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The Office of Strategic Services 2340 E Street, NW, Washington, D.C. 1535 10 May 1945

Preceded by an MP jeep and trailed by an MP weapons carrier, the Cadillac turned off E Street and stopped before a Colonial-style building that would have been quite at home on a college campus. Frade was in the front with the chauffeur; Boltitz and von Wachtstein rode in the back.

Frade surveyed the area and thought, What the hell do I do now? I never wanted to be here in the first place—and damn sure not with POWs I just broke out of the slam.

I’ve got to get rid of these MPs. . . .

Frade rolled down his window and commanded the driver of the lead jeep, “Drive around to the rear.”

In the back of the building were parking spaces. One of the two nearest the door was empty. It had a neatly lettered sign: RESERVED FOR THE DIRECTOR.

Frade pointed to it and ordered, “Pull in there, Tom.”

After Tom parked, Clete told Peter and Karl to wait in the car and then got out.

Two men in police-type uniforms came quickly—almost ran—from the building.

Clete intercepted them and announced, “Colonel Frade to see Colonel Graham.”

He did not offer his credentials. The security officers would know they weren’t bona fide.

“That’s General Donovan’s parking spot, Colonel,” the shorter of the security officers said. “You—”

“He told me to use it,” Frade cut him off, and started walking toward the building entrance.

Then he had a sudden idea.

He stopped, turned, and pointed to the jeep and weapons carrier.

“Have those escort vehicles moved to the front of the building,” he ordered the security men.

Frade heard them barking orders to the drivers of the MP vehicles as he entered the building. He came to two other security officers who were sitting behind a curved reception desk.

“Colonel Frade to see Colonel Graham,” Frade announced. “I do not have an appointment.”

One of the security guards automatically reached for a telephone and dialed a number.

With a little bit of luck, Frade thought, Graham won’t be here.

Then I will make sure the MPs have moved, and go back outside and see if there’s another way to get out of that parking lot.

Frade could quite clearly hear the voice of the male who answered the call snap: “What?”

Dammit—he’s here!

“Who is this, please?” the security guard said into the phone.

“Who did you expect to get when you called this number?” the voice on the phone demanded incredulously.

“Colonel Graham, sir.”

“Okay. You got him. What? ”

“There’s a Marine officer here, Colonel. Lieutenant Colonel Frade. He says he doesn’t have an appointment—”

“He damn sure doesn’t!” the voice said, then before hanging up added: “Send him up.”

Colonel Alejandro Federico Graham, USMCR, the deputy director of the OSS for Western Hemisphere Operations, was standing in the corridor when Frade got off the elevator. He wore his usual immaculate uniform.