“With Cletus Marcus Howell.”
“Who?” Dulles said.
“Cletus Frade’s grandfather, a.k.a. Howell Petroleum. He’s got that kind of money—more important, he’s got it in Venezuela, out of sight of the Internal Revenue Service—and I’m sure that all I’ll have to tell him is that his grandson needs to borrow it for the duration plus six months.”
“And moving all these people to Argentina?”
Graham nodded and said, “Donovan told me the President is really happy that Juan Trippe is really unhappy that South American Airways has established—or is in the process of establishing—regularly scheduled service between Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, Santiago, Montevideo, and other places in South America. All I have to do is figure a way to make the President think of how utterly miserable Juan Trippe would be to learn that this upstart airline is offering . . . oh, say, twice-weekly service between Buenos Aires and Madrid? Or Lisbon? Or Casablanca? Or all three?”
“Which they could do if they had a ‘surplus’ Constellation?”
“I was thinking more on the lines of three Constellations,” Graham said.
“Why am I getting the feeling that this Constellation idea didn’t suddenly pop into your head in the last fifteen minutes or so?”
“Because you know how devious—some might say Machiavellian—I am beneath this polished veneer of refined Texas gentleman.”
Dulles chuckled. “I have to say this, Alex: You realize that we are giving aid and comfort to the enemy, betraying our Russian ally, and agreeing to deceive not only our boss but the President?”
Graham’s face was sober as he nodded his understanding.
But then he smiled.
“It’s in a good cause, Allen. Now get on the phone and get von und zu back in here so we can tell him he’s got a deal.”
[THREE]
Aboard MV Ciudad de Cádiz
South Latitude 26.318
West Longitude 22.092
0625 11 September 1943
Kapitänleutnant Wilhelm von Dattenberg paused at the interior door to the bridge, waited to be noticed, and when that didn’t happen, asked, “Permission to come onto the bridge, Kapitän?”
Von Dattenberg, a slim, somewhat hawk-faced thirty-two-year-old, was wearing navy blue trousers, a black knit sweater, and a battered, greasy Kriegsmarine officer’s cap, which was sort of the proud symbol of a submarine officer.
Capitán José Francisco de Banderano, master of the Ciudad de Cádiz, who had been standing on the port flying bridge holding binoculars to his eyes, turned to look at von Dattenberg. José de Banderano looked very much like Wilhelm von Dattenberg—in other words, more Teutonic than Latin—but was a few years older. He was wearing blue trousers and a stiffly starched white shirt with four-stripe shoulder boards.
“You have the freedom of this bridge, Capitán,” de Banderano said. “I thought I told you that. Four or five times.”
“I must have forgotten.”
Von Dattenberg walked onto the flying bridge and looked over the side. His vessel—U-405, a type VIIC submarine—lay alongside, the German naval battle flag hanging limply from a staff on her conning tower.
Her diesels were idling; if necessary, she could be under way in a minute or two and submerged a few minutes after that. It was unlikely that she would have to do that. They were just about equidistant from Africa and South America, in the middle of the Atlantic, and off the usual shipping lanes.
The chief of the boat was in the conning tower, resting on his elbows. Two seamen were manning a machine gun.
“Morgen!” von Dattenberg called. He had “the voice of command”; it carried.
The seamen popped to attention. The chief of the boat looked up and waved his right arm in a gesture that was far more a friendly wave than a salute.
A white-jacketed steward touched von Dattenberg’s arm and, when he looked, handed him a steaming china mug.
“The capitán asks that you join him for breakfast, Capitán.”