WILL LET YOU KNOW WHAT WE LEARN FROM U-977 POWS IN NORWAY. LET ME KNOW WHAT IF ANYTHING YOUR U-BOAT EXPERT LEARNS THERE. THAT SAID, IT MAY OR MAY NOT MATTER—WILD BILL SUSPECTS OUR LITTLE ORGANIZATION COULD BE OUT OF BUSINESS SOONER THAN EXPECTED.
TEX
END
TOP SECRET DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
Frade shook his head, then folded the sheet and stuffed it in his pocket.
“When the hell is ‘sooner than expected’?” he said. He shook his head, then looked at Aragão and added, “Well, the only thing we know for sure now is that at least one U-boat is headed for Argentina. I never believed that Hitler was aboard. I also don’t buy the story that there’s a fleet of U-boats. Maybe one or two, and some tankers. Then again, maybe not. Karl should be able to get us some answers.”
Aragão nodded. He said: “Where did the general at Val de Cans get his intel about this ‘rescue the diplomats’ operation you’re on being a cover to get Nazis out of Germany?”
“From me,” Clete said. “I wasn’t being exactly truthful with the ambassador. Something about this smells, starting with why are these Argentine diplomats still in Berlin? Argentina declared war on Germany on March twenty-seventh—that’s almost two months ago. They could have been in neutral Sweden that night, or the next day. Or in Spain the day after that. They stayed because they wanted to, and I don’t mean for the joy of watching Russian T-34 tanks roll down . . . what’s the wonderful name of that street? The Unter den Linden. They stayed for a reason.”
“What kind of a reason?” Delgano asked.
“Any of a number of reasons. For example, suppose you were Heinrich Himmler and you had a couple of kilograms of diamonds you wanted to get to Argentina. Wouldn’t it make more sense to give a quarter of them, or even half, to some friendly Argentine diplomat in exchange for his taking them to Argentina for you? Submarines get sunk.”
“You think that’s what it is?”
“I don’t know, but if the secretary of Labor and Retirement Plans—my beloved Tío Juan—is involved, it’s entirely likely. And we know he’s involved because his good friend Nulder is in charge of the rescue mission.”
“But you implied,” Aragão said, “that they were going to try to smuggle Nazis back on your airplane.”
“They may have had that in mind. Maybe just one or two really big Nazis. Who’s going to count heads on a mercy flight? But I don’t think so, now that I’ve led Nulder and Ambassador Hernández to believe the Americans are onto them. But precious stones, or something else? That wouldn’t surprise me at all. Who’s going to search the luggage of a rescued diplomat?”
“So that’s what that was all about,” Delgano said.
“I’m an evil man, Gonzo. You’ve said so yourself.”
“So, what happens now?” Delgano asked.
“First, we finish this bottle of wine, and then maybe another, and then we have dinner and a bath, not necessarily in that order.”
“I meant tomorrow, Cletus,” Delgano said, shaking his head in resignation.
“We wait for the flyover clearances. We can’t go to Berlin without them.”
VII
[ONE]
Hotel Britania Rua Rodrigues Sampaio 17 Lisbon, Portugal 1705 18 May 1945
Ambassador Claudio de Hernández was sitting at the hotel’s bar with Fernando Aragão when Frade, Delgano, Stein, Vega, and Peralta walked in.
Stein deposited a heavy, dripping burlap sack on the bar.
The barman appeared, looking askance at the burlap bag.
“Where have you been all day?” Ambassador de Hernández asked. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Have a sniff of the bag and take a guess,” Frade said.
“I beg your pardon?”
Frade sniffed loudly and pointed at the burlap sack.
“After you pour us a little of that splendid Altano Douro 1942,” Frade ordered the barman, “please ask the chef to join us.”
Aragão sniffed the bag and smiled.
“I really thought you were kidding,” he said.
“I never kid about whiskey, women, or fishing,” Frade said. “Aside from Vega getting a little seasick, everything went . . . swimmingly.”
“You have been fishing?” Ambassador de Hernández asked incredulously. “In the ocean?”
“That’s where the fish usually are, Mr. Ambassador.” Frade then added, “You’re in luck, Fernando. There’s even enough for the ambassador and the diplomats.”
The chef, an enormous fat man in stained kitchen whites, appeared.
“Slide Siggie that tray, Mario,” Frade ordered, pointing down the bar. “Siggie, put a sample of our fruits of the sea on the tray for the chef’s edification.”
Stein dipped into the bag, came out with three large fish fillets, and arranged them on the tray.
The chef bent over and sniffed them, then punched them with his index finger.
“Caballa,” he said.
“Yes,” Frade said. “In English, they say ‘mackerel.’ These are from what a norteamericano would call a ‘king mackerel.’”
“And fresh,” the chef said approvingly.
“Mere hours ago, they were swimming. Into your capable hands, my friend, I entrust them.”
“I usually bake the whole fish,” the chef said.
“Indulge me,” Frade said. “I am Argentine, and the whole world knows we’re crazy. For now, I want you to dribble a little olive oil on the fillets, lay some lemon slices on top, and grill them. Serve them with some fried potatoes and a small salad. Can do?”
The chef nodded. “Can do.”
“After first selecting the best-looking fillets,” Frade then ordered, “which you will serve to us just as soon as you can, serve the leftovers to the diplomats traveling with South American Airways with the compliments of Chief Pilot Delgano.”
The chef nodded again.
Then Frade said: “They will taste much better if you drink a little Altano Douro as you grill them. Put a bottle for the chef on Señor Aragão’s bill, Señor Barman.”
Ambassador de Hernández’s face showed that he believed Frade was either crazy or drunk. Or both.
The chef smiled, picked up the burlap sack, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
Frade looked at de Hernández. “You were looking for me, Mr. Ambassador? Why?”
“The overfly permission has come, Señor Frade. But only as far as Frankfurt am Main.”
“We are supposed to go to Berlin,” Frade challenged.
“I know,” the ambassador said more than a little lamely.
“What does Buenos Aires have to say about this?”
“About this specifically, nothing.”
“And about things in general?” Frade pursued. “What about the assurance of either the Foreign Ministry or the President that no attempt will be made to smuggle Nazis to Argentina on SAA’s airplane?”
“There has been no response to that specifically, Señor Frade.”
“Then we’re not going,” Frade said.
“There was a message from el Coronel Perón, routed via the embassy, to Señor Nulder, which Señor Nulder shared with me.”
“And are you going to tell me what it said?”
“It said that the Foreign Minister was doing everything he can to get the necessary overfly permissions, as the president is very anxious to relieve the diplomatic contingent in Berlin as soon as possible.”