Victory and Honor

by W. E. B. Griffin

  “The whole idea is preposterous!”

  “Be that as it may, I am not going to risk arrest by the Americans, nor the loss of an SAA aircraft by confiscation. Not only did it cost SAA right at half a million dollars—half a million dollars, Mr. Ambassador!—but if they caught us trying to smuggle Nazis out of Germany on an airplane they sold us, they certainly wouldn’t sell us another one.”

  “I give you my word of honor, Señor Frade, that I know nothing about any of this,” Ambassador Claudio de Hernández said, his tone suggesting that he really hoped Frade would take his word.

  Gotcha!

  “What I would like you to do, Mr. Ambassador, is send a cable to the foreign minister in Buenos Aires, telling him that absent any clear denial from him that this rescue mission has absolutely nothing to do with rescuing Nazis from the wholly justified outrage of the Allies—and I will point out to you that Argentina has now become one of the Allies—that I intend to return to Argentina, flyover clearances or not.”

  “I’m not sure I can do that,” Ambassador Hernández said.

  “That, of course, is your decision. I can no more tell you what to do than you can tell me what to do.” He turned to Aragão. “Fernando, where’s the station wagon?”

  “Just outside, Señor Frade.”

  “Then let’s go to the hotel,” Frade said. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ambassador.”

  [FOUR]

  The Bar, Hotel Britania Rua Rodrigues Sampaio 17 Lisbon, Portugal 1935 17 May 1945

  “Why do I think you’re planning something evil?” Gonzalo Delgano asked Cletus Frade even before the bartender came to serve them. They were seated with Mario Peralta and Pedro Vega, the chubby flight engineer, as Fernando Aragão caught up to them.

  “Did you see the dirty looks we got from our passengers as they were getting on that bus?” Frade replied.

  “That’s probably because that bus has been in service since the First World War and we were getting into Fernando’s nice, nearly new American station wagon,” Delgano said.

  “Glad to be of some service,” Aragão said.

  The bartender approached them.

  Frade gasped and otherwise mimed that he was dying of dehydration.

  “Welcome back to Lisbon, Señor Frade,” the bartender said, and without orders set two glasses, a siphon bottle of water, and a wine bottle on the bar.

  As the barman pulled the cork from the wine bottle, Frade poured and drank two glasses of the soda water.

  “I was thinking,” Frade said, “that if there is one thing diplomats really need and seldom get it’s a lesson in humility.” He paused, went through the ritual of testing the wine, then said to the bartender, “Very nice. After you fill my glass, give small quantities to my friends.”

  “Humility? Such as getting on the ancient bus?” Peralta asked.

  “That was a start, but what I’m thinking right now is to ask Fernando to have a word with the hotel manager, which will result in all of them being placed in no more than three or four rooms.”

  Peralta laughed.

  “Don’t laugh, Mario,” Delgano said. “He’s serious.”

  “Moot point,” Pedro Vega, who Clete was now sure was a BIS agent, said. He pointed to the lobby. “Too late. They’re here.”

  “Damn!” Clete said. “Well, I guess we could ask Fernando to forget re-icing the food containers.”

  “Don’t do that, Clete,” Delgano said. “José Ruiz is the exception to the rule about diplomats, and it’s been a long time since he’s had a decent bife de chorizo.”

  “You’re running me out of ideas, Gonzo,” Frade said. “But . . . how about having Fernando tell the headwaiter they’re all lousy tippers?”

  “Maybe they could forget to put towels in those three rooms,” Peralta offered.

  “Better yet,” Pedro Vega said, “have them pour water on the rolls of toilet paper in their baños. We used to do that at the Academy, remember?”

  “Pedro, you’re as evil as Cletus,” Delgano said.

  “I consider that a compliment, mi coronel,” Vega said.

  “Or we could have Mario fly the next leg, presuming we get clearances. That way they would be airsick all the way,” Frade said.

  “And I was just starting to like you,” Peralta said.

  “Speaking of clearances,” Frade said. “Fernando, what’s with the no clearances?”

  “What’s interesting,” Aragão replied, “is that there were—yesterday—clearances. But five hours ago they were canceled. I asked London about it, and they said it was probably the Russians being difficult, but that’s all they knew.”

  “The Russians?” Delgano asked incredulously.

  Aragão looked at Clete for permission to answer the question.

  “Tell them,” Clete said. “They’re friends.”

  Aragão nodded and said: “The story I got is that the Russians, after talking Eisenhower into letting them take Berlin, had no intention of allowing anybody else in, the agreements dividing Berlin into American, English, French, and Russian zones to the contrary notwithstanding.

  “General White screwed that up for the Russians when he (a) took the Second Armored Division into Berlin without Russian permission—or Eisenhower’s—and (b) threw the Red Army out of what was agreed to be the American zone. Our guy in London suspects the Russians don’t want us to have any control over the airports, or even fly into Berlin unless we ask for permission. Eisenhower, finally realizing the Russians are trying to screw him, has no intention of asking their permission, as that would imply they have the right to say no.”

  If Delgano, Peralta, or Vega was curious how it was that the Portuguese station chief for SAA could call London and come up with that sort of information, they were too prudent to ask.

  “Is there an airport in our zone?” Frade asked.

  Aragão nodded. “Tempelhof.”

  “The Americans have Tempelhof?” von Wachtstein asked.

  “London told me General White has it surrounded by tanks and has been flying his Piper Cubs into it from his Division Rear, which is still at the other side of the Elbe River. You know something about Tempelhof?”

  “It’s—it used to be—Lufthansa’s terminal. Good airport. I could get the Connie into it with no trouble.”

  If Aragão was curious to know how an SAA pilot knew so much about Tempelhof, he was too prudent to ask. But von Wachtstein saw the look on his face. And so did Frade.

  “Fernando,” Clete said, “say hello to Special Agent Peter von Wachtstein of the OSS, formerly major of the Luftwaffe. Peter, Fernando is the OSS station chief here.”

  Aragão didn’t reply but looked at Boltitz.

  Clete went on: “And Special Agent Karl Boltitz used to be Kapitän zur See of the Kriegsmarine. When we get to Germany, he’s going to see what his U-boat buddies can tell us about all these submarines that Mr. Dulles tells us are supposed to be headed for Argentina.”

  “Damn it,” Aragão suddenly exclaimed.

  Clete looked on curiously as Aragão stabbed his right hand into his suitcoat and came out with a sealed envelope.

  “This came for you earlier, Clete. There’ve been fifty different stories making the rounds about those subs, each harder to swallow than the other. And I’m not sure this helps.”

  Frade took the envelope, opened it, and extracted the single page inside. His eyes fell to it:PRIORITY

  TOP SECRET

  DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN

  FROM AGGIE

  TO TEX

  VIA OSS LISBON STATION

  MSG NO 412 1805 GREENWICH 16 MAY 1945

  LAST NIGHT—15 MAY—DAVID BRUCE DISPATCHED FOUR AGENTS FROM OSS LONDON STATION TO BERGEN NORWAY TO INTERVIEW SIXTEEN (16) GERMAN POWS BEING HELD THERE. OUR INFORMATION IS THAT CAPTAIN SCHAFFER OF U-977 GAVE HIS MARRIED CREWMEN THE OPTION OF CONTINUING ABOARD OR BEING PUT ASHORE IN EUROPE TO REJOIN THEIR FAMILIES. ON 10 MAY THE TOTAL OF NINETEEN (19) WHO TOOK HIM UP ON THE OFFER WENT ASHORE BY DINGHY AT HOLSENOY ISLAND N
ORWAY. SIXTEEN (16) SURRENDERED TO BE REPATRIATED. THREE (3) REMAIN AT LARGE.

  IN INITIAL INTERVEWS NONE OF THE POWS SAID THEY HAD SEEN ANYBODY ONBOARD OTHER THAN FELLOW SUBMARINERS.

  FURTHER, MARSHAL ZHUKOV IN BERLIN REPORTS THAT RUSSIAN AGENTS HAVE THE CHARRED REMAINS OF HITLER AND HIS BRIDE AS WELL AS THE GOEBBELS FAMILY AND OTHERS. ZHUKOV SAID THE REMAINS WERE RECOVERED OUTSIDE THE FUHRERBUNKER, IN THE REICH CHANCELLERY GARDEN. WHILE THE RUSSIANS ARE NOT EXACTLY BEING PARAGONS OF HONESTY WE HAVE NO REASON NOT TO BELIEVE THEM IN THIS INSTANCE.

  MEANTIME SCORES OF ATTACK U-BOATS HAVE FOLLOWED THE ORDER OF ADMIRAL DONITZ TO STAND DOWN AND SURRENDER WITH THEIR CREWS. OPERATION DEADLIGHT WILL SEE THESE VESSELS SCUTTLED. U-977 AND U-234 ARE NOT AMONG THOSE HAVING SURRENDERED AND THEIR WHEREABOUTS AND ANY POSSIBLE TANKER U-BOATS REMAIN UNKNOWN. WE CAN ONLY PRESUME THEY CONTINUE EN ROUTE TO ARGENTINA. GEN BENDICK HAS BEEN ALERTED.

  WILL LET YOU KNOW WHAT WE LEARN FROM U-977 POWS IN NORWAY. LET ME KNOW WHAT IF ANYTHING YOUR U-BOAT EXPERT LEARNS THERE. THAT SAID, IT MAY OR MAY NOT MATTER—WILD BILL SUSPECTS OUR LITTLE ORGANIZATION COULD BE OUT OF BUSINESS SOONER THAN EXPECTED.

  TEX

  END

  TOP SECRET

  DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN

  Frade shook his head, then folded the sheet and stuffed it in his pocket.

  “When the hell is ‘sooner than expected’?” he said. He shook his head, then looked at Aragão and added, “Well, the only thing we know for sure now is that at least one U-boat is headed for Argentina. I never believed that Hitler was aboard. I also don’t buy the story that there’s a fleet of U-boats. Maybe one or two, and some tankers. Then again, maybe not. Karl should be able to get us some answers.”

  Aragão nodded. He said: “Where did the general at Val de Cans get his intel about this ‘rescue the diplomats’ operation you’re on being a cover to get Nazis out of Germany?”

  “From me,” Clete said. “I wasn’t being exactly truthful with the ambassador. Something about this smells, starting with why are these Argentine diplomats still in Berlin? Argentina declared war on Germany on March twenty-seventh—that’s almost two months ago. They could have been in neutral Sweden that night, or the next day. Or in Spain the day after that. They stayed because they wanted to, and I don’t mean for the joy of watching Russian T-34 tanks roll down . . . what’s the wonderful name of that street? The Unter den Linden. They stayed for a reason.”

  “What kind of a reason?” Delgano asked.

  “Any of a number of reasons. For example, suppose you were Heinrich Himmler and you had a couple of kilograms of diamonds you wanted to get to Argentina. Wouldn’t it make more sense to give a quarter of them, or even half, to some friendly Argentine diplomat in exchange for his taking them to Argentina for you? Submarines get sunk.”

  “You think that’s what it is?”

  “I don’t know, but if the secretary of Labor and Retirement Plans—my beloved Tío Juan—is involved, it’s entirely likely. And we know he’s involved because his good friend Nulder is in charge of the rescue mission.”

  “But you implied,” Aragão said, “that they were going to try to smuggle Nazis back on your airplane.”

  “They may have had that in mind. Maybe just one or two really big Nazis. Who’s going to count heads on a mercy flight? But I don’t think so, now that I’ve led Nulder and Ambassador Hernández to believe the Americans are onto them. But precious stones, or something else? That wouldn’t surprise me at all. Who’s going to search the luggage of a rescued diplomat?”

  “So that’s what that was all about,” Delgano said.

  “I’m an evil man, Gonzo. You’ve said so yourself.”

  “So, what happens now?” Delgano asked.

  “First, we finish this bottle of wine, and then maybe another, and then we have dinner and a bath, not necessarily in that order.”

  “I meant tomorrow, Cletus,” Delgano said, shaking his head in resignation.

  “We wait for the flyover clearances. We can’t go to Berlin without them.”

  [ONE]

  Hotel Britania Rua Rodrigues Sampaio 17 Lisbon, Portugal 1705 18 May 1945

  Ambassador Claudio de Hernández was sitting at the hotel’s bar with Fernando Aragão when Frade, Delgano, Stein, Vega, and Peralta walked in.

  Stein deposited a heavy, dripping burlap sack on the bar.

  The barman appeared, looking askance at the burlap bag.

  “Where have you been all day?” Ambassador de Hernández asked. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “Have a sniff of the bag and take a guess,” Frade said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Frade sniffed loudly and pointed at the burlap sack.

  “After you pour us a little of that splendid Altano Douro 1942,” Frade ordered the barman, “please ask the chef to join us.”

  Aragão sniffed the bag and smiled.

  “I really thought you were kidding,” he said.

  “I never kid about whiskey, women, or fishing,” Frade said. “Aside from Vega getting a little seasick, everything went . . . swimmingly.”

  “You have been fishing?” Ambassador de Hernández asked incredulously. “In the ocean?”

  “That’s where the fish usually are, Mr. Ambassador.” Frade then added, “You’re in luck, Fernando. There’s even enough for the ambassador and the diplomats.”

  The chef, an enormous fat man in stained kitchen whites, appeared.

  “Slide Siggie that tray, Mario,” Frade ordered, pointing down the bar. “Siggie, put a sample of our fruits of the sea on the tray for the chef’s edification.”

  Stein dipped into the bag, came out with three large fish fillets, and arranged them on the tray.

  The chef bent over and sniffed them, then punched them with his index finger.

  “Caballa,” he said.

  “Yes,” Frade said. “In English, they say ‘mackerel.’ These are from what a norteamericano would call a ‘king mackerel.’”

  “And fresh,” the chef said approvingly.

  “Mere hours ago, they were swimming. Into your capable hands, my friend, I entrust them.”

  “I usually bake the whole fish,” the chef said.

  “Indulge me,” Frade said. “I am Argentine, and the whole world knows we’re crazy. For now, I want you to dribble a little olive oil on the fillets, lay some lemon slices on top, and grill them. Serve them with some fried potatoes and a small salad. Can do?”

  The chef nodded. “Can do.”

  “After first selecting the best-looking fillets,” Frade then ordered, “which you will serve to us just as soon as you can, serve the leftovers to the diplomats traveling with South American Airways with the compliments of Chief Pilot Delgano.”

  The chef nodded again.

  Then Frade said: “They will taste much better if you drink a little Altano Douro as you grill them. Put a bottle for the chef on Señor Aragão’s bill, Señor Barman.”

  Ambassador de Hernández’s face showed that he believed Frade was either crazy or drunk. Or both.

  The chef smiled, picked up the burlap sack, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

  Frade looked at de Hernández. “You were looking for me, Mr. Ambassador? Why?”

  “The overfly permission has come, Señor Frade. But only as far as Frankfurt am Main.”

  “We are supposed to go to Berlin,” Frade challenged.

  “I know,” the ambassador said more than a little lamely.

  “What does Buenos Aires have to say about this?”

  “About this specifically, nothing.”

  “And about things in general?” Frade pursued. “What about the assurance of either the Foreign Ministry or the President that no attempt will be made to smuggle Nazis to Argentina on SAA’s airplane?”

  “There has been no response to that specifically, Señor Frade.”

  “Then we’re not going,” Frade said.

  “There was a message from el Coronel Perón, routed
via the embassy, to Señor Nulder, which Señor Nulder shared with me.”

  “And are you going to tell me what it said?”

  “It said that the Foreign Minister was doing everything he can to get the necessary overfly permissions, as the president is very anxious to relieve the diplomatic contingent in Berlin as soon as possible.”

  “We already knew that, didn’t we?” Frade said.

  Frade then took an appreciative sip of the Altano Douro, sighed audibly, and announced: “Well, if the secretary of Labor and Retirement Plans tells us that General Farrell is anxious to relieve the diplomatic contingent in Berlin as soon as possible, I don’t see that we, as patriotic Argentines, have any choice. Have the passengers at the airfield no later than five-thirty tomorrow morning, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “That early, Señor Frade?”

  “We have already lost more than a full day, haven’t we, Mr. Ambassador, waiting for you to come up with the flyover permissions? I don’t want to lose any more time.”

  “I’ll pass that to Señor Nulder right away,” Ambassador de Hernández said. He then stood and excused himself.

  When the ambassador had gone, Delgano softly asked, “Half past five in the morning, Cletus?”

  “I didn’t say we would be there at that unholy hour. I think we should try to get off the ground at, say, nine.”

  [TWO]

  Aboard Ciudad de Rosario Approaching Frankfurt am Main, Germany 1235 19 May 1945