Death and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “You can have a clear conscience, Major,” von und zu Aschenburg said. “You are an officer doing what you were ordered to do.”

  “So I have been telling myself. Sometimes I almost believe it.”

  There was a knock at the door, and before von Wachtstein could open his mouth, it opened and Cranz came in.

  I wonder if the sonofabitch was hoping to catch us at something—anything?

  Well, when he listens to the wire recording of what Dieter and I said to each other, he won’t hear anything he shouldn’t.

  “Ambassador Lutzenberger,” Cranz announced, “has decided the best way to handle things will be for everybody in Uruguay to come here on the overnight boat. Which means that leaves my evening free. I hope that you and the Baroness von Wachtstein are free to have dinner with me. I’d really like to meet her. And I’m sure Kapitän von und zu Aschenburg would.”

  Von Wachtstein nodded, but said, “Unfortunately, my wife—who is known here as Señora Carzino-Cormano de von Wachtstein, but who I suspect would love having you call her ‘Baroness’—is at her mother’s estancia. And as I have the duty—”

  “And going there would be out of the question?” Cranz interrupted.

  “I have the duty until Gradny-Sawz returns, unfortunately.”

  “Ambassador Lutzenberger says there’s no reason Schneider can’t fill in for you tonight,” Cranz said. "’Señora Carzino-Cormano de von Wachtstein’? That’s a mouthful, isn’t it?”

  “Think how bad it would be if she’d married Dieter here,” von Wachtstein said. “ ‘Señora Carzino-Cormano de von und zu Aschenburg.’ Now, that’s a mouthful.”

  “It’s a good thing you’re buying dinner, Hansel, or you’d pay for that,” von und zu Aschenburg said.

  Cranz smiled at both of them.

  “Or would that be a real imposition, Peter?” Cranz finally asked. “Having von und zu Aschenburg and myself at your mother-in-law’s home?”

  “I’m sure it would be no problem,” von Wachtstein said. “Actually, unless you really want to go to a hotel, we could spend the night out there. There’s plenty of room.”

  “If you’re sure it would be no imposition . . .”

  “Let me call them and let them know we’re coming,” von Wachtstein said, and reached for the telephone.

  [FIVE]

  Estancia Santa Catalina Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province 2215 12 July 1943

  That afternoon, when Don Cletus Frade, El Patrón of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, on hearing that El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón had found time in his busy schedule to accept the kind invitation of Doña Claudia de Carzino-Cormano of Estancia Santa Catalina to a small, “just family” dinner, Frade had taken several steps to make sure things went smoothly.

  For one thing, he told his wife, Señora Dorotea Mallín de Frade, to make sure Señorita Isabela Carzino-Cormano, the elder daughter of Doña Claudia de Carzino-Cormano, was aware that not only were they coming to the dinner for Tío Juan Domingo but that he probably was going to bring at least one American officer with him.

  “El Bitcho,” as Clete thought of Isabela, not only disliked him intensely on a personal basis but was more anti-American than Mussolini. With just a little bit of luck, he hoped, El Bitcho would suddenly remember a previous engagement which, sadly, would preclude her presence at the “just family” dinner with Tío Juan Domingo.

  Dorotea had done what her husband asked, but it hadn’t worked.

  When they had driven over to Estancia Santa Catalina in time for the cocktail tour, El Bitcho was there in the sitting room, dressed in black, and again playing the tragic role of widow-in-everything-but-name of the late Capitán Jorge Alejandro Duarte, who had fallen nobly on the field of battle at Stalingrad.

  Clete knew that his uncle, Humberto Duarte, while deeply mourning the loss of his only son, did not hold Clete’s father—who had arranged for Jorge to be an aerial “observer” with Von Paulus’s Sixth Army in Russia—much less Clete responsible for what had happened.

  But Isabela sure as hell made it clear that she did. Jorge had been killed by the godless Russian Communists, who were allied with the Americans. Cletus Frade was an American. It was as simple as that.

  When Clete and Dorotea had walked into the sitting room of the big house at Estancia Santa Catalina, Isabela, sniffling into a lace handkerchief, had walked out in an air of high drama.

  Custom required that Clete embrace and kiss everybody. Kissing Doña Claudia and Alicia von Wachtstein posed no problems. Kissing his Uncle Humberto was, as usual, a little awkward. Kissing his Aunt Beatrice made him both uncomfortable and a little ashamed of himself. That she was playing with far less than a full deck wasn’t her fault, obviously, but the cold fact was that kissing her made him feel uncomfortable.

  But not as uncomfortable as kissing Tío Juan Domingo had made him feel. Notwithstanding the fact that he had been his father’s best friend and the best man at his parents’ wedding, he couldn’t stand the sonofabitch.

  To help get himself through the greeting ritual that experience had taught him was inevitable, Clete had told himself that he was behaving like a child. He certainly could not afford to act as such, and reminded himself that Perón had done nothing to him and had, in fact, done things for him, and the last thing he should do now, when he needed Perón’s influence to get the airline off the ground, was piss off the bastard.

  There were two people in the sitting room he was not expected to kiss and didn’t. One of them was Gonzalo Delgano, a short, muscular man of about forty, and the other a bespectacled, slim, fair-skinned man of about the same age whose name was Kurt Welner. Both of them were wearing well-cut suits and striped neckties.

  “How are you?” Frade said, offering Delgano his hand. “More important, what do I call you? ‘Señor’? Or ‘Major’?”

  “I could ask just about the same thing of you,” Delgano replied. “But how about ‘Gonzalo,’ Don Cletus?”

  “How about dropping the ‘Don’?”

  “Agreed. Good to see you again, Cletus.”

  Frade next offered his hand to Welner, who, when he had seen Clete kissing Perón, had smiled approvingly, causing Clete to give him the finger behind Perón’s back. Smiling broadly, Father Kurt Welner, S.J.—who only rarely wore the clerical collar associated with his profession—had countered the gesture by making the motions of a priest benignly blessing a beloved member of his flock.

  Welner had been Clete’s father’s friend and confessor; Clete wasn’t sure which had been the more important role. Welner was also the confessor for the Duartes and the Carzino-Cormanos. He wasn’t sure what Welner’s relationship with Perón was, although Perón treated him with great respect.

  “What’s the latest from Rome?” Clete asked.

  “ ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself,’ ” Welner replied unctuously.

  They both laughed. Claudia looked dismayed.

  “Why don’t we go in the library and get our business out of the way?” Humberto Duarte suggested.

  All the men—including Father Welner, which Clete thought was a little unusual—plus Doña Claudia de Carzino-Cormano went into the library, where a long table was just about covered with blue folders.

  Everyone sat down but Duarte, who stood at the head of the table.

  “Aside from a name for this enterprise,” he said, “I think everything is ready for signatures. And since Cletus is going to be the majority stockholder, I suggest that he has the right to name it. Once he does, I think you should all read the documents carefully, and if you find nothing wrong with them, sign them.”

  Everyone looked at Frade.

  “I first thought of calling it ‘Trans-Andean Airways,’ ” Frade said. “You know, over the Andes to Santiago. But then I found out there are mountains between here and there that are higher than seven thousand meters. And ‘Through and Around the Andes Airways’ doesn’t have the same appeal, does it?”

  There was polite laughter. Frade considered Major Del
gano’s smile as genuine, and thought, The only thing I have against him is that he’s an intelligence officer, and God knows I’m in no position to hold that against anybody.

  “How about ‘South American Airways’?” Frade went on. “It is going to be international.”

  “I think that’s fine,” Claudia said.

  “I don’t think el señor Trippe’s going to like it,” Colonel Perón said, “but I do.”

  Why am I surprised that he knows Juan Trippe owns Pan American Airways?

  Because you’re not listening to Humberto, Clete, who keeps warning you Tío Juan is a lot smarter than you give him credit for being.

  “We’re not a Sociedad Anónima until everything has been signed,” Duarte said, “so a vote isn’t necessary. When everyone has signed, it will be for the establishment of South American Airways, S.A. Agreed?”

  No one said anything, but no one raised any objection.

  Ten minutes later, all parties involved having signed the necessary documents, South American Airways, S.A., was in business.

  “And now, Father Welner,” Duarte said, “would you ask God’s blessing on this enterprise?”

  Welner stood up, and everyone bowed their heads.

  “Dear Lord, we ask . . .”

  Clete didn’t pay much attention to the prayer. He was thinking that the Roman Catholic Church—or at least the Society of Jesus of the Roman Catholic Church—now knew as much about South American Airways, S.A., as any of the investors or officers.

  When they all filed back into the sitting room, champagne and hors d’oeuvres were waiting for them.

  And moments later—as Clete thought she probably would—Isabela made a dramatic reentrance and resumed giving her quite credible portrayal of a young woman courageously bearing up as well as she could under the tragic circumstances.

  She had just been “talked into” having a glass of champagne by Father Kurt when Clete learned that the other steps he had taken to ensure they would have Perón’s undivided attention while discussing and ultimately signing the documents for the airlines idea had also gone awry.

  The telephone wires to Estancia Santa Catalina from the junction box of the government-owned and -operated telephone service in Pila crossed Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. It had not been hard at all for Chief Schultz to go to several of the repeater stations—there were nine in all—and provide means for both eavesdropping on all calls on both estancias and a means for the lines “to go out.”

  The latter was more sophisticated than simply breaking the connection. Schultz and Sergeant O’Sullivan had rigged a “random noise generator” to the circuitry. Clete had no idea what it was, but he had seen how it worked. When switched on, it produced on the telephone line what sounded like static—what most would describe as “a bad connection”—and effectively prohibited conversation.

  More important, it fooled the technicians of the government telephone service into believing that “there was trouble on the line or in one of the repeater stations” rather than a severed line caused by a fallen pole, a failed transformer, a shorted insulator, et cetera.

  Clete had ordered that there was to be “trouble on the line” to Estancia Santa Catalina from the moment El Coronel Perón (or more likely his chauffeur or bodyguard) hung up after reporting to the Edificio Libertador that Perón had arrived safely at Estancia Santa Catalina. The line was to remain out until they heard from Don Cletus—or one of the switchboards—to turn off the trouble/ random-noise generator.

  The system worked perfectly. As soon as Colonel Perón’s bodyguard had notified the Edificio Libertador that the Secretary of Work & Social Welfare had arrived safely at Estancia Santa Catalina, and hung up, Chief Schultz had turned on the random-noise generator.

  The unplanned result of this was that when Major Hans-Peter von Wachtstein attempted to call his wife from the German embassy to ask her to tell her mother that he was coming for dinner—with two guests—the operator reported that there was trouble on the line and suggested he try to place the call later.

  Two hours later, when a black Mercedes touring car bearing diplomatic license plates came racing down the road from Pila and entered upon Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, the gaucho on duty there quickly got on the telephone, shut off the random-noise generator, and told the switchboard operator to quickly connect him with either El Jefe or Don Cletus.

  He got El Jefe first. El Jefe shut down the random-noise generator and caused the telephone to ring in the sitting room of the big house on Estancia Santa Catalina. There the telephone was passed to Don Cletus.

  “Heads up, boss,” Chief Schultz reported. “There’s a Mercedes with diplomatic tags and four people in it headed your way. The gaucho at the gate says that it looks like Doña Alicia’s German is in the front seat.”

  Clete put the telephone handset back in the cradle. He saw that just about everybody was looking at him.

  “Señora Carzino-Cormano de von Wachtstein,” Frade said, “it would appear that your wandering husband is about to join this festive occasion. He and three other people.”

  “Three other people?” Alicia asked.

  Clete shrugged, and when his wife looked at him questioningly, he shrugged again.

  “Hans-Peter is coming?” El Coronel Perón said. “Wonderful!”

  [SIX]

  “Turn the lights off and stop right here,” Major Hans-Peter Freiherr von Wachtstein ordered sharply.

  Günther Loche braked the Mercedes so heavily that it skidded before coming to a stop. Both Obersturmbannführer Cranz and Oberst von und zu Aschenburg slid off the rear seat.

  “What is it?” Cranz demanded.

  “It would seem we have guests I didn’t know about,” von Wachtstein said.

  Cranz looked out the windshield at the line of cars drawn up in the drive of the big house. There was a shiny new black Rolls-Royce, a black 1940 Packard 280 convertible coupe, an olive-drab Mercedes, a red-and-black Horch touring car, and a 1942 Buick Roadmaster.

  “That Horch is really the last thing I would have expected to see out here in the middle of nowhere,” Commercial Attaché Cranz said.

  “It belongs to Cletus Frade, Karl,” Peter von Wachtstein said. “It was his father’s. His father was riding in it when he was murdered.”

  “You mean Frade is here?” Cranz asked.

  “Either he or his wife. I would suspect both. Shall we turn around?”

  “What is he doing here?”

  “I would suspect having dinner. His wife and my wife are very close,” von Wachtstein said. “They grew up together. And my wife knew I had the duty and wouldn’t be here to make things awkward.”

  “And who else would you say is here?”

  “The open Packard is Father Welner’s. He’s the family’s Jesuit. The Rolls belongs to the parents of Hauptmann Duarte, who died at Stalingrad. They’re Frade’s aunt and uncle. The army Mercedes is almost certainly Colonel Perón’s. And the Buick is my mother-in-law’s.”

  “And her relation to Frade?”

  “Very close. She looks on him as a son.”

  When Cranz didn’t reply for a long moment, von Wachtstein asked again, “Shall we turn around? If we go in there, it’s going to be more than a little awkward.”

  “You don’t get along with Frade?”

  “For some reason,” von Wachtstein said more than a little sarcastically, “he thinks we Germans were responsible for the murder of his father.”

  Again, Cranz didn’t reply for a long moment. Then he said, “Peter, we are in a neutral country. We are gentlemen, and I think we may presume that Frade will do nothing to embarrass a woman who thinks of him as her son. I had hoped to get to know Colonel Perón while I was here, and at least get a look at Señor Frade. Fortune may well be smiling on us. Loche, put the lights back on and drive up to the entrance.”

  “May I ask who these people are?” von und zu Aschenburg said.

  “Colonel Juan Domingo Perón is a very important Argentine ar
my officer,” Cranz began, “known to be sympathetic to National Socialism, and a man who a number of people believe will become even more important in Argentina. Frade is the son of the late Oberst Frade, who, until he was assassinated by parties unknown, many thought would be the next president of Argentina. His son, like you and Peter, is a fighter pilot of some distinction. You’ll have a lot in common. But be careful, please, Oberst von und zu Aschenburg. He is also the head of the American OSS in Argentina, and a very dangerous man.”

  “I’m not good at this sort of thing, Cranz,” von und zu Aschenburg said. “Why don’t I just wait in the car?”

  “I understand your feelings, Herr Oberst. Let me go off at a tangent. May I have your permission, Herr Oberst, to address you by your Christian name? And that you call me ‘Karl’? And that, especially, both of you remember not to use my rank?”

  “In other words, you think I should go in there with you?”

  “I would be very grateful, Dieter, if you would.”

  Von Wachtstein kissed his wife and then his mother-in-law on their cheeks.

  “Mama,” he said to Claudia Carzino-Cormano, “I had no idea you were having guests. I tried to call, but the lines were out again. . . .”

  “This is your home,” she said in Spanish, and put out her hand to von und zu Aschenburg. “Welcome to our home. I’m Claudia Carzino-Cormano.”

  Von und zu Aschenburg took her hand, clicked his heels, bowed, and kissed her hand.

  “Please pardon the intrusion, la señora,” he said in Spanish. “Hansel and I are old friends, and I really wanted to meet his bride. My name is Dieter von und zu Aschenburg.”

  “ ‘Hansel’? As in Hansel and Gretel?”

  “In German, it means ‘Little Hans,’ señora,” he replied. “I have known him that long.”

  “You’ll forgive me, señor, I don’t recognize your uniform.”

  “I have the honor to be a pilot for Lufthansa, señora. We just arrived, and I haven’t had time to change out of my uniform.”

  “So you’re not a soldier?”