Griffin W.E.B.: Honor Bound 02 - Blood and Honor

"I had not heard that, Herr Admiral."

"There was a radio from Oberst Gr?ner. He's a good man. He has someone in the Foreign Ministry. Pelosi now has diplomatic status, as an assistant military Attach?. My feeling is that he was returned to assist a follow-on OSS team which will probably be sent when the Americans learn we have replaced the Reine de la Mer."

"The third man of the OSS team? The Jew?"

"He is still in Argentina, working covertly. The Americans apparently feel he can garner information from the Jews in Buenos Aires. Shipping information, that sort of thing. The head of their FBI in Buenos Aires is also a Jew. I have the feeling Ettinger, the Jew, may be working for him, and no longer is connected with the OSS. In my judgment, that OSS team—they are of course known to the Argentines—has ceased to exist as an operational unit. Thus I believe we can count on the OSS sending an entirely new team down there when the Americans learn the Oceano Pacifico is on station. When that happens, it may be necessary to eliminate them. This of course has to be done very carefully—referring to my earlier remarks about not antagonizing the Argentine sense of nationalism. The first OSS team down there was eliminated with great skill by Gr?ner—there was not even notice of it in the newspapers. Please tell him I expect the same sort of first-class work when the time comes to deal with the next OSS team to show its face."

"Of course, Herr Admiral," Goltz said with a smile.

Canaris looked at him curiously, as if surprised that his words could have been interpreted in any way as amusing.

"May I ask a question, Herr Admiral?"

Canaris waited for him to go on.

"The third member of the former OSS team. You say he is working with the Jews in Buenos Aires? Is there a possibility—"

"That he will put his nose into the source of our special funds?" Canaris interrupted. "Yes, of course there is. If that happens, you have permission to eliminate him, taking the same great care I've been talking about."

"And not before, as a precautionary measure?"

"I'm getting the idea I am not making my point about Argentine sensitivity, Standartenf?hrer. Let me make it again. You will do nothing that might even remotely annoy the Argentines unless there is absolutely no other option. We want them to think of us as allies in the war against communism, not, for example, as the kind of people who come to their country and blow up ships or eliminate people. Now, is that clear?"

"Perfectly, Herr Admiral."

Canaris looked at him coldly, as if wondering why someone with such visibly limited mental powers could be entrusted with the mission he had been given.

"Three, Standartenf?hrer," Canaris went on after a long moment. "I have supported from the beginning the idea of acquiring property in Argentina for operational purposes. As a matter of fact, the concept was originally mine. If my recommendations had been listened to as far back as 1937, we would already have property in place. Not only for the immediate operation planned, but for other purposes. I repeated these recommendations at the time the Graf Spee (On December 13, 1939, in what became known as "The Battle of the River Plate." the battle-damaged German pocket battleship Graf Spee was driven into the harbor of Montevideo in neutral Uruguay by the British and New Zealand cruisers HMS Ajax and HMNZS Achilles. Intense diplomatic pressure from England and the United States forced the Uruguayan government to order the Graf Spee to leave the harbor within the seventy-two-hour period called for by the Geneva Convention, or be interned. On December 17, 1939, at the personal order of Adolf Hitler, the Graf Spee was scuttled just outside Montevideo to keep her from falling into British hands. The German community in Buenos Aires, 125 miles across the river Plate, chartered a fleet of small boats and took her crew to Argentina, where they were interned.) was scuttled, and again nothing was done. The result of that inactivity is now obvious. Here we are embarked on an operation far more important than anything else I can think of—important to the very existence of the Thousand Year Reich. And we're starting from scratch so far as acquiring property is concerned. Not to mention that we have been unable until now to even seriously plan to repatriate the Graf Spee officers, something that should have been done three years ago."

Goltz could think of no tactful way to respond, and said nothing.

"I want you to clearly understand, Standartenf?hrer," Canaris went on, "that I view the property you will acquire as a long-term asset, not something which can be, so to speak, expended in the course of the repatriation operation. Do you understand that?"

"I understand, Herr Admiral."

"Good," Canaris said. He extended his hand. "That's all I have. Thank you for coming to see me. Good luck."

Goltz saw in Canaris's eyes that he had already been dismissed.

Chapter Two

[ONE]

Cafe Lafitte

Bourbon Street

New Orleans, Louisiana

1535 5 April 1943

The bar was crowded, smoke-filled, hot, noisy, and reeked of sweat and urine. Most of the patrons were servicemen, and most of these were sailors, sweating in their blue woolen winter uniforms. A pair of Shore Patrolmen stood just inside the door, each holding a billy club in one hand and a paper cup of soft drink in the other.

As the young man in a tieless white button-down collar shirt and a seersucker jacket elbowed his way toward the bar, he was aware that he was getting dirty looks from some of the sailors. He thought he knew why: Hey, what the hell are you doing out of uniform, when here I am, three weeks out of Great Lakes Naval Training Center and about to go out and save the world for democracy ?

The last thing in the world the young man—who was twenty-three years old, and whose name was Cletus Howell Frade—wanted to do was find himself in a confrontation with a half-plastered nineteen-year-old swab jockey. It seemed to be the final proof that coming in here for a Sazerac cocktail was not the smartest thing he had done today.

He knew for a fact that the Cafe Lafitte made lousy Sazerac cocktails. But ten minutes before, when he first got the idea to have a symbolic farewell Sazerac, and in the Cafe Lafitte, which was supposed to have been in business since Christ was a corporal, it seemed a good idea.

The bartender, a corpulent forty-year old with a stained white apron around his waist, looked at him, his eyebrows signaling he was ready to accept an order.

"Sazerac, please."

"I got to see your draft card," the bartender said in what Clete recognized to be a New Orleans accent.

"What?"

"We're cooperating with the authorities," the bartender said. "Gotta see your draft card."

Clete took out his wallet and removed a plastic identification card—not a draft card—and handed it to the bartender. The bartender examined it carefully and compared the face on the photograph with the face of the young man standing before him.

He did not seem wholly satisfied, but he handed the card back, said, "I thought you had to wear your uniform," and turned to make a Sazerac.

Clete was about to put the card back in his wallet when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned and saw one of the Shore Patrolmen standing beside him, and the second SP standing behind the first.

"Could I have a look at that, please?" the SP said politely, but it was a demand, not a request.

Clete nodded and handed it to him. The SP went through the business of comparing the photograph on the card with Clete's face, then held the card over his shoulder so the other SP could have a look.

"It looks, Sir," the SP said, "like you're out of uniform. Could I have a look at your orders, please, Sir?"

Clete reached into the inside pocket of the seersucker jacket and came out with a single sheet of mimeograph paper, folded twice. He handed this to the SP, who unfolded it.