“Fine.”
“You up to riding a horse, Theater Commander, sir?”
“Do I have to remind you that I’m a Texan and an Aggie?”
“Okay. Breakfast at seven-thirty, then we’ll ride out there.”
“Seven-thirty. And now I’m going to go to bed. It’s been a long day.”
“Yeah,” Frade agreed.
Before he took a shower and went to bed, Graham sat at the desk in his room and tried to recall the words of the oath an officer swore when he accepted the commission. He started to write them down. He had a good memory, but he knew when he looked at what he had written that he didn’t have it all, and that what he did have was not right.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll change the wording anyway.
[THREE]
Casa Núrmero Veintidós Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province Republic of Argentina 0925 5 July 1943
There were more than seventy numbered casas scattered around the three hundred forty square miles of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. The term casa, meaning “house,” was somewhat misleading. There was always more than just a house. There were stables and barns and all the other facilities required to operate what were in effect the seventy farming subdivisions of the estancia. And on each casa there was always more than one house; sometimes there were as many as four.
Some of them were permanently occupied by the supervisor—and, of course, his family—of the surrounding area, the people who worked its land. And some of them were used only when there was a good deal of work to be done in the area, and the workers were too far from their houses or the village near the Big House to, so to speak, commute.
House Number 23 was one of the larger houses. It looked—probably by intention—like a small version of the Big House. Built within a stand of trees, against the winds of the pampas, it was surrounded on three sides by four smaller houses. The casa itself had a verandah on three sides. Inside, there was a great room, a dining room, an office, a kitchen, and five bedrooms. It had, as did the two- and three-bedroom smaller houses, a wood-fired parrilla and a dome-shaped oven. One building housed a MAN diesel generator, which powered the lights, the water pumps, the freezers, and the refrigerators. El Patron had taken good care of his workers.
It was an ideal place for Team Turtle to make their home. Comfortable and far from prying eyes.
When Frade and Graham rode up to it, the members of Team Turtle were waiting for them, looking much like they had the previous day, except that Graham suspected that when they “went home” from the Big House last night, more than one of them had had a nightcap or three. Or more.
“Gentlemen, if you’ll gather around me,” Graham said, “I’ll explain what’s going on.”
He delivered that lecture much as he had practiced it in his head on the ride over. And was pleased that everybody was paying attention, and there were no looks of displeasure.
“And under this new system,” he concluded, “Major Frade has been made area commander. Chief Schultz has been appointed—because of the nature of his cryptographic duties, primarily, but for other reasons as well—as senior agent. All the rest of you will be special agents.”
And nobody seems to object to that either. Or be surprised.
“So now, gentlemen, if you’ll form a rank and come to attention, I will administer the oath of office and present you with your credentials. Which you don’t get to keep, by the way. Area Commander Frade will keep them for you.”
They formed a ragged line.
Graham barked, “Atten-hut!” and they came to attention and the line straightened out. When it had, Graham barked, “Attention to Orders. Headquarters, War Department, Washington, D.C., General Orders No. 150, 25 June 1943. Paragraph 117. First Lieutenant Madison Sawyer, 0567422, Cavalry, is promoted Captain, with date of rank 25 June 1943.”
Captain Sawyer’s response was not what Graham expected. He smiled broadly. Captain Ashton reached over and shook his hand. The others applauded.
Graham had another fey thought.
What the hell, why not? God knows they deserve it.
And when I get back to Washington, I’ll make it legal if I have to intercept General George Catlett Marshall on his morning canter through Rock Creek Park.
“Paragraph 118,” Graham bellowed. Everyone looked at him in confusion. “The following enlisted men, Detached Enlisted Man’s List, are promoted as follows: Technical Sergeant William Ferris to be Master Sergeant; Staff Sergeant Jerry O’Sullivan to be Technical Sergeant; Sergeant Sigfried Stein to be Staff Sergeant.”
Since I thought of it only sixty seconds ago, those promotions came as a surprise. But their faces show how much they’re pleased.
So what do I do now for the chief?
“This is unofficial,” Graham went on, “but shortly—promotion processes seem to take longer in the Naval Service—I expect there will be a communication from the chief of Naval Operations informing Chief Schultz that he has been commissioned Lieutenant, USN (Reserve) (Limited Duty) with immediate effect, and concurrent call to active duty.”
“I’ll be a sonofabitch!” Chief Schultz said.
And there will be such a message, if I have to go to the commander in chief to get him to personally order the chief of Naval Operations to send it.
“Raise your right hand and repeat after me: ‘I—state your name and rank—’ ”
There was a jumbled muttering of names and ranks.
“ ‘—do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the OSS officers appointed over me; that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office upon which I am about to enter; that I will guard with my life until my death, unless sooner relieved of this obligation by competent authority, all classified material entrusted to me, or which I acquire through the execution of my duties; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservations or purpose of evasion whatsoever; so help me God.’ ”
When he was finished, Graham walked down the line and handed everybody their leather folder that held the gold badge and photo identification card.
Everybody looks pleased.
More than pleased. This fraudulent little exercise of mine is for them a solemn occasion.
I should be ashamed of myself, but I’m not, and not only because I thought it was necessary to make the fraud, but because it’s made these guys feel important and necessary.
And they damn sure are.
Chief Schultz’s Dorotea—a pleasantly plump thirty-five-year-old Argentine who supervised the servants of Casa Número Veintidós and whom he perhaps ungallantly but accurately described as his live-in dictionary—served coffee and croissants that had been baked in the wood-fired outdoor oven. Graham collected letters that he would make sure were mailed in the United States when he got home. Frade collected the credentials and put them into his saddlebag.
Graham shook everybody’s hand, then he and Frade got on their horses and rode back across the pampas to the Big House.
At four-thirty in the afternoon, Graham was back at El Palomar, where he boarded the Lockheed Lodestar that was Varig Flight 107 for Pôrto Alegre, Brazil.
IV
[ONE]
Aboard the Motor Vessel Ciudad de Cádiz 48 Degrees 85 Minutes South Latitude 59 Degrees 45 Minutes West Longitude 1200 7 July 1943