There was no reply, just sixty seconds of hiss. Finally, Cronley called again. “Rhine-Main, Army Seven-Oh-Seven. Do you read me?”
“Army Seven-Zero-Seven, hold one,” Ground Control replied.
“They seem to have lost your airplane,” Cronley said to Frade.
“What the hell?” Frade replied.
“Army Seven-Zero-Seven, Rhine-Main Ground. Be advised South American Airways Double-Zero-Five is parked in a secure area and you are not, repeat not, authorized to enter secure area.”
“Rhine-Main Ground, Army Seven-Oh-Seven. Be advised I have the captain of South American Double-Zero-Five aboard. What do I tell him?”
“What the hell?” Frade asked again.
There was another sixty seconds of nothing but hiss before Rhine-Main replied: “Army Seven-Zero-Seven, Rhine-Main Ground. Hold in present position. A Follow me will meet you.”
“Seven-Oh-Seven understands hold for Follow me.”
The Follow me—a jeep painted in a yellow-and-black checkerboard pattern, with a large sign reading FOLLOW ME mounted on its rear — came racing onto the taxiway ninety seconds later. It was accompanied by two Military Police jeeps, each holding four military policemen. The Follow me turned and backed up to the nose of the Storch. The MP jeeps began to take up positions on either side of the Storch. When they had done so, the Follow me started to move.
“What the hell’s going on, Clete?”
“Whatever it is, Jimmy, I don’t like it.”
The Follow me led them away from the terminal, and finally to a remote airfield compass rose. Three staff cars were parked on the grass beside the rose.
An MP captain carrying an electric bullhorn walked onto the compass rose.
“Pilot, shut down your engine and exit the aircraft!” he ordered.
“Why do I think we’re under arrest?” Jimmy said.
When he had shut down the Storch and was starting to climb down from the aircraft, three men in civilian suits and snap-brim hats and an Air Force major got out of the staff cars.
When both Frade and Cronley were out of the airplane, the three men and the major walked closer. One of them produced credentials and announced, “Federal Bureau of Investigation. Let’s see some identification.”
“Major, I am Lieutenant Colonel Cletus Frade, U.S. Marine Corps—”
“I told you I wanted to see your identification,” the FBI agent snapped, interrupting him.
“… And I am on a mission classified Top Secret — Lindbergh,” Frade finished.
“God damn you,” the FBI agent said, “I said I want to see your identification.”
“Major, if this civilian swears at me again, I’m going to punch him into next week,” Frade said.
“On the ground. Get on your knees and then lay on your stomach!” the FBI agent ordered furiously.
Frade turned to the Air Force major. “I will show you my identification, Major.”
“On the goddamned ground, goddamn it!” the FBI agent barked.
The Air Force major, looking very uncomfortable, quickly walked past the FBI agents and saluted. Frade returned it.
“Sir, I’m Major Johansen, the assistant base provost marshal. May I see your identification?”
Frade produced it. The major examined it, and Frade, very carefully.
“The colonel is who he says he is,” Johansen said. “Lieutenant Colonel Frade, U.S. Marine Corps.”
“And the other one? Who is he?”
“Major Johansen,” Frade said, “what I want you to do right now is call General Walter Bedell Smith — Frankfurt Military 1113—in the Farben Building—”
“I asked who this other man is,” the FBI agent snapped. “It is a federal crime, a felony, to interfere with an agent of the FBI in the execution of his office. I am asking for the last time for the identity of this young man. Specifically, are you James D. Cronley Junior?”
Jimmy snapped back: “What did this Cronley guy do, rob a bank?”
“Get on the phone now, Major,” Frade said. “That is a direct order.”
The major looked at him for a long moment, then said, “Yes, sir.”
He signaled for one of the jeeps to come to them. When it had, he gestured for the driver to hand him the microphone of the shortwave radio behind the rear seat.
“This is Major Johansen,” he said into it. “Get on the telephone and call Frankfurt Military…” He looked at Frade.
“One-one-one-three,” Frade furnished.
“Tell them Colonel Frade, USMC, is calling for General Smith. Then stand by to relay both parts of the conversation if we can’t hear him,” the major ordered. He turned to Frade. “This shouldn’t take long, sir.”
Everyone heard whoever was on the other end of the shortwave net reply to Johansen, “Frankfurt Military 1113. Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” Frade said.
“Office of the deputy commander, Sergeant Major King speaking, sir.”
“Colonel Frade calling for General Smith,” Major Johansen said.
“Hold one, please, Colonel,” the sergeant major said.
The major handed Frade the microphone.
“Colonel,” a new voice said. “This is General Porter. General Smith is en route with Admiral Souers to meet you at Rhine-Main. He may already be there. But is there something I can do for you?”
“Hold one, please, General,” Frade said. He turned to the FBI agent. “Are you going to fold your tent and get the hell out of here, or would you like me to tell General Porter what he can do for me?”
The FBI agent glared at Frade for a moment.
“You haven’t heard the last of this, Colonel.” He then gestured to the others to follow him.
“No, thank you, sir,” Frade said. “Just checking. I’m at Rhine-Main.”
“Have a nice flight, Colonel,” General Porter said.
“Thank you, sir. Frade out.”
The FBI agents got in one of the staff cars and it drove off.
Frade handed the microphone to the Air Force major.
“Thank you, Major.”
“May I ask, sir, what that was all about?”
“You can ask, but I can’t tell you,” Frade said, smiling. “If I did, I’d have to kill you.”
The major chuckled.
“On the other hand, you can tell me what the FBI told you about us. And that’s not in the order of a suggestion.”
“Sir, he said that they were investigating the exfiltration of Nazis from Germany into Argentina.”
“He told you we were suspected of exfiltrating Nazis out of Germany? Into Argentina?”
“He implied that, Colonel.”
“Cronley, show the major your credentials,” Frade ordered.
Cronley did so.
“When I saw Twenty-three CIC on your vertical stabilizer,” the major said, as he handed them back, “I cleverly deduced the CIC might somehow be involved in this. You’re sure you can’t tell me how?”
“I can tell you this much: What I am going to do is exfiltrate Admiral Sidney Souers, who is senior counselor to President Truman, out of Germany into Washington, D.C. He’s been here conferring with General Eisenhower.”
“Yes, sir, I know. We’ve had your airplane under heavy security since it arrived.”
“I’d love to know how the FBI came up with that me-smuggling-Nazis-out-of-Germany theory.”
“No telling, Colonel. But it does make you wonder if the FBI is as perfect as they would have us all believe, doesn’t it?” He paused. “I’m sorry about all this, Colonel.”
“Forget it. You were just doing your job.”
“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”