especially—any of the Nazis you have smuggled into Argentina. I want the truth now. Can you prevent that from happening in the next few months with damned little—no—help from anybody until Sid—Admiral Sourer—is up and running with the new agency?”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. President. I really think I can.”
Truman looked at him for a long moment.
“So do I. I really think you can,” the President said. Then he laughed. “When I heard you made the Secret Service take off their trousers . . . what did I say, Sid?”
“You said, ‘That young officer is apparently capable of anything.’”
“That’s what I said, and that’s what I meant.”
He put out his hand to Clete.
“Thank you, Colonel Frade. I hope to see you again, and soon.” The President paused. “But right now, the thing to do is get you back to Argentina and out of sight. Sid, can we send him in that fancy airplane of yours? Can that make it to Argentina?”
“Not a problem, Mr. President.”
“Then it’s done. Sid, you can come back to Washington with me on
“There’s a couple of problems with that, Mr. President, as far as I’m concerned,” Frade said. “The first is that your Connie can take us only as far as one of our air bases in Brazil; it would cause too much attention in Argentina.”
“And what else?”
“The military attache in our embassy in Buenos Aires is not one of my admirers.”
“You’re speaking of Colonel Richmond C. Flowers?” Admiral Sourer asked. “I know a good deal about him.”
“Yes, sir. And if he finds out I’m back in Argentina, it’ll be all over Washington in a matter of hours.”
“Sid?” President Truman asked.
“By the time you get to Buenos Aires, Colonel Frade,” Admiral Sourer said, “Colonel Flowers will be en route to his new assignment. Nome, Alaska, comes to mind.”
“Anything else, son?” the President asked.
“My wife and sons are in New Orleans.”
“We can’t have that,” the President said. “Sid . . .”
“By the time you get to Brazil, Colonel, I think your family will also be there,” Admiral Sourer said.
“Is that it?” the President asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Have a nice flight, Colonel,” the President of the United States said.
He turned and, sipping his bourbon, walked out of the room.
[EIGHT]
357 Roonstrasse, Zehlendorf Berlin, Germany 1710 19 July 1945
“They’re in the garden, Colonel,” one of Tiny’s men said when Frade walked into the house.
Clete was afraid to ask just who that meant, and didn’t.
Then he saw Karl Boltitz, Siggie Stein, and Heinrich and Gerhard sitting at a small table. With Graf von Wachtstein.
Frade announced: “Okay, everybody up. We have a plane to catch.”
“Says who?” Stein asked.
“Since you asked, says the President of the United States. Our orders are to hide in Argentina from the Secret Service until things settle down a little.”
“Why do I think he’s telling the truth?” von Wachtstein asked.
“Why is it you still have skin?”
“Because I am smarter than anyone thought I am.”
“How did you do in Bremen, Karl?”
“Pretty well, Clete,” Boltitz said. “So far as the subs are concerned, the sooner I get to Argentina the better.”
He looked at the boys, then back at Clete, and asked, “How much time do we have?”
“None. Let’s go.”
The men all stood.
Heinrich and Gerhard remained in their seats, their gazes glued to the table.
“You guys don’t want to go to Argentina and meet Uncle Siggie’s nice nun?” Clete asked.
The boys looked up at each other.
Then Heinrich looked at Clete and said, “Excuse me? We can go?”
“Of course you can go,” Frade said.
“Can you do that, Cletus?” von Wachtstein asked.
“What? Of course I can! I am the world’s greatest expert in smuggling Germans into Argentina. If you don’t believe me, just ask the secretary of the Treasury.”
