“Who did you say? Von Wachtstein?”
“A distinguished Luftwaffe officer. He received the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross from the Führer personally.”
Von Dattenberg smiled. “He was not always that respectable, Capitán.”
“You know him?”
“We were almost sent down from university together. I mean, he was sent down, and I was lucky. He went into the Luftwaffe and became a corporal pilot. He flew in Spain with the Condor Legion. I’d heard, after he got the Knight’s Cross, that he’d been commissioned, but I didn’t know he’d been promoted major. One of the world’s good people, Capitán. And he’s involved in this, whatever it is?”
De Banderano was pleased to hear that von Dattenberg and von Wachtstein knew each other, that they were friends. He thought they were both fine young officers.
“I think his role was much like yours, Capitán, to assist in getting the special shipment ashore. Not more than that.”
“Radios and clothing to help the
“That’s what I was told; I didn’t ask questions.”
“An SS-sturmbannführer to guard some radios and clothing?” von Dattenberg pursued.
De Banderano shrugged.
“If I may offer a suggestion, Kapitän. It might not be wise to express your questions to Sturmbannführer Kötl.”
“I am young, Capitán, and inexperienced, but not stupid.”
“Shall I ask the sturmbannführer to join us?”
Sturmbannführer Alfred Kötl looked up after having read his orders. “This is highly unusual,” he objected, “subjecting an SS officer to the orders of a foreign citizen.”
“Perhaps that is why Reichsprotektor Himmler personally signed the concurrence of the SS to the Grand Admiral’s orders,” von Dattenberg offered.
“If you wish clarification of the orders, or confirmation, whatever, we can radio Berlin and get that in perhaps ten or twelve hours,” de Banderano said.
“When will the replenishment of your submarine be finished, von Dattenberg? ” Kötl asked bluntly. “Certainly that won’t take an additional ten or twelve hours.”
“There will be time to send a message, Kötl, if that’s what you want to do,” de Banderano said. “It is my decision that the crew of the U-405 should not undertake this mission until they have had twenty-four hours to recuperate from the ordeal of their voyage so far. Several hot meals and a night in a real bunk should do wonders for them.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest, Herr Kapitän, that I was questioning your orders. I merely was stating that they were highly unusual.”
“In other words, you don’t want me to radio Berlin?”
“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”
“When you have selected the men you’ll be taking with us, Herr Sturmbannführer, ” von Dattenberg said, “please instruct them that they may bring aboard one extra uniform, two changes of linen, one spare pair of shoes, their toilet kit, and such personal items as they may be able to hold in their armpit.”
"I don’t believe I can get even my smallest suitcase under my armpit,” Kötl said, smiling at his wit.
“And no suitcases, Herr Sturmbannführer. Space is at a premium aboard submarines.”
[THREE]
Third Floor Lounge Hipódromo de San Isidro Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1255 7 July 1943
Humberto Valdez Duarte, a tall, slender, superbly tailored man of forty-seven, with a hawk nose and, plastered to his skull, a thick growth of black hair, walked into the lounge and looked around until he saw Cletus Frade, then walked quickly toward him.
The Hipódromo de San Isidro—the racetrack—provided seats in six stands for a hundred thousand spectators. Today, there was perhaps half that number of racing aficionados seated in them.
The Third Floor Lounge was reserved for members, and thus sat atop the members stand. Its plate-glass windows offered a clear view of the finish line and of the entire 2.8-kilometer racing oval.
Frade, wearing a necktie and tweed sports coat and slacks, was sitting alone at a table near the windows. He was puffing on a large black cigar and his hand rested on a long-stemmed wineglass.
As Duarte approached the table, he fondly called out, “Cletus!”
Frade smiled at the voice, stood up and put out his hand—then retracted it. He suddenly remembered he was in Argentina, where male relatives and good friends exchange kisses, not shake hands.
Frade thought of Humberto Duarte as both a good friend and a relative. Duarte was married to his father’s sister and had proved to be a good friend.
They embraced. Duarte detected that Cletus was uncomfortable with the physical greeting but not offended.
“How’s my Tía Beatrice?” Frade dutifully asked.
Beatrice Frade de Duarte had, as Frade somewhat unkindly thought of it, gone around the bend on learning that her only child had gotten himself killed at Stalingrad. She was under the direct attention of a psychiatrist—almost around the clock—and in a tranquilized fog. Seeing Frade, who was the same age as her late son and alive, usually made her condition worse.
Duarte’s face contorted, and he held up both hands in a helpless gesture.
