that?”

  Von Gradny-Sawz nodded but did not speak.

  “In the last several weeks, for example, the Soviet army has recaptured both Smolensk and Kharkov. Not to mention what’s happened in Italy. The Führer doesn’t like to think about those defeats. He turns his attention to something like these airplanes in Argentina. If he issues an order—‘Have von Deitzberg deal with this’—he really believes it will be obeyed. His orders to his generals to not yield a meter to the Red Army or the English and Americans don’t seem to get obeyed.

  “My problem, Anton, is that I don’t have any idea how to destroy those airplanes. I don’t think Herr Frade is going to leave them sitting unprotected on a field somewhere where my SS people here can sneak up to them in the dead of night and attach a bomb. I don’t even have a bomb, and my SS people here—I’m speaking of Cranz and Raschner—are bungling incompetents. They can’t find the spies in the embassy. They can’t even carry out the assassination of Herr Frade.

  “Now, I will of course do my best to carry out the Führer’s orders. But I’m a realist, Anton. I don’t think I’ll be successful. I will get rid of Herr Frade, and I will ensure that Operation Phoenix is running smoothly and I may even be able to find the spies or traitors in the embassy.

  “But the Führer will not be impressed with this. All he will know is that the OSS airline is still flying back and forth across the Atlantic. And he will think that SS-Brigadeführer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg is no better than the other gottverdammt aristocrats with which he is surrounded. He refuses to obey his Führer’s orders.”

  Von Gradny-Sawz found his voice: “I can see the problem, Herr Brigadeführer.”

  “Call me Manfred, Anton. We are of the same class, after all. And let’s talk about that, about our noble background that the Führer finds so offensive. Your lands will disappear as down a flushing toilet when the Russians get to Hungary. The von Deitzberg estates disappeared in the depression following the Versailles Convention. I could not follow my noble ancestors in a military career because there was simply no money. I quite literally went hungry when I was a junior officer in the army. I transferred to the SS because I believed—and I was proven right—that I could rapidly advance in rank because my competition would be inept fools like Cranz and Raschner.

  “And now even that seems at the edge of being lost,” von Deitzberg said almost sadly. “I’ve given this a great deal of thought, Anton. One thing I asked myself is why, despite all the upheavals of history, there is still nobility, people such as ourselves. Have you ever considered that, Anton?”

  “I can’t truthfully say I have, Herr . . . Manfred.”

  “Because we have, over the centuries, adapted to changing circumstances. You’ve done that yourself, Anton. You were wise enough to see the Anschluss coming, and to make sure you weren’t tossed into the gutter when that happened. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “That’s true,” von Gradny-Sawz said.

  “As far as I am concerned, Anton, loyalty does not mean one has to commit suicide.”

  “I think that’s true,” von Gradny-Sawz said solemnly. “There is a point at which—”

  “Precisely!” von Deitzberg interrupted. “And we—you and I—have reached that point.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “We will, as our code of honor requires, do our duty to Germany to the best of our ability just as long as we possibly can. But then . . .”

  “Then what?”

  “How could we continue to serve Germany if we were returned to the Fatherland as prisoners, Anton?” von Deitzberg asked reasonably. “In chains? Destined for a Russian slave labor camp?”

  “I take your point, Manfred.”

  “If . . . if everything goes wrong, and at the last possible moment we started to look out for ourselves, how would that violate our code of honor?”

  “I can’t see where it would.”

  “And what would be wrong with you and me doing what our leaders are doing with Operation Phoenix: setting up a place where we can live in safety until things settle down?”

  “Nothing,” von Gradny-Sawz said firmly.

  “We might even be able to—almost certainly we would be able to—provide sanctuary for others who were not able to plan ahead. Widows, for example.”

  “I can see where that would be entirely possible.”

  “Now, Anton, if we were to do this, we would have to do it in absolute secrecy.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Cranz and Raschner must never even suspect.”

  “I understand.”

  “It happens that I have access to some funds in Uruguay. Enough funds to finance this.”

  “Really?”

  “If I were to get these funds to you, would you know how to set this up?”

  “Oh, yes. Frankly, I’ve been thinking along these lines myself. I have even taken some preliminary steps. There is a delightful area here, in the footsteps of the Andes, around a charming little town, San Carlos de Bariloche, where I am sure we could, with absolute discretion, acquire just the property we would need. It’s very much like Bavaria. Should it come to this, of course.”

  “Well, I think we have to consider that possibility as being very real.”

  “Yes, I think we do.”

  “Then the thing for me to do is get to Uruguay as soon as possible. I presume that von Wachtstein still has that Fieseler Storch?”

  “May I make a suggestion, Manfred?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Why don’t you fly to Montevideo?”

  “I was thinking of having von Wachtstein fly me there in the Storch.”

  “I meant take South American Airways. They have two flights in each direction every day.”

  “That would mean passing through both Argentine and Uruguayan customs and immigration, would it not? Are these documents you arranged for . . .”

  Von Gradny-Sawz nodded and said more than a little smugly, “Jorge Schenck and his wife—they were childless—were killed in an auto crash in 1938. The people I dealt with have removed the reports of their demise from the appropriate registers. That way, the original number of his Document of National Identity became available. Your documents, Señor Schenck, can stand up under any kind of scrutiny.”

  “You are an amazing man, Anton.”

  “What I was going to suggest, Manfred, was that you take the
SAA flight this afternoon—it leaves at four and takes less than an hour—then spend the night. And when Cranz comes here—and he should be here any minute—you have him order von Wachtstein to fly to Montevideo tomorrow.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Because he enjoys diplomatic privilege,” von Gradny-Sawz said. “No authority—Argentine or Uruguayan—can ask to see what’s inside a package he might be carrying. As either authority might—probably would—demand of Señor Schenck.”

  “Allow me to repeat, you are an amazing man, Anton,” von Deitzberg said, and put out his hand. “I think our collaboration is going to be a success. Not to mention, mutually profitable.”

  XII

  [ONE]

  Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade

  Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

  1700 1 October 1943

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Capitán Frade announced over the passenger-cabin speakers, “this is your captain. Welcome to Buenos Aires. The local time is five p.m. and, as you can see, it’s raining.”

  “Ciudad de Rosario,” the tower operator’s voice came over his headset. “Follow the Follow-Me to the terminal. Be advised there is a band on horseback on the tarmac.”

  “There’s a what?” Frade asked.

  There was no reply from the tower. But when he turned Ciudad de Rosario onto the taxiway, there it was—a forty-trooper-strong, horse-mounted military band in dress uniforms getting soaked in the rain.

  Frade turned to Capitán Manuel Ramos beside him and said, “Don’t let those horses get in the prop wash. It’ll be a Chinese fire drill.”

  Capitán Frade’s copilot had no idea what a Chinese fire drill was, but he, too, had been thinking about the effect that the blast of air from the Constellation’s four engines was going to have on the band’s horses.

  “Engineer, shut down Three and Four,” Frade ordered.

  “Shutting down Three and Four,” the engineer replied. “What’s going on?”

  The Ciudad de Rosario taxied toward the tarmac. The horses didn’t like the airplane, the noise it made, or the prop wash that had made its way around the Constellation from its left engines and was blowing the water from the rain-soaked tarmac at them. The tuba player and one of the kettle drummers lost their instruments when their mounts became unruly.

  “Ah, ha!” Clete said. “Mystery explained. El Presidente is under one of those umbrellas.”

  Twenty or more people were under a sea of umbrellas in front of the passenger terminal.

  “And so is the Papal Nuncio,” Ramos replied.

  “I’m going to stop it right here, Manuel,” Clete said. “We don’t want to drown the president.”

  “Especially not now,” Ramos said.

  “Why ‘especially not now’?”

  “Cletus, El Presidente didn’t come out here with the band of the Second Cavalry to welcome us home. He came out to rub Brazil’s nose in SAA’s mud. We now have a transoceanic airline, and the Brazilians don’t.”

  “If I knew you were so smart, Manuel, I would have let you land.”

  “If you had let me land, it would’ve been because you know I am a Número Uno pilot,” Ramos said. He demonstrated Número Uno by holding up his left fist, balled, with the index finger extended.

  Frade laughed.

  “How about getting some ground power out here?” he said into his microphone.

  A moment later, Clete saw the ground power generator being pushed toward them. And he could see something else in the sea of umbrellas that made his heart jump. Retired Sargento Rodolfo Gómez of the Húsares de Pueyrredón was holding an umbrella over the mother of Clete’s unborn child. Over only her. Rodolfo was getting soaked.

  There is nothing in this world that I would rather do this instant than run down the aisle, open the door, and—the moment the stairway appears—run down it to Dorotea and wrap my arms around her.

  But I can’t do that.

  “Tell you what, Manuel: While I shut it down, you go back in the cabin and pick some unlucky soul to get off first and deal with El Presidente.”

  “Cletus, that’s your honor,” Ramos said. “This would not have happened without you.”

  “That wasn’t a suggestion. That’s what they call an order,” Frade said.

  “I will be embarrassed. I was not the pilot in command.”

  That embarrassment will last until El Presidente pumps your hand.

  “Well, I won’t tell anyone if you don’t,” Frade said. “Do it, Manuel, please, as a favor to me.”

  “If you insist.”

  And when your picture appears on the front page of La Nación, I will have one more good guy in my corner.

  And if your picture is in the newspapers, the picture of Don Cletus Frade, master aviator and OSS agent, won’t be.

  “We have auxiliary power,” the engineer reported.

  “Shut down One and Two,” Clete ordered. “Go, Manuel! Don’t keep El Presidente waiting.”

  When Clete finally came out of the cockpit, he saw that someone else already had decided who was going to deplane first. The nuns and orphans were standing at the door.

  Why did the steward do that?

  He then saw the Jesuit priest bringing up the rear of that line, after the nuns, orphans, members of the Order of Saint Francis, and the other Jesuits.

  Why? Because Father Welner “suggested” that to him.

  What is that wily Jesuit up to?

  Clete looked out a window.

  Manuel Ramos and the older pilot whose name Clete could not remember were shaking hands with El Presidente and party, everybody under umbrellas.

  Where the hell did all those umbrellas come from?

  And the people holding them?

  The band was playing. Trumpets and flutes only, plus a xylophone.

  I guess the rain fucked up the drums.

  El Presidente and one other man—a short, pudgy, middle-aged fellow wearing clerical vestments, a wide-brimmed hat, a huge gold cross, and a purple waistband—Christ, that must be the Papal Nuncio! What the hell is he up to?— plus umbrella holders—God, there must be twenty of them. Where the hell did they all come from?—walked toward the stairway.

  Two of the nuns started down the stairway, followed by two orphans. Then two more nuns, followed by four older orphans.

  When they got to the tarmac, now shielded by umbrellas, the nuns curtsied before the Papal Nuncio and kissed his ring. The Papal Nuncio made what Clete thought was a gesture of blessing, then patted the orphans on the head.

  Then El Presidente patted the orphans on the head.

  Flashbulbs from at least fifteen photographers lit the scene.

  The umbrella holders then led the nuns and the orphans toward two buses that Clete hadn’t noticed before. The buses were parked beside a Mercedes limousine bearing diplomatic license plates.

  The number on the plate—0001—caught Clete’s eye.

  Who the hell gets plate Number One? God?

  Close, Cletus.

  The Papal Nuncio gets diplomatic license plate Number One, that’s who!

  Now members of the Order of Saint Francis went through the ritual. They all kissed the Papal Nuncio’s ring, but he did not pat their heads, and El Presidente gave them nothing but a smile and a quick handshake.

  And then finally the Jesuits. When they had gone through the line, the Papal Nuncio and Father Welner, each with his own umbrella holder, walked to the Mercedes limousine and got in.

  Clete turned and went into the galley, which was between the cockpit and the passenger compartment. He quickly found a bottle of brandy and a snifter. He half filled the glass, then took it and the bottle to one of the first seats, sat down, and took a healthy swallow.

  A sudden memory filled his mind.

  “This is a long goddamn way from our puddle jumper, isn’t it, Uncle Jim?” he said softly but aloud, his eyes filling with tears and his voice on the edge of breaking. “Here I am having a little snort after f
lying this great big beautiful sonofabitch across the Atlantic!” He raised the glass, said, “Mud in your eye!” and drained it.

  James Fitzhugh Howell, Clete’s uncle, who had raised him and was really the only father he had known as a child and young man, had taught Clete to fly in a Piper Cub when he was thirteen.

  He poured more cognac and estimated it would be another three or four minutes before he could leave the Ciudad de Rosario and go down the stairway and put his arms around Dorotea and feel her warmth and smell her hair.

  Three minutes later, a familiar voice pleaded: “Please don’t say it, Cletus.”

  “But they will,” Clete said. “If we keep meeting this way on my airplane, people will talk.”

  El Coronel Alejandro Bernardo Martín of the Bureau of Internal Security slipped into the seat beside him.

  Clete raised his glass in salute.

  “How much of that have you had?” Martín asked.

  “A lot. I try never to fly sober.”

  “We have to talk,” Martín said, shaking his head.

  “Not now, please, Alejandro. You may not believe this, but I have just flown this great big airplane back and forth across the Atlantic. I have earned this.” He raised the glass again. “Care to join me?”

  Martín said: “SS-Brigadeführer Manfred von Deitzberg has just flown across the River Plate to Montevideo. In one of your airplanes.”

  Clete looked at him, both eyebrows raised in surprise.

  Martín went on: “Carrying the passport of an ethnic German Argentine—Jorge Schenck—who died in a car crash in 1938.”

  “I wondered why that sonofabitch came back,” Clete said, “and what he wants.”

  “Well,” Martín said, “Adolf Hitler himself has ordered the destruction of your airplanes—the big ones—as well as your elimination. And the elimination of the Froggers. And while von Deitzberg is here, to make sure Operation Phoenix is running smoothly. There’s almost certainly more.”

  “Where are you getting all this?” Clete asked, adding incredulously, “Adolf Hitler?”

  Martín nodded. Then he asked: “Where are you going from here?”

  “First, to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, and then, first thing in the morning, to Mendoza. My Lodestar’s at the estancia.”