“And, Günther, and?”
“Excuse me, Herr von Gradny-Sawz?”
“And who are you going to give that message to if neither Ambassador von Lutzenberger nor Fräulein Hässell is available?”
Günther was visibly confused for a moment, but then said, “Herr von Gradny-Sawz, you said I was to keep trying until I got one of them; not give the message to someone else.”
“Correct,” von Gradny-Sawz said, and got out of the car.
As he crossed the sidewalk and pushed open the door to the restaurant, von Gradny-Sawz thought, somewhat smugly: What that zealous but none-too-bright would-be Sicherheitsdienst agent is going to do is go to the pay phone, call Commercial Counselor Karl Cranz or, failing to get him on the phone, Deputy Commercial Counselor Erich Raschner—
“Deputy Commercial Counselor” Raschner, my left foot’s big toe!
Does SS-Obersturmbannführer Cranz really think people don’t know SS-Sturmbannführer Raschner’s not a diplomat? Raschner is crude, ignorant, and a peasant!
—and tell one or the other of them that I’m having lunch in the ABC with Martín.
Only then—or perhaps even after he has his lunch—will he try to call Ambassador von Lutzenberger and tell him what I’m doing.
Which is exactly what I want him to do.
Cranz and Raschner will think both that (a) Günther is keeping a close eye on me and (b) that I don’t even suspect that he is.
Von Gradny-Sawz felt a little light-headed.
He was, he realized, about to cross the Rubicon.
There was something surreal about it, even though this would not be the first time he had realized that he had had to, so to speak, cross the Rubicon.
From the moment Ambassador von Lutzenberger had shown him the message from Canaris about the “senior officer to be later identified” and told him to set up the identity card, driver’s license, and the rest of it, von Gradny-Sawz had known he was going to have to do whatever was necessary to keep himself from being identified as the traitor everyone—certainly including the “senior officer to be later identified”—knew was in the embassy.
That he wasn’t the traitor was irrelevant.
They were going to find a traitor, he well knew, even if they had to invent one.
Actually, von Gradny-Sawz wasn’t sure who “they” were, only that the senior officers of the embassy—Ambassador von Lutzenberger, “Commercial Attaché” Cranz, and Naval Attaché Boltitz—who were all, of course, under suspicion themselves, were understandably not going to find themselves and their families in Sachsenhausen or Dachau as long as they could throw someone else to the Sicherheitsdienst.
But von Gradny-Sawz recognized that First Secretary Anton von Gradny-Sawz could easily be that sacrificial lamb.
When Wilhelm Frogger, the commercial attaché of the embassy, had gone missing with his wife, there had been a brief moment’s hope that they had been the traitors. Yet that hope had been shattered when “they” had decided the Froggers had been kidnapped by the American OSS.
Von Gradny-Sawz thought what had happened was that Frogger—or, for that matter, his wife, who was sub rosa working for the Sicherheitsdienst—had decided that he was going to be the sacrificial lamb and had gone to the Americans to save his life.
That scenario had not sat well with Cranz—and with his superiors in Berlin—because it would have meant that one of their own, Frau Frogger, had been a traitor. That would have damaged the image of the Sicherheitsdienst, and that couldn’t be tolerated.
The arrow was again pointing at Anton von Gradny-Sawz, and, having come to that conclusion, he had understood he really had no choice in the matter; he had to do what he was about to do.
El Coronel Alejandro Martín, chief of the Ethical Standards Office of the Bureau of Internal Security, was sitting in a booth halfway down the right side of the ABC, buttering a chunk of rye bread.
He was wearing a tweed suit that von Gradny-Sawz thought was “cut on the English style” and didn’t look much like what came to mind when thinking of someone who was Argentina’s senior intelligence—and, for that matter, counterintelligence—officer.
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, el Coronel?”
Martín rose and offered von Gradny-Sawz his hand.
“Actually, I came a bit early. How are you, Mister Secretary?”
“I thought we’d agreed you weren’t to call me that?”
“At the time, we agreed you wouldn’t call me ‘Coronel.’ ”
“Touché, Alejandro,” von Gradny-Sawz said. “Shall I go out and come back in and do it right?”
“Sit down, Anton, and as soon as we decide which of our governments is paying for our lunch, we’ll have a look at the wine list.”
Von Gradny-Sawz managed to slide onto the opposing bench, and he reached for the red-leather-bound wine list.
“Before we allow the subject to get in the way of our lunch, Anton,” Martín said, “I regret that I have been unable to turn up any trace of Señor Frogger. Or Señora Frogger.”
“They seem to have simply fallen off the edge of the earth, haven’t they?” von Gradny-Sawz said. “But now that we have talked business, diplomatic protocol gives me no choice in the matter. Our luncheon is on the Foreign Ministry of the German Reich.”
“I will not argue with diplomatic protocol,” Martín said. “And since I know nothing of German wines, I’m happy to bow to your expertise.”
“Have you thought of what you would like to eat?”
“They do a marvelous sauerbraten here.”
“Yes, they do,” von Gradny-Sawz agreed cheerfully. “And that would call for a red.” He looked up from the wine list, smiled happily at Martín, and announced, “And here it is!”
He pointed. Martín looked.
“That’s Argentine,” Martín said.
“Yes, I know,” von Gradny-Sawz said. “And since, with all modesty, I am something of an expert on German wines—which range from the tolerable to the undrinkable—I will confess—trusting in your discretion—that I never drink them unless it is my diplomatic duty to do so.”
Martín smiled at him but didn’t reply.
“Hungarian wines are marvelous,” von Gradny-Sawz began, interrupting himself when a waiter appeared. Then, switching to German, he ordered: “Be so good, Herr Ober, as to bring us a bottle of the Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon 1939 if you have it. If not, 1941.”
“Jawohl, Exzellenz.”
“And then make sure there is another; I suspect it may be necessary.”
“Jawohl, Exzellenz.”
The waiter bowed and backed away from the table.
“An ethnic German, I would suppose,” von Gradny-Sawz said, switching back to Spanish. “What is it they say about converts to Roman Catholicism? ‘They become more Papist than the Pope.’ I suspect we are being served by a devout follower of the Führer.”
Martín chuckled.
“Where was I? Oh. Hungarian wines. They really are wonderful. Something else the Bolsheviks are going to wind up with. Including a vineyard that’s been in my family since the Romans.”
“That sounds as if you think the Allies are going to win the war,” Martín said carefully.
“As a loyal German, I of course have absolute faith in the ultimate Final Victory.”
Martín smiled and shook his head. Von Gradny-Sawz smiled back.
“Changing the subject,” Martín said, “I know something about that Don Guillermo Cabernet I suspect you don’t.”
“The initial pressing is by the bare feet of nubile virgins?”
“The ‘Don Guillermo’ makes reference to Don Guillermo Frade, granduncle of the present owner, Don Cletus Frade. He established the vineyard in Mendoza.”
“And now it’s in the hands of an American! War is really hell, isn’t it, Alejandro?”
“Yes, I think it is,” Martín said seriously. “But speaking of the war, may I ask you a question, friend to friend?”
&n
bsp; “Certainly.”
“What’s going on with Mussolini? What was that all about?”
“You saw the story in La Nación?”
“And we heard from our embassy in Berlin that the newspapers there reported that after his brilliant rescue he’s on his way to see Hitler.”
“King Victor Emmanuel had him confined in a ski resort not far from Rome in the Gran Sasso. Lovely place; I often skied there. The Campo Imperatore Hotel. He was in the hands of the Carabinieri. The only way to get to the hotel is by cable car. It was therefore believed his rescue was impossible. Even if his rescuers parachuted onto the mountaintop, or landed there in gliders, which is what they ultimately did, Mussolini could be shot by the Carabinieri rather than waiting for the trial the king planned for him after the Americans take Italy. The king was determined that Il Duce should not be freed to attempt to resume control of the government.”
“I saw that the Allies have landed . . .”
“At Anzio,” von Gradny-Sawz confirmed. “And Italy has surrendered unconditionally to the Allies. The Wehrmacht is in the process of disarming the Italian army.”
The waiter appeared with two bottles of Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon, apologized for not having the 1939, but reported that he had a bottle of both 1938 and 1937, and hoped His Excellency would approve.
They went through the opening, tasting, and pouring ritual.
They ordered sauerbraten mit Kartoffelknödel und sauerkraut.
They raised their glasses.
“To good friends, good food, and good wine,” Martín offered.
“In the best of all possible worlds, a Hungarian Bikavér, as red as the blood of a bull, but failing that, this magnificent Don Guillermo,” von Gradny-Sawz responded.
They sipped, swallowed, and smiled.
“So what was the purpose of rescuing Il Duce?” Martín asked.
“I’m sure the Führer had his reasons. Our Führer doesn’t always explain his decisions, but we are all agreed that he is virtually incapable of making a mistake.”
Martín did not reply.
“According to the story our commercial counselor, Señor Cranz, got from some friends of his in Germany,” von Gradny-Sawz went on, “what the SS did—and I think this was brilliant—was kidnap a senior Carabinieri officer, a colonel or a general, I didn’t get his name. They loaded him on one of the gliders and took him to the hotel. Under a flag of truce, the senior SS officer present—most of the attackers were parachutists, but this was an SS captain named Skorzeny—went to the senior Carabinieri officer and told him he had a choice. Either release Mussolini and no one would be hurt, or shoot Mussolini, whereupon the SS would shoot the Carabinieri colonel and then all the Carabinieri.
“Il Duce was released. Not a shot was fired. A Storch and a pilot were waiting nearby . . .” He waited to see on Martín’s face that he knew what a Storch was, then went on: “Then Captain Skorzeny squeezed Il Duce and himself into the plane and flew to Rome.”
Martín said: “I thought the Storch—you have one at the embassy, right?”
Von Gradny-Sawz nodded.
“—was a two-place airplane?”
“I wondered about that, too,” von Gradny-Sawz said. “But I have found it wise never to question Herr Cranz about any detail of an SS operation.”
“I understand,” Martín said.
“Herr Cranz was inspired by the kidnapping,” von Gradny-Sawz said.
“Excuse me?”
The waiter appeared with their sauerbraten mit Kartoffelknödel und sauerkraut.
“In Germany, you understand, Alejandro, where they don’t have your magnificent Argentine beef, the meat sometimes has the consistency of shoe leather. I don’t find that a problem. I love the sauce. If I were facing execution, I think I would request for my last meal the Kartoffelknödel and the sauce, hold the sauerbraten. And, of course, a bottle of Bikavér and some hard-crusted bread.”
Martín chuckled.
“You were saying something about Señor Cranz being inspired by the ki dnapping?”
By the time he asked the question, von Gradny-Sawz had a mouthful of the sauerbraten. When he finally had it all chewed and swallowed, he said:
“If I was guaranteed Argentine beef like this, I would add sauerbraten to my last meal.” And then, without a perceptible pause, he continued, “What SS-Obersturmbannführer Cranz plans to do is kidnap Señora Pamela Holworth-Talley de Mallín, Doña Dorotea Mallín de Frade’s mother. He also plans to kidnap Doña Dorotea’s fifteen-year-old brother Enrique—and possibly Señor Mallín himself. And then he plans to exchange them all for the Froggers.”
He then sawed off a piece of the Kartoffelknödel, moved it around his plate to coat it with the sauce, and put it into his mouth.
Martín laid down his knife and fork, then took a swallow of his wine before asking, “Anton, why are you telling me this?”
Von Gradny-Sawz finished chewing the Kartoffelknödel, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, and took a swallow of his wine. He refilled his glass before continuing.
“Two reasons, Alejandro, one of them being that I like to think of myself as a Christian gentleman, and as such am morally offended at the involvement of an innocent woman and her fifteen-year-old son in this sordid business, let alone Señor Mallín.”
Martín considered that for a moment before asking, “And the other?”
“The other reason is quite selfish,” von Gradny-Sawz said. “The possibility exists that I might find it necessary at some time in the future to . . . how do I say this? . . . seek asylum in this beautiful country of yours, and I would like a highly placed friend should that become necessary.”
Martín looked at him intently. Von Gradny-Sawz met his eyes for a very long moment, then picked up his wineglass again.
“Anton,” Martín said carefully, “if you are serious about seeking asylum, it will take me a couple of days to . . .”
“I don’t think—operative word think—that such action will be immediately necessary. I would like to think of myself as a loyal German, a loyal diplomat, who would not take such action unless it was absolutely necessary. I am not a traitor. What I would like to do is have the asylum ready should I need it. In the meantime, I will carry out my duties at the embassy and, while doing so, make what might be considered deposits in my account with you.”
“For example?” Martín asked.
“What I just gave you, for example. A violation of the generally accepted standards of decency, which I don’t consider are covered by questions of lo yalty.”
Martín nodded his understanding or agreement, or maybe both.
I’ve got him, von Gradny-Sawz decided. El Coronel Martín not only took the bait but swallowed it whole.
Kidnapping Don Cletus Frade’s mother-in-law and brother-in-law to exchange them for the Froggers would be a clever thing to do, the sort of thing Cranz—if he were considerably more intelligent than he believes himself to be—would dream up.
“Do you have any idea when this kidnapping is supposed to take place?”
Since it exists only in my imagination, Alejandro, I know it will never be attempted.
Von Gradny-Sawz shook his head.
“If I am able to learn more, Alejandro, I’ll let you know.”
I have just given him several problems.
What is he to do?
Put guards on Señora de Mallín and the boy, which would carry with it the risk that questions would be asked that he wouldn’t want to answer? Such as who told him?
Tell Don Cletus Frade, which could pose all sorts of problems?
Tell his superiors, who might decide to have a quiet word with von Lutzenberger, pointing out the risks of kidnapping a very prominent Argentine woman?
Would von Lutzenberger decide that Cranz, who was capable of such a scheme, was again acting behind his back?
Would any of these scenarios raise questions about Anton von Gradny-Sawz in von Lutzenberger’s mind? Or in Cranz’s or Boltitz�
�s?
I think not.
This is the second time I have crossed the Rubicon. It becomes easier if one has done it before.
Von Gradny-Sawz raised his hand over his shoulder, snapped his fingers, and called, “Herr Ober!”
The waiter appeared and von Gradny-Sawz mimed for him to open the second bottle of Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon.
VIII
[ONE]
Office of the Managing Director
Banco de Inglaterra y Argentina
Bartolomé Mitre 300
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1430 19 September 1943
“You have an international call, Señor Duarte,” Humberto Duarte’s secretary announced at his office door. “It is Señor Frade calling from Brazil.”
“Put it through, put it through,” Duarte said impatiently.
He had the handset of his ornate, French-style telephone to his ear before his secretary had moved from the door.
It took ninety seconds before Frade came on the line.
“What did I do, Humberto? Interrupt your lunch?”
“Where the hell are you?” Humberto began, and then before Frade could possibly reply, went on, “No one knew where you were.”
“And you thought I had crashed? I’m touched by your concern.”
“I didn’t know what to think. El Coronel Martín has been looking all over for you.”
“He does like to keep an eye on me, doesn’t he?”
“Cletus, for God’s sake, can’t you ever be serious? Martín said he has to see you as quickly as possible. He said it was very likely a matter of life or death.”
The tone of Frade’s voice changed. He now was serious.
“That’s interesting. He say whose life?”
“Does it matter, for God’s sake? Martín is a serious man. What in the world have you done now?”
“This is what I need you to do, Humberto. And it’s not open for debate . . .”
The Honor of Spies Page 25