Adding to his dilemma, although he’d given the question a great deal of thought, Martín wasn’t sure where el Almirante’s loyalties lay—with the President? With the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos? Or was he still sitting on the fence?
But no matter where el Almirante sat, he would have to be made aware of this latest development. No matter what happened, Martín could not afford to have his loyalty to his superior questioned.
Martín reached for his telephone and dialed el Almirante’s private, supposed-to-be-secure number.
“Martín, mi Almirante. I have something I’d like to discuss with you as soon as possible.”
[FOUR]
Surprising Martín not at all, once the Chief of the Bureau of Internal Security of the Ministry of National Defense was apprised of the problem, he rose from his desk, locked his hands behind his back, stared for three minutes out his window at the Río de la Plata—it seemed longer than that—and then turned around to face Martín.
I will now be ordered to do what I think best under the circumstances, thus putting my neck and not his on the chopping block. But telling him is still the right thing.
“How, Coronel, do we know that the fellow who arrived from the United States yesterday is in fact el Coronel Frade’s son?” el Almirante asked.
The question came as a surprise.
“Mi Almirante,” Martín began, aware that he sounded as if he didn’t really know what he was talking about, which was exactly how he felt, “he has a passport in that name.”
El Almirante dismissed the passport with a wave of his hand.
“There are two possibilities,” el Almirante said. “He is, or he isn’t. As I would hope you have learned by now, Coronel, I am one of those who believe in assigning tasks to people in whom I have confidence and then letting them get on with it. But in this matter, I think a suggestion is in order.”
“¿Sí, mi Almirante?”
“I would suggest that your next step would be to ascertain that Cletus Marcus Howell is, or is not, the son of el Coronel Frade…”
And how will I do that? Martín’s mind raced. Fingerprints? Even if I can get this fellow’s fingerprints, what would I compare them to?
“…and the way I suggest you do that is ask el Coronel Frade. In either possibility, I daresay that el Coronel could not help but be interested that a man representing himself to be his son has arrived in the country.”
“Sí, Señor,” Martín said, less as an acknowledgment of receiving an order than as an agreement that this was the way to deal with the situation.
“Let me know what you find out, Martín,” el Almirante said, dismissing him.
[FIVE]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo
Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province
1225 23 November 1942
After his session with el Almirante, el Teniente Coronel Martín considered the possibilities:
The best would be that the young man was not the son of el Coronel Frade, but some sort of American agent. Then el Coronel Frade could not help but be impressed with the BIS’s ability to find him out.
This was a credible scenario: It was a standard practice of intelligence agencies worldwide to issue spurious credentials in the name of a real person, often a dead one. There was no reason to think the Americans were less skilled than anybody else at that sort of thing. If, for example, an American intelligence functionary charged with reading newspaper obituaries had come across the name of a young man, or a child—or even an infant—stating that he had been born-in Argentina, the name and statistics would have been filed away for possible future use.
There were several possibilities that were not as pleasant to consider. For instance, the young man could well be who he said he was. And from his looks, that was quite likely.
That’s going to place me on dangerous ground with el Coronel Frade. I can’t imagine a better way to antagonize a proud and powerful officer than showing him a photograph of his son and telling him that BIS thinks he might be an intelligence agent who is possibly operating against the best interests of Argentina.
And if he is el Coronel’s son, that raises other embarrassing questions: What is the relationship between el Coronel and his son? Why has the boy never even been to Argentina before? That suggests that the boy is a skeleton in el Coronel’s closet, whose door he felt sure was firmly closed…until BIS stuck its nose once again in his business.
And if the young man is both el Coronel’s son and an American intelligence agent—which is unlikely, but possible—is el Coronel aware of this? Is the son here because the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos has turned to the Americans for help? Or is the young man here to offer that help? And is the American government, which would dearly like to see President Castilló out of office, aware of the relationship between el Coronel Frade and the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos, and playing the father-son card?
Perhaps it would have been better to snoop around a little more, perhaps even ask the Embassy in Washington or the Consulate in New Orleans to see what they could find out about “Cletus Howell Frade.” But, following the session with el Almirante de Montoya, that was no longer an option.
Though Martín normally worked in civilian clothing and drove an unmarked Bureau of Internal Security Chevrolet, for his visit to el Coronel Frade he decided to wear his uniform (his basic branch was Cavalry) and arrange for an Army sedan with a soldier driver. Perhaps, if he was lucky, el Coronel Frade would be reminded that he was an officer, a Cavalry officer, simply doing his duty. He also decided not to call ahead and ask for an appointment; Frade was likely to be “unavailable” if he did that. But he would make sure that Frade was at home.
When he called Frade’s Buenos Aires home, a large mansion at Number 1728 Avenida Coronel Díaz, he was told that Frade was at the estancia, and was not expected to return to the city for several days.
Which is understandable, Martín thought. If I didn’t have to be in the city in the middle of the summer, I wouldn’t be here either.
This required only a minor change in his plans. At 10:15 he left Buenos Aires in the backseat of an Army Mercedes open sedan, drove down Route Two to the turnoff to LaPlata, had a nice luncheon in the Hotel Savoy, then returned to Route Two and drove down it past Lake Chascomús to the Pila turnoff, and then down to Pila.
According to the map, the government road ended at Pila. But there was no visible evidence of this. A sign, of brick and wrought iron, at the side of the road read “San Pedro y San Pablo,” but he saw no other indication he was now traveling on a private road.
Fifteen kilometers past the sign, he could see glimpses of the sprawling, white painted stone main building, sitting with its outbuildings in a two- or three-hectare manicured garden, all set within a windbreak of a triple row of tall cedars.
Those cedars were planted a long time ago, Martín thought. And then, There are parks in Buenos Aires smaller than el Coronel Frade’s garden.
As he came closer, he saw a landing strip in a field outside the windbreak. Four airplanes were parked on it: a stagger-wing Beechcraft, a luxurious, six-place machine he had seen and admired at El Palomar, the civilian airport on the outskirts of Buenos Aires (this was almost certainly Frade’s aircraft; he owned such an airplane); a two-place Piper Cub; and two Fieseler Störches. The Piper had civilian markings, while the Fieselers had Argentine Army markings. Fieselers were provided to the Army as another gesture of friendship and respect by the Germans.
The Fieselers and the Piper might well have just dropped into the Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo for a cup of coffee and a friendly chat with our old comrade-in-arms Jorge Guillermo Frade. But it’s more likely that I’ve come upon a meeting of the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos.
So what to do now? Turn around and go back to Buenos Aires, hoping that no one has noticed an official Army car turn around close to the house? There are gauchos in the fields. It’s entirely possible that they are posted as guards or lookouts, and that they sent one of their number gallopin
g across the pampa to the house to report an Army car on the road. Cutting across the pampa, they can get to the house long before I do.
Innocence, I think, is the best face to put on this. If I were placing the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos under surveillance, I would hardly show up in uniform in an Army Mercedes.
A burly man in a brown suit stepped off the shaded verandah as Martín’s driver was opening the door for him. There was something about him—his bearing, his immaculate shave—that made Martín suspect he had spent a large portion of his life in the Army, and probably in the Cavalry.
That has to be el Coronel’s chauffeur and bodyguard, Martín decided. Suboficial Mayor—Sergeant Major—Rodríguez retired with el Coronel Frade from the Husares de Pueyrredón.
“Buenas tardes, mi Coronel,” the man said.
“I would like to see el Coronel Frade,” Martín announced.
“Does el Coronel expect you, mi Coronel?”
No question about it. The gauchos alerted them to my arrival, and this fellow is Suboficial Major Rodríguez, Retired.
“No, he does not.”
“If you will be so kind to wait, mi Coronel, I will see if el Coronel is at home.”
“Gracias.”
Two minutes later, the retired soldier was back.
“If you will be so kind as to come with me, mi Coronel.”
El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, wearing riding breeches, boots, and an open-collared shirt, was waiting for him inside the house, in a large room with an enormous fireplace framed with carved and gilded wooden columns that looked as if they belonged in a museum. The floor was nearly covered with Persian carpeting, beneath which a red-tiled floor could be seen.
“I am Coronel Frade,” he said, offering his hand. “Welcome to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. May I offer you a cup of coffee? Something stronger?”
Martín saluted before taking the hand.
“I am Martín. At your service, mi Coronel. No, thank you, Señor.”
“How may I help you, Coronel Martín?”
Martín took his credentials from his pocket and extended them to Frade.
“How did an honest cavalryman become connected with the BIS?” Frade asked.
“It is a long and painful story, mi Coronel,” Martín said, smiling.
“I am at your service, and that of Internal Security, Coronel.”
“This is a delicate matter, mi Coronel,” Martín said. “Absent more pressing duties, el Almirante de Montoya would have handled this himself.”
“Why don’t we get to the point, Coronel?” Frade said, more than a hint of impatience in his voice.
“I have some photographs, mi Coronel,” Martín said, reaching into his briefcase for the envelope containing a dozen from the more than fifty photographs Habanzo had laid on his desk the day before. “May I show them to you?”
Frade went through them one by one. The first several showed three people getting into the ostentatious Rolls-Royce convertible Enrico Mallín insisted on driving.
There is something vaguely American about the other two men, he thought. Where was this taken?
The next several photographs showed everybody leaving the Rolls. He recognized the site. Avenue Alvear.
They’re getting out of the Rolls at the Alvear Palace Hotel.
Who the hell are these people?
What’s the interest of Internal Security in Enrico Mallín?
There is something very American about the tall one.
Holy Mary, Mother of Christ!
The balance of the photographs were views of the men in the lobby and lobby bar of the hotel.
One of them showed…Christ, my son, my son!…looking with obvious appreciation at a rather spectacular Miña fawning over an old fool standing at the bar.
There was another one of that. Cletus…my son, my son…sprawled in a chair, legs outstretched and ankles crossed, wearing boots…what do you expect, he was raised in Texas, in Texas they stretch their legs and wear boots…a glass of beer in his hand, and looking with healthy admiration at the Miña.
What in the name of the Blessed Virgin and all the saints is he doing in Argentina?
The last two pictures showed Cletus entering Mallín’s car and driving off down the Avenue Alvear.
He handed the photographs back to Martín.
“Well? What was I supposed to see in those?”
“Mi Coronel, with respect, did you recognize anyone in those photographs?”
“Yes, of course. Enrico Mallín. The man with the mustache.”
“Mi Coronel, with respect, no one else?”
“I have no idea who the short one is. The taller one is my son.” He met Martín’s eyes. “I didn’t think you were asking if I recognized my son.”
“Excuse me, mi Coronel. No offense was intended.”
“No offense was taken. But I am, naturally, interested to know why BIS is interested in my son.”
“There was some question, mi Coronel, whether or not he was in fact your son.”
“A question in whose mind?”
“Mine, I am sorry to say, mi Coronel. I am paid to be suspicious of the innocent.”
“Yes, I know,” Frade said dryly.
“I will not trouble you further, mi Coronel,” Martín said. “Thank you for receiving me without notice.”
“I’m always pleased to be able to put the mind of the BIS to rest,” Frade said.
“Mi Coronel. One final question. To close this matter, so to speak. So far as we know, this is the first time Señor Frade has visited Argentina. Could you comment on that?”
“I would presume it would have something to do with Howell Petroleum. It is a large norteamericano oil company owned by his grandfather. They do much business here. With Señor Mallín. Are you telling me you didn’t know that?”
“Excuse me, mi Coronel. Do I understand you to say that you have no knowledge why your son has come to Argentina?”
“My son and I have been estranged since he was a small child,” Frade said. “I haven’t seen him in nearly twenty years. He is an American citizen. And I am surprised that Internal Security didn’t know that, either.”
“You didn’t know he was here, Sir?”
“Not until you showed me those photographs. Is that all, Coronel? I have guests.”
“I thank you very much for receiving me, mi Coronel.”
“Not at all,” Frade said, and put out his hand.
El Teniente Coronel Martín knew that he had been dismissed. He had a number of other questions he would have liked to ask, but he knew he would ask them in vain.
He shook Frade’s hand, saluted, then marched out of the house and stepped into his car.
[SIX]
Frade watched Martín from the doorway as he got back in the Mercedes and drove off. Then he went to a small room inside the house furnished like a library, and took from a shelf a thin volume bound in artificial leather. He thumbed through it until he found the page he had often turned to before. On it were a number of photographs of members of the Tulane University Class of 1940. Below one of these was the caption:
* * *
Cletus H. Frade
“Clete” “Tex”
BA
Clete came to Tulane from Texas A&M
and never quite got the sagebrush out of his hair.
Tennis, Golf, the Aviation Club
Going to Be a Marine Pilot
* * *
He looks much younger in this picture than he did in the ones Martín showed me, but there’s no question that’s him.
I wish I could somehow have kept some of those photographs.
What in the name of Sweet Jesus is he doing here?
Doing here that has attracted the interest of Internal Security?
He closed the book and put it back on the shelf, then left the library and walked across the entrance foyer to the sitting room.
“We were getting worried about you,” el Coronel Guillermo Kleber said.
“No cause for that.”
“What did that man want?” el Coronel Edmundo Wattersly asked, and went on without waiting for a reply. “You know who he is, of course, Jorge?”
“His name is Martín and he’s with Internal Security. It was a personal matter.”
“A personal matter?” Kleber asked incredulously.
“A personal matter, Willy,” Frade said coldly. “It had nothing to do with Grupo de Oficiales Unidos.”
“I devoutly hope you’re right,” Kleber said.
“Can we move on to the business that brought you here?” Frade said impatiently. “You make a very odd-looking nervous old maid, Willy.”
“He saw my airplane, I’m sure,” Kleber said. “That makes me nervous.”
“I’m quite sure BIS has all our names on a list,” Frade said. “And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they have a much longer list of the times we have been together. But until they know what we’re talking about, I don’t think that’s a cause for alarm. You were saying you believe the way to López’s heart is through his pocketbook?”
Coronel Ricardo López commanded the 2nd Regiment of Infantry, stationed near Buenos Aires.
For a moment, it looked as if el Coronel Kleber was unwilling to drop the subject of the visit of el Teniente Coronel Martín to the estancia.
“Jorge, López has no independent means,” Kleber said finally. “He is approaching retirement. For him the difference between a comfortable and a pinchpenny retirement is a promotion to general officer.”
“You’re not telling me he’s asked for money? Or a guarantee of promotion when—if—we decide we must take action?”
“Of course he hasn’t asked for money,” Kleber said, almost angrily. “He’s an honorable man.”
Honor Bound Page 21
