“Howell Petroleum. We will reimburse them, of course. And we will reimburse them for your Howell Petroleum salaries and living allowances. Technically, you’re supposed to turn back to the government any excess over your military pay and allowances, but I don’t know of anyone in the OSS who has actually done that.”
“If my grandfather thinks we’re going down there to kill Argentines, I’m sure he’d be willing to underwrite all costs,” Clete said.
“I did get the feeling that he’s not overly fond of your father,” Graham said.
Clete looked at him and smiled.
“I really hope, Clete, that you won’t have to kill anyone,” Graham went on. “Killing people makes things sticky. And no matter what, just make sure of the main thing—if it comes down to your team having to do it—make sure that Pelosi and Ettinger keep the replenishment ship—ships—from replenishing German submarines.”
“How am I going to know where those ships even are? Where will I get the explosives?”
“The briefing team will cover most of that, and Nestor will be helpful, once you’re there.”
Clete shook his head and shrugged.
“Colonel, I really hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I believe we do. I’m sure you’ll live up to our expectations. Actually, telling you that was the main reason I wanted to see you before you go down there, the reason I ordered the refueling stop here.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a pep talk.”
“I hope so. That’s what it’s supposed to be,” Graham said. “And now that that’s done, I’d better get going.”
He stood up and put out his hand. Clete got belatedly to his feet.
“One more thing, to answer the question I suspect has been running through your mind: No, you would not be more useful flying for the Corps. This is more important.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good luck, son,” Colonel Graham said, shook his hand, and walked out of the lounge. Clete watched him go, and was surprised when he reappeared almost immediately.
“I’m going to need a ride to the airport,” Graham said, somewhat sheepishly. “Can you call a cab for me?”
“I’ve got a car,” Clete said. “I’ll take you.”
[FOUR]
35 Beerenstrasse
Berlin/Zehlendorf
1530 29 October 1942
Hauptmann Freiherr—Captain Baron—Hans-Peter von Wachtstein swore when he saw a Feldgendarmerie (Military Police) roadblock barring access to the Avus, a four-lane superhighway leading into Berlin. The line of cars they were holding up was long. This translated to mean they were not only checking the vehicles to ensure the trip was authorized, but also the people in the cars to make sure they had proper documents. The check would take twenty minutes, perhaps longer.
Von Wachtstein—his friends called him “Peter”—was a blond, blue-eyed, compact young man of twenty-four who was the commanding officer of Jagdstaffel 232 (Fighter Squadron 232). Peter slowed and started to pull to the left to enter the line of waiting cars, then changed his mind.
“I am, after all, on official business,” he said aloud.
He drove the Horche convertible sedan along the line of parked cars. A Feldgendarmerie Feldwebel, holding a stop sign on a short pole, stepped imperiously into the roadway and signaled for him to stop. He held up the sign and waved his free hand, palm out.
Von Wachtstein applied the brakes as he rolled down the window. The Horche started to skid on the icy cobblestones of the entrance road. The Feldgendarmerie Feldwebel jumped out of the way. The Horche finally came to a rest, cocked on the road.
Peter immediately opened the door and stepped out; the one thing he didn’t need was an annoyed Feldgendarmerie Feldwebel. That could keep him out here all afternoon.
“Are you all right?” Peter asked, hoping he sounded genuinely concerned.
The Feldwebel was annoyed, but he saw that he was dealing with an officer (and Peter was sure he had taken into account that the car was a Horche, and probably that the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross was hanging around his neck). He managed a tight smile as he saluted.