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“All of this convinced Peter that the Russians would indeed skin him alive if he went to Pomerania and they caught him.”
Dorotea inhaled.
“And he went anyway,” she said.
“Don Cletus did everything he could to stop him, Doña Dorotea,” Enrico said.
“Oh, my God!”
“Yeah, oh, my God,” Clete said.
“Why?”
“Noblesse oblige, sweetheart. Hansel, Graf von Wachtstein is doing his duty. The stupid sonofabitch.”
“You don’t think he’ll be coming back?”
“I’ve always had a lousy memory, baby, but for the rest of my life I will remember every goddamned word Peter said just before we left Berlin.”
Dorotea made a go ahead signal with both of her hands.
“‘If something should happen to me, my dear friend, I would want you to tell the Countess von Wachtstein that I loved her as I have never loved any other woman, and that I regret that she must now assume the responsibilities that come with the title. And remind her that if I am no longer alive, our son is the Graf von Wachtstein.’”
When she saw her husband’s chest heave, and the tears form, Doña Dorotea got out of her chair, knelt beside his, and pulled his head to her breast.
A long moment later, she asked, “When are you going to tell her, darling?”
“Not until I see a picture of the sonofabitch nailed to the wall of his goddamn castle,” Clete said, his voice unsteady. He cleared his throat. “Miracles happen. You ever hear that God takes care of fools and drunks? The sonofabitch Hansel qualifies on both counts.”
“You’re not going back to Berlin?” Dorotea asked incredulously.
Clete met her eyes and nodded. “The next SAA flight to Lisbon is on the twenty-eighth. Enrico and I will be on it.”
“Oh, God!”
“We’re taking with us that half million dollars. That’s needed to set Gehlen and his people up.”
“I wondered what that money was for.”
“And a suitcase full of clothes for a couple of teenage boys, which Enrico is right now going to go out and buy.”
“Sí, Don Cletus.”
[TWO]
Tempelhof Air Base Berlin, Germany 1635 1 June 1945
Immediately after Cletus Frade and Enrico Rodríguez had gotten off the Douglas C-47 that had flown them from Rhein-Main, they’d been ushered into the presence of a U.S. Army Military Police officer of the Second Armored Division. Frade announced: “Major, we’re going to need a ride to Roonstrasse in Zehlendorf.”
“With respect, Colonel, what you’re going to get is a ride back to Rhein-Main. Nobody gets into Berlin unless they’re on orders and cleared by SHAEF. You don’t have any orders, and there’s is no Marine officer or civilian employee on my list. I can’t believe that Gooney Bird pilot let you two on his aircraft.”
“Maybe because I showed him this,” Frade said, and handed him the spurious credentials identifying OSS Area Commander Cletus H. Frade.
“Some of Colonel Mattingly’s people, huh? I should have guessed. What else could a Marine lieutenant colonel and a civilian with a riot gun and carrying a briefcase be but the OSS?”
“We were hoping you’d think we were the Salvation Army,” Frade said.
The MP officer chuckled and picked up his telephone.
