Clete thought that over.
‘‘The landing strip on my father’s estancia isn’t lighted,’’ he said. ‘‘Which means that it would have to be flown in during daylight hours. I think Martín would hear that an unmarked airplane had landed before it could be pushed into the hangar.’’
‘‘Who’s Martín?’’ Delojo asked.
‘‘You don’t know?’’ Clete asked, a tone of disgust in his voice. ‘‘He’s the Bureau of Internal Security guy in charge of watching me. And probably of watching you, too, as soon as he hears you’re in Argentina.’’
‘‘Well, then, we’re going to have to do some thinking about this, aren’t we?’’ Graham said.
‘‘And, this being the situation,’’ Quinn said, ‘‘this brings us back to inserting Ashton’s team by parachute, doesn’t it? Which was my original thought on the question.’’
‘‘I think Clete’s original objections to that remain valid,’’ Graham said.
‘‘Sir, with respect,’’ Quinn said, ‘‘we drop Jedburgh teams into France and the lowlands every day.’’
‘‘We’re talking about Argentina, not France,’’ Clete said. ‘‘It’s a hell of a lot farther from Brazil to Buenos Aires Province than it is across the English Channel.’’
‘‘And whatever chance Clete might have to influence the new government—presuming that goes well—would be destroyed if it came out that we were parachuting OSS teams into Argentina,’’ Graham said. ‘‘I repeat, Clete’s original objections to that remain valid. It is not an option at this time.’’
‘‘Yes, Sir,’’ Quinn said.
‘‘I think you had better message Brazil to have the team prepared to infiltrate from Brazil across the Uruguay River into Corrientes Province,’’ Graham said.
‘‘Yes, Sir.’’
‘‘You work, Clete, on getting the airplane into Argentina, and I’ll work on it at this end.’’
‘‘Yes, Sir,’’ Clete said.
‘‘And also, until Delojo has time to get his feet on the ground, you be thinking about infiltration across the Río Uruguay.’’
‘‘Yes, Sir.’’
‘‘Anything else, Clete, that we should talk about here and now?’’
‘‘Colonel, the priorities,’’ Clete said. ‘‘What’s more important, me getting close to the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos or taking out the replenishment vessel?’’
‘‘That decision is going to have to come from the President, ’’ Graham said. ‘‘There has been enormous diplomatic pressure about the Reine de la Mer. And what he might decide today might very well change tomorrow.’’
‘‘Great!’’ Clete said.
Graham stood up and put out his hand.
‘‘Good luck, Clete. We’ll be in touch.’’
[TWO] Centro Naval Avenida Florida y Avenida Córdoba Buenos Aires 2110 5 April 1943
A dark-blue 1939 Dodge four-door sedan pulled to the curb and a man stepped out of the backseat. The man—tall, fair-haired, light-skinned, in his mid-thirties, and wearing a light-brown gabardine suit—leaned down and put his head in the open passenger-side front-door window.
‘‘Come back for me in an hour and a half,’’ he ordered the driver, a somewhat younger man in a nearly identical suit.
"Sí, mi Coronel,’’ the driver said.
The man then turned and quickly mounted the shallow flight of stairs on the corner of the building and pushed his way through the revolving door of the Centro Naval.
‘‘Buenos tardes, mi Coronel,’’ the porter manning the guest-book table said, and then, when el Teniente Coronel Alejandro Bernardo Martín had finished signing in, reached into a table drawer and handed him a small envelope.
‘‘Muchas gracias,’’ Martín said.
He turned his back to the porter and quickly checked the flaps for signs of tampering. Finding none, he tore the envelope open. It contained a single sheet of paper. It was blank. He turned it over, and the other side was blank too.
He jammed the sheet of paper and the envelope into his trousers pocket and turned back to the porter.
‘‘Marching orders,’’ he said with a smile. ‘‘If Señora Martín should telephone, please tell her I am in compliance with her orders.’’
"Sí, mi Coronel,’’ the porter said, exchanging a knowing smile with the doorman. Another wife-mandated shopping mission. It happened all the time. The Avenida Florida, between Avenida Córdoba and the Plaza San Martín, holds a number of department stores, ranging downward in size and prestige from the Buenos Aires branch of London’s Harrod’s to tiny one-man closet-size vendors.
Martín, shaking his head as if in resignation, passed back through the revolving door, turned onto Avenida Florida, and started toward Plaza San Martín. He turned into Harrod ’s and quickly bought a pair of socks. Though he didn’t need them, they came packed in a readily identifiable Harrod ’s paper bag. He then left, turning right again onto Florida and walking briskly toward Plaza San Martín. After one other stop, to buy a copy of La Nación, he walked to the end of Florida, crossed the street that circles the Plaza San Martín, and went into the park.
He ambled down the curving paths between (and sometimes under) the massive, ancient Gomero trees—some said to be four hundred years old—and then sat down on one side of a double bench. A tall, good-looking man in his twenties, who was wearing both the uniform of a Capitán of Cavalry and the de rigueur cavalry officer’s mustache, sat on the other side of the bench, facing away from the Círculo Militar toward the River Plate.
Martín took a quick look at the Círculo Militar. The magni ficent Italian-style building had been built in the late nineteen century as a private residence by the owners of La Prensa, the second of Argentina’s major newspapers. They had subsequently given it to the Army, as a small token, some said, of the family’s admiration for that body. Others snickered knowingly when this explanation for the donors’ multi-million-dollar generosity was offered.
Martín picked up La Nación and opened it.
‘‘Nothing,’’ he said softly. ‘‘It is not in either the house on Díaz, or in the guest house on Libertador.’’
The Capitán, whose name was Roberto Lauffer, could not resist shrugging, but he looked the other way and covered his mouth with his handkerchief before he replied.
‘‘Then it has to be at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo,’’ he said.
‘‘I can’t get anybody in there,’’ Martín said. ‘‘And even if I could, I don’t have the combination to the safe. And it’s a Himpell, German, built like a battleship. The only way to open it without a combination would be with a blowtorch. Or explosives.’’
‘‘The dealer?’’ Capitán Lauffer asked.
‘‘Don’t you think I tried that?’’ Martín said icily. ‘‘One of the many advantages of a Himpell safe is the ease with which the combination can be changed by its owner.’’
‘‘You don’t think anyone else has the combination? Subo ficial Mayor Rodríguez?’’
‘‘I think el Coronel Frade had the only combination, and in his mind, not written down somewhere,’’ Martín said.
‘‘I will relay this to General Rawson,’’ Capitán Lauffer said.
‘‘I’ll give you something else to ruin his dinner,’’ Martín said. ‘‘Humberto Duarte got a cable an hour ago from el Coronel Frade’s son, asking that the funeral be delayed until he gets here.’’
‘‘He’s coming back?’’
‘‘He will leave Miami tomorrow on the Panagra flight’’—Pan-American Airways-Grace Airlines.
‘‘And Duarte will delay the funeral?’’
‘‘Of course he will.’’
Capitán Lauffer exhaled audibly.
‘‘I will so inform General Rawson,’’ he said.
‘‘The room has been inspected for listening devices, but . . .’’
‘‘I understand,’’ Lauffer said.
‘‘I think that’s everything for now,’’ Martín said.
/>
‘‘Yes, Sir,’’ Lauffer said, rising. He then walked through the park toward the Círculo Militar.
When Teniente Coronel Martín assumed his duties with the Ministry of Defense’s Bureau of Internal Security as ‘‘Chief, Ethical Standards Office,’’ he was given responsibility for keeping an eye on the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos. For the G.O.U., it was correctly suspected, were planning a coup d’état against the regime of President Ram ón S. Castillo.
In the meantime, Coronel Martín’s relationship with the G.O.U. had changed. A new set of circumstances had forced him to choose sides. On the one hand, he now accepted that his hope to remain apolitical and perform his services for whoever was constitutionally in office was wishful and naïve. And on the other hand, he realized that he had chosen the right side, at least morally. Whether right would prevail was entirely another question.
In this light, he saw that his duty now was to prevent those with ties to President Castillo from learning more than was absolutely necessary about the activities of the G.O.U.
The worst possible contingency was that OUTLINE BLUE would fall into the hands of President Castillo’s supporters. For OUTLINE BLUE was the detailed plan for the coup d’état, complete in every detail, including the names of the officers involved and the roles they would play; everything except for the date and time of execution.
In view of the danger, only one complete copy of OUTLINE BLUE was assembled. This was entrusted to el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, who had written most of it and was el Presidente of G.O.U. Frade was now dead, assassinated, Martín believed, at the orders of the German Military Attach é, acting on orders from Germany. His assassination served two German purposes—to keep Frade from becoming President, and to remind other senior Argentine officers that Germany could punish its enemies as well as reward its friends.
But preventing Frade from becoming the next President of the Argentine Republic, Martín believed, was the primary cause of the assassination. For if the coup d’état succeeded, that would have happened. The Germans did not want the President of Argentina to lead the nation away from its current status, which was Neutral, leaning heavily toward the Axis, to Neutral, leaning toward the Allies. Or worse: leading Argentina to a declaration of war against the Axis.
Six months before, the Germans, with reason, considered el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade a friend. He was a graduate of the German Kriegsschule—literally, ‘‘War School.’’ It was, roughly, the German military staff college, combining the American Command & General Staff College and the War College, and he was known to hate the United States in most of its aspects.
That changed within a matter of weeks, when the norteamericanos, in a brilliant ploy, dispatched to Argentina an Office of Strategic Services agent, who was, among other things, a Marine Corps aviation officer who had fought in the Pacific. More important, he was the son, estranged from infancy, of el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade.
The Germans then made the tactical blunder of attempting to assassinate the son. The attempt failed, and the son went on to carry out his mission, the sinking of the Reine de la Mer.
For Frade, blood proved stronger than the political belief that the Germans were fighting a near holy war against godless communism. He not only assisted his son in the sinking of the Reine de la Mer—by making his airplane available to find the ship—he also used his influence to ensure their escape from the country if they were caught trying to destroy the Reine de la Mer—by obtaining, for instance, Argentine passports for the OSS team.
Probably as bad, from the German point of view: el Coronel Frade was quoted in both La Nación and La Prensa as believing the Allied statement—which the Germans of course denied—that Germans had imprisoned several hundred thousand Jews for use as slave laborers. In fact, he went on to state he was convinced that the number of Jews in concentration camps was well over a million.
When el Coronel Frade’s sudden, unexpected, and well-known change of sides became apparent to the Germans, Martín believed, the decision was made to assassinate him.
The death of Frade not only saddened Coronel Martín— he genuinely liked him—it brought with it serious problems. If, in the course of normal postmortem activities— which would include going into el Coronel Frade’s safe-deposit boxes and personal safes—the Operations Order fell into the wrong hands, the coup d’état would fail and those involved would be exposed. People involved in a coup d’état are either saviors of their country or traitors.
Martín didn’t think Castillo would actually stand all those involved against a wall, or even see that all of them would be tried by court-martial and sentenced to long prison terms. Just perhaps the dozen or so people of the inner circle. But however short the list of the inner circle, one of the names there would certainly be Teniente Coronel Alejandro Bernardo Martín’s.
Martín forced this uncomfortable line of thought from his mind and turned to the business immediately at hand. He was too deeply involved now to get out, even if he went directly to Castillo and exposed everyone. And he knew he was simply incapable of doing that. It was a question of honor. He had made his choice, and he would have to live with it.
Although he had been in the intelligence and counterintelligence business long enough to know that nothing should surprise him, he was nevertheless surprised that the sweep for listening devices of the room where Minister of War Teniente General Pedro P. Ramírez was about to take dinner with el General Arturo Rawson had found nothing. That was the meaning of the blank sheet of paper in the envelope at the Centro Naval. And he was equally surprised that the Federal Police were showing no interest in the meeting itself—at least none he could detect. For it was Ramírez’s responsibility to order the coup; and if the coup succeeded—now that Frade was dead—Rawson was likely to be the next Presidente of the Argentine republic.
It occurred to Martín that perhaps the meeting had been called off, and for some reason this had not been brought to his attention. Or it could be that the Federal Police had not been able to place a microphone in the building. Getting caught doing so would have been very embarrassing. If he were the Federal Police official charged with watching General Ramírez he would be very careful not to anger him: the coup d’état might succeed.
With all that in mind, he decided to wait until Ramírez and Rawson actually appeared. And so he read La Nación, and glanced frequently across the street at the Círculo Militar.
At 2130, Teniente General Pedro P. Ramírez arrived in his official car before the ornate gates of the Círculo Militar, seconds after the private 1940 Packard 220 sedan of General Rawson.
General Ramírez, seated in the rear of the Mercedes with his aide-de-camp, Mayor Pedro V. Querro, graciously signaled Rawson’s chauffeur to precede him through the gates of the imposing mansion. This caused General Ramírez’s chauffeur—who was not used to giving way to other vehicles —to suddenly and heavily apply his brakes.
Martín almost laughed out loud as Mayor Querro, a tiny, immaculate, intense man with a pencil-line mustache, a look of outrage on his face, abruptly slid off the slippery dark red leather seat onto the floor. General Ramírez fared better; he managed to keep his seat by bracing himself against the back of the front seat. Shaking his head in amused disbelief, Mart ín neatly refolded his La Nación and, carrying the Harrod’s paper sack containing the unneeded socks, started back for Avenida Florida and the Centro Naval.
[THREE]
Neither General Rawson nor his chauffeur was aware of General Ramírez’s and Mayor Querro’s difficulty retaining their seats and their dignity. The chauffeur dropped Rawson off at the entrance, then drove into the mansion’s interior courtyard to park the Packard.
Rawson, a good-looking, silver-haired man in his fifties, with a precisely trimmed mustache, was wearing a well-cut, somewhat somber dark-blue business suit. He stood beside the entrance and waited for Ramírez and Querro, who were in uniform—green tunics with Sam Browne belts, pink riding breeches and highly polished
riding boots. Except for their leather-brimmed caps, with their stiff, gilt-encrusted oversize crowns, Ramírez and Querro looked not unlike U.S. Army cavalry officers.
‘‘Arturo,’’ General Ramírez greeted him, touching his arm affectionately.
‘‘Mi General,’’ Rawson replied, nodding at Mayor Querro.
‘‘You are getting a little chubby,’’ Ramírez said. ‘‘We will have to find something useful for you to do, take some of that off.’’
‘‘I am, with a long list of exceptions, entirely at the General ’s service,’’ Rawson said.
Ramírez laughed, and the three passed through doors held open for them by neatly uniformed porters.
Inside the building, at the foot of a curving flight of marble stairs, another porter (like most of the Círculo Militar ’s employees, a retired Army sergeant) stood by the Register in which members of the Círculo Militar were supposed to sign their names on their arrival.
Aware that neither General Ramírez nor General Rawson ever complied with that regulation—or with any other they found inconvenient—and that the Membership Committee would not say anything about their breach of that rule—or of any other rule—the porter inscribed their names in the Register.
‘‘Where have you put el General?’’ Mayor Querro asked, somewhat arrogantly, as Ramírez started up the stairs.
‘‘In Two-B, mi Mayor,’’ the porter said.
‘‘With a little bit of luck, there will not be a gaggle of women next to us,’’ Rawson said.
‘‘With a little bit of luck, perhaps there will be,’’ Ram írez said. ‘‘Women in groups not only don’t listen to each other, but to anyone else, either.’’
Rawson laughed, as he was expected to, and wondered if Ramírez was getting a little nervous.
Why not? When one is plotting a coup d’état, and the details of that operation may soon be on the desk of the man you hope to depose, one may be excused for being a little nervous.
Blood and Honor Page 8
