The Honor of Spies

by W. E. B Griffin

  “The plan hinges on your disappearance,” von Deitzberg said. “And the problem with that . . .”

  “I can be out of here in a matter of hours,” von Tresmarck said.

  “. . . is that I no longer trust you. And I should tell you that Forster suggests I am a fool for even considering letting you live. But I find myself doing just that. With the caveat that if I even suspect you are not doing exactly what I tell you to do, or that you again have, so to speak, decided to make decisions for yourself, I will have you and, of course, Ramón killed—then there is a way for you to stay alive.”

  “Ramón had a little accident,” Inge announced sarcastically from the doorway.

  “Been incontinent, have you, Ramón?” von Deitzberg asked sympathetically. “That sometimes happens to people when they realize they’re close to death. Come in and sit down. On the floor. We wouldn’t want to soil Frau von Tresmarck’s furniture, would we?”

  He waited until Ramón had done so before going on.

  “Now, let me explain what’s going to happen: Frau von Tresmarck has been good enough to turn over to me the material in your safe. Including, of course, the unspent funds. The money is already in Buenos Aires, where I will invest it. Now, where are the deeds to whatever you have purchased in Paraguay? If you lie to me, I will shoot Ramón right now to show you how serious I am about this.”

  “Ramón has them in his safe,” von Tresmarck said. “In his home.”

  “And they are in whose name?”

  Von Tresmarck hesitated before replying, “In Ramón’s name. We thought of that as an extra precaution . . .”

  “Yes, I’m sure you did,” von Deitzberg said. “And how much did you invest in Ramón’s name as an extra precaution? How much is it worth in dollars, or pounds?”

  Von Tresmarck exhaled audibly.

  “A little under a million pounds sterling,” he said finally. “They use the British pound.”

  “How much is a little under a million pounds sterling?”

  “Perhaps it was a little over a million pounds sterling,” von Tresmarck said.

  “That’s four million American dollars,” von Deitzberg said. “Tell me, Werner, do you think you and Ramón could disappear and find happiness together on, say, one million American dollars?”

  “What does he mean, ‘disappear’?” Ramón asked.

  “Werner will explain that to you later, Ramón,” von Deitzberg said. “What’s going to happen now is that you’re going to go home—Hauptsturmführer Forster will drive you—and after you change your trousers, you’re going to bring all the deeds here.

  “We will then select between us which properties you will sign over to Señor Jorge Schenck—all but, say, two hundred fifty thousand pounds’ worth.

  I will then give you ten thousand American dollars for your immediate expenses as you and Werner set forth on your new lives.”

  “Who’s Señor Jorge Schenck?” von Tresmarck blurted.

  “He’s the man who will hunt you down and kill you as slowly and painfully as possible if I ever hear of either of you again,” von Deitzberg said. “Get going, Ramón. Not only does the sight of you make me ill, but you’re starting to smell badly.”

  XIV

  [ONE]

  Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

  Near Pila

  Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

  1930 2 October 1943

  Inspector General Santiago Nervo and Don Cletus Frade were sitting in wicker chairs on the verandah of the big house. A wicker table between them held bottles of scotch and bourbon.

  Frade was wearing khaki trousers, a polo shirt, and battered Western boots. Nervo was in uniform, save for his tunic, which he had shed before they had gone riding.

  Nervo had expressed interest in the radar, and Clete had really had no choice but to offer to show it to him.

  “It’s not far,” Frade had said. “I usually ride out there . . .”

  It was a question, and Nervo had picked up on it.

  “Whatever happened to that magnificent stallion of your father’s? What was his name?”

  “Julius Caesar. Would you like to ride him out to the radar?”

  “No,” Nervo had replied immediately. “I watched him throw your father before God and five thousand spectators at the Rural.”

  The Rural Exposition was the Argentine version of an American county or state fair—but a national affair. The bull, sow, stallion, hen, or whatever that earned a blue ribbon became the best of its breed in Argentina.

  “I never heard that story.”

  “It was considered impolite—even dangerous—to remind el Coronel that he had landed on his ass in dress uniform before everybody he knew,” Nervo said.

  “Every time I get on that big beautiful bastard, he tries to throw me,” Clete said. “After, of course, he tries very hard to bite me as I get on him.”

  Clete saw in Nervo’s eyes that he was going to have to ride Julius Caesar to wipe out the disbelief in the policeman’s eyes.

  And he had done so. And had kept his seat without getting bitten.

  They had ridden out to Casa Número Cincuenta y Dos, where Lieutenant Oscar Schultz, USNR—who of course had driven, not ridden, out there—had proudly shown Nervo how the radar functioned, and introduced the gendarme to the rest of the team.

  And now Nervo and Frade were back at the big house, enjoying what Clete had described to Nervo as the sacred Texas tradition of “having a little sip to cut the dust of the trail.”

  After a short time, there was the sound of a vehicle approaching, and they watched Schultz drive up at the wheel of a Ford Model A pickup truck.

  Nervo gestured toward Schultz, who wore full gaucho regalia.

  “I’m having trouble believing that,” Nervo said. “He never rides?”

  “Never,” Frade confirmed. “When he was a kid, he went on a pony ride, and when he got off, the pony stepped on his foot. He swore he would never get on anything with four legs again, and he hasn’t.”

  “Hola, Jefe,” Nervo called cheerfully, and waved.

  Then he said: “That isn’t the only thing I’m having trouble believing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Wait until el Jefe ‘dismounts,’ ” Nervo said, and reached for the bottle of scotch. “I want him to hear this.”

  Schultz climbed down from the pickup and came onto the verandah. He pulled up a wicker chair, reached for the bourbon, poured himself a steep drink, announced, “In my professional opinion as an officer of the Naval Service, the sun is over the yardarm,” took a healthy sip, and then added, “Even down here in Gaucholand.”

  Clete chuckled and said, “You better tell General Nervo what you mean.”

  “Cletus, please, ‘Santiago,’ ” Nervo said.

  “Me too?” Schultz asked.

  “Of course you too,” Nervo said.

  Why do I not think he’s not just schmoozing us?

  Why was I not surprised that Nervo and Schultz had immediately taken to each other?

  We’re the same kind of people?

  I think deciding to come clean with Nervo and Martín was probably the smartest thing I’ve done in the last six months.

  “Well, Santiago,” Schultz began, “in the old days in the North Atlantic, on sailing ships, at about eleven o’clock in the morning, the sun would rise above the yardarm. That’s that horizontal spar”—he demonstrated with his hands—“that’s mounted on the mast.”

  Nervo nodded his understanding.

  “Which meant,” Schultz went on, “that the officers could go to the wardroom and have a little sip to give them the courage to face the rest of the day.”

  “Fascinating,” Nervo said, chuckling. “May I say something about the way you’re dressed, Jefe?”

  “Of course,” Schultz said, just a little warily.

  “As one professional officer to another,” Nervo said, “your gaucho costume is complete except for one small detail.”

  “What�
�s that?”

  “I was raised on an estancia in Patagonia,” Nervo said. “And never can I remember a gaucho who did not have, very close by—”

  “She’s visiting her mother,” Schultz interrupted, smiling knowingly. “She should be back sometime today.”

  Nervo literally convulsed; he stood up, spilled his drink, and then, laughing heartily, wrapped his arm around Schultz.

  They’re buddies, delighted with themselves!

  When Nervo finally sat down and was pouring himself another drink, Frade said, “Santiago, tell Casanova what it is that you are also having a hard time believing.”

  Nervo pointed with his glass at one of the manager’s houses, into which the Möllers and the Körtigs and their families had been taken. Clete knew that both Dorotea and Claudia were there “to help with the children” and also that there were enough peones discreetly watching the house to make sure everything remained under control.

  “Something smells with those two,” Nervo said.

  Schultz met his eyes. “Yeah,” he said softly.

  That’s interesting. What have I missed that these two see?

  “Look, Cletus,” Nervo said, as if he’d read his mind. “I’m a policeman. I’m not like you and Martín, into politics and espionage and all that. Just a simple policeman.”

  Like hell you’re just a simple policeman. You didn’t get to be Inspector General of the Gendarmería by being simple.

  What is he doing now? Schmoozing me?

  “But . . . ?” Frade said.

  “Like most old policemen, I have learned to know when people are lying. And those two are.”

  “About what?”

  Nervo shrugged. “You tell me. What have they got to lie about?”

  Clete shrugged.

  “They’re either not who they say they are,” Schultz said, “or they’re not telling you something, or both.”

  “What do you mean, they’re not who they say they are?”

  Now Schultz shrugged.

  “Tell me about this Gehlen guy,” Nervo said. “He must be pretty smart, would you say?”

  Smart enough to run the Russian Intelligence branch of the Abwehr, and smart enough to deal with Allen Dulles.

  Yeah, I’d say he has to be pretty smart.

  “He’d have to be,” Frade said, “wouldn’t he?”

  “And he knows about Valkyrie, right?”

  Frade sipped his drink, then nodded. “Yeah. Knows about—and is involved in—Valkyrie.”

  “Which makes a simple policeman like me think Gehlen doesn’t think Adolf Hitler is God’s sword against the Antichrist, and believes the best thing for Germany is to kill the bastard. Or am I wrong?”

  “I think you’re absolutely right,” Clete said.

  “So why did he send Möller?”

  “I don’t know where you’re going,” Clete admitted.

  “Möller was not lying when he told me I should understand that he considers himself a serving officer who has taken a personal oath of allegiance to Hitler,” Nervo said.

  “And he made a point of telling you that. And he made a point of telling me that earlier today when we first met,” Clete thought aloud. “So what?”

  “And this guy comes as a trusted assistant to Gehlen?” Nervo said. “That smells, Cletus.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Clete asked.

  “Well, I’m just a simple policeman, Cletus. But that phone call I made when we first came here, right after we landed?”

  “What about it?”

  “I told Subinspector General Nolasco to send two of my people to Santa Rosa—that’s just about in the middle of the pampas—with orders not to come back until they have the cattle robbers—”

  “Rustlers,” Clete corrected him without thinking.

  Nervo gave him a dirty look, then went on: “—operating down there in handcuffs. They’re good people, Cletus, but they like Nazis and don’t like Americans, and I didn’t want them around to be curious about you and Alejandro and me suddenly becoming good friends. And talking about it.”

  “You think Gehlen sent Möller here to get rid of him?”

  “Maybe to do both things,” Nervo said. “To set things up to bring the rest of the Abwehr Ost people here, and to get him out of the way while he works on Valkyrie. But you’re the intelligence officer. What do I know?”

  What do you know? You knew about Valkyrie, didn’t you?

  And you didn’t have to search your memory very hard to come up with Abwehr Ost, did you?

  “You said before that both Möller and Körtig were lying. What’s Körtig lying about?”

  Schultz now spoke up. “Well, for one thing, I don’t think he’s really a sergeant major.”

  Frade looked at him without replying.

  Schultz went on: “Clete, I’m certainly no intelligence officer. I spent all my life, from the time I was sixteen until a couple of months ago, as an enlisted sailor. But a lot—most—of that time I was a chief petty officer, and I know another senior noncommissioned officer when I see one, and Körtig ain’t one. I have the gut feeling he’s the OIC.”

  “You’ll recall, el Jefe,” Frade challenged, “that I had to tell you that José Cortina, Martín’s sergeant major, is really a lieutenant colonel.”

  Schultz didn’t back down.

  “I’ve never seen Cortina, Clete. All I did was talk to him on the telephone—and only a couple of times. If I’d have seen him, he wouldn’t be able to pull that sergeant major bullshit on me.”

  “ ‘OIC’?” Nervo asked.

  “ ‘Officer-in-Charge.’ Or maybe ‘Officer-in-Command,’ ” Clete furnished.

  Nervo nodded his agreement and said: “That would make some sense.”

  “So you think Möller knows?” Clete asked.

  “Sure he does,” Nervo said.

  Schultz nodded his agreement.

  “What would all that be about?” Clete asked. “And spare me that I’m Just an Old Chief and Simple Policeman crap.”

  “If you’re watching Möller, you’re probably not going to be watching Körtig. Or at least as closely,” Schultz said. “If Körtig has another mission, one you don’t know about . . .”

  “Do you think either one of them knows about Valkyrie?” Clete asked.

  “I don’t know about Möller,” Nervo said. “But I’ll bet Körtig does. Gehlen may have sent him here to make sure Möller—if he doesn’t already know about Valkyrie—doesn’t find out; or if he does, that he doesn’t blow the whistle on Valkyrie to the German Embassy or von Deitzberg. You told me Körtig didn’t seem all that surprised to hear that von Deitzberg is here.”

  Schultz was nodding. “Clete, I think you have to find out what the fuck these two Krauts are really up to.”

  “Yeah,” Frade said. He pushed himself out of his chair. “And the sooner the better.”

  Nervo stood. Clete waited until he had drained his glass, then said, “Tell me, Simple Policeman. In the Gendarmería, how would you do this? By pulling fingernails?”

  Nervo looked at him stonefaced.

  “Actually,” the inspector general then said, “I’ve found the best method is to drag people across the pampas behind a horse for fifteen minutes before beginning the interrogation.”

  [TWO]

  Approaching El Plumerillo Airfield

  Mendoza, Mendoza Province, Argentina

  1410 3 October 1943

  Doña Dorotea Frade, in the copilot seat of the Lodestar, pushed the intercom button on her microphone and said, “Let me land it, Cletus, please.”

  Frade glanced at her, then returned his attention to outside the aircraft as he said, “No. You shouldn’t even be sitting there.”

  “Nonsense. There’s nothing an eight-months-and-some-days pregnant woman can’t do except lead anything that comes close to a normal life.”

  “You all right, baby?”

  “No woman eight months pregnant is all right, Clete. But I can land this, and I want to. This wil
l be my last flight for a while.”

  He glanced at her again. “You just decide that?”

  “No, I decided it on the plane on the way to Buenos Aires. Once I got back to Mendoza, that was it.”

  He saw the airfield ahead and started to make a shallow descent to the right.

  “I gather that means you are not going to grant the humble request of the mother of your unborn child?”

  “No, it means I want to make a low pass over Casa Montagna.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s known as terrifying the natives. Puts a little excitement into their lives.”

  “They know we’re coming, Cletus.”

  “Let’s make sure,” he said as he headed for Estancia Don Guillermo.

  He made two low-level passes over the house on the mountain side, one to the south and one to the north, and then raised the nose.

  I could get a Piper Cub in there easily. I wonder if my father had that in mind?

  It couldn’t have been cheap to dynamite all that rock out of the way and then make everything level.

  He climbed to twelve hundred feet, leveled off, then picked up his microphone and pressed the intercom button.

  “First Officer, you have the aircraft.” He pointed out the windscreen. “The airfield’s over thataway.”

  She put her hands on the yoke and he took his off.

  “Thank you, my darling,” the first officer said.

  “That was a good landing,” Clete said.

  “Well, thank you, darling.”

  “Any landing you can walk away from is a good landing.”

  “You bah-stud!”

  He saw she was smiling.

  If anything had gone wrong, I could have taken it away from her.

  I think.

  Looking out the windscreen, Clete Frade saw that a considerable number of vehicles were on hand to meet them. He was not surprised to see the four-door Lincoln Continental his Aunt Beatriz had rebodied or even the two dark green army-style trucks and two 1941 Ford sedans painted the same color that obviously went with the maybe a dozen members of the Gendarmería Nacional standing near them. And he had expected the small bus parked beside the gendarmes. There were in all seven Möllers and Körtigs, plus the suitcases now holding the clothing Rodríguez and the nun had bought for everybody.