The Honor of Spies (Honor Bound 5)

Operation Phoenix was put into play even before the Stalingrad surrender.

I

[ONE]

Estancia Casa Chica

Near Tandil

Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

0805 11 August 1943

A white two-ton 1940 Ford truck with a refrigerator body followed a white 1938 Ford Fordor sedan down the unnumbered macadam road that branched off National Route Three to Tandil.

The truck body had a representation of a beef cow’s head painted on it, together with the legend FRIGORÍFICO MORÓN, and there was a smaller version of the corporate insignia on the doors of the car.

They were a common sight in the area, which bordered on the enormous Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, the patrón of which did not know within five or six thousand exactly how many head of cattle grazed his fields. Nor did he know who operated the estancia’s eight slaughterhouses, of which Frigorífico Morón had been one of the smallest, until recently, when Frigorífico Morón had been shut down to make room for the runways and hangars of South American Airways.

The car and the truck slowed and turned off the macadam road onto a narrower road of crushed stone, then stopped when they came to a sturdy closed gate, above which a sign read CASA CHICA.

A sturdy man in his fifties with a full, immaculately trimmed cavalryman’s mustache got out of the car and walked toward the gate, holding in his hand a key to the massive padlock that secured the chains in the gate.

He had just twisted the key in th

e lock when a man on horseback trotted up, holding a rifle vertically, its butt resting on the saddle. Without speaking to him—which the man on horseback correctly interpreted to be a signal of disapproval; he knew he should have been at the gate before the man with the mustache reached it—the man returned to the Ford. He got in and waited for the peon to get off the horse and finish dealing with the chain and swing open the gate.

When the car and truck had passed through the gate, the peon went to the right post of the gate, pulled a piece of canvas aside, and then knelt beside an Argentine copy of the U.S. Army’s EE-8 field telephone. He gave its crank several hard turns, then stood up, holding the headset to his ear as he looked up the steep hill to Casa Chica.

An identical field telephone rang in the comfortable living room of Casa Chica, a bungalow sitting near the crest of the hill.

There were five people in the room. A middle-aged balding man wearing a sweater over his shirt sat across a desk from a younger man wearing a loosely knit white turtleneck sweater. A Thompson submachine gun hung from the back of the younger man’s chair.

Another rifle-armed peon—this one leaning back in a chair that rested against a wall—had been on the edge of dozing off when the telephone rang. A large, even massive, dark-skinned woman in her thirties sat on a couch across from a middle-aged woman in an armchair, who was looking bitterly at the middle-aged balding man at the desk. When the telephone rang, the large woman rose with surprising agility from the couch and went to it.

The balding man stopped what he was doing, which was working on an organizational chart, and looked at the massive woman.

“You just keep on working, Herr Frogger,” the young man said not very pleasantly in German.

“I don’t have all these details in my memory, Major,” Frogger said.

“Try harder,” the young man said coldly.

He was Sergeant Sigfried Stein, U.S. Army, although Herr Wilhelm Frogger and his wife, Else, had been told—and believed—that he was a major.

Until weeks before, Wilhelm Frogger had been the commercial attaché of the German Embassy in Buenos Aires. On the fourth of July, he had then appeared at the apartment of Milton Leibermann, a “legal attaché” of the U.S. Embassy, and offered to exchange his knowledge of German Embassy secrets for sanctuary in Brazil.

Leibermann was de facto the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s man in Argentina. He had no place to hide the German defectors from either the Germans or the Argentine authorities—who, he knew, would be told the Froggers had been kidnapped—nor any means to get the defectors out of Argentina. So he had turned them over to someone he thought could do both.

He knew that Don Cletus Frade, patrón of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, was in fact a U.S. Marine Corps major and the de facto head of the U.S. Office of Strategic Services in Argentina. He also knew that having any dealings at all with anyone connected with the spies of the OSS had been absolutely forbidden by FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, and for that reason Leibermann had not reported to the FBI that the Froggers had come to him, or what he had done with them.

Frade was interested in the Froggers because he knew more of the secret activities of the German Embassy than Frogger thought he could possibly know, most importantly about something the Germans called “Operation Phoenix.”

Frogger steadfastly denied any knowledge of Operation Phoenix, which convinced Frade he was a liar. It had also become almost immediately apparent that Frau Else Frogger was an unrepentant National Socialist who not only had decided that defecting had been a mistake but that if they could only get away from Frade and his gottverdammt Jude—“Major” Stein—all would be forgiven at the German Embassy.

Frade, however, knew enough about the SS officers in the German Embassy to know that before or after the Froggers were returned to Germany to enter a concentration camp they would be thoroughly interrogated about Leibermann and about Frade’s operation. And the Froggers had seen too much to let that happen.

Letting them go was not an option.