W E B Griffin - Honor 2 - Blood and Honor

by Blood

  "Stuttgart, eh?"

  "And the Standartenf�hrer says there is even a possibility that a passenger space might be available on a Condor flight, Herr Major Freiherr."

  And the minute you step off the plane, you poor idiot, you will be told there is a slight change in plans. First, you will go to the Eastern Front as a rifleman.

  And later, after you have helped stem the Communist Horde, then you can go to the Daimler-Benz Technical Institute in Stuttgart.

  What the hell is Goltz up to? Is this some sort of perverse joke? Is he really thinking of sending G�nther to Germany? Why?

  "Well, good luck, G�nther."

  "Thank you, Herr Major Freiherr!" G�nther said, coming to attention and then marching out of the office.

  Peter sat down at his desk and took a quick look at the front pages of the Frie Presse, La Nacion, La Prensa, the Buenos Aires Herald, and several of the magazines. He opened one of the latter, La Vidal, a weekly magazine devoted mainly to rotogravure photographs of younger members of Buenos Aires's up-per class attending social functions. Then he reached into his trousers pocket and came up with a three-by-five-inch file card he had been given by Humberto Duarte at the reception following the interment of the late el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade in Recoleta Cemetery.

  He placed it on the open copy of La Vida! so that if someone came unex-pectedly into his office, he could conceal it quickly simply by turning a page of the magazine.

  Handlesbank Zurich 0405567 Privatbank Gebruder Hach Zurich 782967 Banque de Suisse et Argentina Zurich 45607 Anglo-Suisse Banque de Commerce Basel 970018

  Peter wasn't at all sure that he had completely understood what Humberto had told him, although he had asked as many questions as he could think to ask. As best he could remember, Humberto told him he had experienced difficulty transferring money from Generalleutnant von Wachtstein's numbered account in the Handelsbank to the merchant banking firm of Hach Brothers. Previous transfers had gone smoothly. What happened this time, no one seemed to know.

  Neither Humberto personally nor the Anglo-Argentinian Bank had a "cor-respondent relationship"-whatever the hell that meant-with the Handels-bank. But Humberto did have a "personal relationship" with Hach Brothers, which apparently meant they would do what he told them to do without asking questions or making records.

  However, Handelsbank informed Gebruder Hach that there were "adminis-trative problems" that would "briefly delay" the transfer of the funds requested from account number 0405567.

  "I think, Peter, that they are just exercising due caution," Humberto said. "Exercising due caution also permits them to hold on to the money for, say, an-other two weeks. And interest accrues daily, as you know."

  There was also the possibility that the Nazis were onto the secret account, which was painful to consider.

  Humberto went on to explain that the Anglo-Argentine Bank had a "corre-spondent relationship" with both the Bank of Switzerland and Argentina and the Anglo-Swiss Bank of Commerce, as did the Handelsbank. "Less due cau-tion," he said, "is exercised between banks which have correspondent relation-ships, Peter, as you can well understand, than with banks, especially private merchant banks, where no correspondent relationship is in place."

  Thus, after some thought, he concluded that the best way to handle transfers in the future was for Generalleutnant von Wachtstein to instruct Han-delsbank to move the funds to either the Anglo-Swiss Bank, where he-Hum-berto-controlled account number 970012, or to the Bank of Switzerland and Argentina, where he controlled account number 45607. Humberto would then direct those banks to transfer the funds to the Hach Brothers private bank, which would then transfer the funds to his personal account at the Anglo-Ar-gentine Bank in Buenos Aires.

  Even with Humberto leading him patiently by the hand through all this, Pe-ter remained confused. This problem was compounded by the necessity of lead-ing Dieter von und zu Aschenburg, the Condor pilot, through this maze. Dieter had to commit everything except the bank names and account numbers to mem-ory, and then pass it on to Generalleutnant von Wachstein when he reached Ger-many.

  Ordinarily, when Dieter flew a Condor into Buenos Aires, they got to-gether-as two veterans of the Condor Legion in the Spanish Civil War could be expected to do-and there was plenty of time to handle this sort of thing. But this time, getting together had been impossible. The only time Dieter was free of the company of Karl Nabler, the copilot, Peter was at the Carzino-Cormano estancia or in Uruguay with Goltz.

  Peter had considered, and decided against, writing everything down and having Dieter smuggle it into Germany for transmission to his father. Although he knew Dieter would have done that without question-and not only because some of the funds in the Handelsbank had been entrusted to Generalleutnant von Wachtstein by-the von und zu Aschenburg family-that would have not only been too risky for Dieter and for his father, but, if the data fell into the wrong hands, for the entire operation.

  The only way to handle the problem was to give Dieter the card with the bank names and account numbers, and then try to make him understand what Humberto Duarte, without complete success, had tried to make him understand.

  He picked up the filing card, looked at it for a long moment-there is ab-solutely no way Dieter could memorize all this; he'll have to carry it with him and hope he doesn't find himself searched by the Gestapo before he can burn it or swallow it-and then put it in his pocket and picked up the Buenos Aires Herald.

  He had just settled himself comfortably-pulled down his necktie and rested his crossed feet on an open desk drawer-when Standartenf�hrer Josef Goltz, in civilian clothing, walked in without knocking.

  Peter immediately began to untangle his feet and rise.

  "Oh, keep your seat, von Wachtstein," Goltz said.

  "How may I be of service, Herr Standartenf�hrer?" Peter asked, getting to his feet anyway.

  "I just dropped in to ask you your plans for the day," Goltz said.

  "Nothing specific, Herr Standartenf�hrer, until four this afternoon, when I will take the diplomatic pouches out to El Palomar and give them to the Condor pilot."

  "Curiosity prompts me to ask if you always begin your duty day by reading the English newspaper."

  "The English newspaper, Herr Standartenf�hrer, and La Nacion and La Prensa and..." He pointed to the newspapers and magazines G�nther had laid on his desk. "I go through them to find information of interest to Oberst Gr�ner."

  "Of course, I should have thought of that. What have the English to say to-day?"

  "That they have achieved glorious victories on all fronts, Herr Standarten-f�hrer."

  "Oh, really?"

  "The war will be over sometime next month, Herr Standartenf�hrer, and we will lose. If one is to believe the Herald."

  "I suppose that is to be expected," Goltz said, smiling. "Do you ever find anything-anything you can believe-that is of interest?"

  "Every once in while, Herr Standartenf�hrer, there is something. Most of-ten in the personals, oddly enough. The assignment of Anglo-Argentines to var-ious British units, for example, which often furnishes the location of the unit. I believe Oberst Gr�ner forwards them to the Abwehr for the use of their Order of Battle people."

  "The Condor is leaving... when?"

  "Probably at about six, or a little later."

  "When we left Berlin, we left very early in the morning."

  "Did you?"

  "I'm curious why the Condor is leaving at nightfall. Why not early this morning? Or tomorrow morning?"

  "In this case, Herr Standartenf�hrer-and I don't know this-I would think it is so they can fly off the coast of Brazil in the hours of darkness."

  "Why is that?"

  "The Brazilians now have Maritime Reconnaissance aircraft, Herr Standartenf�hrer. They are looking for our submarines, but they would be pleased to come across the Condor."

  "Could they shoot it down?"

  "It's unlikely. The Condor is faster than the Brazilian aircraft-they're us-in
g Catalinas, American Navy aircraft-but under the right circumstances-"

  "The 'right' circumstances, or the 'wrong' ones?"

  "I suppose, Herr Standartenf�hrer, that I was thinking as a fighter pilot. I am trained to shoot planes down, not avoid a confrontation."

  "Yes, of course you were," Goltz said with a smile. "The reason I asked for your schedule, von Wachtstein, is that I promised your father to have a little chat with you-you are apparently not much of a letter writer..."

  "I'm afraid not, Herr Standartenf�hrer."

  "... and relay his paternal disapproval."

  "Paternal disapproval duly noted, Herr Standartenf�hrer."

  "I'm thinking now-it would fit in with my schedule-that I will ride out to the airfield with you. It will give us a chance to chat on the way, and perhaps we could have dinner..."

  "The Argentines don't even begin to think of dinner, Herr Standartenf�hrer, until nine o'clock."

  "Well, then, a drink or two, and if we're still able to think of food at nine o'clock, perhaps we can think of dinner then."

  "I am entirely at your disposal, Herr Standartenf�hrer."

  "Well, then, why don't you come by First Secretary Gradny-Sawz's office when you have the pouches and are ready to go out there? That would be about four?"

  "Whenever it would be convenient for the Herr Standartenf�hrer, of course, but I was planning to leave at half past four."

  "At half past four, then," Goltz said. "I'll look forward to it."

  He raised his hand in the Nazi salute.

  "Heil Hitler!"

  Peter snapped to attention and returned the salute.

  "Heil Hitler!" he barked.

  [FOUR]

  The Director's Room

  The Anglo-Argentine Bank

  Calle Bartolome Mitre 101

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  1315 14 April 1943

  "Gentlemen," Humberto Valdez Duarte announced from the far end of the twenty-five-foot-long ornately inlaid table, "I'm afraid Se¤or Frade and I have an appointment that cannot be broken or delayed, and we'll have to stop right where we are."

  Thank God! I can't take much more of this! thought Se¤or Frade, who had been seated at the other end of the twenty-five-foot-long ornately inlaid table since half past nine.

  Between the two were seven assorted accountants and attorneys, two escribanos, and a secretary. The function of the escribanos, Clete had finally fig-ured out, was something between that of a notary public and a lawyer. The table was littered with paper, much of it gathered together in sheafs, tied together with what looked like shoelaces.

  The only thing that Clete had really understood was that his father's busi-ness interests were even more extensive than he had suspected, and more com-plicated. He understood that he would have to come to understand what it was all about.

  More than once, he heard the Old Man's voice: "What you never can for-get, Cletus, is that for every dollar a rich man has, there are three clever sonsofbitches trying to cheat him out of it."

  And that, of course, had caused him to wonder how the Old Man was going to react when he got the letter telling him he was going to marry an Argentine.

  It had been difficult to concentrate on anything that was explained to him. His mind kept wandering from details of finance and real estate to the problems of making a cross-country flight in an airplane in which he had a total of maybe five hour's time-and that in the copilot's seat. And he was doing it at night, navigating by unfamiliar radio direction signals-and thus most probably by the seat of his pants-all the time avoiding detection by both Brazilians and Ar-gentines.

  "Perhaps," Humberto went on, "we can meet tomorrow..."

  No way!

  "... or the day after. I will get word to you."

  With a little luck, the day after tomorrow I will be in Brazil. And what am I going to tell Humberto about that? "Sorry I can't make the meeting, I have to smuggle an aircraft into Corrientes Province"?

  It took five minutes to shake the hands of all the participants in the confer-ence, five of whom said, "We can't really discuss all the details in a conference like this; we will have to meet privately just as soon as possible," or words to that effect.

  But finally he and Humberto walked together out of the Anglo-Argentine Bank Building onto Calle Bartolome Mitre, where Enrico was waiting at the wheel of Clete's Buick.

  Clete moved quickly to climb in the back, to give Humberto the front seat.

  "Claridge's Hotel, por favor, Enrico," Humberto ordered.

  The streets in Buenos Aires' financial district were lined with banks, and the narrow sidewalks were crowded with well-dressed men, most of them car-rying briefcases. As the car moved slowly through the narrow, traffic-jammed streets-Enrico sat on the horn-Clete looked up and saw the American flag flying from an upper story of the Bank of Boston Building, where the U.S. Em-bassy had its offices. He saw buildings housing the National City Bank of New York; La Banco de Galacia; and the Dresdener Bank.

  Just as Clete noticed a brass sign reading "Claridge's Hotel" on a building, Enrico turned off the street in the drive and stopped.

  "Here we are!" Humberto announced.

  The restaurant was on the ground floor. The paneled walls, heavy furniture, and long bar reminded Clete of the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas.

  Humberto was greeted, in English, by the headwaiter. Picking up on that, Clete noticed that the snippets of conversation he overheard as they were led past the crowded bar to the dining room were also in English.

  English English, not American.

  Seated at a table, waiting for them, were Se¤orita Dorotea Mallin; her mother; Se¤ora Claudia Carzino-Cormano; and three gentlemen of the cloth, only one of whom, Father Kurt Welner, he could identify by name.

  Dorotea was in her demure mood, he saw immediately. He was not sur-prised, when he went through the Argentine kissing ritual, that she moved her head in such a way as to absolutely preclude any accidental brushing of their lips.

  "Beatrice sends her regrets," Humberto announced. "She has a migraine."

  Pro forma expressions of regret were offered, but Clete saw relief on every-one's face.

  The clergymen were introduced. The tall, thin, balding one was the Very Reverend Matthew Cashley-Price of the Anglican Cathedral, and the jovial Irishman was Monsignor Patrick Kelly, who was one of the squad of clergy par-ticipating in his father's funeral at Our Lady of Pilar.

  The look the Very Reverend Mr. Cashley-Price gave Clete made it quite clear that while God might have forgiven a repentant Cletus Howell Frade for despoiling one of the virgins of his flock, he was not quite ready to do so.

  "There is very good news-" Father Welner said, then interrupted himself. "Would you like something to drink?"

  "I think a little whiskey would go down nicely," Clete said.

  "'When you hear the good news," Monsignor Kelly said, "you might wish to have champagne."

  "Whiskey now, champagne later?" Clete asked.

  "'Poor Cletus has had a bad morning," Humberto said. "Business, you un-derstand."

  He raised his hand with two fingers extended.

  "So have we all," Dorotea said.

  "You spoke to the Cardinal Archbishop, Father?" Humberto asked Father Welner.

  "'His Eminence has graciously granted permission for the Very Reverend Cashley-Price to assist me in the nuptial mass," Monsignor Kelly answered for him.

  "It will be necessary for you, Cletus-" the Very Reverend Mr. Cashley-Price began, and interrupted himself. "You don't mind if I call you 'Cletus,' do you?"

  "No, Father," Clete said, deciding it was five-to-one Cashley-Price was High Church and would prefer that form of address.

  "It will be necessary, of course, Cletus, for you and Dorotea to go through our premarital counseling. The Bishop was quite firm about that."

  A waiter delivered two glasses dark with whiskey and set them before Clete and Humberto.

  "I'll have one of those, please,"
Claudia Carzino-Cormano said. "If you don't mind. Pamela?"

  "I think I'll wait for the champagne," Pamela Mallin said.

  "Bring some champagne," Humberto ordered. "Something very nice."

  Clete held up a hand to keep the waiter from adding ice or soda to his glass, picked it up, and took a deep swallow.

  "With the... uh... how shall I put it?" Cashley-Price went on, "time con-straints placed upon us by the situation, we shall have to take care of that right away. I have an hour free tomorrow at three. We could have our first session then. Would that be convenient, Cletus? Dorotea?"