The Honor of Spies
Page 29
“That’s what I intended to do, Herr Cranz.”
“If what I just said sounded something like an apology, von Wachtstein . . .”
“No apology is necessary, Herr Cranz, and none was expected, sir.”
“An apology is called for, and you may consider that one has been offered.”
“I can only repeat, sir, that no apology is necessary.”
“Indulge me, von Wachtstein. Accept my apology.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When is the next Condor flight due here?” Cranz asked.
“Either tomorrow or the day after,” Boltitz said.
“And will return to Germany when?”
“If weather permits, they usually leave as soon as they can after forty-eight hours.”
“Between now and then,” Cranz said to von Wachtstein, “you—and Loche—will be up to your ears in those chemicals you spoke of. I want four copies of each photograph—in addition to the sets you have already made.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Three sets of these will go to Berlin on the Condor,” Cranz announced. “One for General Galland and the second for Reichsmarschall Göring and the third for Reichsführer-SS Himmler.”
“May I suggest a fourth set, Herr Cranz, for Canaris?” Boltitz said.
“Why not?” Cranz replied. “Make five sets, von Wachtstein.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me confess that I am being political,” Cranz said. “I think we would all agree that the only officer who will do something useful with them is General Galland. Well, perhaps Canaris can find something useful in them. The Reichsmarschall gets a set because he would be uncomfortable if the Führer asks him about this airplane and he knew little or nothing about it. And the Reichsführer gets a set because I think when the Führer orders the destruction of this aircraft, he is going to turn again to the SS. If the SS could so successfully liberate Il Duce . . .
“If that is the case, the Reichsführer will lay that responsibility on me. When that happens—and I confidently predict it will—I am, we are, going to be ready. We will have plans prepared to destroy all three of this aircraft, on the ground or in the air.
“Our assistant attaché for air is obviously the best-qualified person to do this. The task is herewith assigned to him. Sturmbannführer . . . excuse me, Deputy Commercial Counselor Raschner will lend his talents to the operation, which I of course will supervise.
“Has anyone any comments?”
No one had.
IX
[ONE]
Office of the Assistant Military Attaché for Air
The Embassy of the German Reich
Avenida Córdoba
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1130 24 September 1943
Commercial Attaché Karl Cranz pushed open the door to Assistant Military Attaché for Air Major Hans-Peter von Wachtstein’s office without knocking.
He found Kapitän Dieter von und zu Aschenburg sitting on a small couch and holding a cup of coffee. Von Wachtstein was sitting at his desk, his feet resting on an open lower desk drawer.
“Aschenburg, Untersturmführer Schneider tells me you have one of the diplomatic pouches,” he accused without any preliminaries.
“I did have one of them,” von und zu Aschenburg said evenly. “Actually, I had all of them. I gave all but one to your untersturmführer.”
“You can give it to me,” Cranz said. “Right now.”
“I can’t do that. Ambassador von Lutzenberger has it.”
“The ambassador has it?” Cranz asked dubiously.
“Would you like to see the acknowledgment of receipt he signed?”
Cranz nodded.
Von und zu Aschenburg produced a small printed form and showed it to him.
Cranz examined it carefully. He then said, “The standard procedure here is that SS-Untersturmführer Schneider takes possession of all diplomatic pouches at the airport.”
“I’m just a simple servant of the state, Herr Cranz,” von und zu Aschenburg said on the edge of sarcasm. “When an obersturmbannführer wearing the cuff band of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler comes into my cockpit at Tempelhof, takes one of the pouches—there were a half-dozen—and tells me that this one is from Reichsführer-SS Himmler and that I am to give it personally to Ambassador von Lutzenberger—and to no one else—I try very hard to do just that. I didn’t think I needed give your untersturmführer an explanation. I just told him not to worry, I had it.”
As if a switch had been thrown, Cranz’s arrogant annoyance was suddenly replaced with smiling charm.
He handed the receipt back to von und zu Aschenburg with a smile.
“I’m glad you didn’t give an explanation invoking the Reichsführer to Schneider. He probably would have pissed his pants.” He smiled again, then went on, “I didn’t mean to jump on you, Aschenburg. But we have been expecting that pouch from Reichsführer-SS Himmler, and when it wasn’t among the others . . . Well, you understand.”
“Not a problem,” von und zu Aschenburg said. “I understand.”
“Nevertheless, I apologize.”
Von und zu Aschenburg made an It’s unnecessary gesture.
“We expected you yesterday,” Cranz said. “Something went wrong?”
“Headwinds,” von und zu Aschenburg said.
“Pardon me?”
“When we shot our position just before the fuel gauges indicated half remaining, we weren’t nearly as far across the Atlantic as we should have been. I turned back. And tried again last night.”
“Would you explain what you just said? ‘Shot our position’? What does that mean?”
“Did you ever notice, on the Condor, that there is a sort of plastic bubble on the fuselage? Just over the rear of the flight deck?”
“No,” Cranz said with a chuckle. “I confess I haven’t.”
“Are you really interested in all this, Herr Cranz? Any of it?”
“Fascinated.”
“Okay. In exactly the same way as the master of a ship shoots the stars with a sextant . . .”
The door opened again. This time it was Fräulein Ingeborg Hässell, von Lutzenberger’s secretary.
“The ambassador would like to see you, Herr Cranz.”
Cranz smiled at von und zu Aschenburg.
“Well, we’ll have to get back to this. And soon. I’m really fascinated.”
“Any time.”
Cranz walked quickly out of the room. He did not close the door behind him.
Von und zu Aschenburg got to his feet and closed the door.
“What the hell was that all about?” he asked.
Von Wachtstein shrugged.
“I have no idea, but whenever Cranz smiles at me the hair on the back of my neck stands up.”
“If you can rely on that, Hansel, you just might live through this war.”
“I wonder what the chances of that really are?” von Wachtstein asked seriously.
Von und zu Aschenburg met his eyes, then shrugged, holding up his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“Changing the subject, I really would like to have a look at that airplane.”
“That might just be possible,” von Wachtstein said. “I think I know how that can be arranged. It’ll cost you, though.”
Von und zu Aschenburg asked, with his eyebrows, what he meant.
“I’m not sure you’re up to it,” von Wachtstein said. “You’re probably very tired from flying that far.”
“Come on, Hansel!”
“If my sister-in-law, Señorita Isabela, were—how do I phrase this delicately?—satisfied with her relationship with you . . .”
“Screw you, Hansel.”
“Precisely. Congratulations, you picked up on that right away. If El Bitcho, for reasons I won’t—being an officer and a gentleman—discuss was really pleased with you—more precisely, satisfied after you . . .”
“Enough, Hansel!” von und zu Aschenburg said, but he was smiling.
“.
. . and wanted to show her appreciation, you, being the silver-tongued devil you are, you could probably talk her into convincing her mother, who is on the board of South American Airways, that it would be the courteous thing to show a Lufthansa pilot the newest addition to their fleet.”
“Why do I think you’re serious?”
“I am.”
“What about Frade?”
“He’s not here. He’s got one of them in Chile . . .”
“They’ve got more than one?”
Von Wachtstein nodded, held up three fingers, and continued: “. . . teaching his pilots how to land in Santiago. He won’t be back for a couple of days. Not that I think he’d really mind you getting a good look. He loves to show off that airplane. The other two are here. SAA pilots and flight engineers are getting checked out on them, usually by flying them back and forth to Montevideo. I think if El Bitcho talks nice to her mommy, Claudia can arrange a tour of one of them for you.”
“That woman is a shark. The last time I had teeth marks on my neck for a week!”
“My mother-in-law did that to you?” von Wachtstein said, feigning shock.
“Your sister-in-law, Hansel.”
“I don’t know about a shark, but Isabela does remind me of a piranha.”
“A what?”
“A small fish,” von Wachtstein said, and held his hands about ten inches apart to show the size. “Native to this part of the world. Razor teeth, powerful jaws. They swim in . . . What do you say for fish when you mean packs, herds?”
Von und zu Aschenburg shrugged to show he had no idea.
“Anyway,” von Wachtstein went on, “they have a show for tourists on the River Piranha. They kill a small pig and throw it in the water. The piranhas appear in less than a minute. Lots of them. When they pull the pig out a couple of minutes later, there’s nothing but the skeleton.”
“You actually saw this, or it is a quaint folk legend?”
“I saw it on my honeymoon. Alicia wanted me to see it. She said that would happen to me if I ever even thought of hiding my sausage in the wrong—anyone’s but hers, in other words—hard roll.”
“And are you a faithful husband, Hansel?”
Von Wachtstein nodded.
“Because of this carnivorous fish?”
“Because I’m in love, believe it or not. That’s why I want to live through this war.”
Von und zu Aschenburg met his eyes, then fell silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Well, let’s go pay my respects to Señorita Piranha. I really want to take a look at that Constellation. You sure it won’t get you in trouble here? Sucking up to the American enemy?”
“Not at all. It will be in the line of duty. Cranz will be pleased.”
“Why?”
“It will be what is known as reconnoitering the enemy. I’m supposed to come up with a plan to make sure that SAA does not establish a one-stop service to Lisbon.”
“How are you supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know. Right now we’re in the planning stage.”
“What are you going to do, Hansel? Aside from warning Frade?”
“I don’t know, Dieter,” von Wachtstein admitted.
He kicked his desk drawer shut, stood, and made an exaggerated gesture bowing von und zu Aschenburg out of the room.
[TWO]
Office of the Ambassador
The Embassy of the German Reich
Avenida Córdoba
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1150 24 September 1943
“Baron von Wachtstein would like to see you for a moment, Exzellenz,” Fräulein Ingeborg Hässell announced.
“Give me a few seconds, please,” von Lutzenberger said, and quickly swept into his desk drawer a large manila envelope and a letter, and then—as an afterthought—took the yellow diplomatic pouch from which he had taken the manila envelope and also put it in the well of his desk.
Then he signaled for Fräulein Hässell to show in von Wachtstein. When von Wachstein entered, Kapitän Dieter von und zu Aschenburg was on his heels.
“We’re sorry to disturb you, Exzellenz,” von Wachtstein said politely, and then, looking around the room, added, “Gentlemen.”
Cranz and von Gradny-Sawz were sitting at von Lutzenberger’s conference table.
Von Wachtstein went on: “But I have an idea to get Kapitän von und zu Aschenburg onto one of the Constellations. I’d like to ask permission to try.”
“How are you going to do that?” the ambassador asked.
“Señorita de Carzino-Cormano is a friend of the kapitän. I think she can suggest to her mother that it would be a courtesy to give von und zu Aschenburg a tour.”
“And you think Frade would allow that?” von Gradny-Sawz challenged sarcastically.
“He’s in Santiago, Herr Gradny-Sawz.”
“And why would Señorita de Carzino-Cormano want to do this?” von Gradny-Sawz challenged.
“Open your eyes, for God’s sake, Gradny-Sawz,” Cranz said. “She looks at von und zu Aschenburg like he gives milk.” He smiled at von und zu Aschenburg. “I was about to commend you for being willing to make any sacrifice for the cause, Aschenburg, but then I thought that your . . . charming . . . the lady isn’t really going to be that much of a sacrifice, is it?”
“May I suggest I know the lady better than you do?” von und zu Aschenburg said. “But I really would like to get a look at one of those airplanes.”
“I wish she were as interested in me as she is in you,” Cranz said. “I would happily make the sacrifice you’re implying.”
There was dutiful laughter.
“Go ahead,” Cranz said. “What have you got to lose?”
“As a gentleman, I obviously must decline to answer that question,” von und zu Aschenburg said.
“With your permission, Exzellenz?” von Wachtstein asked.
“Let me know how it comes out,” von Lutzenberger said.
Von und zu Aschenburg and von Wachtstein left, closing the door after them.
Cranz got up, walked to the door, locked it, and then went back to the conference table.
“May I have another look at that, please?” Cranz asked.
Von Lutzenberger handed him the letter that had been inside the manila envelope, the only thing that the diplomatic pouch had held.
“Von Wachtstein knows nothing of this, right?” Cranz asked. “You didn’t let anything slip, Gradny-Sawz?”
“Of course not.”
“And Boltitz?” Cranz pursued.
“No, he doesn’t know anything about this. The only people who do are in this room, plus of course Raschner.”
“I want it kept that way,” Cranz said. “And your covert identity arrangements . . . Everything is in place?”
“Including, as of yesterday, a nice flat—two servants included—in a petit-hotel at O’Higgins 1950 in Belgrano.”
Cranz nodded and said: “So all that remains is to see Oberst Perón, to get those Mountain Troops to provide security on the beach, and to move the special shipment and the SS guard detail to San Martín de los Andes. The latter may pose a problem.”
“How so?”
“The incident at Frade’s house upset Oberst Perón,” Cranz said. “But I think I can deal with him.”
[THREE]
Apartamento 5B
Arenales 1623
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1750 24 September 1943
El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón was in uniform, but his tunic was unbuttoned and his tie pulled down, when he came out of his apartment onto the elevator landing. He was not smiling.
“Commercial Counselor” Karl Cranz was not surprised. The portero in the lobby of the building had told Cranz—as he obviously had been instructed to do—that Perón was not at home, and it had been necessary to slip him ten pesos—and, when that didn’t work, ultimately fifty—before he was willing to forget his instructions and telephone Perón’s apartment only when Cranz was on the elevator and it was to
o late to stop him.
“Mi coronel,” Cranz said as charmingly as he could, “please believe me when I say I would not intrude on your privacy were it not very im - portant.”
Perón did not reply to that directly. Instead, he said, “I didn’t know you knew where I lived, Cranz.”
“I went to the Frade house on Libertador, mi coronel. The housekeeper told me.”
That was not true. The housekeeper in the Frade mansion across from the racetrack on Avenida Libertador had—and only reluctantly—told him only that el Coronel Perón no longer lived in the mansion and that she had no idea where he had moved.
It had cost Raschner two days of effort and several hundred pesos to get the address, which came with the information that he was sharing his new quarters with his fourteen-year-old “niece.”
“That woman has a big mouth,” Perón said unpleasantly.
“Mi coronel, I have to have a few minutes of your time,” Cranz said.
“Why?”
“Another special shipment is about to arrive. We need your help.”
The news did not seem to please Perón.
“Wait,” he ordered curtly. He turned and went back into his apartment and closed the door.
Cranz instantly decided he was going to give Perón three minutes—180 seconds—to reopen the door before he pushed the doorbell. He looked at his wristwatch to start the timing.
One hundred and seventy seconds later, Perón pulled the door open and motioned for Cranz to come into the apartment.
Cranz found himself in a small foyer. Three doors—all closed—led from it. The only furnishing was a small table with a lamp sitting on it, and a squat jar holding two umbrellas.
“Well?” Perón asked.
“We had word from Berlin today—there was a Condor flight—giving the details of a new special shipment,” Cranz said. “We need your help again; el Coronel Schmidt and his Mountain Troops.”
“The last time I had the Mountain Troops ‘help’ you, Cranz, at Tandil, it was nearly a disaster. It was a disaster, and it could have been much, much worse.”