“And Leibermann is?”
“The FBI guy in Buenos Aires.”
“The FBI chap in Berne seems to think I am invisible,” Dulles said.
“Leibermann is a good guy. We work well together. Anyway, he brought them out to the estancia, and we’re hiding them until somebody tells me what to do with them.”
“On your estancia?”
“On another one I’d never heard of ten days ago. They’re safe.”
“And Leibermann has reported this to the ambassador? And/or the FBI?”
Frade shook his head.
“Why did they . . . ‘surrender’?”
“They wanted Leibermann to get them to Brazil so they could be interned. Leibermann thinks, and I agree, that they were afraid to go back to Germany because von Deitzberg or Cranz—Frogger’s replacement, actually an SS-OBERSTURMBANNFÜHRER—HAVE not been able to identify von Wachtstein as the spy and are going to hang it on Frogger.”
“This man’s name is Frogger?”
“Wilhelm Frogger. His son and namesake—he had three sons; two got themselves killed—is an oberstleutnant who got himself captured with the Afrikakorps. He’s now in a POW camp in the States.”
“They’ve probably got him in Camp Clinton,” Dulles said, almost to himself.
“Excuse me?”
“This chap in the Afrikakorps?”
“Yeah. I think so. Do tank officers wear big black berets?”
Dulles nodded.
“Then he was—is—a tank officer,” Frade said. “What’s Camp Clinton?”
“A POW camp in Mississippi. We sent a lot of Afrikakorps officers there— including, significantly, General von Arnim. It’s where we plan to hold all German general officers and the more important staff officers.”
Frade’s face showed he had no idea who General von Arnim was.
“Hans von Arnim,” Dulles explained. “He took over the Afrikakorps from Erwin Rommel. He surrendered what was left of it when Tunisia fell. In early May.” He paused and chuckled. “Starchy chap. About so tall”—he held his hand out to indicate a short height—“with a Hitlerian mustache and a large—forgive me—Semitic nose.”
“You know him?” Frade asked in surprise.
“I went to Tunisia to see him. I’m afraid I got nowhere with him.”
Dulles paused thoughtfully again, then asked, “You didn’t report this to Colonel Graham?”
“I sent him half a dozen messages and never got a reply. So I guessed he was out of Washington, and I didn’t want somebody else reading about Frogger if Graham wasn’t there.”
“What are you doing with these people now?”
“One of my sergeants—Stein, good guy, smart, Jewish, got out of Germany just before they would have packed him off to Sachsenhausen or someplace— is trying to convince them that the only way he can keep me from shooting and burying them in an unmarked grave on the pampas is for them to come up with something I can use. Starting, for example, with a manning chart of their embassy. If he lies about that, von Wachtstein will be able to tell.”
“And if he’s not lying, then what?”
“Then I will see what else I can get out of him.”
“I’m sure you can see how valuable this man could be in providing the information about German assets I mentioned.”
No, Stupid here didn’t even think about that.
“Mr. Dulles, I have to tell you that that never entered my mind.”
Dulles looked at him a moment and smiled.
“As you said, your head’s been spinning. I’m sure that the potentially vast importance to us of this man Frogger would have occurred to you sooner or later.”
Frade shook his head.
“And if he is?” Dulles went on. “Lying to you, I mean. Then what?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to kill them, but they know too much—about Leibermann, Stein, me, et cetera—to turn them loose.”
“Don’t kill them just yet, please, Clete. Let me give this some thought.”
Frade looked at Dulles and saw that he was smiling.
“Did I say something that amused you, Mr. Dulles?”
“A minute ago you said something that amuses me now.”
“What was that?”
“Something to the effect that you’re in over your head and why don’t they send someone to Argentina who knows what he’s doing.”
“That’s funny?”
“Alex Graham said, vis-à-vis you, something to the effect that the first impression you give is of a dangerously irresponsible individual who should not be trusted out of your sight. And then, depending on how much experience one has with really good covert intelligence officers, quickly or slowly comes the realization that one’s in the company of a rare person who seems to be born for this sort of thing.”
My face feels flushed.
Am I blushing?
Jesus H. Christ!
“That sounds almost like a compliment,” Frade said after a moment.
“I’m sure it was intended as one,” Dulles said.
“Does that mean you’re going to tell me what this airline business is all about?”
“Alex and I talked about that, and Colonel Donovan told me he’d asked the President. No one knows anything except that Franklin Delano Roosevelt thinks it’s a good idea, and that he was pleased to learn of your remarkable progress in getting one going.”
“Jesus!”
“Your glass is nearly empty, Cletus.”
“I don’t know if another’s a good idea.”
“We’re through for today. We’ll talk again in the morning. You can get a really nice American breakfast at the officers’ club here. Half past eight, shall we say?”
“I’ve got Delgano with me.”
“Oh, bring him. Tell him I’m an assistant consular officer trying to straighten out your problems with Brazilian immigration.”
He saw that Frade was looking at him curiously, as if trying to guess if he was kidding or not.
“That story will explain where you have been now, and where you will be after we have our breakfast.”
“That being the case, sir, I think I will have another little taste.”
[THREE]
Plaza Pôrto Alegre Hotel Pôrto Alegre, Brazil 0830 18 July 1943
The Plymouth staff car that had come to the Canoas Air Base entrance the day before was sitting at the curb when Frade and Delgano came through the revolving door of the hotel.
An AAF sergeant was at the wheel today, and General Wallace’s aide-de-camp was leaning against the rear door.
The aide straightened when he saw Frade and Delgano, opened the door, then as they approached greeted them in really bad Spanish: “Good morning, Señor Frade. General Wallace hopes that you will take breakfast with him and Mr. Stevens.”
Frade picked up on both “Señor” and the poor Spanish, then wondered who the hell Mr. Stevens was.
“That’s very gracious of the general,” he replied in Spanish.
There were two men sitting with Brigadier General J. B. Wallace, U.S. Army Air Forces, at a table in a small room off the main dining room of the Canoas Air Base Officers’ Open Mess. Cletus Frade saw that one of the men was Allen W. Dulles and the other a smallish, stocky young man with a crew cut.
If I were a betting man, and I am, I’d bet he’s a second john, not long out of Officer Candidate School.
Wallace stood up, put out his hand, and asked as if he had never seen Frade before in his life, “Señor Frade?”
Frade nodded.
“I’m General Wallace, the base commander. And these gentlemen are Mr. Stevens, of the War Production Board, and Mr. Fischer, of the Collins Radio Corporation.”
Dulles was “Stevens” and the second lieutenant in civvies was Fischer.
They shook hands, and Frade introduced Delgano.
General Wallace waved them into seats, and two waiters appeared. One handed them menus while the other put a folding partition across the opening to the room to screen it off from the main mess.