W. IV: Honor Bound 05 - The Honor of Spies

A civilian wearing a bloody bandage on his forehead and in a grease-stained polo shirt and khaki trousers, went to one of the Cubs and with grease-stained hands opened the engine compartment. Neither pilot thought this was the appropriate time to ask questions.

The civilian turned from the engine.

"I don't think I have ever seen such a clean engine," he said.

"Gentlemen, may I introduce Don Cletus Frade, who is an experienced Piper pilot. He is the son of the late Coronel Jorge Frade, whose last active duty command was of the Husares de Pueyrredon."

Neither lieutenant seemed to know quite how to deal with that revelation. An indelicate sophistry from Major Frade's own military experience popped into his mind: Those poor bastards don't know whether to shit or go blind .

He took pity on them.

"Tenientes," he said, "are these aircraft in as good shape as they appear to be?"

One of them found his voice.

"Sir, so far as I know, they are in perfect shape."

"May I ask how much experience you have in short-field landing?"

"Sir, we practice that technique regularly."

"In other words, you would have no trouble with putting one of these down on a field a little longer than a polo field?"

After a moment's thought, one of the lieutenants said, "No, sir."

Clete unkindly suspected that their practice had been trying to put a Piper down as close to the end of a runway as they could, then trying to see how short they could make the landing roll.

Well, there's nothing that can be done about that.

"What we're going to do now is: I am going to take one of these and fly it to my house. One of you will take the other one and follow me. All I can tell you is to suggest you make your approach as slowly and carefully as you know how."

"Yes, sir."

Frade turned to Rawson.

"Well, sir, I'll see everybody at Casa Montagna," he said, and then made a little joke. "Unless, of course, you want to ride up there with me and save yourself an hour's drive."

"I'll go with you," Rawson announced. "General Nervo can go in the other airplane."

"Sir, I was kidding."

"I wasn't," President Rawson said. "Father Kurt tells me you have a radio there capable of talking to Buenos Aires."

"To Jorge Frade, sir. The airfield and Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. Only."

"Whatever its limitations, we'll have more communication than we have now standing around here. How soon can we leave?"

"Just as soon as I top off the fuel tanks," Clete said, and motioned for General Nervo to get into one of the Cubs. "I'm sure you will find this interesting, Simple Policeman. In Texas, they use these airplanes to catch speeders on the highways."

[ELEVEN]

Edelweiss Hotel

San Martin 202

San Carlos de Bariloche

1635 16 October 1943

Although Senor Jorge Schenck and Senor Otto Kortig arrived at the Edelweiss within minutes of each other, they didn't see each other for some time.

When Schenck, his wife, el Coronel Juan D. Peron, and Senorita Evita Duarte returned from their visit to Estancia Puesta de Sol Schenck, they had parked the Ford station wagon in front of the hotel on Calle San Martin. Then they had gone to the bar via the lobby.

As they were being shown to a table, Schenck saw Senor Suarez, the real-estate man, sitting with another man he correctly guessed to be the bureaucrat who was going to be necessary to witness Peron's signature on the deed. Schenck made a simple series of gestures telling Senor Suarez not to recognize him and to stay where he was until summoned.

Then he followed the others to a table, where he announced he needed a drink, a real drink.

Senorita Duarte thought that was a splendid idea, and said so. El Coronel Peron said that he would have a little taste of Johnnie Walker Black himself. When the waiter came, Senor Schenck ordered Johnnie Walker Black, doubles, all around.

Two or three rounds like that and Casanova, if encouraged by Senorita Evita, will happily sign the menu or anything else she puts in front of him.

When Senor Pablo Alvarez, the Reverend Francisco Silva, S.J., and Senor Otto Kortig arrived at the hotel about fifteen minutes later, after a full and exhausting day of examining the Hotel Lago Vista in detail, they parked the 1940 Ford Fordor from Casa Montagna in the parking lot behind the hotel, as they would have no further need for it until the morning.

Then they started to enter the hotel from the parking lot. But as they did, they came to sort of an adjunct of the hotel bar, a glass-roofed area outside the more formal inside bar. It had a dozen or so cast-iron tables with umbrellas, six or seven of which were occupied by people having a drink and munching on cheese and salami.

"Am I the only one who's tempted?" Senor Alvarez asked.

"How's the beer in Argentina?" Senor Kortig inquired. "I haven't had a decent glass of beer in months."

"I think you will be pleased, Otto," Father Silva said.

"Are you a beer drinker, Father?"

"On occasion," the priest confessed.

Three liters of Quilmes lager later, Senor Kortig excused himself to visit the gentlemen's rest facility.

"It's right inside the lobby to the right, Otto," Father Silva said.

"Thank you. Order another liter of the Quilmes while I'm gone, will you?"

"It will be my pleasure," Senor Alvarez said.

In the main bar, Senor Schenck looked up from stuffing his copy of the just executed change-of-owner documentation for Estancia Puesta de Sol into his briefcase.

That Johnnie Walker is getting to me. If I didn't know better, I'd swear I just saw Oberstleutnant Otto Niedermeyer walk past.

Ridiculous!

He works for Canaris in Abwehr Ost. What could he possibly be doing here in the Andes mountains of Argentina?

And if you do something foolish, like chase some strange man into a men's room and . . .

"Excuse me, please," Schenck said, and got up from the table and followed a strange man toward the men's room.

Rather than porcelain urinals mounted to a wall, the urinal in the Hotel Edelweiss lobby men's room was the wall itself. Below waist height, the wall was tiled. A copper pipe just above the tiles fed a never-ending stream of water gently down the white tiles toward a sort of trough at the bottom.

When Senor Schenck entered the men's room, the strange man was facing the wall.

Schenck waited until the man turned, and he had a chance for a good look.

" Wie geht's, Otto?" he asked cordially, smiling.

"Ach, Gott!" Oberstleutnant Otto Niedermeyer, visibly surprised, said.

"What in the world are you doing here?"

Niedermeyer put his index finger before his lips and looked quickly at the water closet stalls--all of which were empty.

He threw out his arm in the Nazi salute.

"Heil Hitler!" he said, and then, "May the oberstleutnant respectfully suggest that the SS-brigadefuhrer attend to his personal business first?"

Von Deitzberg smiled.

"Good idea," he said.

He stepped to the urinal wall, unzipped his trousers, and started to attend to his personal business.

SS-Brigadefuhrer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg turned his head to look at Oberstleutnant Niedermeyer just in time to see the muzzle of the barrel of Niedermeyer's Ballester-Molina Pistola Automatica Calibre .45 before it fired.

Von Deitzberg slumped to the floor, leaving a tracing of brain tissue and blood on the urinal's tiles. The stream of water caused first the blood to start sliding down the tiles, and then the smaller pieces of brain tissue.

Niedermeyer quickly examined his clothing to see if he had been splattered with either. He had not been. He looked down at von Deitzberg, said, "God forgive me," returned the pistol to the small of his back, and calmly walked out of the men's room.