“That’d work. But how do we know you’d do it?”
“Two reasons. One, I’m a Jew, and I think the President is right. If this ransoming operation gets out, no more Jews will be able to get out of German concentration camps. . . .”
“You told him about that?” Frade challenged Dulles.
Dulles nodded. “He would have come to know anyway.”
Frade raised his eyebrows, then looked at Fischer.
“And reason two?”
“Colonel Graham made certain threats about what would happen to me if I betrayed the trust he was placing in me. I believe him, and I’m a devout coward.”
Frade said nothing for a long moment.
“What are you thinking, Cletus?” Dulles asked, finally.
“I was thinking that Len and I already have something in common,” Frade said. “I think we both wish we had never heard of any of this. Or of the fucking OSS.”
Dulles’s face showed no expression.
After a long moment, Dulles said, “There is one other thing.”
He stopped and leaned to the side of his chair. After a moment, Frade understood he was reaching for something. Something he probably had in a briefcase.
Dulles came up with a leather case containing a camera and slid it across the table to Frade.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a thirty-five-millimeter camera,” he said. “Specifically, a Leica I-C.”
“German?” Clete asked as he opened the case.
“German,” Dulles confirmed.
“It looks brand new.”
“It is. I bought it—actually, I bought three; all they had—in a camera store in Zurich a week or so ago.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“When you’re in Argentina, I want you to take Len to see Herr and Frau Frogger,” Dulles said. “While he is with them, I want you to take a picture of Len with them. I want one of the Froggers to be holding that day’s La Nación newspaper.”
What the hell is this all about?
“Am I allowed to ask what this is all about?”
“Take at least a half-dozen shots, then change film and take another half-dozen. When you’ve done that, have the film developed. You have someplace where that can be done discreetly, I suppose?”
“I’m sure I can find one.”
“Then give one set of the negatives to Len, who will bring them to the United States when he returns. The other set is to be given to Commander Delojo at the embassy with instructions to send them in the diplomatic pouch, eyes-only Colonel Graham.”
“If I gave a roll of film to that sonofabitch, there would be prints at the Office of Naval Intelligence before Graham got the negatives. Didn’t Graham tell you about him?”
“Colonel Graham said that you weren’t especially fond of Delojo.”
“Delojo doesn’t know I have the Froggers. And I don’t want him to know. If Graham wants the ONI to have copies of these pictures—and learn I have the Froggers—I guess I can’t stop him. But I’m not giving Delojo any pictures. And what the hell are they for, anyway?”
“I have a feeling that the Froggers may be of some genuine use to us in several areas. I haven’t given it a good deal of thought so far, beyond thinking it would be very interesting if someone called on Oberstleutnant Frogger at Camp Clinton and showed him the photograph of his parents.”
“You’re sure he’s there?”
Dulles nodded.
“I sent a message last night, after we met. I got the confirmation just before we came here. He’s fully recovered from his wounds, and is regarded as a Class III, which I found interesting.”
“What’s a Class III?”
“I have no idea. I presume Colonel Graham thought I knew. I don’t. I sent a message asking for an explanation, but there’s been no answer, and now there’s no time for one.”
“Why not?”
“Because my plane leaves in about an hour, and I want to go to the base store—what do they call it?”
“The PX?” Fischer furnished.
“Close, but not correct. The Air Forces calls their stores something else. In any event, I need toothbrushes and toothpaste and hair tonic.” He stood up and put out his hand. “So, gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure meeting both of you. And we’ll be in touch, of course.”
And when they had shaken hands, Dulles walked out of the room.
[FOUR]
El Palomar Airfield Campo de Mayo Military Base Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1115 19 July 1943
“El Palomar, South American Airways Zero Zero One,” South American Airways Chief Pilot Gonzalo Delgano said into his microphone.
His co-pilot, Señor Cletus Frade, restrained a smile.
I am learning. If I hadn’t let him sit in the left seat for this, he never would have forgiven me.
“South American Zero Zero One, Palomar.”
“Palomar, South American Zero Zero One is at two thousand meters, twenty-five kilometers from your station, indicating three hundred forty kph.”
“Zero Zero One, Palomar. What is your airspeed?”
“Palomar, I repeat. Indicated airspeed is three four zero kilometers per hour. I repeat, three four zero kilometers per hour. Request approach and landing instructions. ”
If you said “three four zero” one more time, Gonzalo, you would have popped the buttons on your shirt.
“Gear is down and locked, Captain,” co-pilot Frade reported. “You have twenty-degrees of flap. We are indicating one hundred twenty-five kph.”
“That was a very fine landing, Captain,” the co-pilot said. “If I may be permitted to say so. What we call a greaser.”
“Actually, for an aircraft of this size, it’s not at all that hard to fly, is it, Cletus?”
“It’s not an easy one to fly, Gonzalo,” Frade said seriously.
Captain Delgano beamed.
I have made a friend for life.
But how that will, of course, affect our professional relationship in the other profession we practice—but don’t talk about—remains to be seen.
Frade’s good feeling disappeared sixty seconds later when he looked out the cockpit window and saw the welcoming party waiting for them. It included— in addition to Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodríguez, Retired, the Horch, and a Ford ton-and-a-half stake-bodied truck with ESTANCIA SAN PEDRO Y SAN PABLO painted on the doors—two Argentine officers, El Coronel Juan D. Perón and El Teniente Coronel Alejandro Martín.
How the hell did they know we were coming?
And what the hell do they want?
They knew we were coming, Stupid, because your new friend for life called the Argentine embassy in Rio de Janeiro—
Or maybe there’s an Argentine consulate in Pôrto Alegre—
Or maybe Martín has one of his guys in Pôrto Alegre and my pal for life Gonzalo just happened to run into him in the lobby of the hotel.
—and told him, them—somebody—when we were leaving and when we expected to arrive.
And what our welcoming party wants—or at least Martín wants—is to see what interesting things I’m smuggling into Argentina.
And then, to cover his ass—or perhaps he wanted a witness when he caught me smuggling something into Argentina—Martín called Perón, and Tío Juan called the estancia and told Enrico.
The radios I can explain.
But how do I explain the SIGABA device?
Frade waved cheerfully out the window to Perón and Martín as Delgano taxied the Lodestar up to the hangar South American Airways had rented until the hangars—and the runways—being built in Morón were completed.
Frade was first out the door.
“Where’s the brass band?” he called as he walked to Perón and Martín. “You two are all we get? No crescendo of trumpets, no roll of drums?”