“Yes, sir,” Fischer said meekly.
“And that means, of course, that we won’t have the radar to make sure the Germans haven’t brought another submarine-replenishment vessel into Samborombón Bay . . .”
“Shit,” Schultz said.
"... And that while you’re all in some cell—before and after your courtmartial—the Germans will probably try to have you killed.”
“They can do that?” Fischer blurted.
Frade exhaled audibly. “Yeah, Fischer, they can do that. My Uncle Juan Domingo is not the only Argentine officer who thinks Hitler’s a good guy and that the Germans and Japs and Italians—The Axis—are going to win the war.”
“Oh, boy!” Fischer said.
“And to answer your specific question: The organized crime down here is very much like ours in the States. When the Germans wanted my father dead— and, for that matter, me whacked—they didn’t try to do it themselves. They hired professional killers from whatever they call the Mafia down here. They took out my father but didn’t get me. That was dumb luck; somebody told me they were coming, and I was waiting for them. They’re not nice people. They found my housekeeper, a really nice lady, in the kitchen and slit her throat, just because she was there—”
“Jesus!”
“Yeah, Jesus. Now pay attention, Fischer: I can get you out of the country, into Uruguay, right now. And have you in Brazil tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The Froggers are at Casa Chica, a small farm I own near Tandil, in the hills between La Pampas and Mar del Plata—”
“I don’t know where any of those places are,” Fischer interrupted.
“Let me finish, Fischer,” Frade said coldly.
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s about a two-hour drive from here,” Frade went on.
“Yes, sir.”
“And every twenty miles or so, I expect there will be a checkpoint. Either army or police.”
“Yes . . . I understand.”
“I think those pictures are more important than I understand—”
Fischer, nodding, interrupted: “Mr. Dulles made that pretty clear without coming right out and saying so, or saying why.”
After a long silence, Frade said, “I am not going to order you to go out there, Fischer.”
Fischer met his eyes for a moment, then shrugged. “When do I go? Right now?”
“If we’re going to go, yeah, right now. You’re willing to take the chance?”
Fischer nodded again.
Frade raised his eyebrows. “The first thing I learned when I went into the Marine Corps was never to volunteer for anything.”
“Yeah, well, what the hell, I’ve never seen a real Nazi,” Fischer said.
“Taking into consideration that that goddamned Carlos may have sneaked back onto the estancia—”
“I don’t think so, Clete,” Schultz said. “Those gauchos of yours know if a damn rabbit comes on the place.”
Frade ignored the comment. “—and is watching us through binoculars to see what we’re doing before they come to arrest me. So, what we now are going to do is get in the Horch. Fischer gets in the backseat and lies on the floor until we’re a couple of miles from here. And we go to Casa Chica.”
“A couple problems with that, sweetheart,” Dorotea said.
Clete turned quickly to look at her.
“You don’t know how to get there,” she explained reasonably. “The only time you’ve been there, you flew the Piper Cub. And . . . when I am sitting with you in the front seat, and if Carlos is watching us, he will decide that you and I have gone off for a romantic interlude. If I’m not with you,
Clete saw out of the corner of his eye that Schultz and Fischer were trying very hard not to smile.
Clete nodded. “Okay, okay, sweetheart, you can go.”
“Oh, you’re just so
He shook his head—but he was smiling.
“Chief,” Frade then said, “take the SIGABA device out to the radar site. Make sure it and the radio and the code machine and everything else is rigged with thermite grenades.”
“And the Collins radios?”
“Leave them here. If Carlos is watching, taking them out of the hangar would be suspicious.”
Schultz nodded.
“If they come after me,” Frade went on, “torch everything, then go hide on the estancia.”
“I know just the place.
Frade raised his eyebrows, not convinced. He said, “When we get to Casa Chica, we’ll take the pictures of the Froggers—we’ll need a copy of
“There’s one in the sitting,” Dorotea said.
“. . . And then we’ll spend the night. We’ll leave there at seven, seven-thirty in the morning. Which should put us back here, or onto the estancia, at about half past nine. Have a gaucho meet us somewhere if everything’s okay. If there’s no gaucho . . . then we’ll play it by ear.”
[TWO]
Estancia Casa Chica Near Tandil Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 2015 19 July 1943
