Enrico gestured with the shotgun.
When Frade saw on their faces that neither Special Service agent understood Spanish, he made the translation.
“I just told him to take you to my room,” he said. “I don’t want anyone to come across this happy scene. Through the door and up the steps.”
Frade sat on his bed and motioned for the Secret Service agents to stand against the wall.
“All right, Colonel Frade,” the Secret Service agent who had spoken first and had now recovered his composure said. “Don’t you think this charade has now gone far enough?”
Frade smiled at him.
“We know all about you, Colonel . . .”
Somehow, I don’t think so.
“. . . including, for example, the half million dollars you brought to Germany with you.”
Well, I don’t think you got that information from anybody else in the OSS except good ol’ Colonel Richmond C. Flowers, USA.
That sonofabitch!
“What did you say your name was?” Frade asked.
“Stevenson. Supervisory Special Agent Jerome T. Stevenson.”
“Well, Jerome, Boy Scout’s Honor, I didn’t bring a half million dollars from anywhere. Where’d you get that? What was I supposed to be going to do with all that money? And what makes you think I’m a colonel?”
“You’re going to have to turn us loose sooner or later, Colonel Frade,” Stevenson said.
“That, or shoot you for interfering with an OSS operation,” Frade said.
“Smuggling Nazis into Argentina is an OSS operation? Is that what you’re asking me to believe?”
“So, that’s what this is all about. What else did that asshole Flowers tell you?”
He saw the look on Stevenson’s face.
Bingo! Flowers is the one who ran off at the mouth.
Stevenson said: “You’re denying that you are assisting in the escape of Nazis to Argentina?”
Frade replied: “Supervisory Secret Service Agent Stevenson, say hello to OSS Special Agent Stein. Show Supervisory Special Agent Stevenson your credentials, Siggie.”
Stein produced his spurious OSS credentials and showed them to Stevenson.
“Now, Jerome, if I told you that Stein is a devout, practicing Hebrew who lost many members of his family to the concentration camp ovens after he barely got out of the Third Reich alive, what would you say the odds are that Siggie would be helping Nazis escape to anywhere?”
Stevenson, who looked more than a little confused, didn’t reply.
“Rephrasing the question, Jerome. What would you say the odds are that Special Agent Stein adds a certain enthusiasm to his present tasks that a non-Jew simply couldn’t muster?”
“You’re suggesting that what you’re doing is stopping Nazis from escaping?”
“I’m not suggesting that. I’m telling you that. And what it looks like to me is that you and your pal here are about to screw things up for us. The Secret Service was not on the list of cooperating agencies that SHAEF gave me. Which makes me suspect that you’re not telling me the truth, Jerome, which naturally makes me wonder what the hell the truth is.”
“The truth, Colonel Frade,” Stevenson said, “is that we have been sent here by Secretary of the Treasury Morgenthau to prevent Nazis from escaping to South America.”
“Then why didn’t SHAEF tell me that?”
Stevenson didn’t answer.
“SHAEF doesn’t know Morgenthau sent you? Is that what you’re telling me—or not telling me, as the case may be?”
Again, Stevenson didn’t answer directly. He instead said, “Colonel Frade, when OSS has been disbanded, as I’m sure you know it is about to be, it would be in your interest to have friends in the Secret Service.”
“The OSS is about to be disbanded? I never heard that.”
“Take my word on it,” Stevenson said. “You’re about to be homeless, and it is not wise for homeless people to interfere with Secretary Morgenthau.”
“I certainly wouldn’t want to interfere with Secretary Morgenthau. So I’ll tell you what I am going to do: I’m going to move this problem up the chain of command. Do you know what that means?”
Again, Stevenson didn’t reply.
“What that means, Jerome, is that we’re going to wait here for my boss. He’s pretty far up the chain of command at SHAEF, and he’s in charge of keeping Nazis from escaping to South America. Maybe he knows something I don’t.”
Stevenson said nothing.
“He should be here in just a few minutes,” Frade said. “And while we’re waiting, Jerome, I think you and your pal should take off your shoes and socks and your trousers and underpants.”
“What?” Stevenson demanded incredulously.
“That should keep you from trying to run away,” Frade said.
“Fuck you!” Stevenson said.
“Well, if you’re shy, Jerome, I can have Siggie and Hansel pour water all over you. That would keep you from running, and you and your pal could keep your undersized equipment secret.”
“Frade, you’re going to pay for this!”
“Siggie, there’s a water pitcher under the sink,” Frade said, pointing.
Stein had just about filled the water pitcher when Supervisory Special Agent Stevenson started taking off his shoes.
[FOUR]
Colonel Robert Mattingly walked into the room fifteen minutes later. On his heels was Master Sergeant Dunwiddie, now wearing an officer equivalent civilian employee uniform, and with a Thompson submachine gun slung from his shoulder.
Stevenson’s eyes widened at the sight of him.
“Good, you’re still up,” Mattingly said. “The convoy couldn’t get past the Russians.” He paused and then asked, “What the hell?”
“Sir, the fat one with his hands covering his crotch tells me that he’s a Secret Service agent sent here by Secretary of the Treasury Morgenthau to keep Nazis from escaping to South America. You ever hear anything about that?”
“No,” Mattingly said. “I haven’t.”
“Tell the colonel what you told me, Jerome,” Frade said.
“Who are you, Colonel?” Stevenson demanded.
“I’m the man asking the questions,” Mattingly said. “Question one: Why are you sitting there half naked?”
“That was my idea, sir. In case they decided to run,” Frade said.
“Good thinking!” Mattingly said. “Question two: What’s this about the secretary of the Treasury sending you over here?”
“We have been sent here by Secretary . . .” Stevenson began.
* * *
“If I am to believe you, Mr. Stevenson—and I’m finding it hard to do so, frankly—but what I am to understand,” Mattingly said, “is that without seeking the permission of SHAEF, the secretary of the Treasury has sent you here on a private Nazi-hunting operation. Does that about sum it up?”
“May we put our clothing on, Colonel?” Stevenson asked.
Mattingly made a gesture with his hand signaling that that was permissible.
“Thank you,” Stevenson said, and reached for his underpants.
“If what you have told me is true,” Mattingly said, “this will have to be brought to the attention of General Eisenhower—”
“Who will, I feel sure, be happy to accept, indeed be grateful for, the secretary’s desire to help—”
Mattingly silenced him by holding up his hand.
“A word of friendly advice, Mr. Stevenson,” Mattingly said. “Those of us who work closely with the Supreme Commander have learned that it is really ill-advised to predict what General Eisenhower will do in any circumstance.