“He’s heard of him,” Frade said flatly.
Graham grinned. “Odd, we’ve found something we agree on. I’ll have to give Putzi a heads-up we’re coming, and why.”
“Just tell him we want him to convince Willi that Putzi was a pal of Adolf and his cronies, and—”
“I know what to tell him,” Graham cut him off. “What I’m thinking is that taking a German officer, in Afrikakorps uniform, into the Hotel Washington may raise some eyebrows.”
“If anybody asks, tell them he’s a character in one of Howard’s movies.”
Graham shook his head.
“And speaking of Howard,” Frade said, “are those guys in the white jackets on the Constellation his or yours? They’re the same ones who were in the Chateau Marmont, right?”
“You mean Howard’s Saints? I wondered how long it was going to take you to get around to asking about them.”
“ ‘Howard’s Saints’?”
“They’re Mormons. Members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. They don’t drink, they don’t smoke, they don’t even drink coffee. They protect Howard from all sorts of threats—some real, some imagined. He pays them very well.”
“Do they carry guns? Can they help Fischer guard Frogger?”
Graham nodded.
“Can we get Howard on the phone while Fischer and Frogger are on their way to the airport? Give him a heads-up?”
Graham nodded and said, “You’re not going with them?”
“Let him worry what you and I are up to,” Frade said. “And then be dazzled by the airplane while he’s waiting for us.”
Graham considered that, then nodded. “Okay.”
Frade walked to the staff car. Frogger was in the backseat, his hands handcuffed behind him. Fischer was standing by the door.
“Get Colonel Frogger out of the hot sun, Major,” Frade ordered. “Put him on the plane. Cuff him to one of the seats halfway down the fuselage. If he tries to escape, shoot him in the foot; try very hard not to kill him. What I don’t need right now is a noble martyr to the Nazi cause.”
“Yes, sir,” Fischer said.
[FOUR]
Bolling Air Force Base Washington, D.C. 1730 6 August 1943
Clete didn’t know, of course, whether Oberstleutnant Frogger was impressed with his tour of the Eastern Seaboard from Connecticut to Washington, D.C.— with a side trip to North Carolina to Pope Air Force Base and Fort Bragg—but as Frade lined up the Constellation with the runway at Bolling, he didn’t see how Frogger could not be. He had been dazzled himself.
After the flyover of Bragg and Pope—and they had been lucky there; an enormous fleet of C-47s was in the process of disgorging a regiment of paratroopers as they flew over—they had flown to north of New York City, where Hughes had called Air Traffic Control and reported they were having pressurization problems, and requested an approach to the field at Newark at no higher than five thousand feet.
That allowed them to fly at that altitude over Manhattan Island. The Hudson River was full of ships, and they got a look at the bustling shipyards in New Jersey. Taking on fuel at Newark gave them forty minutes on the ground, which in turn gave them—and, more important, Frogger—that long of a time to see row after row of glistening new B-17 and B-24 heavy bombers preparing to fly to Europe.
Hughes again called Air Traffic Control, reported they were still having pressurization problems, and requested—and received—permission to fly to Bolling at five thousand feet.
Their routing took them over Delaware, then Baltimore, and finally Washington. It was a sunny day and all the buildings of the capital were on clear display, every one untouched by any sign of bombing.
They were third in the pattern to land at Bolling, after a B-26 light bomber and a four-engine Douglas C-54 transport. Frade then greased in the Constellation. He really thought it was a combination of a nice day, a low, slow approach, and a lot of beginner’s luck, but was nonetheless pleased when he heard Howard Hughes say over the intercom, “Not bad, Little Cletus.”
The tower directed them to the tarmac before a remote hangar on the opposite side of the field from Base Operations. The hangar was under heavy guard—submachine-gun armed MPs on foot and others in a three-quarter-ton weapons carrier and a jeep. Frade was curious about that and even more curious to see that a dozen or more men were in the hangar polishing the aluminum skin of a C-54.
Hughes answered his question before Frade could put it into words.
“The Sacred Cow,” he said.
“The what?”
“The Sacred Cow,” Hughes explained, “is the President’s personal aircraft. He really should have one of these; they’re faster, have a longer range, and are more comfortable. But Lockheed makes these, Charley Lindbergh works for Lockheed, and our commander in chief is cutting off his nose to spite his face because he’s got a hard-on for Charley.”
“You’re serious?”
“Don’t tell anyone, Little Cletus, but our noble commander in chief can be a vindictive sonofabitch. Ask your grandfather.”
Ground handlers pushed steps against the Constellation’s rear and behind the cockpit doors. A closed van backed up to the steps rising to the door behind the cockpit. On its sides was a sign: CAPITOL CATERING. A 1940 Packard limousine pulled up to the stairs leading to the passenger compartment. A chauffeur got out and the rear door opened.
Frade walked down the aisle to Frogger, who was handcuffed to one of the seats. A fold-down shelf on the rear of the seat ahead of him held a coffee cup and an ashtray.
Frade squatted in the aisle.
“Welcome to Washington, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
Frogger did not reply.
“One of two things is going to happen now,” Frade said. “I’m going to have the major remove your handcuffs. Then you have your choice of walking forward and going down the stairs and into the van. Or you can be difficult about this, and the handcuffs will be put back on your wrists and you will be led— or carried, if you choose to be difficult—down the wider stairs at the passenger compartment door and put into the van.”
“Where am I being taken?”
“To see Herr Hanfstaengl. He’s a former close friend of your Führer.”
“This entire situation, sir, is a violation of my rights under the Geneva Convention! I demand to see a representative of the International Red Cross!”
Frade stood and looked at Fischer.
“Have them cuff Herr Oberstleutnant’s hands behind his back and put him in the van.”
Frade stood in the passenger door and watched as two of Howard’s Saints marched Frogger down the stairs and to the rear door of the CAPITOL CATERING van. Fischer followed them. The van’s door closed and it drove off.
Frade stepped back and motioned for Colonel Graham to precede him down the stairs. They both got into the limousine and it drove off.
As they left the air base, Frade said, “I don’t suppose there’s a radio in that van, is there? And one in here?”
“There is,” Graham said. “That is, there are. But if you’re thinking of telling them to drive the extra couple blocks to show Frogger the White House, I already have.”
The Packard stopped in front of the Hotel Washington. Graham got out with Frade on his heels, went through the revolving door, and walked purposefully to the bank of elevators. They got on one, and the operator, a burly black man with gray hair, closed the door.
“Good evening, Steve,” Graham said politely. “By now they should be waiting for us in the subbasement.”
“Excuse me, Colonel,” the operator said as he studied Frade and his long locks. “Who’s this gentleman?”
“This is Major Frade,” Graham said.
“My heads-up said you, an MP major, two of Mr. Hughes’s men, and a quote end quote special visitor.”
“And that while we’re in there nobody else is to be admitted?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The MP officer will be in the basement with the special visitor,” Graham explained. “I’ll vouch for this officer.”