“He also told me about some German ex-Nazi in the Hotel Washington,” Clete said. “Tell me about him.”
“He did tell you how secret the Manahattan Project is, I hope,” Graham said.
Clete nodded, then said, “Tell me about the German in the Hotel Washington. ”
Graham said, “You’re thinking he might be useful in turning Colonel Frogger?”
“I don’t know. It looks to me as if I need all the help I can get. What about him?”
“I’m somewhat embarrassed that I never thought about this at all,” Graham said. “What did Allen Dulles tell you about Hanfstaengl?”
“That he was an early supporter of National Socialism,” Clete said, “and became a pal of Hitler, a member of the inner circle. Then he got on the wrong side of Martin Bormann or Goebbels or Göring or Himmler—or all four—who didn’t want him close to Hitler. Somebody warned him that one of the above— or maybe Hitler himself—was going to have him whacked, and he got out of Germany just before that was going to happen, and came here and looked up his college chum, FDR, who installed him in the Hotel Washington, where he tells Roosevelt what Hitler and friends are probably thinking.”
Graham nodded and said, “That’s the story.”
“You sound like you don’t believe it,” Hughes said.
“I have trouble believing people who change sides,” Graham said.
“If Clete thinks he’d be useful, and he probably would be,” Hughes said, “we could pick up ol’ Putzi in Washington and take him with us to Mississippi. Or take the Kraut with the funny name to Washington to see Putzi.”
“Ol’ Putzi would probably be useful”?
Howard knows about this guy?
Not only knows about him, but sounds as if he knows him.
“We could pick up ol’ Putzi and take him with us to Mississippi”?
“Who is ‘we’ and ‘us’?” Clete asked. “As in ‘we could pick up ol’ Putzi and take him with us to Mississippi’?”
Graham started to reply, then stopped.
“I don’t have the Need to Know, right?” Clete said.
“What’s going to happen now, Major Frade,” Graham said, “is that you’re going to bed before you fall asleep standing up again. You will be awakened at eight, and informed that the Immigration Service people will pick you up in the driveway at nine and return you to Burbank.”
“And what’s going to happen when we return to Burbank?”
“That’s what I’ll decide before you return to Burbank,” Graham said.
“Why can’t you tell him now?” Hughes protested.
“Tell either one of you now?” Graham asked, and then answered his own question. “Because I just realized that both of my loose cannons would probably approve of what I’m thinking, and when that happens I want to really be careful.”
He stood.
“Good evening, Major Frade,” he said. “Try to get a good night’s sleep. Whatever ultimately happens tomorrow, I suspect it will be a busy, busy day.” He turned to Hughes. “Let’s go, Howard. And if you’re even thinking about sending somebody to keep Clete company, don’t.”
He walked to the door. Hughes pushed himself out of his chair and walked after him.
XIV
[ONE]
Grand Reception Room Embassy of France Cerrito 1399, Buenos Aires, Argentina 2205 4 August 1943
German Ambassador Manfred Alois Graf von Lutzenberger, attired in the splendiferous gold- and silver-encrusted diplomatic uniform prescribed for ambassadors of the Third Reich, stood with First Secretary Anton von Gradny-Sawz, whose uniform was only slightly less laden with gold thread embroidery. They were holding champagne stems and making polite conversation with Mexico’s ambassador to the Republic of Argentina, José Enrico Tarmero.