The Honor of Spies

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Is that necessary?” Welner asked.

  “The sooner we get the identifications, the sooner I can get everybody out of here,” Frade replied.

  “Yes, of course,” Welner agreed. “Father, if Don Cletus flies you to Buenos Aires, when do you think you could have the identity cards ready?”

  “Either late tonight, Father, or first thing in the morning.”

  “If you can bring the identity cards and meet me at Jorge Frade at, say, nine o’clock, I’ll make a, quote, fuel stop, unquote, in the Lodestar on our way to Mendoza.”

  The priest nodded.

  “I’ll be there.”

  It took less time than Clete thought it would—about forty-five minutes—to complete the photography. Rodríguez and the nun had not returned from their clothes-buying expedition.

  When the last picture had been taken, Clete motioned for O’Sullivan and Schultz to follow him from the temporary studio in the library out into the foyer.

  He closed the door, then asked, “You know how to get in touch with Colonel Martín, right?”

  “I know how to get in touch with his sergeant major, a guy named José Cortina.”

  “Good enough. Cortina’s really a lieutenant colonel,” Clete said. “And he’s Martín’s deputy. Call him and tell him I’m on my way to Jorge Frade and need to see Martín, really need to see him. Ask him to meet me at the airport. And if at all possible, have General Nervo there, too.”

  “Cortina’s a light colonel?” Schultz asked rhetorically. “Who’s General Nervo?”

  “He runs the Gendarmería Nacional.”

  “One of these days you are going to tell me what the hell’s going on, right?”

  “Just as soon as I get back from Buenos Aires.”

  The door from the library opened and Strübel—now Möller—came out. He was wearing a shirt and trousers Schultz had liberated from Rodríguez’s wardrobe. They were much too large for him. Clothespins still in place at the back of the collar and on the rear of the suit jacket made them fit well enough for the camera.

  “May I have a private word with you, Major Frade?” he asked politely.

  “I already told Herr Körtig, Herr Möller, never to use my rank. Please don’t do so again. And anything you have to say to me can be said before my men.”

  Möller considered that and nodded.

  “Presumably, you have a means to communicate with either Colonel Graham or Herr Dulles?”

  Clete nodded.

  “I have a message that I would like to send to either, for transmission to Colonel Gehlen.”

  “We can arrange that,” Clete said. “But Gehlen’s another name I don’t want used here. Any suggestions, Herr Möller?”

  “I never gave that any thought,” Möller confessed after a moment.

  “Who’s Colonel Gehlen?” Schultz asked.

  “He runs Russian intelligence for the German General Staff; he’s Herr Möller’s boss. I’ll tell you all about that, too, when I get back from Buenos Aires.”

  “The first Russian thing that comes to my mind is ‘Samovar,’” O’Sullivan offered. “You know, that big tea kettle?”

  “Too close,” Clete said. “But there’s nothing wrong with ‘Teapot.’ Make it ‘Big Teapot’ for Gehlen, ‘Teapot’ for Herr Möller.”

  “And the other one?” O’Sullivan asked.

  “Teacup,” Schultz said, smiling.

  “Done,” Clete said.

  “Let’s have your message, Herr Teapot,” Clete said, smiling. “Just as soon as I get back from Buenos Aires, I’ll be in touch with Washington; I’ll include your message.”

  Möller was not amused.

  He handed Clete a sheet of paper on which was written a series of characters in five-character blocks. It looked like gibberish, but Clete immediately recognized it for what it was: an encoded message.

  “Three things, Herr Möller,” Frade said coldly. “One, you are not going to send any messages in code to anybody. I don’t want you reporting to Big Teapot anything that you or Teacup might hear or see here unless I know what it is. Two, you will give El Jefe your codebook just as soon as you can. Don’t even think of trying to either hide or destroy it . . .”

  “This was not my understanding of how things were to be done,” Möller said.

  “Three, if I learn that you or anyone else has tried to send a message to anyone without my knowledge, I’ll have you shot.”

  Möller looked at him with cold eyes but didn’t reply.

  “Do we understand each other?” Clete asked.

  Möller nodded. “But there is one thing I think you should understand, Herr Frade: Despite the circumstances, I consider myself and Körtig to be soldiers obeying the orders we have been given. Not traitors.”

  “Consider yourself anything you want to,” Clete said. “Just as long as you don’t endanger in any way anything I’m doing here.”

  Again Möller didn’t reply.

  “But now you’ve made me curious,” Clete went on. “I don’t know what Colonel Gehlen has told you about my . . . friends . . . in the German Embassy, but in any event, you’ll soon figure out by yourself that I have people in there. What about them? Are they traitors, in your opinion?”

  “If they swore the same oath of personal allegiance to Adolf Hitler that I did, the answer is self-evident.”

  “Then we seem to be agreed to disagree; I consider them to be the opposite: patriots. The bottom line is—”

  “Excuse me? ‘The bottom line’?”

  “What matters,” said Clete, “is that when you and I have a disagreement, I win. And if you’re unwilling to go along with my winning, I’ll have you shot. Now, go get the codebook for El Jefe. We’ll talk some more later.” He motioned to O’Sullivan with his finger. “Go with him, Jerry. Don’t let him out of your sight. And don’t hesitate to shoot him if you think that’s called for.”

  “Yes, sir,” O’Sullivan said, and motioned for Möller to go back into the library.

  When the door was closed, Schultz said thoughtfully, “You meant that about shooting him. It wasn’t a bullshit threat.”

  “I don’t know how much . . . what name did we give him? . . . Körtig picked up from what was said when Claudia arrived, or how much he’ll tell Möller, but we have to assume the worst. And if the choice is between Peter’s life and this Nazi sonofabitch’s . . .”

  “There is no choice,” Schultz agreed. “Well, there’s one good thing.”

  “What?”

  “That guy is smart, Clete. But he doesn’t have any balls. He’s not going to call your bluff.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “It doesn’t come out often like it did just now, but when it does, it’s really impressive.”

  “What doesn’t come out often?”

  “With all possible respect, Major, sir, the major is a stainless-steel hard-ass. And that really got through to Möller. Hell, it even got to me; I was already wondering: What happens to the wives and kids when Clete blows this sonofabitch away? ”

  “Let’s see if we can keep that from happening,” Clete said. “Okay, go get Father Pedro. And then call Cortina and tell him about having Martín and Nervo at the airport.”

  [THREE]

  Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade

  Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

  1325 2 October 1943

  As he landed in the Piper Cub, Cletus Frade saw that there were four Lodestars and two Constellations on the field.

  He also saw that the extra security he had ordered after learning that Hitler had ordered von Deitzberg to destroy the Constellations was in place.

  He was still having trouble really accepting that Adolf Hitler himself even knew about the Connies, much less had ordered their destruction, but all the clichés from “Be Prepared” to “Better Safe Than Sorry” seemed to apply.

  He was not surprised that the extra protection was in place. He’d told Enrico to set it up, and that the old soldier knew all
about what the military called “perimeter defense.”

  There were more peones than he could easily count—at least twenty—on horseback, every one of them a former trooper of the Húsares de Pueyrredón, moving slowly and warily around the field, with either a Mauser rifle or a Thompson submachine gun resting vertically on his saddle.

  As he taxied past the Constellations, it seemed as unreal to consider that he had just flown the Ciudad de Rosario back and forth across the Atlantic as it was to consider that they personally annoyed Adolf Hitler.

  He looked at his passenger to see how he had survived the flight. Father Francisco Silva’s smile was nowhere near as strained as it had been when Clete had strapped him into the Piper Cub at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.

  Then the priest had confessed a bit shyly that their flight to Buenos Aires was going to be his first flight in an airplane.

  Hearing this, Clete had made a decision. Instead of flying to Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade as he usually did—that is, direct cross-country to Morón at about three hundred feet off the ground, which afforded him the opportunity to look at his own fields and cattle and those of his neighbors—he had climbed to fifteen hundred, flown to Dolores, picked up Ruta Nacional No. 2 there, and flown up it to Buenos Aires, where he flew over the Casa Rosada and the National Cathedral, and from there to the airport outside Morón.

  For some reason, he liked the young Jesuit and suspected that, whatever other satisfactions the priest found in his vocation, he didn’t have much personal fun or any little luxuries. Fun and luxuries, for example, like Father Kurt Welner S.J.’s Packard convertible, bejeweled gold cuff links, luxury apartment in Recoleta, and box for the season at the Colón Opera House.

  And Frade had thought that they had plenty of time for the aerial tour. While there was no question in his mind that Martín would eventually show up at Jorge Frade in response to Schultz’s call, he was equally convinced that Martín would not be there when the Cub landed, if for no other reason than to impress on Cletus that the head of the Bureau of Internal Security did not dance to Don Cletus Frade’s whistle.

  This assumption proved to be wrong.

  As he got closer to the passenger terminal building, he saw that el Coronel Martín indeed was waiting for him, and in uniform. Martín was standing beside another uniformed officer, whom Clete recognized after a moment as General Nervo. His military-style uniform was brown. They were standing beside a black 1941 Buick Roadmaster.

  “That’s General Nervo, Don Cletus,” Father Pedro said.

  “We’ve met,” Clete replied. “Well, what we’ll do now is get you a ride into town.”

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” Clete said at the passenger terminal building.

  Martín and then Nervo embraced Clete cordially.

  For the moment, I am a good guy. That may change in the next two or three minutes.

  “Not a problem,” Martín said. “The general and I were here anyway. Your friend had a reservation on the eleven-thirty flight from Montevideo. Santiago had never seen him, and I thought this would give him the chance.”

  “What did you think?” Clete asked.

  “He missed the flight,” Martín said. “And changed his reservation until tomorrow.”

  “This is Father Silva, General,” Clete said.

  “I know the Father,” Nervo said. “And aren’t you lucky to have Don Cletus fly you to Buenos Aires, Father? And spare you the return trip with Father Kurt at the wheel?”

  Okay. As if I needed proof, Nervo, as well as Martín, knows just about everything that happens on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.

  “Yes, it was very kind of Don Cletus,” Father Silva said.

  “Cletus, in the Gendarmería,” Nervo said, “they say that if Father Kurt wasn’t the president’s confessor, he would have lost his driving license years ago. Have you ever ridden with him?”

  Frade shook his head.

  “Don’t! He thinks that Packard of his has two speeds, fast and faster. And they know that the more he’s had to drink, the faster he drives. The Gendarmes along Route Two call him ‘Padre Loco.’”

  “Oh, I can’t believe that’s true!” Father Silva said loyally.

  “Would I lie to a priest?” Nervo asked righteously.

  Martín took pity on the priest.

  “He’s pulling your leg, Father,” he said. “Can we give you a lift into town? We’re headed for Plaza San Martín.”

  “That would be very kind,” Silva said. “I’m going to the cathedral.”

  “Right on our way,” Martín said.

  “I need ten, fifteen minutes of your time, maybe a little more,” Clete said. “Father, would you mind waiting?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then why don’t you go in the passenger terminal and have a cup of coffee while the general, the colonel, and I take a little walk?”

  They walked across the tarmac toward one of the Constellations, the Ciudad de Buenos Aires. It was being prepared for its flight to Lisbon the next day; mechanics and technicians swarmed all over it.

  About halfway, Cletus touched Martín’s arm, a signal for him to stop.

  Martín looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

  “Are you going to tell us why you’re flying a Jesuit priest around?” Nervo asked.

  “Well, he’s getting me National Identity booklets for two SS men and their wives and children, and the sooner he can do that, the better.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think that’s your odd sense of humor at work,” Martín said.

  “So that’s who was in that Little Sisters of the Poor bus,” Nervo said. “What’s this all about? Who are these people? Where did they come from?”

  I can’t—I don’t want to, and I can’t—play any more games with these two. It is now truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth time.

  “They were on the plane from Lisbon,” Clete said.

  “And you knew about that?” Martín said.

  “I knew they were probably going to be on the plane. I didn’t know for sure, and I didn’t know who they were, until Father Welner brought them to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.”

  “Who are they?” Nervo asked.

  “One of them is an SS major, the other an SS sergeant major. . . .”

  “Traveling as priests, nuns, and orphans on Vatican passports,” Nervo said bitterly. “Sonofabitch! I knew something smelled when I saw the Papal Nuncio at the airport!”

  “What’s this all about, Cletus?” Martín asked.

  Clete had a clear mental image of himself and Colonel A. F. Graham in the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel the day he met Graham and heard for the first time of the United States Office of Strategic Services.

  Graham, whom he had never seen before, came to Clete’s room in civilian clothing, showed him his Marine Corps identification, and came right to the point: “Are you willing to undertake a mission involving great personal risk outside the continental limits of the United States?”

  When, after thinking it all over for perhaps twenty seconds, Clete—who was literally willing to do anything to get off what he was doing, which was a Heroes on Display War Bond Tour to be followed by a tour as a basic flying instructor—said that he would, Graham handed him a sheet of paper and said, “Read it and then sign it.”

  He had signed it, and only then asked, “What’s the ‘Office of Strategic Services’?”

  Clete looked between Martín and Nervo, and began: “The OSS has made a deal with a German intelligence officer named Gehlen . . .”

  “And the goddamn Vatican is involved in this up to the Pope’s eyeballs,” Nervo said when Clete had finished.

  “What are you supposed to do with these people, Cletus?” Martín asked.

  “Nobody told me this,” Clete replied, “but I have the feeling that this is step one.”

  “What is ‘this’?” Martín asked.

  “Getting the officers out of Russia and their families out of Germany, the
n into Italy, then to Portugal, and finally established here. . . .”

  “Established here?” Nervo repeated.

  “I am supposed to set them up to disappear in Argentina.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “I don’t know. We have agreed to provide money. I suppose Welner will help. . . .”

  “Let me give you a little friendly advice, my OSS friend,” Nervo said. “Never put yourself in debt to Holy Mother Church, especially when it’s being represented by a Jesuit, and especially, especially when that Jesuit is the beloved Father Kurt Welner, S.J.”

  “Finish what you were saying, Cletus, about this being step one,” Martín said.

  “Well—and I’m just guessing—when Gehlen hears that these two made it here and that I’ve set them up—”

  “They have names?” Nervo interrupted.

  “The major is Alois Strübel. The sergeant major is Otto Niedermeyer. I went along with Strübel’s idea for new names. He’s now Möller and Niedermeyer’s Körtig. The Möllers have two children, a boy and a girl, ten or eleven, and the Körtigs have a boy about the same age. I’ve been told the women and children were killed in air raids; that German records show that they were. The men were supposedly killed on the Eastern Front.”

  “Well,” Nervo said, “this Gehlen fellow could have arranged for the men to die that way. But the women and children . . . no one would question a Catholic hospital reporting the death of a mother and her child any more than Alejandro here would suspect that a nun had a kilo of flawless diamonds in her underwear. Holy Mother Church was involved in that, and in getting the women and children out of Germany.”

  “Let Cletus finish what he was saying, Santiago,” Martín said.

  Nervo gestured for Clete to go on.

  “What I’m guessing is that when Gehlen learns everything went as promised—”

  “How’s he going to learn that?” Nervo said.

  “Möller had a coded message all prepared to do that.”