"Any chance you could find crystals here?"
"Not from the Argentines," Ettinger said. "But maybe from the Navy."
"The Argentine Navy?"
"Our Navy," Ettinger said, and smiled when he saw Clete's confusion. "I've been having long lunches in the dock area, try-ing to pick up anything I could overhear. Yesterday a Teniente of the Armada Argentina let a salesman from S.A.P. know that he-"
"What's S.A.P.?"
"It stands for Servicios de Proveedores Asociados, literal trans-lation, Associated Service Providers. They are actually ship victualers. Anyway, this Teniente was looking for a little gift in exchange for steering a little business toward the S.A.P. guy... specifically, providing fresh meat, fruits, and vegetables to a United States Navy destroyer, which will call at Buenos Aires over Christmas. The Alfred Thomas, DD-107."
"You even know the name?" Clete said. "I'm impressed."
"Her arrival here is probably classified SECRET," Ettinger said. "It's really true, Clete, that loose lips sink ships."
"What's she doing here?"
"I think we're just showing the flag. To let the Argentines know that we control the seas down here, and all the Germans can do is sneak the odd submarine in and out of the Bay. Or maybe they just wanted to give the sailors aboard shore leave on Christmas. Or they have been running all over the Atlantic look-ing for German submarines and are out of food. Who knows?" "A destroyer would have aboard the crystals you're talking about?"
"Probably. If they did, could we get them?" "I don't know. If I ask Nestor, that'd be admitting I have the walkie-talkies; and he'd want them back. Let me think about it.
In the meantime, you don't let Nestor know that you have them."
Ettinger smiled at him. "What radios?"
"We better not count on help from the Navy."
"OK. Just a thought. Rigging a power supply for it will be no problem. All I'll need is regular flashlight batteries, and some tape to hold them together."
"You are a very clever fellow, aren't you, Dave?"
"Flattery will get you everywhere, mi Teniente."
"I've got to go," Clete said. "I'm on my way to pick up my car, and I have my father's housekeeper waiting in the taxi. Christ, I almost forgot: You're invited for dinner at Nestor's. Drinks and dinner. Seven o'clock. He wants to know if you showed Klausner that declaration."
"I did, and he doesn't believe it. Damn him!"
"On the face of it, it's incredible."
"It shouldn't be to Klausner," Ettinger said bitterly. "Well, I'll see you later, then?"
"No. I'm not going to be at Nestor's. I'm going to my father's ranch."
"Really? What do you think of him now that you've met him? Or shouldn't I ask?"
"I really haven't made my mind up," Clete said. "His fangs and horns aren't nearly as long as I have been led to expect."
Ettinger chuckled.
"Thank you, David."
Ettinger put out his hand.
"A sus ¢rdenes, mi Teniente," he said.
Clete left the apartment and went downstairs to Se¤ora Pellano and the waiting taxi.
[THREE]
Suite 701
The Alvear Palace Hotel
Buenos Aires
1115 14 December 1942
The medical treatment considered most efficacious by Hauptmann Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein of the Luftwaffe for overindulgence in spirits was, perhaps not surprisingly, exactly that con-sidered most efficacious by First Lieutenant Cletus Howell Frade,
USMCR. Almost immediately after he was taken to his new living quarters, Peter called Room Service and had them send up a bottle of beer.
When the treatment seemed to work, he called Room Service again and repeated the order.
When it was delivered, he carefully locked the door, then dragged a large steamer trunk from the corner where the bellman left it and opened it. And then, with the blade of a pocketknife issued to all Luftwaffe personnel on flying status, he began to pry loose the cardboard covering the trunk's bottom.
The removal of the cardboard revealed a half-inch-thick layer of currency, neat stacks of Swiss francs, English pounds, United States dollars, and Swedish kronor. According to his father, he now had the equivalent of just over five hundred thousand dollars in American money. His father would additionally apply for per-mission to transfer to Peter the equivalent of five thousand dollars American to defray the costs of establishing himself in Buenos Aires in a manner befitting an official representative of the German Reich, with monthly payments of one thousand dollars to follow.
"Some Foreign Ministry bureaucrat will almost certainly lower those numbers, just to feel he's doing his duty to the Austrian Corporal," Generalmajor Graf Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein had said, "but I'm sure they will not deny the request entirely. Just try not to spend it all on the same Se¤orita."
When the memory brought tears to his eyes, Peter told himself that the cognac of the previous evening was working on him, as well as the beer now, not foolish and maudlin sentimentality.
He thumbed through a stack of United States twenty-dollar bills, then pulled one out in curiosity and examined it. On one side was a picture of a long-nosed man with flowing silver hair. His name was Jackson. He seemed to recall the Americans had a President named Jackson.
And a general named Jackson. Stonewall Jackson. Defeated the British at New Orleans in 1812. 1812? Same man? Did the Americans put pictures of general officers on their currency? Did American generals become Presidents?
On the other side of the bill was a picture of the White House.
A very attractive, if not very imposing, edifice. Didn't the Brit-ish burn this building to the ground in 1812? Or was it... the what? The Rebels-the Confederates-in the Civil War who burned it? There was a Confederate cavalry officer by the name of J.E.B. Stuart... a magnificent warrior. Graf Wilhelm Karl von Wachtstein, then an Oberstleutnant, rode with him as an observer. Because J.E.B. Stuart was not a professional officer, he did not know it was impossible to haul artillery around the battlefield with cavalry horses. The proper method of employing artillery required building emplacements, and then spending a good deal of time and effort "laying in" the cannon, so that the field of fire was known. Ignorant of all this, Stuart hauled his cannon about the battlefield at a gallop, and fired his cannon at the enemy with no preparation whatever, except loading the piece.
With great effectiveness.
Great-grandfather came home to Germany and wrote a book about his experiences, devoting a substantial portion of it to the proven merits of attaching artillery to cavalry, for great mobility and firepower on the battlefield. Peter's father told him they used the book as a reference at the War College, and that he knew for a fact that it greatly affected the thinking of General Hasso von Manteuffel when he was a student. And consequently it had a great effect on the evolution of the Blitzkrieg philosophy that proved so effective against France and, at least initially, against Russia.
There was a knock at the door.
Who the hell is that?
"I am asleep, come back in two hours!"
"Please, Hauptmann von Wachtstein, open the door," someone replied in German.
Peter quickly closed the steamer trunk and went to the door and opened it. A small, skinny, middle-aged man in a business suit stood there, holding a gray homburg in his hand.
"May I please come in, Herr Hauptmann? I am Ambassador von Lutzenberger."
"I beg your pardon, Your Excellency, I had no idea," Peter said. He opened the door wide, and then with a curt bow and a click of his heels, he stepped aside.
"I've been told you often open your mouth before you think," von Lutzenberger said.
He walked around the suite, opening doors, even looking into the bathroom, and then returned to Peter.
"It is important that we have this conversation," he said. "And more important that no one else is privy to it."
"Jawohl, Excellenz."
"I was given a rather int
eresting appraisal of your character by Generalmajor Dieter von Haas," von Lutzenberger said. "It came to me out of the normal channels. By hand specifically, from the Ambassador of Portugal. Do I make my point, Herr Hauptmann?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Dieter von Haas wrote that you are a fine young officer... but with a lamentable tendency to drink and talk too much for your own good-and the good of people around you."
"I regret that Generalmajor von Haas has such a low opinion of me, Your Excellency."
Von Lutzenberger ignored the reply.
"I presume the money came through safely, and without offi-cial notice?" he asked.
"I was checking when you knocked," Peter said, nodding at the steamer trunk.
"In a week or so, I will be in a position to make suggestions about its disposition," von Lutzenberger said. "Von Haas's letter reached me only a few days ago, and I have not had the time to make the necessary inquiries. I think it will be safe enough with you for the time being."
"Yes, Sir."
"There are several questions of immediate importance. First, when you were at the Frade house, did you happen to meet the son?"
"Yes, Sir."
"And?"
"We had a drink."
"That's all?"
"He told me he served in the American Corps of Marines. He was a pilot."
"Do you think he is a former officer? Or is he still serving?"
"I have no way of knowing, Your Excellency."
"His father is a very important man in Argentina." He met Peter's eyes for a moment, then continued. "I do not have all the details as yet about the son's actual business here. We may safely assume, however, that he is a serving officer and that he is not here on holiday. But his father may be of great use to us, pre-suming I can somehow convince the Abwehr and Sicherheitsdienst to do nothing foolish. Which brings us to the Abwehr and Sicherheitsdienst in the Embassy, where they are embodied in one man, Oberst Karl-Heinz Grner. You will explain to Grner- and you'll tell my first secretary, Herr Gradny-Sawz, the same- that while you encountered the Frade boy, there was nothing more than an exchange of brief courtesies. You will pretend to be greatly surprised if they inform you he is an American officer."
"Jawohl, Excellenz."
"My residence, my office, and my telephone lines are regularly inspected to detect listening devices. I am regularly assured there are none-by Oberst Grner. Consequently, I am very careful of what I say in my office, in my home, and on the telephone. Do you take my point, Herr Hauptmann?''
"Yes, Sir."
"After you are presented to me tomorrow by Grner, I will, as a courtesy to your father, whom I know socially, have you as a guest in my home. You will remain there until you have com-pleted your duties vis-a-vis Hauptmann Duarte and my staff can find you a suitable apartment. I regret that our relationship there-after will be formal and distant. This is doubly unfortunate, in-asmuch as Frau von Lutzenberger and your mother were close, and I myself hold your father in the highest regard," he met Peter's eyes again, "in these difficult times."
"I understand, Your Excellency."
"This conversation never took place."
"Yes, Sir."
"Watch your drinking and your mouth, von Wachtstein."
"Yes, Sir."
Ambassador von Lutzenberger nodded, turned, and walked out of the room.
[FOUR]
The Port of Buenos Aires
1200 14 December 1942
When Clete and Se¤ora Pellano left the taxi, the Buick was wait-ing for him, along with half a dozen customs officials. The Buick looked like hell, despite an obviously fresh, if none-too-skillful, wash job.
The paperwork was taken care of. All he had to do was sign an acknowledgment of receipt of the vehicle in an undamaged condition.
A customs officer-obviously the senior man, Clete decided, in deference to my father or Se¤or Mallin or both-walked to the car with him and watched somewhat nervously as Clete threw his and Se¤ora Pellano's bags on the backseat, then got behind the wheel.
The engine fired as soon as he stepped on the starter; and it quickly settled down to produce its entirely satisfying Buick Straight Eight exhaust rumble. The smoothness, so quickly, sur-prised Clete, and he looked at the water-temperature gauge. The engine was warm; it had obviously been running recently. He remembered now that the customs officer standing by the side of the car exhaled audibly in relief when the engine started. Having friends-or a parent-in high places is very nice.
"Excuse me, Se¤or," the customs officer said. "Be so kind. Inform me how you did that?"
"Did what?" Clete said, and then understood. "On this model the starter is mounted with the accelerator pedal. To start the engine, it is necessary only to press the accel-erator."
"Magn¡fico! We looked-I myself looked-for the starter but-ton, and could find none. It was necessary to call a mechanic to... how you say, jump-start?"
"Short the starter leads," Clete furnished.
"Precisely," the customs officer said. "A marvelous inven-tion!"
"Thank you, and thank you for your many courtesies."
"De nada," the customs officer said, offering his hand. After Clete shook his hand, he stepped back and saluted.
Clete put the Buick in gear and drove off, feeling fine, won-dering if the Virgin Princess would be as fascinated with the step-on-the-gas-pedal starting technology as the customs guy was.
If I am goddamn fool enough to actually call her up and ask her if she still wants to take the ride she asked for.
Jesus Christ, why does she have to be only nineteen goddamned years old? And an innocent, virginal nineteen-year-old at that? The good feeling about the Buick lasted until he reached the port gate and its guard shack. The heavy steel gate was open, and the guard on duty smilingly waved him through. Just outside the gate, there was a small, permanent watercourse, about six inches deep and perhaps a foot wide.
When he crossed it, there was an awful thump, as if the whole goddamned rear end were about to fall off.
He drove, very slowly, for a block or two, listening for the sounds of a fatal defect-the clutch tearing itself to pieces, for example-and then pulled into a side street, stopped, and got out.
He tried to slam the door. It wouldn't close. He tried it again, then took a closer look to see what the hell was wrong with it.
The door panel was falling off.
Jesus Christ! How did that happen?
He tried to push the little clips back in place with his thumb. That didn't work. They needed the jolt from a hammer. There was-at least the last time he looked-a tool kit in the trunk. He reached through the window and pulled the key from the ignition.
"There is trouble, Se¤or Clete?" Se¤ora Pellano asked.
"I don't think so. Just checking."
When he opened the trunk, the mysterious thump was ex-plained. The spare tire was not mounted where it should have been: flat on the trunk floor against the right fender well and held in place with a bolt passing through the floor plate. When he passed over the bump, the tire flew up and down.
How the hell did that come loose?
I'll be a sonofabitch; they searched the car. They took the spare out to see what I might have hidden in there, and they didn't know how to put it back the way they found it. That also explains the loose door panel.
He pressed hard on the sidewall of the spare. It had been de-flated, obviously to dismount it. And he found scratches on the paint of the wheel. And then they forgot to reinflate it-or else they didn't have time to do that.
He bolted the spare wheel in place, found the hammer, and tapped the door-panel clips on both doors back in place. They had managed to properly reinstall the rear seat panels, however, which fastened with screws.
He finally slipped behind the wheel and started the engine again.
"All fixed, Se¤ora Pellano," he said. "Among my many other accomplishments, I am a master mechanic."
"I am not surprised," she replied seriously.
Sorry, Princess. No ride in the Buick. If Internal Security is watching me this close, you don't want to be anywhere near me. What the hell was I thinking about?
[FIVE]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo
Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province
1715 14 December 1942
A dark-maroon Beechcraft stagger-wing and a Piper Cub were parked beside a wind sock about a thousand yards from the grove of trees surrounding the ranch house-the trees looked to Clete like several acres of long-established, at least a century old, hard-wood. He wondered if his father flew the Beechcraft, then decided that was unlikely. Since there was probably a pilot, that would probably complicate his laying his hands on the stagger-wing.
W E B Griffin - Honor 1 - Honor Bound Page 39