The Honor of Spies

by W. E. B Griffin

“Close his eyes, for Christ’s sake,” Clete snapped.

  Sawyer looked at him in horror.

  Clete leaned and closed the corpse’s eyelids, then pulled the blanket over the body.

  “Okay, what happened?” Frade asked.

  “There were about six of them running around the vineyard. One of them shot one of our guys. Stein and Enrico were running around down there, heard the shot, and went looking.

  “Before Stein could stop him, Rodríguez blew this one away with his Thompson. We have the rest of them, including a hauptsturmführer who says he’s under the protection of Colonel Schmidt.”

  “Now, that’s interesting,” Rawson said. “Where is he? Are they?”

  “Over there, sir. In the woodshed,” Sawyer said, and pointed.

  General Nervo came walking quickly to them.

  “What’s this?”

  Clete said, “It’s a dead SS trooper, who killed one of my men. There’re six more—”

  “Including an officer, General Nervo,” Rawson interrupted, “who says he is under the protection of el Coronel Schmidt.”

  “—over there in the woodshed,” Clete finished.

  “Who killed this one?”

  “Rodríguez,” Clete said.

  Nervo leaned over the body and pulled down the blanket.

  “Why is the ID on his chest?” he asked.

  “That was Rodríguez’s idea. He said that when they killed the ones at Tandil, they took their pictures with their IDs before they buried them.”

  “Would you mind going over that again for me, please, Capitán?” the president asked courteously.

  “Yes, sir. Well, when Perón and Schmidt and the SS guys tried to kill the Froggers at Don Cletus’s house in Tandil—”

  “You knew of this, General Nervo?” Rawson interrupted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Odd, don’t you think, that no one thought I would be interested?” the president asked. “Please continue, Capitán.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, when Rodríguez and the guys from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo killed the SS guys in Tandil, Stein took their pictures so we could prove they were there. So we did the same thing with this guy.”

  “Cletus, I think it would be a very good idea if we had those pictures when we go talk to el Coronel Schmidt. Or el Coronel Perón.”

  “There’s a set in the safe in the house, sir,” Clete said.

  “And the Froggers are where?”

  “They’re also in the house, sir. Frau Frogger is out of her mind.”

  “And you have what? Chained her to a wall?”

  “No, sir. She is under the care of the Little Sisters of Pilar, or whatever the hell they’re called.”

  “You’d better get the name of the order straight in your mind before Father Welner gets here. And when will that be?”

  “I would estimate twenty minutes to half an hour, sir.”

  “Before he gets here, I want to hear what this SS officer has to say,” the president said.

  “From behind a sheet, and Colonel Frogger asks the questions. Right, Don Cletus? I don’t think we want to let this SS officer know the president is here.”

  [THIRTEEN]

  1725 16 October 1943

  “I wondered,” Doña Dorotea said to her husband, “if you were going to be able to find time in your busy schedule one of these days to drop in and say a few words to your wife and son.”

  He walked to the bed and looked down at his son, who was being nursed.

  “A lot has happened, and is going on,” Clete said.

  “Who was in the airplanes? That was you, right? Who else would be crazy enough to fly in here?”

  “How about the president of the Argentine Republic?” Clete asked, then: “Doesn’t he hurt you doing that?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, he does. Mother Superior says it will hurt less over time. What about the president of the Argentine Republic? You’re not telling me Arturo Rawson’s here? That you flew him in here? Up here?”

  “Yeah, I am. And just as soon as he finishes talking to some people, he’s going to come in the house and watch Father Welner baptize the baby.”

  “He’s here, too?”

  “And General Nervo.”

  “I don’t want our son to be a Roman Catholic. Do you?”

  “No, but between Father Kurt and Mother Superior, I don’t think we have a choice.”

  “Tell me the truth about you and Arturo Rawson and the airplanes,” she said. “And look me in the eye when you tell me.”

  “Okay. First thing tomorrow morning, we’re going to go looking for Colonel Schmidt, who is somewhere around General Alvear and out of contact. . . .”

  “I should have known that wouldn’t work,” Dorotea said ninety seconds later. “But it’s useful to know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That you can look right into my eyes and lie through your teeth,” she said. “That man Schmidt—who thinks God is on his side, which makes it worse—is not going to tuck his tail between his legs and go back to San Martín, even if Arturo Rawson personally tells him to. And you know it. So then what happens?”

  “I just don’t know, sweetheart.”

  “Who’s the ‘some people’ Rawson is talking to?”

  “Enrico and Stein caught some SS people in the vineyard. They’re being interrogated. Colonel Frogger is telling Stein what questions to ask and when he thinks the lieutenant we caught is lying. They’re doing it behind a sheet so the SS guy won’t know Rawson is here.”

  “How many SS people did Enrico and Stein catch in the vineyards?”

  “Five.”

  “That means there were seven, all told, including the two they killed?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “There’s a window in here, Cletus. I saw them bring the bodies in on horses.”

  “They killed one of ours and we killed one of theirs.”

  “And how many more are still out there?”

  “I don’t think there are any still out there,” he said.

  “And when do you think Schmidt and his men are going to get here?”

  The door opened and Father Kurt Welner, S.J., trailed by Mother Superior, came into the room.

  “Well, you two, are you about ready to have that beautiful baby of yours baptized?”

  “Would it matter?” Dorotea asked. “We’re outnumbered.”

  “Dorotea!” Mother Superior said. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “And when we have that out of the way, Dorotea,” Welner said, “Mother Superior and I have been talking about moving you to the hospital. You’d be more comfortable there.”

  “What is that, what they call a double standard?” Dorotea challenged. “We can’t lie to you, but you can lie to us? You don’t give a tinker’s damn about my comfort. You think I’d be safer in the convent when Schmidt comes here.”

  “Baby, you would,” Clete said.

  “Call me Ruth, Cletus.”

  “What?”

  “ ‘Whither thou goest, I will go,’ and I’m not going anywhere without you. This house is where we live. I’m going to be here when my husband leaves to do what he has to do about this Coronel Schmidt, and I’m going to be right here when my husband comes back.”

  There was a long silence.

  “You don’t deserve her, Cletus,” Mother Superior then said.

  “I know,” he said.

  [FOURTEEN]

  Casa Montagna

  Estancia Don Guillermo

  Km 40.4, Provincial Route 60

  Mendoza Province, Argentina

  1905 16 October 1943

  Don Cletus Frade, having been run out of his bedroom by Mother Superior, went to the bar, wondering if he should feel guilty that this was going to give him the opportunity to have a stiff drink.

  “Gentlemen,” the president of the Argentine Republic called, “I give you Don Cletus Frade, proud papa of Jorge Howell Frade.”

  There was
applause.

  “Sleepless nights and diaper changing will come later,” the president added.

  Not knowing how to respond, Clete walked to the bar, reached for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, poured, had a healthy sip, and then turned to face the men in the bar. He raised the glass to them.

  The bar was crowded. Everybody but General Nervo seemed to be there, even the two Húsares de Pueyrredón Cub pilots and Siggie Stein.

  The president reached over and patted the seat of an armchair next to where he was sitting with el Coronel Martín, Roberto Lauffer, and the Reverend Kurt Welner, S.J.

  I’ll be damned—they saved a seat for me.

  He took it.

  “Where’s General Nervo?” he asked.

  “Right there,” Father Kurt said, pointing to the door. Nervo was walking through it.

  Nervo started toward them, changed his mind, went to the bar, made himself a drink, and then came to them, taking the last empty armchair.

  “Tell me, Don Cletus, what kind of a pistol did you give Señor Körtig when he went real-estate shopping?”

  “One of the Ballester-Molinas from the arms cache. Why?”

  “And you did remember to give him ammunition?”

  “Of course I did. Actually, what I did was give him a couple of my magazines. The 1911 and the Ballester-Molina are almost identical, and I didn’t want to have to root around in the arms cache for first magazines and then ammo.”

  “In other words, you would say that Körtig’s pistol was loaded with ammunition from your Springfield Arsenal?”

  “Either Springfield or Rock Island Arsenal. Why the curiosity?”

  “Because a .45 ACP shell casing marked Springfield Arsenal was found on the floor of the men’s room of the Hotel Edelweiss in Barlioche. Also in the men’s room was the corpse of a man carrying the National Identity booklet of Jorge Schenck.

  “Someone blew his brains all over the wall.”

  “My God!” Father Welner exclaimed.

  “When did you learn this?” President Rawson asked.

  “I just talked to Subinspector General Nolasco. He tells me that he was sitting outside the hotel keeping an eye on el Coronel Perón when a shot was heard. He went inside, where patrons pointed him toward the men’s room. On his way there, he saw Father Silva, Señor Alvarez, and Señor Körtig sitting at a table in a sort of outside bar. In the men’s room, he found Señor Schenck sitting in the urinal, his back against the wall with a small entrance wound—surrounded by powder burns—in his forehead, and a much larger exit hole in the rear of his skull. And the cartridge case I mentioned.

  “Now, I’m just a simple policeman, but I’m wondering how many other people besides Señor Körtig and armed with a pistol firing cartridges made in the United States were likely to have also been in the Hotel Edelweiss at the time.”

  “Nolasco has arrested this man?”

  “Your orders, Mr. President, were for Nolasco to keep an eye on Coronel Perón but to take no action unless directed by you or me.”

  “Did this man know Schenck, Cletus? Von Deitzberg?”

  “After hearing this, I’d said they had at least a casual acquaintance,” Clete said. “Körtig was trying to protect Valkyrie.”

  “Körtig is involved in Valkyrie?” the president asked. When he saw the look on Frade’s face, he added, “Yes, I know about Valkyrie. Unlike some other senior officials of my government, the foreign minister keeps me abreast of things in which he thinks I might be interested.”

  Clete nodded.

  “What I’m wondering now is whether my Tío Juan knows who blew von Deitzberg away,” he said.

  “I’m still wondering what Perón is doing in Bariloche,” Martín said. “It seems to me that if he knows what Schmidt is up to, he would be in Buenos Aires.”

  “Yeah,” Nervo said thoughtfully. “He told the local police he was on a little holiday.”

  “Nolasco hasn’t spoken to Coronel Perón?” President Rawson asked.

  Nervo shook his head.

  “Well, what do we do?”

  “Arturo, before you make any decision,” Father Welner said, “I am compelled to tell you that Señor Körtig is of special interest to the church.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Clete asked. “That the Vatican, the Pope, knows about Valkyrie? Are they for it, against it?”

  “My orders, Arturo,” Welner said, “are to assist Señor Körtig in any way possible. If you feel it necessary, I’m sure the Papal Nuncio will confirm this.”

  “My God!” Rawson said.

  “I’m sure you will make any decision you do only after careful, prayerful thought,” Welner said.

  “Señor President,” Martín said. “If el Coronel Perón is involved with Schmidt—and I think he is—he wouldn’t admit it, and it would be very hard to prove.”

  “Cat got your tongue, Nervo?” the president said. “Usually, you’re bubbling over with helpful suggestions.”

  “First thing in the morning, Mr. President, instead of Cletus taking you flying in one of those little airplanes looking for Schmidt, he flies you to Buenos Aires. You can do that, right, Cletus, in your red airplane?”

  Clete nodded. “I can do that.”

  “And Martín and I go looking for Schmidt in those little airplanes. And stop him.”

  “Which would see you both lying in a pool of blood on a country road,” President Rawson said.

  “But you would be in the Casa Rosada, Mr. President,” Martín argued.

  “Unless I am in a position to look my senior officers—some of whom doubtless know what Schmidt plans—in the eye and tell them I have personally placed el Coronel Schmidt under arrest pending court-martial, my being in the Casa Rosada would be like—what was that phrase Cletus used?—‘pissing into the wind.’

  “What we’re going to do is what we originally decided. We will search for Colonel Schmidt and, when we find him, order him to return to San Martín, and when that’s done, Cletus can fly me to Buenos Aires.”

  “And what if shortly after you find Schmidt, you find yourself under arrest?” Nervo challenged. “Or in that pool of blood on a country road that you mentioned?”

  “Well, if that happens, General, there won’t be anything else we can do to stop this country from having a civil war, will there?”

  [FIFTEEN]

  The Wansee Suite

  Edelweiss Hotel

  San Martín 202

  San Carlos de Bariloche

  19555 16 October 1943

  “Sweetheart, I’d really like to go down to the bar,” Señorita Evita Duarte said to el Coronel Perón.

  “Out of the question,” Perón snapped. “And we’re going to have dinner and breakfast up here, not in the dining room.”

  She looked at him with hurt eyes.

  “Evita,” Inge Schenck said, “going into the lobby or the restaurant is not a very good idea. The press is down there. They already know Juan Domingo is here, which means that Juan Domingo’s name is going to be in every newspaper in the country tomorrow.”

  “Listen to her, Evita,” Perón said.

  “It would be a lot worse if his picture, with you, was in the newspapers,” Inge said.

  “What about you, Inge?” Evita asked. “What would happen to you if your picture was all over La Nación?”

  “I don’t intend to let that happen. That’s why I’m not going down to the bar.”

  “But what if it did?” Evita pursued. “How would that affect what happens to you next? And while we’re on that subject, what happens to you next?”

  “I haven’t given that much thought,” Inge said.

  “Oh, the hell you haven’t,” Evita said. “You’ve not had one little itty-bitty thought about who now owns all the property of the late SS-Brigadeführer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg—excuse me, Jorge Schenck?”

  Inge didn’t reply.

  “How long do you think it’s going to take the Gendarmería to find out Señor Schenck was alrea
dy dead when somebody shot him?” Evita asked.

  “I wonder who shot him,” Perón said. “Maybe it was just a simple robbery. Manfred resisted and was shot.”

  “Oh, come on, Juan Domingo, you know better than that,” Evita said. She let that sink in for a moment. “And that you are, too, Inge. Dead, I mean.”

  “Well, I still have my diplomatic passport as Frau von Tresmarck,” Inge said.

  “You should have thought of that when the gendarmes asked for your papers,” Evita said. “You handed them Inge Schenck’s Argentine National Identity booklet.”

  “I didn’t even know Manfred had been shot when they came in,” Inge protested.

  “And did you notice that the gendarmes were in the hotel after the shooting before the local police were?” Evita asked. “Maybe they were sitting outside in a car.”

  “Why would they be doing that?” Perón asked.

  Evita shrugged.

  “It could be they were protecting the secretary of labor. Or wondering what he was doing in Bariloche,” Evita said. “Did they ask you that, what you are doing here?”

  “No.”

  “They will. And what are you going to tell them?”

  “I don’t know. That I was having a little holiday. People do that—come to Bariloche for a little holiday.”

  “They’re questioning everybody,” Evita said. “That real-estate man and the notary are going to tell them you bought Estancia Puesta de Sol from Schenck.”

  “So that’s what I’ll tell them. There’s nothing illegal about that.”

  “Well, that brings us back to what happens to the rest of Señor Schenck’s properties,” Evita said, and turned to Inge. “There’s a lot of property, right?”

  Inge nodded.

  “There’s a lot of property. Hundreds of millions of pesos’ worth of property. Here and in Uruguay.”

  “What’s that all about?” Evita asked.

  “Very briefly, Evita,” Inge explained. “The money came from the German Embassy. The real estate is to provide someplace for senior officials of the German Reich to go if they lose the war.”

  “You knew about this, Juan Domingo?” Evita asked.

  After a moment, he nodded.