“So you said.”
“And here comes the admiral,” Frade said, pointing.
A convoy was approaching the Constellation. First an M-8 Armored Car, then a Packard Clipper with a four-star license plate, then a Buick Roadmaster with a one-star plate, and then another M-8.
“Major Johansen is dazzled by all those stars,” Frade said. “Good.”
“What?”
“We will now make our manners to the deputy commander in chief, U.S. Forces, European Theatre. With a little luck, he will be cordial, and the Air Force major will see that you have friends in high places and decide it’s highly unlikely that people like you and me would be sneaking Nazis — or anyone else — out of Germany. That may very well come in handy when you are trying to sneak your buddy Konstantin through his airport.”
The convoy stopped. Drivers jumped out and opened doors. General Walter Bedell Smith, Rear Admiral Sidney W. Souers, and a full colonel wearing the insignia of an aide-de-camp to a four-star general got out of the Packard Clipper.
Frade saluted crisply.
“Good morning, sir!” he barked.
Smith, Souers, and the aide-de-camp returned the salute.
“Ready to go, are we, Frade?” Souers said.
“We just got here ourselves, sir. But we should be.”
“I don’t think you have met Colonel Frade, have you, Beetle?” Souers said. “And I know you haven’t met Captain Cronley.”
Brigadier General John Magruder and Colonel Jack Mullaney got out of the Buick and walked quickly up to them, obviously determined not to miss anything.
They arrived in time to hear General Smith ask, “The officer who found the U-234?”
“Yes, sir,” Frade said. “That’s him.”
“Well done, son,” General Smith said, pumping Jimmy’s hand.
“Thank you, sir,” Cronley said.
Gonzalo Delgano came down the stairs. He was wearing his SAA uniform.
“Don Cletus, we’re ready to go anytime you are.”
“Gentlemen, this is Captain Delgano,” Frade said. “South American Airways chief pilot.”
Hands were shaken.
The drivers of the staff cars carried luggage aboard.
“Have a nice flight,” General Smith said.
“Thank you for all your courtesies and hospitality,” Admiral Souers said.
He shook Cronley’s hand and then waved for Frade to precede him up the stairs.
Clete put his hand out to Jimmy and said, “We’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Aw, hell,” Frade said. “In Argentina, men can kiss their friends.”
He hugged Jimmy and wetly kissed his cheek.
“Be careful, Little Brother,” Frade said, then quickly climbed the stairs. Admiral Souers followed him.
“Only a Marine would dare to do that,” General Smith said, chuckling.
“Captain Cronley,” Major Johansen said, “if you refuel your aircraft here, the Constellation will have to wait until you’re finished.”
“Then let me get out of here,” Cronley said.
“Why don’t we all get out of the way?” General Smith said, and motioned for his aide-de-camp to get into the Packard.
Major Johansen and Cronley saluted as the convoy drove off the compass star.
Cronley got back in the Storch and fired it up as ground crews moved fire extinguishers into place for the starting of the Constellation’s engines. The Follow me jeep flashed its lights as a signal it was ready for Cronley to follow him.
The fuel truck and Major Johansen’s staff car followed the Storch to the threshold of a runway.
The Constellation, running on two engines, came down the taxiway and lined up with the runway.
As Cronley got out of the Storch, the Constellation started the other engines and ran them up.
And then started to roll.
Jimmy watched it take off.
And suddenly felt very much alone.
He showed the fuel truck crew where the tanks were. Topping them off took no more than a few minutes, but by the time they were finished, the Constellation was out of sight.
That reinforced Jimmy’s feeling of being very much alone.
He turned to Major Johansen.
“Thanks for everything, Major,” he said, and saluted.
“Have a nice flight,” Johansen said. “And come back. The next time, I promise not to meet you like you’ve just robbed a bank.”
“I just may take you up on that, sir.”
Ninety seconds later, he reported, “Rhine-Main Departure Control. Army Seven-Zero-Seven rolling.”
As he broke ground and pointed the nose of the Storch south, he thought that he could easily make Munich in less than two hours. It was about 300 kilometers from Frankfurt am Main to Munich, and the Storch cruised at about 170 kilometers per hour.
Then he remembered that Frade had ordered him to try to confuse the FBI about his destination.
He said, “Shit!” and reached for the microphone.
“Rhine-Main Area Control, Army Seven-Oh-Seven. Change of flight plan. Close out Direct Rhine-Main Schleissheim. Open Direct Rhine-Main Eschborn for passenger pickup.”
It was a flight of only a few minutes, and it took him over Hoechst.
Right down there is where Lieutenant Colonel and Mrs. Schumann and their children have their quarters.
What the hell was I doing, screwing a colonel’s wife? A married woman with children?
Well, it may have had something to do with the fact that in a twenty-four-hour period, I had been married, my wife was killed, and the President of the United States pinned captain’s bars on me.
Not to mention what happened at the mouth of the Magellan Straits.
I was understandably under an emotional strain. That just might have had something to do with my stupidity.
On the other hand, I do have a tendency to do amazingly stupid things, don’t I? As well as an extraordinary ability to justify whatever dumb fucking thing I may have done — such as fucking somebody I shouldn’t be fucking, as Clete so aptly put it.
Well, at least Rachel’s down there and I’ll be in Munich or at Kloster Grünau.
And ne’er the twain shall meet, as they say.
“Eschborn, Army Seven-Oh-Seven, at fifteen hundred feet, three miles south. I am a Storch aircraft, I say again, Storch aircraft. Request straight-in approach to Runway Thirty-five. I have it in sight.
“Eschborn, Army Seven-Oh-Seven at the threshold of Three-five. VFR to Hersfeld. Request takeoff permission.
“Hersfeld, Army Seven-Oh-Seven, request approach and landing. I am a Storch aircraft, I say again, Storch aircraft, at fifteen hundred four miles south of your station.
“Hersfeld, Army Seven-Oh-Seven understands Number Two to land on Three-three after an L-4.
“Hersfeld, Army Seven-Oh-Seven… Oops! I came in a little long. I’d better go around. I should be able to get it on the ground the next try. Please close out my VFR flight plan at ten past the hour. Thank you.”
When I am absolutely sure that I’m out of sight of the Hersfeld tower, in the interest of pilot safety I will climb to say five hundred feet and go to Munich.
[FOUR]
And what am I going to do, Cronley wondered, as he reached for the doorknob of Suite 507, if Sergeant Freddy Hessinger has taken off for the day? Go look for him in that whorehouse? Or if Major Harold Wallace is here?