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“We must presume that the Froggers are still alive. That situation is unacceptable. I think we can safely presume that Don Cletus Frade has them. Or at least had them. There has been a report that a British cruiser in Rio de Janeiro took aboard a middle-aged couple, but until we know it was the Froggers, we must presume it wasn’t them.”

He looked around the room.

“Any questions, comments?”

“We have to get rid of Frade,” von Gradny-Sawz said solemnly.

“You think so, Gradny-Sawz?” Cranz asked softly.

“To me it is self-evident.”

“Let me tell you what is self-evident to me, Gradny-Sawz, and probably to these other gentlemen. We have been sent a message by el Coronel Martín. And that message is that he knows we have failed, for the second time, to remove el Señor Frade from the scene. Otherwise, you see, Gradny-Sawz, el Señor Frade would be facing criminal charges for manslaughter. He could probably successfully plead self-defense, but it would be all over the newspapers.

“If that happened, people would ask, Gradny-Sawz, who could possibly want to assassinate the son of one of Argentina’s beloved sons, who was himself assassinated. Give your imagination free rein, Gradny-Sawz, and guess who would come under suspicion. The French, perhaps? The Uruguayans?

“Do you think it’s possible people would suspect us? And if that came to pass, do you think that Frade’s photographs, sure to be introduced at his trial, would serve to confirm that suspicion?

“Our mission, Gradny-Sawz, is to ensure the Argentines think of Germany as an honorable ally in the battle against the godless Communists. Having it come out that we are even remotely connected with the assassination of el Coronel Frade, the two failed assassination attempts on his son, and the incident at Casa Chica would hardly serve to confirm the image we are trying to project, would it?”

Von Gradny-Sawz looked very uncomfortable.

“Well, I’ll tell you what, Gradny-Sawz,” Cranz went on. “You come up with a plan that absolutely precludes the possibility that photographs of Juan Domingo Perón with a group of SS personnel at a machine gun, the bodies of those SS personnel sometime later, riddled with bullets, and a map showing what looks like the Third Reich’s plans for South America appearing in La Nación or any other newspaper, and I will give you permission to eliminate Don Cletus Frade yourself.

“And while you’re doing that, I will inform SS-Brigadeführer von Deitzberg that it is my professional judgment that this American OSS sonofabitch poses an immediate threat to Operation Phoenix and the other operation and has to be dealt with. I will seek SS-Brigadeführer von Deitzberg’s wise advice and direction on how to do that, as I can think of no way to do anything that would not cause an international incident that would pose serious problems to Operation Phoenix.

“Except, of course, to send Boltitz home with von Wachtstein to charm the sonofabitch as best they can, and to learn as much as they can about what he’s up to. Understand, Gradny-Sawz? The Yankee OSS sonofabitch has got us cornered. And I’m not going to be the man responsible for the failure of Operation Phoenix.”

He let that sink in a moment, then stood up.

His right arm snapped out in front of him.

“Heil Hitler!” he barked, then marched out of the room.

[SEVEN]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila

Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

1230 13 August 1943

Don Cletus Frade, wearing khaki trousers and a yellow polo shirt, came out onto the shaded verandah of the big house carrying a bottle of Bodega Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon ’39, two long-stemmed wineglasses, a long black cigar, and a corkscrew bottle opener.

Two people hurried after him. One was a plump female in her late forties wearing a severe black dress, Elisa Gómez. The other was Enrico Rodríguez, wearing a business suit and cradling his twelve-gauge Remington Model 11 riot gun in his arms. Around his neck was a leather bandolier of brass-cased double-aught buckshot shells.

“All you had to do was ring, Don Cletus,” Elisa Gómez chided him as she took the bottle from him. Her tone suggested that the chief housekeeper of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo was not in awe of its patrón.

“I humbly beg your pardon,” Frade said, deeply insincere.

She shook her head, quickly uncorked the wine, poured a taste in one of his glasses, and waited for his reaction. He swirled the wine, sniffed at the glass, and finally took a sip. And grimaced.

“I think I’ve been poisoned,” he announced.

She shook her head, filled the glass, and marched into the house.

“Enrico, why do I think she doesn’t like me?” Frade asked.