The Honor of Spies

by W. E. B Griffin

  Two of those nuns clearly are the mothers of the children—and the wives of Strübel and Niedermeyer. But I don’t have a clue as to who’s who.

  Sister María Isabel looks like the economy-size version of Mother Superior of the Little Sisters of Santa María del Pilar. She’s a foot taller, probably sixty pounds heavier, but is also old, leathery-skinned, and has the same intelligent eyes and the same fuck with me at your peril aura of self-confidence.

  For an important intelligence officer—especially an SS officer—Strübel is not very imposing in that monk’s costume.

  And what do the bona fide nuns think is going on?

  Those kids are frightened.

  Who wouldn’t be?

  They look like they need a bath, some new clothes, and something to eat. They look like they’re starved.

  “Elisa,” he called loudly in Spanish. “Where the hell is breakfast?”

  Clete saw the children flinch.

  Nice work, Cletus—if they were scared before, now they’re terrorized!

  He stood up and walked to the children.

  Is this smart, or am I making things even worse?

  “Good morning,” he said in German. “My name is Clete. I’m the headwaiter. In just a minute, we’ll get you some breakfast.”

  They looked at him with sad eyes. No one responded.

  The door to the kitchen opened. The odors of frying bacon and freshly baked sweet rolls came into the dining room. A line of maids came through the door carrying silver-dome-covered trays of food.

  Thank God!

  “See?” Clete said.

  Now there was some interest in their eyes.

  Another maid appeared, a large glass pitcher of milk in each hand.

  “Milch?” the young girl asked softly.

  “Enough for you to swim in, sweetheart,” Clete said.

  The young girl giggled.

  Thank God again.

  He put his hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her toward the table. After a moment’s hesitation, the girl allowed Clete to lead her to the table. The boys started to follow.

  Thank God yet again.

  No. I mean it. That’s not just a figure of speech.

  There’s no reason for these kids to have to go through what they have and still be hungry, not quite able to believe they can have all the milk they want.

  Thank you, God.

  He saw Welner get up from where he was sitting and walk toward them. Jesus H. Christ . . . I’ve got it!

  I know how to explain everything to everybody!

  Where the hell did that come from?

  Doesn’t matter. It’ll work!

  The maids began uncovering the trays of food. There were fried and scrambled and soft-boiled eggs, bacon, ham, toast, rolls, two bowls jammed with butter curls, and half a dozen bowls of marmalade.

  “My God,” one of the nuns said softly, wonderingly. “So much food!”

  That’s somebody’s mother.

  Welner, now back at his place at the table, tapped his glass with his fork and, when he had everyone’s attention, began, “Our Father: We offer our thanks for the safe conclusion of our hazardous journey, and for the bounty we are about to receive. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

  Dorotea said, “Amen.”

  She then looked at her husband, who finally got the message and said, “Amen.”

  He saw tears rolling down the cheeks of one of the nuns-who-had-to-be-somebody’s-mother as she generously buttered a roll and handed it to the girl. Clete had thought it over very carefully as everyone ate. He concluded that not only did he have no choice but to go with the explanation that had suddenly popped into his mind, but also that they very likely just might believe it.

  “I suppose everyone is wondering what’s going on,” he said.

  Everyone but the children looked at him.

  “What I’m going to do is ask Father Welner if he will please interrupt me whenever I go wrong.”

  Welner’s eyes were wary. But he said, “Of course.”

  “Do you want to burden Sister María Isabel with this, Father?” Clete asked politely.

  In other words, am I supposed to trust her to keep her mouth shut?

  “Well, I think Sister María Isabel should hear what you have to say,” Welner said. “But if I might make a suggestion, Sister?”

  She looked at him suspiciously, but nodded.

  “I was thinking that it might save a good deal of time, Sister, if we sent Sister María Encarnación into Dolores to get our guests some regular clothing.”

  Sister María Isabel nodded.

  “And perhaps Enrico could go with her, to see about clothing for the boys and men?” Welner went on.

  Rodríguez looked at Clete, who nodded.

  “Enough for several days, Sister,” Welner said. “Just ordinary clothing, until we can get our guests settled.”

  “You have money, Enrico?” Clete asked.

  “I’ll get him some from your desk,” Dorotea said. “Don’t start your explanation until I get back.”

  Father Welner looked at Clete and explained, “This way, the sisters can return with the bus to Buenos Aires more quickly. I’m sure it’s needed there.”

  Frade turned to Sister María Isabel. “Why don’t you give Rodríguez everyone’s shoe and other sizes,” he said.

  Dorotea was back with a thick wad of currency before Enrico had finished writing down the sizes. She handed it to him, then turned to Welner.

  “Do you think we should send the children down to the stables, Father? Have the grooms put them on a horse?”

  “Dorotea, I think that’s a very good idea,” Welner said. “Sister?”

  Sister María Isabel gave him a dirty look but motioned to one of the nuns.

  “Be careful with them, Sister,” she ordered.

  “I’ll send one of the girls to go with them,” Dorotea said.

  “That probably would be useful, Señora,” Sister María Isabel said.

  Dorotea went to the kitchen door, pushed it open, and said, “Elisa, I need someone to show Sister and the children the way to the stable.”

  One of the maids instantly appeared.

  The nun said in German, “Come with me, children,” and they immediately pushed themselves away from the table and walked to where she was waiting at the door.

  Not with reluctance.

  But not with excitement at the prospect of getting a ride on a horse.

  Rather, just because somebody is telling them to; has issued an order.

  And neither mother—I still can’t tell which nun/wife belongs to which priest/SS man—has raised any questions, much less objections.

  All of these people—and that includes Sister María Isabel and her nuns—are used to obeying, without question, any orders they get.

  [TWO]

  Clete waited until Enrico had followed Sister María Encarnación out of the dining room and closed the door after them.

  Well, let’s see if I can get away with this.

  “Actually, this is very simple,” Clete began. “But for reasons you will understand, secrecy is of the utmost importance.”

  Sister María Isabel’s face showed she was prepared to disbelieve everything Don Cletus had to say.

  “The Germans have lost the war,” Cletus announced. “They know it but won’t admit it. We know it and have taken certain steps to make sure things go more easily for the German people when their leaders finally surrender.”

  “For the German people, Don Cletus, or the English and the Americans?” Sister María Isabel challenged.

  So I’m wrong. This nun asks questions and expects an answer.

  Clete met her eyes.

  “For the German people,” he said. “I think you would have to agree, Sister, without me getting into the details, that the Germans—the German leadership—are behaving quite badly.”

  “And the Soviets are not?” Sister María Isabel challenged.

&nbs
p; “I am not about to defend the godless Communists, Sister,” Clete said.

  She looked at him and nodded.

  She did not swallow that whole.

  Well, I never thought I had it in me to become a really good used-car salesman.

  “What Germany is going to need after the war is leaders,” Clete went on. “What we are afraid of is that the Nazis realize that those we feel are the ones who should lead Germany after the war are the same people who oppose Hitler. Or whom they suspect oppose him. And we fear that they will be punished—executed—in the last days of the war. The very suspicion that someone does not fully support Hitler or Nazism—”

  “Sister,” Welner interrupted. “I know you’ve been to Rome. Did you perhaps have the chance to see the Ardeatine Caves, near Via Ardeatina?”

  What the hell is this? Frade thought.

  “Yes, I did,” the nun said.

  “To support what Don Cletus is saying, Sister, let me repeat what the Papal Nuncio to Portugal told me privately when I was in Lisbon,” Welner said. “On March twenty-third, Italian partisans attacked a German formation on the Via Rasella, in the center of Rome. Thirty-three German soldiers were killed.

  “When Hitler heard about this—and mind you, Sister, this is what the Papal Nuncio told me, not English or American propaganda—Hitler lost his temper and ordered that Rome—including Vatican City—be razed to the ground and that the entire population of the city be arrested and taken to Germany.”

  Sister María Isabel inhaled audibly.

  Clete thought, Is Welner making this up?

  Is Hitler actually that nuts?

  He saw on Schultz’s and O’Sullivan’s faces that they were asking themselves the same thing.

  No. Jesuits don’t lie. They bend the truth a little, but they don’t lie.

  He looked at Strübel and Niedermeyer and the wives. Their faces were absolutely inscrutable.

  As if they—all of them, wives, too—have trained themselves not to let their faces show anything.

  “The order was actually issued,” Welner went on. “The German commander in Rome—General Albert Kesselring, a Luftwaffe officer who fortunately is a devout Catholic—defied it as well as he could.”

  How the hell do you defy an order from Hitler “as well as you can”?

  “I don’t think I understand, Father,” Sister María Isabel said. “‘As well as he could’?”

  Neither do I. Thank you, Sister María Isabel.

  “What General Kesselring did was order the execution of ten Romans for each German soldier killed.”

  Sister María Isabel inhaled audibly again, and this time crossed herself.

  “As unspeakable as that sounds, Sister, it was the lesser of two evils. Rome—the Vatican City—was not razed. The Holy Father was not arrested and taken to Germany . . .”

  Would they actually have been crazy enough to do that?

  Well, yeah. If Hitler was crazy enough to order Rome destroyed, why not arrest the Pope?

  “. . . but three hundred thirty-five innocent people, Sister,” Welner went on, “were taken to the Ardeatine Cave, each shot in the back of the head, and then the mouth of the cave was dynamited.”

  Sister María Isabel again crossed herself and sucked in her breath.

  After a moment, Welner went on: “I’m sorry to have interrupted you, Don Cletus, but I thought it was important that Sister María Isabel really understand what kind of evil people you’re dealing with, and why secrecy is so important.”

  She nodded.

  “As I was saying, Sister,” Clete continued, “we decided to get these future leaders out of Germany while they’re still alive. And their families. The Germans find nothing wrong with punishing—executing—entire families for what they consider the treason of a father, a brother, or a son.”

  I know that to be true.

  And the sonsofbitches murdered my father and tried twice to kill me.

  So why does it sound like a lie? Almost as unbelievable as Hitler ordering them to blow up Saint Peter’s?

  “And the Church is involved in helping these people, Father?” Sister María Isabel asked.

  “Our guests have Vatican passports, Sister,” Welner said.

  She nodded.

  I’m not the only liar here, you slick sonofabitch!

  Sister María Isabel thinks you just told her the Vatican—maybe even the Pope—knows all about this.

  Of course, you didn’t lie. You just told her they have Vatican passports. That’s not a lie.

  But you and I know the only reason they have Vatican passports is that you—or maybe some cardinal—made some kind of a deal I haven’t been told about with Allen Dulles or Colonel Graham or both to do I don’t know what.

  What was it General Nervo said about the Pope moving the larger diamonds from the Vatican’s safe to here? “Nuns and Jesuit priests aren’t often strip-searched by Customs”?

  “Well,” Claudia Carzino-Cormano said, “that explains those airplanes, doesn’t it? I wondered what the real story was about them.”

  “Well, you’ll understand why Cletus couldn’t tell you before, Claudia,” Welner said.

  God, you are good!

  That wasn’t a lie either. It was just making a wholly decent woman believe something that’s not true.

  “Of course,” Claudia said.

  “And why this can’t go any further than this room,” Welner pursued.

  “I understand,” Claudia said. “Would you and Cletus like me to leave, Father?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, Claudia, you’re welcome to stay. But that decision is really Cletus’s to make; he has the responsibility on his shoulders.”

  And again: You really are good!

  What did Nervo say? “Holy Mother Church—and especially Jesuits like Welner—has been in our business much longer than we have and is much better at it than we are.”

  What Welner’s saying indirectly is: “Since Cletus has the responsibility on his shoulders, that makes me nothing more than a simple priest trying to do God’s work.

  “Smuggling people out of Europe and into Argentina is handled by people with dirty hands, like Cletus.

  “Who, although pretty stupid by comparison, is smart enough to know he can’t ask you to leave. That would hurt you, piss you off, and he knows he can’t do that.”

  Well, Clete, it’s back to “When in doubt, tell the truth.”

  Frade said: “Claudia, I would have preferred not to involve you in this. But the cow seems to have gotten out of the barn. However, if you leave now, everyone in this room will forget you were ever here.”

  “Are you telling me to leave?” Claudia challenged, then before he had a chance to reply, went on: “Like your father, you can at times be truly stupid. Of course I’m staying. I want to help.”

  “Thank you, Claudia,” Father Welner said.

  “You didn’t really think I was going to leave, did you?” Claudia asked. “You know me better than that, Father!”

  Frade said: “The fewer people who know about this, Claudia, the better.”

  “You didn’t have to tell me that,” she snapped. “My God!”

  “Sorry,” Clete said.

  “So, what happens now?” Claudia asked. “How can I help?”

  “Well, as soon as Sister Whatshername and Enrico get back with the clothes, we’re going to fly to Casa Montagna.”

  “Sister María Encarnación,” Sister María Isabel corrected him icily.

  Welner began: “Cletus, I’m certainly not trying to tell you what to do, or how to do it . . .”

  “But?”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to wait until after we get your guests’ papers in order?” He turned to Claudia and explained, “Father Pedro has an understanding and discreet friend in the Interior Ministry who’s going to provide National Identity booklets for Cletus’s guests.”

  “You better wait until that’s done,” Claudia agreed, “before you go to Mendoza.”

&n
bsp; Was that an order, Claudia? It sure sounded like one.

  Claudia looked at Father Silva. “How long is that going to take, Father Pedro?”

  “About twelve hours after I give my friend the photographs,” the priest said. “I have a camera, but I think we should wait until we have the proper clothing.”

  “Clete?” Schultz asked.

  He might as well have popped to attention and said, “Sir, permission to speak?”

  Frade motioned for him to go on.

  “What kind of photos do we need, Father?”

  The priest answered by taking a National Identity booklet from his pocket and showed it to him.

  “For women,” the priest said, “there is the Libreta Cívica. A little smaller, but you get the idea. My friend will provide both.”

  “In other words, all that’s holding us up is the regular clothes?” Schultz asked.

  “That and the names to go on the documents,” Father Welner said.

  “Dorotea,” Schultz said, “we can come up with clothes—good enough for ID pictures—for the men. Can you get some clothing for the women and the kids?”

  “Not a problem,” Dorotea said.

  “You have any preference for your new names, Strübel?” Frade asked.

  “I think it would be best if we used the Spanish translation of the Christian names,” Strübel replied immediately. “And Strübel, if you have no objection, could become Möller, and Niedermeyer, Körtig. Similarly, I would suggest retaining the dates of birth. I am presuming we will all have been born here in Argentina.”

  He just didn’t pull that out of thin air. He’s given it some thought.

  Why not? He’s a professional.

  One who probably is looking down his professional nose at this American amateur.

  I’m going to have to stay one step ahead of this guy.

  And why didn’t I think of that before?

  “That’s fine with me,” Clete said.

  “And we’ll need a sheet for a background, Dorotea,” Schultz said.

  “And when the pictures have been taken,” Clete said, “I’ll fly Father Pedro to Buenos Aires in one of the Piper Cubs.”