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

"I don't see that as a problem. What's the other thing?"

"How do we get this officer of Gehlen's from here to South America? And the families von und zu is talking about? And subquestion a: What do we do with him--with, ultimately, all of Gehlen's women and children--once they are there? And why isn't a million dollars a problem?"

"I've been giving that some thought. If you and I suddenly spent even the hundred thousand from our nonvouchered funds, Donovan would be all over us wanting to know what we spent it on."

"Leaving us where?"

"With Cletus Marcus Howell."

"Who?" Dulles said.

"Cletus Frade's grandfather, a.k.a. Howell Petroleum. He's got that kind of money--more important, he's got it in Venezuela, out of sight of the Internal Revenue Service--and I'm sure that all I'll have to tell him is that his grandson needs to borrow it for the duration plus six months."

"And moving all these people to Argentina?"

Graham nodded and said, "Donovan told me the President is really happy that Juan Trippe is really unhappy that South American Airways has established--or is in the process of establishing--regularly scheduled service between Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, Santiago, Montevideo, and other places in South America. All I have to do is figure a way to make the President think of how utterly miserable Juan Trippe would be to learn that this upstart airline is offering . . . oh, say, twice-weekly service between Buenos Aires and Madrid? Or Lisbon? Or Casablanca? Or all three?"

"Which they could do if they had a 'surplus' Constellation?"

"I was thinking more on the lines of three Constellations," Graham said.

"Why am I getting the feeling that this Constellation idea didn't suddenly pop into your head in the last fifteen minutes or so?"

"Because you know how devious--some might say Machiavellian--I am beneath this polished veneer of refined Texas gentleman."

Dulles chuckled. "I have to say this, Alex: You realize that we are giving aid and comfort to the enemy, betraying our Russian ally, and agreeing to deceive not only our boss but the President?"

Graham's face was sober as he nodded his understanding.

But then he smiled.

"It's in a good cause, Allen. Now get on the phone and get von und zu back in here so we can tell him he's got a deal."

[THREE]

Aboard MV Ciudad de Cadiz

South Latitude 26.318

West Longitude 22.092

0625 11 September 1943

Kapitanleutnant Wilhelm von Dattenberg paused at the interior door to the bridge, waited to be noticed, and when that didn't happen, asked, "Permission to come onto the bridge, Kapitan?"

Von Dattenberg, a slim, somewhat hawk-faced thirty-two-year-old, was wearing navy blue trousers, a black knit sweater, and a battered, greasy Kriegsmarine officer's cap, which was sort of the proud symbol of a submarine officer.

Capitan Jose Francisco de Banderano, master of the Ciudad de Cadiz, who had been standing on the port flying bridge holding binoculars to his eyes, turned to look at von Dattenberg. Jose de Banderano looked very much like Wilhelm von Dattenberg--in other words, more Teutonic than Latin--but was a few years older. He was wearing blue trousers and a stiffly starched white shirt with four-stripe shoulder boards.

"You have the freedom of this bridge, Capitan," de Banderano said. "I thought I told you that. Four or five times."

"I must have forgotten."

Von Dattenberg walked onto the flying bridge and looked over the side. His vessel--U-405, a type VIIC submarine--lay alongside, the German naval battle flag hanging limply from a staff on her conning tower.

Her diesels were idling; if necessary, she could be under way in a minute or two and submerged a few minutes after that. It was unlikely that she would have to do that. They were just about equidistant from Africa and South America, in the middle of the Atlantic, and off the usual shipping lanes.

The chief of the boat was in the conning tower, resting on his elbows. Two seamen were manning a machine gun.

"Morgen!" von Dattenberg called. He had "the voice of command"; it carried.

The seamen popped to attention. The chief of the boat looked up and waved his right arm in a gesture that was far more a friendly wave than a salute.

A white-jacketed steward touched von Dattenberg's arm and, when he looked, handed him a steaming china mug.

"The capitan asks that you join him for breakfast, Capitan."

"Thank you," von Dattenberg said, and walked off the flying bridge into the wheelhouse, then through it to the chart room, and from there to the door to the master's cabin.

De Banderano waved him in. A table had been set with a crisp white tablecloth and silver. A steward--not the one who had given von Dattenberg the coffee--immediately began to deliver breakfast.

It was an impressive display of food. They were served a basket of breads and rolls, thin slices of ham rolled into tubes, a plate of curled butter, and another of jams and marmalades.

De Banderano poked at the ham tubes with his fork, then announced: "A ham steak, please, Ricardo. Two eggs, up."

"Yes, sir," the steward said, and looked at von Dattenberg. "Capitan?"

"Not for me, thank you," von Dattenberg said, then immediately changed his mind. "Yes, please. Same thing." He met de Banderano's eyes. "God only knows when I'll eat this well again."

"Yes, sir."

The steward had just poured von Dattenberg another cup of coffee--this time into a delicate Meissen cup sitting on a saucer--when the third mate, serving as officer of the deck, appeared at the door.

"Excuse me, Capitan. There is a submarine dead ahead at maybe three kilometers."

"Can you read her flag?"

"No, sir. The submarine could be anything."

"Perhaps it's Swiss," de Banderano said. "Have the Oerlikons manned just in case. I have never trusted the Swiss navy."

Von Dattenberg chuckled.

The odds against any submarine but a U-boat not immediately submerging when spotting a ship were enormous. And there was no Swiss navy.

The Ciudad de Cadiz had a half-dozen Oerlikon 20mm machine guns mounted in various places in her superstructure, all but two of them behind false bulkheads that could be swung quickly out of the way.

"Yes, sir."

The third mate returned before von Dattenberg and de Banderano had finished their coffee.

"The Oerlikons are manned, sir, and we have notified the U-405."

"Very well," de Banderano said. "Capitan von Dattenberg and I will be on the bridge shortly."

"Send, Lie along our port side, " Capitan de Banderano ordered the seaman standing beside him with a signaling lamp.

" Lie alongside our port side. Aye, aye, sir," the signalman said, and began tapping his key.

"That's the U-409," von Dattenberg said.

"You know her? Her master?"

"I don't know if I do or not," von Dattenberg said.

"Submarine sends, Will lie along your port, " the signalman reported.

"Very well," de Banderano said. "Make all preparations to take passengers and cargo aboard, with refueling and replenishment of food supplies to follow. Have the galley prepared to feed her crew. Have the table set in the wardroom to feed officers. Alert the laundry."

"Aye, aye, sir," the third mate responded.

"Take the helm, Senor Sanchez."

"I have the helm, sir," Third Mate Sanchez said.

"Why don't we go below, Capitan, and greet our visitors?" Capitan de Banderano suggested.

By the time de Banderano and von Dattenberg had made their way from the bridge to the just-above-the-waterline Seventh Deck, enormous watertight doors in the Ciudad de Cadiz 's hull had been slid upward and a huge cushion--lashed-together truck tires--was being lowered into place.