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Graham nodded. “I called him as soon as I saw the picture of Frau Frogger and what looks like her grandson.”

“You mean Fischer?”

Graham nodded again. “Allen’s original thought was that I would take Fischer and the pictures of Frogger’s mother and father to Camp Clinton and between us we could turn this guy—”

“Presuming you could turn him,” Donovan interrupted, his tone on the edge of sarcasm, “what would you do with him, take him to Argentina?”

If Graham heard the sarcasm, he ignored it along with the question.

“—but when I saw the picture of the two of them, Frau Frogger and Fischer, I realized that a nice-looking young Jewish second lieutenant like Fischer was not going to have much of an impact on an Afrikakorps lieutenant colonel. So I called Allen.”

“You talked about this on the telephone?” Donovan asked, both incredulously and on the edge of anger.

Graham saw this, and his lips tightened.

“Yeah. And Allen and I also chatted about the plot to assassinate Hitler, the Manhattan Project, Operation Phoenix—”

“All right, all right,” Donovan said. “Sorry.”

“—and other subjects of high interest,” Graham finished. “Then Allen asked me what I thought of having Frade deal with Colonel Frogger.”

“He asked you that?”

“Yes, he did. He also said that if I hadn’t called, he would have called me. Great minds, you may have heard, run in similar paths.”

“I’m getting the feeling, Alex, that you’re not in here asking my opinion of this idea of yours and Allen’s, much less for permission to carry it out.”

“That’s because you’re perceptive, Bill. Probably a result of your legal training.”

“But I am permitted to ask a question or two?”

“Certainly.”

“How are you going to get Frade to come here? I’ve always had the impression that he might ignore an order to come home. And how is he going to explain his absence to his Argentine friends?”

“Allen and I have a plan.”

“Which is?”

“If I told you, you would be in a position to say, ‘I told you so,’ should it not turn out as well as we hope it will.”

[TWO]

Office of the Managing Director Banco de Inglaterra y Argentina Bartolomé Mitre 300 Buenos Aires, Argentina 1650 30 July 1943

“Well, that was quick, Cletus,” Humberto Valdez Duarte said as he waved Frade into his office. “We didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

Frade came into the office trailed by Captain Gonzalo Delgano. Frade wore aviator sunglasses, a battered long-brimmed aviator’s cap, khaki trousers, an open-collared polo shirt, a fur-collared leather jacket bearing a leather patch with the golden wings of a Naval Aviator and the legend C.H. FRADE 1LT USMCR, and a battered pair of Western boots. Delgano was in his crisp SAA pilot’s uniform.

They crossed the office to Duarte’s desk and shook his hand.

“The message we got,” Frade said, “was that you wanted to see us as soon as possible. So here we are.”

“The message was addressed to you, Señor Frade,” a voice said behind them. “Captain Delgano will not be required.”

Frade was surprised. He hadn’t seen anyone but Duarte when he and Delgano came into the office. Then he realized that the voice had come from the adjacent conference room. He walked to its doorway and

looked inside.