The Honor of Spies

by W. E. B Griffin

She raised her hand and ran the tips of her fingers along his penis.

  “Tell me,” she said in an excited whisper.

  “Tell you what?”

  “Order me,” Inge said huskily. “Order me to take it in my mouth.”

  When he had recovered his breath, von Deitzberg turned his head and looked at Inge. Her blouse was open and her brassiere had been pushed off her breasts. Her skirt had been raised over her hips.

  God alone knows what happened to her underpants!

  And then he remembered tearing them off.

  He looked down and saw that his underpants and his trousers were around his ankles. He was still wearing his shoes.

  He felt an urge to giggle.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “Why don’t we take our clothes off the next time?”

  She chuckled and smiled at him, and raised her hand to touch his cheek.

  “Fine with me,” she said.

  “I heard Werner talking with Ramón—”

  “Ramón being his lover?” von Deitzberg interrupted.

  She nodded.

  They were still in the bed. But the bedcovers had been taken off and von Deitzberg was naked under the sheet. Inge was sitting on the bed with her back propped against the headboard.

  When Inge had gone to the bathroom, he had stripped, then hung his trousers and shirt neatly over a chair. Inge was wearing the terry-cloth robe she had found in the bathroom. It hung loosely on her and he could see her breasts.

  “Who is this man?” von Deitzberg asked.

  “A Uruguayan, of course. He’s thirty-something. Not bad-looking. Doesn’t look like a poufter.”

  “A what?”

  “That’s what they call queers here. It’s English, I think. They use a lot of English words here.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He owns a restaurant. Actually, several restaurants and a poufter bar.”

  “ ‘A poufter bar’?” he parroted, and chuckled.

  “A poufter bar,” she repeated, smiling. “That’s where Werner met him.”

  “Would you say that Werner has told his poufter friend about the confidential special fund?”

  She smiled and nodded.

  “I’m sure he has.”

  Then both poufters have to be eliminated.

  “How did you get to eavesdrop on their conversation?”

  “Conversations, plural. A lot of them. I had to protect myself; Werner would throw me to the wolves and take pleasure watching them eat me.”

  “And how did you do this?”

  “The first time, it was by accident. I’d told Werner I was going to Punta del Este—”

  “Where?”

  “It’s a beachside resort about a hundred kilometers from here. I go there sometimes to lie on the beach.”

  And possibly to find someone who can give you what you’re not getting from your poufter?

  “Go on.”

  “And I had trouble with my car and couldn’t go. I had to put the car in the garage. I was in my bedroom when I saw Werner drive up with Ramón. I suspected they came here when they thought I was gone.”

  “Not to Ramón’s house? Apartment?”

  “Ramón is married,” she said.

  “A married poufter?”

  “He and Werner have that in common,” Inge said. “Anyway, I was curious. I hid in my closet. Werner didn’t see my car, but he looked into my bedroom. . . .”

  “You have separate bedrooms?”

  She nodded. “And when I wasn’t there, they went to his. I could hear everything that went on in his bedroom. That was interesting. Werner is the woman. I thought it would be the other way. And when Ramón went home to his loving wife, I walked over here to the Casino and took a room. He didn’t suspect a thing.

  “Sometimes they didn’t even—you know, do it. But they talked about what they should do with Werner’s money—the money the Jews gave him; the confidential fund—and I found that fascinating. And then I started looking in his safe. I knew where he kept the combination; he could never remember it. All the details and property deeds—and of course the money waiting to be invested—were in there.”

  “So what are the poufters doing in Paraguay?”

  “Werner is worried about you. He thinks you have concluded he knows too much and are going to order him back to Germany and send him to Sachsenhausen.”

  “I couldn’t risk him running off at the mouth, either on his way to Sachsenhausen or once he was in there,” von Deitzberg said.

  “I thought about that too,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I thought about you, that you should know, but how was I going to get in touch with you?”

  “That raises several questions in my mind,” von Deitzberg said. “What did you think I should know?”

  “That Werner, especially after he decided the war is lost . . . Is the war lost, my darling?”

  What does she think, that after we have rolled around like two dachshunden in heat, that we are now lovers, that she can call me “my darling”?

  “Things do not look good,” von Deitzberg said.

  She nodded thoughtfully, then said: “Where was I? Oh, yes. Werner decided that even if you didn’t order him back to Germany, the war was lost and he had to protect himself. That he had decided to take all the cash and go to Paraguay. With Ramón, of course.”

  Can I believe her?

  Of course I can’t believe her. She’s a Hotel Am Zoo whore.

  A very good one, to be sure, but a Hotel Am Zoo whore.

  “Inge, why did you want to tell me all about this?”

  “To whom else could I turn?”

  “Why would you think I would help you?”

  “That’s what I meant when I said I have no choice but to put my life in your hands.”

  “Why, Inge, did you think I would give a damn?”

  She exhaled audibly.

  “Here goes. You knew all about me before you set me up with Werner . . .” True. I knew everything about you except your ability to sexually arouse me as no other woman ever has. Arouse and then satsify me.

  “. . . so you know that not only are we from the same background . . .”

  Partially true. You are upper bourgeoisie. Your family had money. My family is noble but had no money. Where is she going with this?

  “. . . but also are survivors. When we’re knocked down, we get up again.”

  That’s at least partially true. I didn’t quit when I was nearly on the dole in the army. I put up with it, starved, until I saw an opportunity to better myself.

  “Is there a point to this, Inge?”

  “And then there is the other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  “What happened to us the first time we were alone. And again just now.”

  Okay, now I understand. I wonder why I didn’t see it coming?

  She wants to buy my protection with her body.

  Well, what the hell, let her think that. What have I got to lose?

  When the time comes, I can eliminate her.

  “Yes,” he said, and gave in to the temptation to put his hand into the opening of the terry-cloth robe.

  God, she’s got a great body!

  Control yourself, for Christ’s sake!

  He withdrew his hand as she put her hand on the sheet covering him.

  “You said something about money in the poufter’s safe?”

  “About two hundred thousand American dollars and fifty thousand English pounds.”

  A pound is worth four point one U.S. dollars. She’s talking about another $200,000. My God!

  “Why so much?”

  “Well, after they decided to go to Paraguay, Werner just about stopped sending money to Germany. They’re going to take it with them when they go.”

  Well, if he left all that money here, he’s going to come back for it.

  “When do you think he’ll be coming back?”

  “I don’t really know. Probably not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Or t
he next day. They’re driving, and the road from the Brazilian border isn’t really safe at night.

  God, am I glad I asked that question!

  “As much as I hate to say this, Inge, you’re going to have to put your clothing back on. . . .”

  “Oh, really?” she said, and made a sad face.

  “And go to your house and bring everything in the safe back here. Everything.”

  He saw the look in her eyes.

  “You’re going to have to trust me, Inge,” he said, and took her hand. “Before this situation gets out of control and we’re both in trouble.”

  She considered that a moment.

  “How do you know you can trust me?” she asked. “I mean, I might just drive to the house, get the money, get back in the car, and go to Brazil myself.”

  She met his eyes when he didn’t immediately reply.

  Then he said: “But, as you said a moment ago, we’re survivors, and then there’s that other thing.”

  “Manfred, you’re naughty!” Inge said. And then she asked, “You are going to take care of me, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Say it. I’m a woman. I can usually tell when a man is lying.”

  “I’m going to take care of you, Inge.”

  Just as long as you don’t cause me problems.

  She kept looking into his eyes.

  After a long moment, she said, “I hope I’m not making a fool of myself, but I believe you.”

  Inge slid off the bed and started collecting her clothing. She put on her brassiere and then picked up her torn underpants.

  She held them out for von Deitzberg to see.

  “You’re naughty, Manfred. Look at what you did!”

  He felt a stirring at his groin as he looked at her standing there wearing nothing but the brassiere.

  “Well, I’ll just have to get another pair at the house,” Inge said, and dropped the underpants into a wastebasket.

  “Don’t do it on my account,” he said. “I like you better without them.”

  “You’re naughty, naughty, naughty!”

  She walked to him and kissed him rather lasciviously.

  “I like it,” she said.

  “In the morning, Major von Wachtstein—You remember him?”

  “The Luftwaffe officer who flies that little airplane?”

  “The Fieseler Storch. That’s him. You know him?”

  “Slightly.”

  “In the morning, he’s going to fly to the airfield here. He should arrive shortly before ten. You will meet him and give him the money. That means it will have to be made into some kind of a package. I don’t want von Wachtstein to know what it is.”

  “He doesn’t know about the confidential special fund?”

  “No, and I don’t want him to. But there is another man, Anton von Gradny-Sawz, in the embassy, who does.”

  “And what’s he going to do with the money, this other man?”

  “He is going to buy some property for us in Mendoza, in case the Führer is wrong about the Final Victory and we need someplace to go.”

  “ ‘We’ as in you and this other man, or ‘we’ meaning you and me?”

  “We meaning you and me,” von Deitzberg said.

  Now that I think about it, Inge might be very useful.

  She buttoned her blouse before pulling on the skirt.

  She did that on purpose.

  And succeeded in making my hormones rage.

  I wonder how long that will last.

  [FOUR]

  4730 Avenida Libertador

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  2015 1 October 1943

  Don Cletus Frade ran his fingers across the hair of Doña Dorotea Mallín de Frade, marveling at its color and softness.

  “And you said there wasn’t time,” he announced.

  “What?” she asked somewhat sleepily, raising her head from his chest to look up at him.

  “Write this down,” he said. “You are fortunate to have a husband who can always find time for a ‘Wham, Bam, Thank You, Ma’am!’ ”

  “My God!” she said.

  “Yes, my child?” he asked sonorously.

  She bit his nipple.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Get up and get dressed. Your guests are downstairs.”

  “Let ’em wait,” he said.

  Dorotea rolled away from him, put her feet against his hips, and pushed him out of the bed. He barely managed to avoid being dumped on the floor, but he succeeded in landing on his feet. He looked down at her.

  “Don’t let this go to your head, but you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen—”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  “—in the last few hours.”

  She grabbed one of the pillows and threw it at him. He caught it and threw it back at her like a basketball.

  Then he raised his arms and crawled across the bed on his knees.

  “I never realized before how erotic a pillow fight can be,” he said. “How about another quickie?”

  She rolled out the other side of the bed.

  “Get dressed, Cletus! I’m serious.”

  “How can you be serious? You’re naked.”

  “Get dressed!”

  “Party pooper,” he said, and walked toward the bathroom.

  When he came out several minutes later, she was back in the bed, covered by the sheet.

  “You changed your mind?” he asked.

  “Go, Cletus!”

  “You’re not coming?” he asked.

  “He asked, hopefully,” Dorotea said. “Relax, my darling. No, I’m not coming. This is Argentina. Women are not welcome in serious meetings between men. What I’m going to do is give you a few minutes and then go down the back stairs and eavesdrop from the pantry.”

  “With or without your clothes?”

  “Go!”

  There were nine men in the library when Clete walked in trailed by Enrico Rodríguez. One of them was Antonio LaVallé, who had been el Coronel Jorge Frade’s butler and whom Clete had not expected to see; he normally reigned over the staff of the big house on Coronel Díaz.

  La Vallé—following the English custom, he was called by his surname—was tending bar. Everyone in the library held a drink in his hand.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Clete announced.

  He recognized only Coronel Alejandro Martín and Capitán Roberto Lauffer, who was aide-de-camp to El Presidente, General Arturo Rawson. But one of the younger men and a tall, ruddy-faced man wearing the uniform of an infantry colonel looked familiar. He couldn’t come up with names, but he remembered now that the younger man was Martín’s driver.

  I really don’t know how to handle this.

  I can hug Lauffer. We became close during the Operation Blue coup d’état.

  But what about Martín? Does he want these other people—and who the hell are they?—to think we’re pals?

  To hell with it!

  He went to Lauffer, said “Roberto,” and hugged him and made kissing gestures. Then he went to Martín, said “Alejandro, we’re going to have to stop meeting like this,” and hugged him but did not make a kissing gesture. Then he turned to Martín’s driver.

  “I’m Cletus Frade,” he said, offering his hand. “I know your face, but I can’t come up with a name.”

  “Sargento Lascano, Don Cletus.”

  “Actually, Major Frade,” Martín said, “he is Suboficial Mayor Lascano. Manuel does for me what Enrico did for your father.”

  “You mean he carries you home when you’ve been at the bottle?” Clete asked innocently.

  The infantry colonel laughed.

  “Major Frade has your number, old boy,” he said in a crisp British accent.

  Martín shook his head and went on: “It is more practical for our purposes to have him known as ‘Sargento,’ as it is for you to have people think you are simply Don Cletus.”

  Clete nodded but didn’t say anything.

  �
��Similarly, it is more convenient for el Teniente Coronel José Cortina, who is my deputy”—a stocky, middle-aged man walked up to Frade and shook his hand—“to be thought of as Suboficial Mayor Cortina.”

  Then the other stocky, middle-aged man in the library walked up to Frade and offered his hand.

  “My name is Nervo, Major. I am a policeman.”

  “Actually,” Martín said, “my good friend Inspector General Santiago Nervo is the chief of the Gendarmería Nacional.”

  Another man put out his hand. “I am Subinspector General Pedro Nolasco, Major. General Nervo’s deputy.”

  The infantry colonel brought up the rear of the line.

  “Edmundo Wattersly,” he said, crushing Clete’s hand. “We’ve met, but I rather doubt you’ll remember.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t.”

  “At your wedding. And of course during your father’s funeral. Your dad and I were at the academy together, and then again at the Kreigschule. He used to call me his ‘conduit to Berchtesgaden.’ ”

  What the hell does that mean?

  Clete nodded, then announced, “We have about half an hour until dinner—”

  “We didn’t invite ourselves to dinner . . .” Martín interrupted.

  “—so may I suggest we get started with whatever this is?” Clete went on.

  Martín finished, “. . . but I’m sure we all appreciate your hospitality.”

  “Dinner will be at nine, Don Cletus,” Antonio La Vallé said. “I’m afraid it will be simple.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine, La Vallé,” Clete said. “And that will be all, thank you. We can make our own drinks.”

  “Cletus,” Wattersly said. “You don’t mind me calling you that, do you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “If you don’t mind, Cletus, may Antonio stay? I’ve always found that useful.”

  “Excuse me?” Frade said.

  “Your dad and I formed the habit, when we were planning Operation Blue, of having La Vallé and Enrico around. They were our human stenographers, so to speak. Between them, they remember everything, and that way, there’s no stenographer’s pad left lying about, don’t you know, to fall into the wrong hands.”

  Clete glanced at La Vallé and then at Enrico, who nodded.

  “Please stay, La Vallé,” Clete said, then added, “I would very much like a drink.”