“Actually, my brother—John Foster Dulles—is an attorney in New York City. Among his firm’s clients are Cletus Marcus Howell and Howell Petroleum.”
“Is that so?”
“I’ve never had the privilege of meeting Mr. Howell—which I am led to believe is often an interesting experience—but nevertheless I relay, through my brother, your grandfather’s best wishes.”
“And as does, of course, Alejandro Graham,” Dulles added.
“I had dinner with Alex several nights ago in Washington,” Dulles went on. “We have been friends for a long time.”
Frade didn’t reply.
“Major Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein,” Dulles said.
“Excuse me?”
“Is Galahad,” Dulles said.
“Who?”
Dulles smiled at him.
“Major Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein is Galahad,” Dulles said. “Which is something the FBI, the Office of Naval Intelligence, the Army’s Chief of Intelligence, and of course SS-Brigadeführer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg—and others—would dearly like to know.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Frade said.
Dulles smiled at him, then took a sip of his drink.
“Well, they won’t hear it from me,” Dulles said.
“Hear what from you?”
“The identity of Galahad.”
“We’re back to the fact that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Dulles smiled at him.
“Let me tell you about my dinner with Alex Graham,” Dulles said. “Your drink all right? Need a little top-off?”
“My drink is fine, thank you.”
“It was in the Hotel Washington,” Dulles said. “You know it?”
Frade shook his head.
“Right around the corner from the White House,” Dulles said, “which is convenient when the President, as he did a couple of nights ago, wants to have a private dinner away from the White House.”
“The President?” Frade blurted.
“The Secret Service just rolls his wheelchair into a laundry van, drives it around the corner to the service entrance of the Washington, then rolls him through the kitchen in the basement to the service elevator, and on up to an apartment they keep for him there.”
“He can’t walk?” Frade blurted.
Dulles shook his head. “Not much farther than that door”—he pointed— “and that’s pretty exhausting for him.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Not many people do,” Dulles said. “Anyway, it was a small dinner. Just the President, Graham, Donovan, Putzi Hanfstaengl, and me.”
“Am I supposed to know who Putzi Haf . . . whatever you said . . . is?”
“I’d be surprised if you did. Putzi Hanfstaengl—Ernst is his name; we just call him ‘Putzi’—is a German. He was at Columbia with Roosevelt and Donovan. Got pretty close to Hitler. He was smart enough to get out just in time— before they were going to see he had a fatal accident. As an enemy alien in the U.S., he’s under arrest, of course. The Army has posted guards on him in his quote cell end quote at the Washington, which just happens to be down the corridor from the President’s apartment. Staff Sergeant Ernst Hanfstaengl—same name as his father, you might note—is in charge of that guard detail. So far Putzi hasn’t tried to escape.”
“This all sounds . . . fantastic!”
“And I have barely begun, Major Frade. You sure you wouldn’t like me to refresh your drink?”
“I think that would be a very bad idea, Mr. Dulles.”
“Please call me ‘Allen.’ And if I may, I’d like to call you ‘Cletus.’ ”
“I could no more call you Allen, sir, than I could call Colonel Graham by his first name.”
“Give it a shot. It may not be as difficult as you might think. But may I call you ‘Cletus’?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you. Well, the reason Putzi was there was because we were talking about the war against Germany—”
“Who the
“I do, in Bern, Switzerland, what you are doing in Buenos Aires. I keep an eye on the Germans and try to make trouble for them. I’m the OSS station chief in Switzerland.”
“The regional commander?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the OSS regional commander?”
“I suppose you could phrase it that way. But I concentrate on the German and Italian high commands. The sabotage and espionage, that sort of thing, is run by David Bruce out of London.”
