Blood and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  ‘‘You’re sure?’’

  ‘‘He told me.’’

  ‘‘OK. New plan. Tell me what you find wrong with it,’’ Graham said. ‘‘You go pick up the Lockheed. Digression: Presumably Captain Delgano is going to help you fly it here, right? You cannot fly the Lockheed alone?’’

  ‘‘No. I mean, yes, I can fly the Lockheed alone. And I got Martín to agree that I didn’t need Delgano’s help. It took some doing. He wanted Delgano to see what I planned to do with the Lockheed.’’

  Is that one more proof, Graham wondered, that Cavalry is el Coronel Martín?

  ‘‘So do I,’’ Graham said. ‘‘Damn!’’

  ‘‘I’m not following any of this,’’ Dorotéa announced.

  ‘‘What I wanted to do, Dorotéa,’’ Graham said, ‘‘was have Capitán Delgano aboard the Lockheed when we took the pictures of a boat leaving the Océano Pacífico to smuggle something into Argentina. Of the boat leaving the Océano Pacífico, of the boat landing on the shore of Samboromb ón Bay, and returning to the Océano Pacífico. Lieutenant Pelosi would take two photographs of everything, giving us a duplicate set of negatives. One set of negatives would be given to Capitán Delgano, together with the necessary special chemicals to develop them.’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ Clete said appreciatively. ‘‘He goes to Martín and says, ‘I know these are legitimate. I was there when they were taken.’ ’’

  ‘‘And the Americans have copies,’’ Graham said. ‘‘So they couldn’t simply ignore them—‘What photographs?’ Actually, it gives them a way out. Nobody has mentioned the other reason why the Comerciante del Océano Pacífico is in Samborombón Bay resupplying German submarines. The Argentines could then go to the Spanish ambassador and tell him they were ordering the Océano Pacífico out of Argentine waters because it was caught in the act of smuggling, and here’s the photographs to prove it.’’

  ‘‘Delgano’s probably still at Campo de Mayo,’’ Clete said. ‘‘For two reasons: to keep people from getting curious about the Lockheed being there in the first place, and because I told Martín I would probably fly over there in one of the Cubs here to pick it up. I’m sure, to be a nice guy, he was planning on flying the Cub back here to see if the Lockheed was here. And/or see what else he could find out.’’

  ‘‘And you could politely ask him to help you fly the Lockheed?’’ Graham asked.

  ‘‘Yeah.’’

  ‘‘You’ll have to come here to load the camera platform on the Lockheed,’’ Graham said. ‘‘Will you have any trouble persuading him to go with you from here?’’

  ‘‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll have any trouble at all,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘And then you’ll go out and photograph this ship, the same way you photographed the first one, when you were shot down?’’ Dorotéa asked.

  Uh-oh, Graham thought, this is where she’s going to say, ‘‘Over my dead, pregnant body you will!’’

  ‘‘If we’re two miles away, honey,’’ Clete said, ‘‘I don’t think they’ll start shooting at us.’’

  ‘‘And if they do?’’ Dorotéa asked.

  ‘‘Then I leave,’’ Clete said, as much to Graham as to Dorotéa.

  ‘‘You promise?’’ she challenged.

  Clete hesitated before replying. ‘‘Honey, I promise you I won’t do anything stupid out there.’’

  Please, God, Graham thought, let that be enough to satisfy her.

  ‘‘You understand, Colonel,’’ Dorotéa said, ‘‘that this is the last time Cletus is doing anything like this?’’

  ‘‘If this works, Dorotéa,’’ Graham said, hoping he sounded far more sincere than he felt, ‘‘there won’t be anything more like this for him to do.’’

  ‘‘You could be expected to say something like that,’’ she said.

  ‘‘The truth, Dorotéa, is that Clete is far more valuable to the United States government for his influence on General Rawson—on the new Argentine government—than as an OSS agent. If something like this comes up again, we’ll send other people in to do it.’’

  ‘‘You don’t know my . . . Cletus very well, obviously, Colonel,’’ she said. She almost said ‘‘my husband,’’ Graham realized. ‘‘If ‘something like this comes up again,’ Cletus will play the damn fool again. I want you to understand, Colonel, that the next time, I’m fighting you tooth and nail.’’

  ‘‘Fair enough,’’ Graham said.

  ‘‘And in Dorotéa, mi Coronel,’’ Clete said, smiling, obviously proud of her, ‘‘you can expect to meet your match.’’

  ‘‘I have already figured that out, Major Frade,’’ Graham said. ‘‘OK, let me get into the rest of it. The matériel the Germans will unload from the Océano Pacífico.’’

  ‘‘We’re letting them unload the money?’’ Clete asked, surprised.

  Graham didn’t reply directly.

  ‘‘Leibermann has the entire staff of the Office of the Legal Attaché of the Embassy—and some of their local hires—on the way out here. They’ll follow the matériel from the beach to its ultimate destination.’’

  ‘‘You’re letting those bastards bring that dirty money into Argentina?’’ Clete demanded incredulously. ‘‘You know what they’re going to do with it!’’

  ‘‘I decided there was a strong possibility that if we grabbed the money today, there would be several unfortunate consequences,’’ Graham said. ‘‘And I don’t mean only that the only escape route I’ve ever heard of from German extermination camps would probably be closed for good.’’

  Clete considered that a moment and grunted.

  ‘‘And, aside from that, I decided that it posed an unacceptable risk to Galahad,’’ Graham went on. ‘‘There would be questions asked, on their side, about how we knew precisely where and when the matériel—the money—was to be landed. Only a few people were privy to that information, among them, obviously, Galahad. The Germans have the nasty habit of eliminating people they suspect are guilty. I don’t want Galahad eliminated.’’

  ‘‘So you can use him again, right?’’ Clete said bitterly.

  ‘‘Right.’’

  Their eyes met for a moment, and then Graham went on: ‘‘When Lieutenant Sawyer was at Yale—’’

  ‘‘Lieutenant Sawyer?’’ Dorotéa interrupted. ‘‘Who’s he?’’

  ‘‘Lieutenant Madison R. Sawyer the Third,’’ Clete furnished, his tone mocking Sawyer’s Oh, So Social-sounding name. ‘‘He’s on Ashton’s team. Ashton calls him ‘the gorilla. ’ ’’

  ‘‘When Lieutenant Sawyer was at Yale, he was a photographer for the Yale Daily News,’’ Graham went on. ‘‘He tells Ashton, and we have no choice but to take him at his word, that he will have no problem photographing, on the ground, the landing of the matériel from the Océano Pac ífico. With a little bit of luck, we will furnish your friend Martín not only photographs of the matériel actually being unloaded on the beach, but of our friend Standartenführer Goltz and/or Colonel Grüner supervising the unloading. That will give the Argentine government sufficient cause to persona non grata either of them, hopefully both.’’

  ‘‘What does that mean?’’ Dorotéa asked.

  The idea of having Grüner booted out of the country didn’t seem to bother Clete at all, Graham thought, thereby eliminating Grüner as Galahad, and confirming, if it needed confirming, that Galahad is von Wachtstein.

  ‘‘When someone on a diplomatic passport does something wrong,’’ Graham said, ‘‘such as smuggling, the host government declares him persona non grata—a person not welcome—and asks him to leave the country.’’

  ‘‘It will also tip the Germans that we know about the money,’’ Clete challenged.

  ‘‘Why? So far as they’re concerned, the money will have safely arrived, still in its crates, wherever they take it.’’

  ‘‘They will wonder how someone just happened to be taking pictures where they were landing the money,’’ Clete argued.

  ‘‘Look,’’ Gr
aham said, ‘‘an amateur photographer is walking along the beach and happens to see the strange activity of people unloading crates from a boat and takes pictures of it with his Brownie. If Lieutenant Sawyer’s photographs don’t naturally look like the work of an amateur photographer, they can be made to look that way.’’ He paused, then went on. ‘‘Actually, Leibermann has a local cop on his payroll who can turn them in. That’s just between us.’’

  ‘‘Why don’t we just tell Leibermann’s cop what’s about to happen? Let them grab the money?’’

  ‘‘I thought about that. I decided that one cop stumbling across the unloading would not arouse undue suspicion; a dozen cops waiting for the boat would.’’

  Clete shrugged. He could not fault Graham’s logic.

  ‘‘There are several problems involved with getting Lieutenant Sawyer to the proper place at the properly appointed time in the properly appointed uniform—civilian clothing— to take his pictures,’’ Graham said. ‘‘For one thing, he’s in Argentina illegally. For another, despite his protestations to the contrary, the Germans are liable to see him. He would not be able to defend himself, because I don’t want him carrying a weapon.’’

  ‘‘I could send Enrico with him,’’ Clete thought aloud. ‘‘Enrico and Rudolpho.’’

  ‘‘Señor Clete?’’ Enrico asked, having heard his name.

  Clete switched to Spanish.

  ‘‘This morning, Enrico, you and Rudolpho are going to go riding along the beach.’’

  ‘‘Where will you be, Señor Clete?’’

  ‘‘I’ll be flying the airplane,’’ Clete said. ‘‘And you can’t go with me.’’ He waited to deal with the expected objections to that; and when—surprising him—there were none, went on. ‘‘You will take el Teniente Gorilla with you. He will be taking photographs of the Germans unloading crates from a boat.’’

  ‘‘And what do we do about the Germans?’’

  ‘‘Nothing, absolutely nothing. We don’t even want them to see you. If they do see you, you’re to leave immediately. But I don’t want them to see you. This is very important. What I want you to do is put el Teniente Gorilla in a position to take his photographs, and when he’s finished, bring him back here. Only if necessary, and I mean absolutely necessary, are you to use your guns to protect el Teniente Gorilla. No dead Germans, you understand, Enrico?’’

  "Sí, Señor Clete,’’ Enrico agreed with obvious reluctance.

  ‘‘If you do what Señor Clete asks you to do, Suboficial Mayor,’’ Graham said, ‘‘it will result in the deaths of far more Germans than the ones you will see on the beach.’’

  Enrico considered that idea and seemed to like it.

  "Sí, mi Coronel,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Unless anyone has anything else?’’ Graham asked, looking around the room, and then finished, ‘‘I think we should, quickly, take advantage of Dorotéa’s buffet breakfast. ’’

  [TWO] Aboard Motor Vessel Comerciante del Océano Pacífico Samborombón Bay River Plate Estuary, Argentina 0810 19 April 1943

  Capitán Jose Francisco de Banderano, master of the Océano Pacífico, was, of course being generously compensated for his services—as was his crew. There had been a generous sign-on bonus, and a promise of an equal amount at the conclusion of the voyage, even if the ship was lost. In addition, each month an amount equal to, and in addition to, his monthly pay would be delivered to his wife, in cash— and thus tax-free. If things should go really wrong, his wife would receive a generous death benefit, plus a pension for the rest of her life. The German Naval Attaché in Madrid had made similar provisions for every member of his crew.

  But the generous pay was not the reason he had accepted the commission. He believed in the German cause.

  Like his father and grandfather before him, Capitán de Banderano was a graduate of the Spanish Royal Navy Academy. He graduated at eighteen, was appointed a midshipman, and then, on attaining his twenty-first birthday, was commissioned a Lieutenant in the Royal Spanish Navy.

  By the time the Communists started the revolution, he had risen to Lieutenant Commander and was in command of the frigate Almirante de Posco. Before the revolution, he hoped to rise in rank to Capitán—as his father had—or possibly even to Almirante—as his grandfather had.

  The revolution changed all that. He was early on detached from the Almirante de Posco to serve on the staff of General Francisco Franco, El Caudillo, when that great man saw it as his Christian duty to expel the godless Communists from Spain and restore Spain to her former greatness.

  As the Civil War dragged on and on, his duties had less and less to do with the Navy, but they took him to all fronts and gave him the opportunity to see what the Communists had in mind for Spain. And they were godless, the Antichrist. He saw the murdered priests and the raped nuns.

  Hitler, ‘‘Der Führer,’’ and Benito Mussolini, ‘‘Il Duce,’’ were deeply aware of the nature of the Communists, and of the threat communism posed to the very survival of Christian civilization; and they sent help. Der Führer more than Il Duce, to be sure, but both came to the aid of a Christianity that once again had infidel hordes raging at her gates.

  Without the help German weapons provided to General Franco’s army, without the aerial support of the German Condor Legion, it was entirely possible that the war could have been lost.

  The English and the Americans remained ‘‘neutral,’’ but that in practice meant they were helping the loyalists. The Americans even sent soldiers, formed into the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, to aid the Communists.

  Capitán de Banderano was frankly baffled by the behavior of the English and the Americans. The usual answer to this conundrum was that they were not Roman Catholic, and their ‘‘churches’’ had been infiltrated and corrupted by Communists; but he thought that was too simple an answer. A large number of the Germans who came to help Spain were Protestant. He also thought the other answer was too simple: that the Jews controlled both England and America.

  Too many good Spanish Jews had fought as valiantly as anyone on the side of El Caudillo to believe that all Jews were allied with the Antichrist.

  But whatever their reasons for opposing Hitler, for refusing to accept that the war Hitler was waging against the Communists was their own war, the fact was that England and America were fighting Germany, and that was sufficient cause for him to do whatever he could to oppose them.

  The notion of violating the Rules of Warfare by violating Argentine neutrality would have deeply offended him before the Civil War. Now it seemed only right. The actions of the English during the Civil War were blatantly antagonistic to neutrality. And later, the actions of the Americans after the beginning of the current war, but before they themselves joined the hostilities, were equally contrary to neutrality.

  There was no command for Capitán de Banderano in the post-Civil War Royal Spanish Navy. Spain was destitute— and not only because the Communists stole literally tons of gold, almost the entire gold stocks of the kingdom, and took it to Russia. There was hardly enough money to operate —much less construct—men-of-war. The once proud Spanish navy was on its knees, again, thanks to the Communists.

  Thus, his service during the Civil War was rewarded with a command in the Spanish merchant navy. He saw with his own eyes and heard with his own ears American Navy ships roaming the North Atlantic searching for German submarines —which had every right under international law to sink vessels laden with war matériel and bound for England. When the American ships found one, they reported their positions by radio, in the clear. ‘‘In the clear’’ meant that radios aboard English men-of-war were given the positions of their enemy by ‘‘neutral’’ American men-of-war.

  In Capitán de Banderano’s opinion, the English and the Americans were absolutely hypocritical in their denunciation of anyone else who violated neutrality.

  And it was the further judgment of Capitán de Banderano that the captain of the American destroyer Alfred Thomas deserved to be brought be
fore an international tribunal for reckless endangerment on the high seas and put in prison.

  He almost wished the American destroyer put a shot across his bows then, or took some other action. He thought there was a good chance he could have blown her out of the water with naval cannon carried aboard the Océano Pacífico in false superstructure.

  He had always been skilled with naval artillery. He suspected —but did not know—that someone who knew him in the Admiralty had recommended him to the Germans for command of the Comerciante del Océano Pacífico because of this skill.

  In any event, he was approached about taking command of the Océano Pacífico on a ‘‘special mission’’—and of course he suspected that mission was to replace the Reine de la Mer that the Americans had sunk. When the command was offered, he made up his mind to accept the commission even before the generous emoluments were mentioned.

  Even if there was, so to speak, no command of the Royal Navy available to him, even if he was technically a civilian, he knew in his heart that he would be fighting the Antichrist, the godless Communists.

  Capitán de Banderano was in his cabin shaving when the Second Officer knocked and announced that a small boat was approaching the Océano Pacífico from the port.

  ‘‘How far?’’

  ‘‘A mile or so, Sir. I would say she will come close in five minutes.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, I will be there directly.’’

  Capitán de Banderano finished shaving, put on his tunic, and went to the bridge. He picked his binoculars from its rack and walked out on the flying bridge, where he found the binoculars unnecessary. He could quite clearly read the gold-lettered name of the vessel on its bow with his naked eye—Coronel Gasparo.

  His first thought was that a boat of that type had no business so far out in the bay. She was a river craft, lean, narrow, and long. In a moment he recognized her for what she was: one of the river craft that plied the maze of waters of El Tigre, north of Buenos Aires.

  What in the name of all the saints is she doing out here in the first place, so far from the sheltered waters of El Tigre? And in the second place, why is she pulling alongside me?