Mattingly led the party across an elegantly furnished foyer into a well-equipped bar.
Someone in the bar called “Attention” and everybody stood.
“At ease,” Mattingly called.
Clete guessed that there were thirty or more men. All but a few were in uniform, half of these adorned with the standard rank and branch insignia. The other half had blue triangles around the letters U.S. sewn to the uniform lapels and to the shoulders where unit insignia were normally shown. There were perhaps eight men in civilian clothing, some of it close to elegant, some of it looking like it had come from the Final Reduction racks at Goodwill.
Mattingly led them through the bar to a smaller—but not small—room holding a large circular table and its own bar. There was an elderly man in a white jacket standing behind the bar.
“Would you please ask the general to join us?” Mattingly courteously ordered the barman in German. “And then that will be all, thank you.”
He signaled for everyone to take places around the table.
“This room is secure,” Mattingly announced. “I have it regularly swept. The result of that is that you’ll have to pour your own drinks—Honor System. A quarter for whiskey, ten cents for beer. There is a jar on the bar.”
He pointed and then went on: “The rule is that when any German enters the room, you stop your conversation in midsentence and don’t resume talking until the German has left. And I don’t mean that you can change the subject. I mean not a word. Clear?”
He looked around at everybody to make sure he had made the point.
The door opened. A slight, pale-faced man with sunken eyes, very thin hair, and wearing a baggy, nondescript suit came in.
“What I said before does not apply to this gentleman,” Mattingly said to the table, then raised his voice and addressed the man entering the room: “Good evening, sir.”
The man walked to where Frade was sitting with Mattingly and wordlessly offered his hand.
“General Gehlen,” Mattingly said, “this is Colonel Frade.”
Frade hurriedly got to his feet and put out his hand. He was surprised at Gehlen’s firm grip as he said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, General Gehlen.”
“I understand, Colonel,” Gehlen replied, “that you have been taking very good care of my men.”
How the hell could he know that?
“I have to tell you, sir,” Frade said, “that I have about half of them confined.”
“I rather thought you might consider that necessary,” Gehlen said. “But you are forgiven, providing, of course, that you’ve brought the money.”
He’s making some kind of joke.
Mattingly’s face shows he understands the joke.
But what the hell is he talking about?
“Excuse me, General?” Frade asked.
“The money, Clete,” Mattingly said. “Graham’s half a million dollars. Please don’t tell me you don’t have it.”
Oh, shit!
“I wasn’t told to bring any money,” Frade said. “And that half a million I signed for—I thought those were funds for other OSS business. My wife’s got it put away in the safe in our house in Buenos Aires.”
“The best-laid plans of mice and men,” General Gehlen said.
“Clete, how soon can you get it here?” Mattingly asked.
“I was about to say on the next SAA flight to Lisbon. But that won’t work. The only SAA pilots I’d trust with it on are this rescue-the-diplomats mission.”
“Well, then you’ll just have to go get it,” Mattingly said. “That’s what, ten, twelve days at the most? I can have some money flown from London. Not that much. But enough to get started. You do have the money, right? You can get it here?”