He took out his wallet and handed Clete a card with three numbers written on it.
‘‘My office, my apartment, and a number that’s answered twenty-four hours a day. Your code name is ‘Cowboy’ if you don’t want to use your real name.’’
‘‘ ‘Cowboy’?’’
‘‘Cowboy,’’ Leibermann confirmed. ‘‘Did they teach you in OSS school that the best way to handle numbers like that is memorize them and then burn the little piece of paper?’’
‘‘I didn’t go to OSS school,’’ Clete said.
‘‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’’ Leibermann said wryly, then suddenly stood up. A broad smile appeared on his face, and he put out his hand.
‘‘Well, it’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Señor Frade,’’ he said, raising his voice so it could be heard all over the room. ‘‘Welcome back to Argentina!’’
He pumped Clete’s hand enthusiastically, then walked toward the stairwell.
[TWO] Bureau of Internal Security Ministry of Defense Edificio Libertador Avenida Paseo Colón Buenos Aires, Argentina 0915 11 April 1943
The Chief of the Bureau of Internal Security of the Ministry of National Defense, el Almirante Francisco de Montoya, liked to gaze out of the window of his ninth-floor office. His office windows looked out over the River Plate. On a clear day, one could just make out the coast of Uruguay, near Colonia del Sacramento, across the river.
The Admiral was especially fond of peering out the window at the ships on the river through a high-powered, tripod-mounted binocular, a gift from Captain Sir Bernard Jules-Wiley, Royal Navy, the British Naval Attaché. Montoya had once joked to el Teniente Coronel Alejandro Bernardo Martín, of whom he was both fond and a little afraid, that if only his office windows looked back toward the city, instead of out over the Plate, he could probably peer into high-rise apartment windows and see some of Buenos Aires ’s most lovely ladies in their unmentionables, or less.
The Admiral, resting his buttocks on his desk, was peering through his Royal Navy binoculars when Martín put his head through the door.
‘‘You sent for me, Sir?’’
It was unusual for Montoya to send for him, and that made Martín a little nervous. Normally, Montoya was satis fied with a briefing by Martín whenever he had interesting information to report. Summoning him to his office happened only rarely, usually only when Montoya had a speci fic question he wanted answered, or even more rarely, when he himself came up with something that he thought Martín should know.
What concerned Martín now was that Montoya might somehow have learned of the existence of OUTLINE BLUE. On the one hand, this knowledge would make him look like an incompetent for not discovering it himself. On the other hand, it would put in question—with every justification in the world—his loyalty.
Even worse, it was possible that Montoya had learned not only of the existence of OUTLINE BLUE, but that OUTLINE BLUE was missing, and in considerable risk of falling into the hands of President Castillo’s supporters.
Martín had worked for Almirante Montoya long enough to have a very good idea how his mind worked. He did not have a great deal of respect for Montoya’s intelligence. Indeed, he was sometimes capable of demonstrating great stupidity. And yet—like many other senior officers and officials Martín had come to know who were not generously endowed by their maker with brainpower—he frequently demonstrated almost astonishing cunning.
This should not have been surprising—one could not rise to the rank of Almirante without being either highly intelligent or unusually cunning—but in fact it was.
Martín knew Montoya had not made up his mind whether the planned coup d’état would succeed or not. If it succeeded, he wanted to be able to truthfully state that although he could not, of course, have openly supported Frade, Ramírez, Rawson, or any of the others, he had lent what support he could to their noble cause. For example, he had ordered Teniente Coronel Martín not to place any of them under surveillance.
If the coup d’état failed, he wanted to be in a position to truthfully state that he had ordered Teniente Coronel Martín to immediately bring to his attention any evidence whatever suggesting that Frade, Ramírez, or Rawson, or anyone else, was planning a treasonous coup d’état.
The only way he could accomplish this dance was not to ask Martín too many questions. He really did not want to know, Martín understood, that the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos had come up with a plan—OUTLINE BLUE—for their coup. Rather, he wanted Martín to approach him and tell him that there was going to be a coup d’état and whether it was going to fail or succeed.
At that point, he could take action.
Martín had not, therefore, informed Almirante Montoya that the plan for OUTLINE BLUE existed, or that it was missing and liable to wind up on President Castillo’s desk. If he had, that information would almost certainly have been enough to cause Montoya to come down on the side of the present regime.
And finally, if Castillo did know about OUTLINE BLUE, and it succeeded even so, Montoya could reasonably argue that under the circumstances he had no choice but to do his duty. And yet in order to assist the coup d’état, he held off doing it as long as he possibly could.
‘‘Ah, Bernardo,’’ the Admiral said. ‘‘We don’t often see you in uniform.’’
‘‘I wear it from time to time, mi Almirante, to remind myself that I was once an honest cavalryman.’’
While that was quite true, it was not the actual reason he was wearing his uniform this morning. He was bound for El Palomar airfield—in fact, if Montoya hadn’t sent for him, he would already be halfway there—where a light army airplane from Campo de Mayo18was to pick him up. Questions would almost certainly be asked by some diligent official at El Palomar if an Army airplane picked up a civilian, and Martín preferred not to call any more attention to himself than was absolutely necessary.
Today, in particular. Though his credentials gave him unquestioned access to any Argentine military base or government -controlled facility, authority to requisition any personnel or equipment he felt necessary to accomplish his duties, and almost incidentally authorized him to wearmufti on duty, they also stated that any questions concerning his activities should be directed to the personal attention of el Almirante Francisco de Montoya. He didn’t want Montoya to know where he was going, or why.
‘‘You don’t think you are anymore?’’ Montoya challenged jokingly.
‘‘An honest cavalryman, mi Almirante, does not begin his days by asking ladies of the evening the preferences of their last night’s patrons.’’
‘‘Did you really?’’
‘‘The agent who was supposed to deal with gathering this information fell ill, and I thought it best not to wait until he recovered.’’
‘‘And who were the patrons of the ladies?’’
‘‘Gradny-Sawz and the visiting German coronel.’’
‘‘Oddly enough, I called you in here to ask about him. Who is he, and what is he doing here?’’
‘‘I don’t know much, only that he and Gradny-Sawz are old friends; that Gradny-Sawz moved him out of the Alvear and into his house; and that according to the ladies, both of them were perfect gentlemen.’’
‘‘Really?’’
‘‘There was champagne, and dancing to phonograph records. Later, Gradny-Sawz’s houseman put them into a taxi, generously compensated for their labors.’’
‘‘And the ladies heard nothing of interest?’’
‘‘They were told that Vienna is the most romantic city in the world. Apparently, Goltz and Gradny-Sawz knew each other there.’’
‘‘How odd.’’
‘‘Frankly, I was relieved. I find it distasteful to compile dossiers about strange sexual preferences.’’
‘‘Distasteful, but sometimes very useful.’’
‘‘I find using such information even more distasteful,’’ Martín said.
‘‘Has it ever occurred to you, Bernardo, that you might be in the wrong l
ine of work?’’
‘‘Many times, mi Almirante. The last time as recently as two minutes ago.’’
‘‘Unfortunately, Bernardo, you are very good at what you do. Anything on young Frade?’’
By God, he doesn’t know about OUTLINE BLUE. Or that it’s missing. If he did, the subject would be on the table by now!
‘‘He met with Leibermann at the Café Colón. He went there alone—except of course, for Suboficial Mayor Rodr íguez. The agent on him said he skillfully eluded him in traffic—I’m not sure I believe that or not. But, anyway, the man on Leibermann picked up on him and telephoned the office to tell the other one where he could be found.’’
‘‘And their conversation?’’
‘‘Nothing could be heard. They were together less than half an hour, and then parted. Leibermann went to his home, and so did young Frade.’’
‘‘In your mind, does this meeting between the head of the American FBI and Señor Frade confirm that Frade is back here as OSS Station Chief?’’
‘‘Leibermann tells me that the new Naval Attaché is the new OSS Station Chief. His name is Delojo, Commander Delojo, and he arrived yesterday. When I asked Leibermann the relationship between Frade and Delojo, he shrugged his shoulders.’’
‘‘Meaning he doesn’t know, or doesn’t want to tell you?’’
Martín chuckled. ‘‘Meaning he either doesn’t want to tell me, or doesn’t really know.’’
‘‘You trust Leibermann, don’t you?’’
‘‘He has never lied to me.’’
‘‘We can presume, I think, that Frade still has some connection with the OSS.’’
Yes, and we can presume that the sun will probably come up again tomorrow, and that winter will follow fall again. God, did he really have to think about that?
‘‘Yes, mi Almirante. But whether he takes his orders from this man Delojo, or vice versa, is still a question. Leibermann says Delojo is an experienced Naval intelligence officer. I would like to think he has been sent here to control Frade, but I’m always afraid of what seems to be the obvious answer.’’
Montoya grunted, and shrugged.
‘‘I really would like to know what the German coronel is up to.’’
Don’t you think I know that?
‘‘It’s entirely possible that it is a routine visit. On the other hand, if it is not precisely a routine visit, then it probably has something to do with German plans to send a replacement for the Reine de la Mer.’’
‘‘You have an opinion?’’
‘‘That was it, mi Almirante.’’
‘‘Anything else?’’
‘‘El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón will join General Rawson and some of the others at Estancia Santa Catalina this weekend.’’
‘‘To console Señora Carzino-Cormano, presumably?’’ Montoya said.
‘‘There will be a requiem mass for el Coronel Frade at the Chapel on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo,’’ Martín said. ‘‘She has naturally been invited, and so have a number of her—and el Coronel’s—old and close friends.’’
‘‘Argentina will miss Jorge Guillermo Frade, and so will I,’’ Montoya said, then: ‘‘How did you come by Perón’s weekend plans?’’
‘‘He is staying at the Frade guest house on Libertador. Capitán Lauffer telephoned him there last night to ask for a convenient time for General Rawson to pick him up this morning. Since I knew that General Rawson—’’
‘‘I thought I suggested, and you agreed, that there would be no telephone surveillance of either General Ramírez or General Rawson?’’
‘‘The line surveilled, mi Almirante, is the line in the Frade guest house. I installed it in the belief that young Frade might return to Argentina, as indeed he has.’’
Montoya appeared to be giving the situation some thought. And then, when he spoke a few moments later, he moved to another subject.
‘‘Now that Perón has returned from Germany, it could mean they are prepared to act.’’
‘‘Yes, it could.’’
‘‘But you don’t think so, Bernardo?’’
‘‘I have not formed an opinion.’’
‘‘Even if we can’t break their code, I think it might be interesting to see if there is an increase in transmissions from the American radio station on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo during or immediately after this weekend.’’
‘‘I have ordered round-the-clock monitoring of the frequencies they are using, mi Almirante.’’
‘‘The big question, Bernardo, isn’t it, is how much contact there has been between the G.O.U. and the norteamericanos. If any. If there is a sudden increase in radio traffic ..."
‘‘I take your point, mi Almirante.’’
‘‘Keep me advised, Bernardo,’’ Montoya said. ‘‘About this, and about this German coronel.’’
‘‘Of course, mi Almirante.’’
‘‘Thank you, Bernardo. That will be all.’’
He doesn’t know anything. I don’t think he’s even heard anything. But that damned cunning again—it’s animal-like —he senses that something important is going on.
[THREE] The Embassy of the German Reich Avenida Córdoba Buenos Aires, Argentina 0920 11 April 1943
As he came into the Ambassador’s office, Standartenführer Josef Goltz raised his right arm from the elbow, palm outward, in a casual Nazi salute.
‘‘I very much appreciate your finding time for me on the weekend, Herr Ambassador,’’ he said.
‘‘I am at your service, Herr Standartenführer,’’ Ambassador Manfred Alois Graf von Lutzenberger replied. He neither rose from his seat nor returned the salute. Instead he offered his hand, then waved Goltz into a chair.
‘‘May I request that First Secretary Gradny-Sawz and Oberst Grüner join us?’’ Goltz asked.
Von Lutzenberger picked up his telephone.
‘‘Will you ask Herr Gradny-Sawz and Oberst Grüner to come in, please?’’ he ordered. ‘‘And bring in a kleines fruhstück for all of us, please?’’ (Kleines fruhstück, ‘‘little breakfast’’: pastry and coffee.)
He smiled at Goltz.
‘‘Gradny-Sawz has some difficulty with the Argentine version of the kleines fruhstück,’’ he said. ‘‘As a Viennese, he naturally believes Viennese pastry is the best in the world. More cream, more butter.’’
‘‘And?’’
‘‘They make the same pastry here. Viennese make the same pastry here. Even the names in Spanish are the same. Except that if the Viennese recipe calls for six eggs, and two hundred grams of butter, here they use a dozen eggs and half a kilo of butter. It not only does terrible things to Gradny-Sawz’s waistline, but causes him to question his most sacred belief in the superiority of all things Viennese. ’’
Goltz smiled. ‘‘I knew Gradny-Sawz in Vienna,’’ he said. ‘‘Before the Anschlusse.’’
‘‘So I understand,’’ von Lutzenberger said, and then, as the door opened, ‘‘Ah, here he is!’’
Gradny-Sawz came into the room and gave a somewhat more correct Nazi salute than Goltz had done earlier.
‘‘Heil Hitler!’’ he said. ‘‘Good morning, Herr Ambassador Graf.’’
Oberst Karl-Heinz Grüner, in civilian clothing, was on his heels. His only greeting was a curt bow of his head to the Ambassador.
‘‘I’ve ordered coffee and some cake,’’ von Lutzenberger said, neither acknowledging Gradny-Sawz’s greeting nor returning his salute.
Gradny-Sawz then walked to a couch and settled himself comfortably on it. Grüner sat down beside him.
‘‘Josef,’’ Gradny-Sawz said, ‘‘you won’t believe the pastry here. It’s quite as good as in Vienna. Probably because it’s made by Viennese.’’
Goltz and von Lutzenberger smiled at each other.
Von Lutzenberger’s secretary, Fräulein Ingebord Hässell, wheeled in a cart loaded with pastries and a silver coffee service.
Gradny-Sawz looked it over without paying much notice to Fräulei
n Hässell. She was a middle-aged spinster who wore her graying hair drawn tight against her skull and gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck.
‘‘And even Schlagobers’’—whipped cream—he said. ‘‘It’s almost like being in Vienna.’’
The secretary went to the Ambassador first and then to each of the others in turn and poured coffee, adding sugar and spoonfuls of Schlagobers as directed. Finally, after awaiting pointed finger instructions, she slid pastries on plates and served them.
‘‘That will be all, Fräulein Hässell, thank you,’’ von Lutzenberger said when she was finished, ‘‘and no interruptions of any kind, please.’’
Fräulein Hässell smiled tightly and left the room.
Goltz set his coffee cup down, stood up, and went to von Lutzenberger.
‘‘The first question we Germans always ask is ‘by whose authority?’ ’’ he said with a smile. ‘‘This is my authority, Herr Ambassador Graf.’’
He handed him the envelope he had received from Reichsleiter Martin Bormann at Wolf’s Lair.
Von Lutzenberger opened the envelope, read the letter without any visible reaction, refolded it, replaced it in the envelope, and handed it back to Goltz.
‘‘A remarkable document, Herr Standartenführer,’’ he said.
Goltz handed the envelope to Grüner.
Not to Gradny-Sawz, von Lutzenberger thought. Which means that Gradny-Sawz has already seen it.
‘‘It should go without saying that what is said in this room goes no further,’’ Goltz said.
‘‘It’s really a pity this is a secret document,’’ Grüner said, handing it back to him. ‘‘With those signatures on it, it would bring a hell of a price from a dealer in signatures of the powerful.’’
‘‘I’ll keep it,’’ Goltz said, ‘‘with that in mind, Herr Oberst. Perhaps after the war . . .’’
There were polite chuckles. Gradny-Sawz’s chuckle came a little after the Ambassador’s.
Blood and Honor Page 27
