W.E.B. Griffin: Victory and Honor

“Does Ike know about Gehlen?”

“He does now. David said he felt he had to tell him.”

“And?”

“Reduced to basics: He’s not going to tell Marshall. If we get caught, Ike will have to own up, which would blow the entire Gehlen project out of the water.”

“So?”

“We need a sacrificial lamb.”

“Whose name is Frade?”

Mattingly nodded.

“This was less a callous decision on the part of Dulles, Graham, and myself than the fact that the secretary of the Treasury is already on your case. Remember what I told you about he who laughs last?”

“I didn’t hear me volunteering to be a sacrificial lamb.”

“And you don’t have to be, Clete. You are perfectly free to tell Morgenthau’s people whatever they want to know.”

“And that’s who’s looking for me?”

Mattingly nodded.

“You can fess up and say that all you were doing was obeying orders.”

When Frade didn’t reply, Mattingly said: “‘All I was doing is obeying my orders’ is really the last refuge of the scoundrel. I never thought of that until I started reading the first interrogation reports of some really despicable Nazis. They admitted gassing people—how could they deny it?—but said all they were doing was obeying orders. If it works for them, it would follow that it would work for you.”

“And what are my other options?”

“You really don’t have any. They’re going to find you sooner or later. As a practical matter—because of your dual citizenship, your Navy Cross, and Cletus Marcus Howell—there’s a good chance it will never get as far as a court-martial.”

“Oh, now that is good news!” Frade blurted sarcastically.

“What Morgenthau is after is two things. He wants the Nazis in Germany and he wants to make an example of somebody so that no one else will be tempted to be nice to the Nazis.”

“Oh? Why shouldn’t I like Nazis? I mean, all they did was murder my father and try to murder me on several occasions. Not to forget they strangled my best friend’s father to death.”

Mattingly shrugged. “You were involved in getting Nazis to Argentina, and that’s all Morgenthau will care about. And so far as he’s concerned, every German you helped get to Argentina is as bad as Himmler.”

“Well, I’m not going to give up people like Niedermeyer,” Frade said. “Or Boltitz. Or von Wachtstein. Speaking of whom . . . ?”

“Not a word, Clete. I’m sorry.”

“Can we find out?”

“Gehlen’s working on that for you.”

“Boltitz?”

“He went to Bremen, with Max, to work on the U-boat intel. Stein went with them. I think that will prove to be valuable.”

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“About the best thing you can do is stall for a while, give me some time to hide Gehlen and his people.”

“Okay. I’ll stall in Argentina. They’ll never find me in Argentina.”

“What I have to say to you now is delicate, Clete.”

“So be delicate.”

“Dulles believes, and Graham concurs, and I do, too, that you should let the Secret Service—Morgenthau—find you.”

“What’s the reasoning behind that idiot notion?”

“If they can’t find you, they’ll go after other members of Team Turtle. And they may reveal things we don’t want them to know.”

“No fucking way. They’re good people. They’ll keep their mouths shut.”

“Think that through, Clete. No one’s questioning their courage. But are they up to dealing with all the pressure Morgenthau and the Secret Service can throw at them? Threats of going to Leavenworth, et cetera?”

Frade didn’t immediately reply.

Mattingly went on: “One scenario is that if they have you, they won’t spend much effort in looking for people you’re hiding in Argentina. When they break you, you’ll tell them where they can be found.”

“In a pig’s ass I will.”

“If you can stall them, Clete, it will give us time to work out the Gehlen problem. Bruce has begun vague talks with the Brits, with MI6.”

“So, what do I do? Go to Washington, knock on Morgenthau’s door, and say, ‘I understand you’re looking for me’?”

“The military attaché in Buenos Aires, whom I believe you know, has told the Secret Service that he also believes you have been involved with helping Nazis get to Argentina. He also told them that you have received large amounts of money—more than six million dollars—from Colonel Graham, which you have refused to discuss with him, and that he suspects this is somehow connected with finding refuge for Nazis in Argentina. These charges are to be investigated by Naval Intelligence.”

“Jesus H. Christ!”

“The military attaché, his name is Flowers—”

“Richmond C. Flowers. I know the miserable bastard’s name.”

“—as the OSS station chief in Buenos Aires will be ordered by Director Donovan to present you with orders issued by the Navy Department to board the next U.S. Navy vessel calling at Buenos Aires—it will be a destroyer, the USS Bartram Greene , due to arrive in Buenos Aires June ninth—for transport to the Naval Air Station at Pensacola, Florida, where the charges laid against you will be investigated to determine if a court-martial is appropriate.”

“How the hell do you know all that?”

“While you will indeed be hanging in the wind, Colonel Frade, you will not be entirely alone.”

“That’s pretty fucking cryptic. It sounds like you don’t entirely trust me.”

“This is one of those situations where the less you know about friends of the OSS, the safer it will be for them.”

“What about Donovan? What does he know about Gehlen?”

“Dulles and/or Graham is going to have to tell him, if one of them hasn’t already.”

“The destroyer ride is to kill time, right?”

“Every hour I have to hide Gehlen and his people, the better,” Mattingly said. “By the way, the general has been arrested by the CIC and is currently undergoing interrogation. Just as soon as I can tear myself away from the duties here, I will go to Oberusel and interrogate Gehlen myself. Slowly and thoroughly.”

“And the reason you’re in Berlin, not in that castle, is because you need permission—and a reason—to come to Berlin, and the Secret Service doesn’t want to come out and say they want to come to Berlin to interrogate you—the head of the OSS—about the OSS helping Nazis to get to Argentina?”

“Oh, you can be clever, can’t you, Colonel Frade?”

Executive Officers’ Quarters USSBartram GreeneDD-201 River Plate Estuary, Argentina 1900 12 June 1945

There came a knock at the stateroom door. Lieutenant Colonel Cletus H. Frade, USMC, who was lying on the bunk, called, “Come!”

A very tall, very thin, ascetic-looking lieutenant commander opened the door and entered the stateroom.

Frade put down his copy of that day’s Buenos Aires Herald and looked at him.

The visitor said evenly, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Colonel, but I believe naval courtesy requires that all naval personnel come to attention when the captain of a man-o’-war enters a living space, even when said captain is junior.”

Frade chuckled and pushed himself off the bunk.

“Until just now, Commander, I didn’t know you were the captain.”

“I have that honor, sir. My name is R. G. Prentiss, and I am the captain.”

Frade nodded.

Captain Prentiss said: “Colonel, we have a somewhat awkward situation here. I have been ordered by COMMATL—”

“By who?”

“Commander Atlantic,” Captain Prentiss furnished, “has ordered the Greene to transport you to NAS Pensacola. Colonel Flowers has informed me that you are the subject of an investigation by Naval Intelligence. Is that your understanding of the situation?”