Victory and Honor

by W. E. B. Griffin

  “Then by her ears,” Frade said. He turned to Colonel Flowers. “Good afternoon, sir. I believe you know everybody?” Then, looking at the two muscular young Marines, he added, “Semper fi, guys.”

  The younger of the two smiled back and said, “Semper fi, sir.”

  Colonel Flowers raised his eyebrows.

  Clete shrugged. “You know what we say, Colonel. Once a Marine, always a Marine.”

  Colonel Flowers looked uncomfortable. He had known Kapitän zur See Boltitz and Major von Wachtstein when they had been respectively the Naval attaché and the assistant military attaché for air of the German Embassy.

  Clete thought: And by now you’ve heard that I plucked them from durance vile at Fort Hunt.

  “What’s going on?” Martín asked.

  “Actually, we were just talking about you,” Frade said.

  “Really?” Martín said as he walked around the room, shaking hands and exchanging embraces.

  Flowers shook hands wordlessly with everyone.

  “I said something to the effect that if el General was here we could ask him what this swap-the-diplomats mission is really all about,” Frade said.

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” Martín said, walking finally to Clete, where he hugged his shoulder.

  “May I say how elegant you all look in your uniforms?” Martín asked.

  “Only if you say it without smirking,” Clete said, then added: “You really don’t know what’s going on? Or where our passengers are? I told Humberto to tell my Tío Juan we wanted to leave no later than four-thirty.”

  “Colonel Frade, may I have a moment with you?” Colonel Flowers asked.

  “Certainly. May we use your office, Gonzalo?”

  “Certainly.”

  When they had gone into the adjacent office, Flowers said, “Sergeant, leave the briefcase, please, and wait for me in the corridor.”

  One of the Marines handed Flowers the briefcase, then both Marines left the office, closing the door behind them.

  Flowers put the briefcase on the desk, then sat down in an armchair before it.

  He looked at Clete and said, “May I ask where you’re going?”

  Why not tell him?

  “The Foreign Ministry has chartered a Connie to take a crew of Argentine diplomats to Germany and bring back the ones who are there.”

  “Sort of a rescue mission?”

  “I suppose you could say that. They were in Berlin while the Russians took it. That couldn’t have been much fun.”

  “You’re going to Berlin?”

  Frade nodded. “I’m flying the airplane. The mission will be led by someone from the foreign ministry.”

  “And you’re taking the two Germans with you?”

  “If you’re talking about von Wachtstein and Boltitz, Colonel, you’re getting into areas I’m not at liberty to discuss with you.”

  That earned Frade the cold, tight-lipped expression he expected, but Flowers did not respond directly.

  “I have half a million dollars for you,” Flowers said.

  Half a million bucks? Frade thought. No shit?

  Oh! Talk about government efficiency! It’s been damn near a year since I sent that invoice to Washington.

  The actual idea of billing the OSS had been triggered by Doña Dorotea, who had been dealing with managers of various Frade enterprises going over their bills. She’d asked Clete, “Who’s going to pay for all the money we’re spending on the OSS? Us?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he had replied, “Who else?”

  Then he’d realized that Dorotea’s question was one he had not previously considered. It had not taken him long at all, after his father had been assassinated and he had inherited everything he thought of as “el Coronel, Incorporated,” to stop thinking about money. He had other things on his mind, for one thing, and for another, the well of Frade cash seemed to be as inexhaustible as the pool of water at the bottom of Niagara Falls.

  What happened next started out the next day as simple curiosity: How much am I spending on various things of interest to the OSS? And why the hell am I?

  He had been astonished with his first, really rough partial estimate.

  Over the next week or so, he prepared a more thorough listing of his expenses and losses on behalf of the OSS. The latter started with what it had cost him to repair—actually rebuild—the house at Tandil, which had been machine-gunned literally to rubble by troops of Colonel Schmidt’s Tenth Mountain Regiment.

  When he had a more or less complete listing of things the OSS should have paid for but hadn’t, it was twenty-six pages in length.

  In it, he had tried to err on the side of frugality—for example, he billed the OSS two hundred fifty dollars an hour for the “business use” of the Red Lodestar. That was half the ballpark figure SAA used for estimating the per-hour cost of flying SAA Lodestars on their routes.

  He also had decided that ten dollars a day was a more than fair price for the OSS to pay for each “contract security operative”—the pressed-into-service ex-troopers of the Húsares de Pueyrredón.

  Then, just as he had been genuinely surprised to see how often he’d used the Red Lodestar for OSS business, he really had been surprised to see how large his private army had grown. And how much it had cost to feed it and move it around.

  At least a dozen times during the preparation of the invoice, he told himself that he was just wasting his time.

  All this is going to do is piss off Donovan and Graham.

  But, on the other hand, what if I didn’t have access to the overstuffed cash box of el Coronel, Incorporated?

  It isn’t fair for the OSS to expect me to spend my own money doing things for the OSS—especially since doing things for them usually results in people trying to kill me.

  When he was ready to hand the invoice to Tony Pelosi to be sent to Washington, he had second—or perhaps fiftieth—thoughts about actually sending it. But finally—What the hell, why not?—he typed a brief note, then signed it:16 Jun 1944

  Dear General Donovan:

  Detailed invoice enclosed.

  Please remit sum of $503,508.35 at earliest convenience.

  Respectfully,

  Cletus H. Frade

  Major, USMCR

  And he handed the note and the invoice to Pelosi, who saw that they were put in the next possible diplomatic pouch.

  When there had been no reply of any kind in two weeks, Clete had decided that Donovan or Graham, or both, were either really pissed at him or were ignoring him, or both, and that he’d simply made a fool of himself. Again.

  He’d had no regrets. It had been interesting to see how much being a spy was costing him. The invoice showed he had dipped into el Coronel’s cash box on behalf of the OSS for a little more than half a million dollars.

  Now, Frade glanced at the briefcase on the desk and thought, Better late than never!

  Frade then looked at Flowers. “I thought that might have money in it.”

  “Of course you did,” Flowers said stiffly, handing Frade an envelope.

  Frade opened it. It contained a single sheet of paper that read:The Embassy of the United States of America Buenos Aires, Argentina

  Colonel Richmond C. Flowers

  Military Attaché

  16 MAY 1945

  The undersigned acknowledges receipt of $500,000 (Five Hundred Thousand Dollars Exactly) in lawful currency of the United States from Colonel Richmond C. Flowers, USA.

  Cletus H. Frade

  Lieutenant Colonel, USMCR

  Frade thought, And more fucking government efficiency!

  They shorted me almost four thousand dollars!

  Oh, well. Better the bulk of it than nothing at all.

  Flowers then extended his fountain pen.

  “Please sign that,” he said.

  Frade did so, handed pen and paper back, then, nodding at the briefcase, asked, “It all fit in there? Half a million dollars?”

  “You may count it if y
ou wish, but I assure you it’s all there.”

  Frade nodded, opened the briefcase, and looked into it. It held five bricks of bills, each about the size of a shoe box, wrapped in some sort of oiled paper, which was translucent enough so that he could see stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills.

  “Where’d you get it?” Frade said. “The Bank of Boston?”

  “It came by diplomatic pouch,” Flowers said.

  Frade said nothing.

  “You of course may keep the briefcase,” Flowers went on, “until it’s convenient for you to drop it off at the embassy.”

  “Thank you,” Frade said, then had an irreverent thought and said it aloud: “It would be really bad form for me to walk out of here carrying all that money in my arms like so much Kleenex.”

  “I think I have the right to an explanation, Colonel Frade,” Flowers said. “That’s a great deal of money. What are you going to do with it?”

  “Sorry, Colonel, you just don’t have the need to know.”

  Did I say that because I didn’t want to get into a long explanation of where and how I’ve been spending the OSS’s money?

  Or because I really dislike him?

  “Sooner or later, Colonel Frade, you’re simply going to have to accept that as the senior OSS officer down here, I do have the need to know about whatever you’re doing.”

  Frade shrugged and in an agreeable tone said, “I hope you understand that I’m just obeying my orders, Colonel. It’s nothing personal.”

  Flowers met Frade’s eyes, and Frade thought he could actually see steam coming out of Flowers’s ears.

  Then Flowers cleared his throat and changed subjects.

  “There is something else I would like to discuss with you, Colonel Frade.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “As you know, I wear several hats. I am both the military attaché here as well as the senior OSS officer in Argentina. While that latter role is, of course, known to the assistant chief of staff for intelligence, it is not known by any of the other military attachés in South America. They don’t have, as you like to say, the need to know.”

  Why do I think he’s rehearsed this speech?

  No. What Colonel Pompous has done is to write it down and then nearly memorize it.

  Which makes it important to him.

  So where the hell is he going with it?

  “Periodically, once every three months or so, the assistant chief of staff, intelligence—ACofS G-2—convenes a conference of military attachés in South America. My absence from such conferences would raise questions, obviously, so I attend.

  “I have just returned from such a conference, this time held in Rio de Janeiro. The ACofS G-2 personally presided. The subject was our role now that Germany has surrendered. And, as part of this, the role of the OSS for the rest of the war and afterward was discussed.”

  Aha! Question answered.

  This might be interesting.

  Frade said: “And what did you and the ACofS G-2 conclude?”

  Flowers’s face showed that he hadn’t expected questions during his speech. He almost visibly thought about answering the question and then decided to go with the rehearsed speech.

  “It is the opinion of the ACofS G-2 that (a) General Marshall will order the dissolution of the OSS in the time frame between today and the successful termination of the war against the Empire of Japan and (b) that it would be in the national interest for the OSS simply to be folded, so to speak, into Army Intelligence.”

  “How long do you think it will be before we can successfully terminate the war against the Empire of Japan?” Frade asked.

  There was an element of sarcasm in Frade’s parroting of the “successful termination” phrase. It went right past Flowers.

  “A number of factors affect that, actually,” Flowers said. “For example, the main Japanese islands are under daily bombardment by B-29 aircraft.”

  “Germany also was under daily aerial bombardment,” Clete replied. “We still had to cross the Rhine and take Berlin before they surrendered.”

  “There are other factors,” Flowers said almost condescendingly.

  Does that mean he knows about the atomic bomb?

  The ACofS G-2 certainly does—Army Intelligence must have counterintelligence agents swarming all over the Manhattan Project—but I can’t believe ACofS G-2 would tell Flowers anything about it.

  If there’s anyone who doesn’t have a need to know his name is Flowers.

  Let’s find out.

  Frade said: “You’re talking about the Los Angeles Project? Right?”

  Flowers’s face showed that the Los Angeles Project—which Frade, of course, had just invented—was news to him.

  “Or maybe the Manhattan Project?” Frade pursued.

  “One or the other,” Flowers said. “Probably both.”

  Colonel, you’ve never heard of the Manhattan Project until just now, Clete thought, and was still—with difficulty—resisting the temptation to ask Colonel Flowers whether he thought the New Orleans Project—or maybe the Sioux Falls Project—was also going to affect the successful termination of the war against the Empire of Japan.

  But then Flowers asked: “So, do you agree?”

  What?

  “With what?”

  Flowers went on: “That it would be in the national interest for the OSS to be simply folded into Army Intelligence.”

  “After the successful termination of the war against the Empire of Japan, you mean?”

  The sarcasm again sailed right over Flowers’s head.

  “Then or now,” Flowers replied. “Would you agree that the OSS should be folded into Army Intelligence? Surely, you’ve thought about that.”

  “Not until just now. You’re sure, Colonel, that the OSS is about to be—what?—dissolved?”

  “Well, Frade. I got that, I told you, directly from the ACofS G-2. And he would certainly know, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Did the ACofS G-2 say why they’re going to abolish the OSS?”

  It took Flowers a moment to come up with a reply, but finally he said, “Because it will not be needed.”

  “Then why fold it into Army Intelligence?” Frade asked innocently.

  Flowers started to reply—his mouth was actually open—and then he had an epiphany and it caused him to lose his temper.

  “You arrogant sonofabitch!” Flowers blurted, spittle flying from his lips. “If you think you can make a fool of me, you’ve got another think coming!”

  “Did I say something that offended you, Colonel?”

  “You knew all about this, didn’t you? And don’t lie to me, Frade. Colonel Donovan told you, didn’t he?”

  “Told me what?”

  “That the OSS is to be dissolved.”

  Frade held up his right hand, pinkie and thumb touching, three fingers extended.

  “Boy Scout’s Honor, I have never discussed this with Wild Bill.”

  Flowers glared at him, his face flushed with anger.

  Frade went on: “And with respect, sir. It’s not Colonel Donovan. It’s General Donovan. Wild Bill’s a major general now. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

  Flowers was red-faced, and Frade could see steam coming out of his ears again.

  “You ever hear, Frade, that he who laughs last laughs best? I’m going to have your ass sooner or later. Count on it!”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll tell General Donovan you said that, when I tell him you told me the ACofS G-2 told you that the OSS is going to be dissolved and that you and he are agreed that it should be folded into Army Intelligence.” Frade paused, then gave in to temptation: “With the help of the Los Angeles Project, and maybe even the New Orleans Project.”

  Flowers took a moment to take control of himself.

  “The war is about over, Colonel Frade. We’ll all eventually go home. But when you get off the ship, or the airplane, or whatever returns you to the Zone of the Interior, you will be in handcuffs, on your way to a general court-martial a
nd the Army prison at Fort Leavenworth!”

  “Maybe I can get General Donovan to represent me at the court-martial. I understand he’s a pretty good lawyer.”

  Flowers wordlessly turned and marched out of the office, slamming the door after him.

  Frade was still looking thoughtfully at the door—I don’t think pissing him off was the smart thing to do—when Enrico came through it.

  “The diplomats are arriving, mi coronel.”

  “Whatever happened to ‘Don Cletus,’ Enrico?”

  “The diplomats are arriving, Don Cletus, mi coronel.”

  “Now, in German. If you don’t get it right, you can’t go.”

  Enrico got it right.

  “Well, I guess you get to go.”

  “Danke, Herr Oberst.”

  [TWO]

  General Martín, Chief Pilot Delgano, and Master Sergeant Stein were all at the Executive Suite windows with Leica C-II 35mm cameras and snapping pictures of the diplomats climbing the stairs to the Ciudad de Rosario.

  “Anybody interesting?” Clete asked as he looked down at the tarmac.

  “One man,” Martín said. “Rodolfo Nulder.”

  “Who is he?” Frade asked.

  “He was at the military academy with el Coronel and el Coronel Perón, and later at the Kriegsschule with your father,” Enrico announced, and matter-of-factly added: “Then he was cashiered for being a pervert and a liar.”

  “What was that all about?” Clete asked.

  “Young girls on the estancia,” Enrico said.

  “Your father told el Coronel Perón that he never wanted to hear the name Rodolfo Nulder spoken again, and told el Coronel Perón that if Nulder ever put foot on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo again he would kill him.”

  “Bernardo?” Frade asked.

  “I think Rodríguez summed it up pretty well,” Martín said dryly.

  Frade thought: Wonder what my father thought of Tío Juan’s taste for young girls?

  Would he have approved of me calling my godfather a degenerate sonofabitch and then throwing him out of Uncle Willy’s—my—house?