The Honor of Spies

by W. E. B Griffin

  “You couldn’t spend the night here? Either at your place on Libertador or the big house on Coronel Díaz? There’s some people I want you to talk to.”

  “So far as the house on Coronel Díaz is concerned, the last time that Enrico and I went there”—he nodded toward Rodríguez, who was sitting across the aisle feeding brass-cased shells into his Remington Model 11 riot shotgun—“you might recall that ‘members of the criminal element’ tried to kill us. Dorotea’s here . . .”

  “I saw her. With Sargento Gómez and what looks like four of his friends standing with her.”

  “. . . and I don’t want some bastard taking a shot at her. And, so far as the house on Libertador is concerned, I’m not sure they’ve had time to finish fu migating.”

  “Fumigating? Rats?”

  “In a manner of speaking. After my Tío Juan moved out, I had the whole house painted and fumigated.”

  “That was necessary?”

  “I thought so.”

  The house on Libertador had been built by Clete’s late granduncle, Guillermo Jorge Frade, who had the reputation of being very fond of both women and horse racing, not necessarily in that order. The master bedroom, which took up most of the third floor of his mansion, offered a place in which he could entertain his lady guests and watch the races in the Hipódromo across the street, either separately or simultaneously.

  When Clete had first come to Argentina and made his peace with his father, his father had turned the mansion over to him. Clete had been in Guillermo Jorge Frade’s enormous bed when the first assassination attempt had been made. The assassins came there after slitting the throat of the housekeeper, la Señora Mariana Maria Dolores Rodríguez de Pellano, Enrico’s sister, in the kitchen.

  And three days later, having learned of the attempted assassination, la Señorita Dorotea Mallín, whom Clete had thought of as “The Virgin Princess,” had stormed into the bedroom, angrily berating Cletus for not having called her. In the discussion that followed, la Señorita Mallín had not only lost her virginity but become with child.

  The memory of that had caused Clete’s stomach to almost literally turn when his mind filled with images of Juan Domingo Perón and his thirteen-year-old paramour in the same bed. He wasn’t sure that a coat of paint and a thorough fumigation would correct the situation, but it couldn’t hurt.

  “Your Tío Juan is one of the things we have to talk about,” Martín said. “This is important, Cletus.”

  “You’re asking,” Clete said thoughtfully. “Usually, it’s ‘come with me or get tossed into the back of a BIS car in handcuffs.’ ”

  “I’m asking,” Martín said.

  After a moment, Clete said, “Okay. I’ll send Enrico to put Dorotea in the Horch. It’s in the hangar. Then, just as soon as that crowd thins out, we’ll drive to the house on Libertador. Under the capable protection of the stalwart men of the Bureau of Internal Security.”

  “Thank you,” Martín said sincerely. And then he chuckled. “I was just thinking, honestly, that ‘with Don Cletus’s private army out there, it should be completely safe.’ How many of your men are out there, anyway?”

  “Mi coronel, I told Gómez to bring at least thirty,” Enrico Rodríguez answered for him. “And I told him that if anything happened to Doña Dorotea or Don Cletus, I would kill him.”

  He pushed the bolt-release button on the side of the Remington Model 11. With a loud metallic chunk, it fed a brass-cased round of double-ought buckshot into the chamber.

  Then Enrico stood up and walked down the aisle of the passenger compartment to the door.

  [TWO]

  Suite 308

  Hotel Casino de Carrasco

  Montevideo, Uruguay

  1745 1 October 1943

  SS-Brigadeführer Manfred von Deitzberg was a little surprised that everything so far had gone as smoothly as von Gradny-Sawz had said it would. Neither the immigration officers in Buenos Aires nor those here had questioned his Jorge Schenck passport.

  Halfway across the River Plate, it occurred to von Deitzberg that the South American Airways Lockheed Lodestar was far more comfortable than the last transport aircraft he had flown in—the Heinkel, which had taken him from Berlin to the submarine pens at Saint-Nazaire.

  That had triggered several thoughts, the first that he didn’t care what he had to do to avoid it, he was not going to return to Germany aboard a gottverdammt U-boat. That had been immediately followed by the realization that he probably would not be returning to Germany by any means.

  The conversation he had had with von Gradny-Sawz had brought that out in the open. Von Deitzberg had known it all along, of course, but even privately thinking that the war was lost had, until now, seemed treasonous.

  How can the truth be treasonous?

  Von Paulus had lost 100,000 men defending Stalingrad and had taken the 70,000 still alive into Russian captivity when he finally had to surrender.

  Doenitz has had to call off the submarine interdiction of the supply convoys from the United States and South America because of his losses.

  Africa has been lost. And Sicily has been lost.

  The English and the Americans are in half of Italy, and when they have captured the rest of it, they would start planning the cross-Channel invasion of France, from England. Which would succeed.

  How is facing facts with a military professional’s eye treasonous?

  I will, of course, continue to honorably perform my duty as a German officer as long as that is possible.

  But my duty is not to throw my life away by throwing myself under the tracks of a Russian tank rolling down the Unter der Linden—as they will sooner or later.

  Rather, my duty is to carry out my orders to establish a sanctuary here in South America from which the leaders of National Socialism can rise, indeed, phoenixlike from the ashes.

  I am not being treasonous; I am being professionally realistic.

  A taxi took von Deitzberg from the airport to the Hotel Casino de Carrasco on the shore of the River Plate. He was shown to a comfortable small suite on the third floor, from which he could see the beach.

  On the SAA Lodestar, he had planned his first move. He would call von Tresmarck’s home. If he was home, he would tell him first that no one was to know he was in Uruguay, and then to come to the casino hotel and to his suite. If he wasn’t home, he would tell Inge—calling her “Frau von Tresmarck”; he was here on duty—to call her husband at the embassy, and tell him the same thing.

  She will learn I’m here, and certainly hasn’t forgotten what happened the last time I was. She will wonder if it’s going to happen again. But since I didn’t greet her charmingly, she will wonder if “Frau von Tresmarck” is in some kind of trouble. There is a certain appeal in making Inge a bit uneasy.

  That plan fell apart from the start. There was no listing in the telephone book for the von Tresmarck residence. He knew it was in the neighborhood of Carrasco. He’d been there, but he wasn’t sure exactly where it was, and he didn’t want to get in a taxi and ride up and down streets looking for it.

  There was nothing to do but call the German Embassy. The possibility existed that either the Uruguayan authorities or the gottverdammt OSS—or both—had tapped the embassy lines. But after thinking it over, von Deitzberg realized he had no choice.

  A female answered the telephone.

  “Señor von Tresmarck, please,” von Deitzberg asked in Spanish.

  “I’m sorry. El Señor von Tresmarck is not available.”

  “Perhaps he’s at home. Could you give me that number, please?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t do that.”

  He switched to German: “Herr von Tresmarck is an old friend.”

  So did she: “I’m sorry, Mein Herr, I can’t give out home numbers of embassy officers.”

  “Connect me with Herr Forster, please.”

  Von Deitzberg didn’t want to talk to Forster either, but again realized he had no choice.

  Konrad Forster,
who was diplomatically accredited to the Republic of Uruguay as the commercial attaché of the embassy, was actually Hauptsturmführer Forster of the Geheime Staatspolizei of the Sicherheitsdienst. His mission was to report on the activities of Ambassador Joachim Schulker and of course on Sturmbannführer Werner von Tresmarck, who was officially the embassy security officer. Reports on the latter went directly to the office of the Reichsführer-SS, which normally meant to the desk of First Deputy Adjutant von Deitzberg.

  But I’m not there. And if Forster reports that I’m in Montevideo and it comes to the attention of Himmler—as it almost certainly will—the Reichsführer will wonder what I’m doing here when I’m supposed to be blowing up airplanes in Buenos Aires at the specific order of Der Führer.

  “Forster speaking.”

  “Konrad, this is Manfred,” von Deitzberg said in German.

  “Who?”

  “The last time we saw one another was when you were being interviewed for your present assignment.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Listen to what I just said, and think, you Trottel !” von Deitzberg snapped.

  After a long moment, Forster said, “Herr Brig—”

  “Do not use my name!” von Deitzberg interrupted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m in town unexpectedly, and I don’t want anyone to know. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get in your car and drive to the Carrasco casino—”

  “Right now?”

  “No, a week from Thursday! You are trying my patience, Forster.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Drive your car—drive yourself in your personal car—into the basement garage. Come up to the lobby. I will be there reading a newspaper. Do not recognize me. Once you have seen that I have seen you, go back to the garage. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Von Deitzberg hung up.

  Forster came into the lobby of the casino twenty-five minutes later.

  He was a slight man in his early thirties who wore his black hair slicked down and just long enough to part. He wore wire-framed glasses, the lenses of which were round. The result was that he looked very much like Heinrich Himmler.

  Forster did as he was ordered. He looked around the lobby, saw von Deitzberg, and then when he was sure von Deitzberg had seen him, turned and walked back to the elevator.

  Von Deitzberg waited several minutes, then took the stairway to the basement garage. Forster was nowhere in sight, but a minute later the headlights of a small Opel sedan flashed. Von Deitzberg walked to the car and got in.

  “You took long enough to get here, Forster,” von Deitzberg greeted him.

  “Herr Brigadeführer—”

  “Do not use my name or rank,” von Deitzberg interrupted him.

  “—I had to go to my home to get my personal car, sir.”

  “I am here on a confidential mission for Reichsführer-SS Himmler,” von Deitzberg said. “I am using the name and identity credentials of an ethnic Argentine named Jorge Schenck. I will use that name if I ever have to contact you again. You will tell no one I am here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, where is von Tresmarck?”

  “In Paraguay, sir.”

  Von Deitzberg thought: What the hell is that degenerate sonofabitch up to? Then he said: “What’s he doing in Paraguay?”

  “It was in my report to the Reichsführer-SS, sir. Von Tresmarck said he was on a mission for you.”

  “I didn’t see your report,” von Deitzberg said. “I was on another mission for the Reichsführer-SS.”

  Actually, I was on a gottverdammt submarine.

  “Actually, Konrad”—This should impress you, you jackass—“this mission is of such importance and the necessity for secrecy is such that I was transported to Argentina by U-boat. Obviously, I was unable to get your reports while aboard the submarine.”

  “I understand, Herr Br . . . Schenck, you said?”

  “Schenck, Jorge Schenck,” von Deitzberg furnished. “Don’t forget that again!”

  He let that sink in, then asked, “Von Tresmarck told you nothing more specific than he was on a mission for me?”

  “That was all he told me, sir.”

  “Good,” von Deitzberg said. “Sometimes he talks too much. The question then becomes: ‘Which Paraguayan mission is he working on?’ Did he travel alone?”

  No, of course he didn’t. And he and that goddamned whore I had marry him aren’t anywhere near Paraguay. They, and God alone knows how much of the confidential special fund’s assets, are in Brazil or Bolivia.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then Frau von Tresmarck is here?”

  “Yes, sir, as far as I know.”

  “As far as you know? She either is or she is not. Which is it?”

  “I saw Frau von Tresmarck yesterday, sir. Sturmbannführer von Tresmarck went to Paraguay twelve days ago, sir.”

  Inge didn’t go?

  Then what’s he up to in Paraguay?

  A little vacation with a homosexual lover?

  “I’m sure she will be able to shed some light on the situation,” von Deitzberg said. “What I want you to do now, Forster, is go to her home. Tell her I am here, impress upon her the need for secrecy, and then tell her to drive here to the casino garage, park her car, and then go to suite 308.”

  “May I suggest, Herr Schenck, that perhaps there would be more security if I drove you to the von Tresmarck home?”

  “I considered that, of course. One of the problems is that I would have to return here eventually. That would mean either you or Frau von Tresmarck would have to drive me, and we might be seen together. This way . . .”

  “Of course. I should have considered that.”

  “Yes, Forster, you should have. Now get going.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Schenck.”

  [THREE]

  The knock came at the door of suite 308 forty-five minutes later.

  “Finally!” von Deitzberg snapped.

  He had spent the last fifteen minutes—he had estimated that it should take Inge no longer than thirty minutes from the time Forster had left the casino to get there from her home; wherever it was, it wasn’t far—considering the very real possibility that she wasn’t going to come at all. That as soon as she got her orders from Forster and he left, she had departed for parts unknown with whatever confidential special fund cash von Tresmarck had left behind when he went to Paraguay—if he actually had gone to Paraguay. And considering his options if that indeed proved to be the case.

  He was obviously going to have to find the both of them, recover as much—if anything—as he could of the money they had stolen, and then eliminate the both of them.

  And he had no idea how to do either. And no one to help him to do it.

  That had caused him to first think that Anton von Gradny-Sawz would be absolutely useless in tracking them down, and then that the money he had promised Der Grosse Weinerwurst to buy them refuge wasn’t going to be available.

  And he had of course thought of Inge.

  Put those thoughts from your mind.

  What you have to do now is think about staying alive.

  He walked quickly to the door and pulled it open.

  “Guten abend,” Inge von Tresmarck said.

  She was wearing a skirt and a simple white cotton blouse through which he could see her brassiere.

  She’s better-looking than I remembered.

  He took a step backward and coldly motioned her into the room. Then he pointed to a small couch.

  She walked to it, sat down, crossed her legs, and looked at him.

  “What is your husband doing in Paraguay?” he demanded.

  “I didn’t have any idea you were here, or were even coming,” she said.

  “Answer the question, Frau von Tresmarck.”

  She didn’t immediately reply.

  She’s making up her mind what to say.

  He walked to her and slapped her fac
e.

  “Answer my question!”

  She put her hand on her cheek and looked at him with terror in her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “I have no choice but to put my life in your hands,” she said softly and more than a little dramatically.

  She rehearsed that line! Gottverdammt Hure thinks she can play me the way she played those fools in the Hotel Am Zoo!

  He slapped her again, this time in genuine anger.

  “Your life has been in my hands since I sent you over here,” he said. “What is he doing in Paraguay?”

  “May I try to explain?” she said. “Please.”

  He glowered at her, then nodded.

  “Make it quick,” he said coldly.

  “Herr Brigadeführer,” she said, looking up at him, “I know about the confidential special fund.”

  What the hell does she mean by that? Of course she knows about that.

  But, my God, she’s not supposed to know anything about it! I made it very clear to that degenerate husband of hers that he was to tell her nothing about it; that if I ever learned she knew anything about it, he wouldn’t live long enough to be transported to Sachsenhausen.

  “You know about what?” he asked icily.

  “The confidential special fund.”

  “Your husband told you something about—what did you say?—a ‘confi dential fund’?”

  “He didn’t tell me. I found out.”

  “You found out what?”

  Why is she looking at my stomach?

  My God, I have an erection! That’s what she’s looking at!

  “Everything,” she said. “I knew he was doing more than his work for Operation Phoenix, and I wanted to know what.”

  “And?”

  “And I found out. Everything.”

  He didn’t reply immediately.

  “That happens to me, too,” she said softly.

  “What?”

  “When you slap me, it excites me, too.”