"No, Herr Oberst. Thank you very much," Peter said.
Grner stood up.
"I noticed in the Freie Presse three or four apartments for rent that might be suitable for you. When von Lutzenberger is through with you, I suggest we have my driver take us past all of them. We will then wind up at my quarters, where my wife has her camera prepared to take pictures, to send to Willi. She will even feed us lunch. And afterward, if any of the apartments has taken your fancy, we can have a closer look on our way back here."
"You're very kind, Herr Oberst."
"Nonsense. Your father would do no less for Willi. But now I suggest you go to the Ambassador's office so that you will be there when the second hand on his watch indicates that it's pre-cisely nine-forty."
"Thank you, Herr Oberst."
"Oh, one final thing."
"Yes, Herr Oberst?"
"When young Frade surfaces-Internal Security has him in the military hospital, but he should be out and about in several days- you should telephone to him and express your delight that he came through this terrible event unscathed."
"I don't think I understand, Herr Oberst."
"You know him socially. You are a German officer and a gentleman. This is a neutral country. It would be the correct thing to do. And when Oberstleutnant Martin gets the transcript of the telephone call, it will drive him mad trying to figure out the con-nection between you two."
"I'll call him, Herr Oberst."
Grner, now delighted with his idea, had an even better one.
"Better yet, invite Lieutenant Frade to lunch at the downtown officers' club. We'll stop in there during the apartment search and obtain a membership for you."
[THREE]
"You wished to see me, Mr. Ambassador?"
"Ah, yes, von Wachtstein," von Lutzenberger said. "I have a letter for you. There was a Condor flight this morning."
The Ambassador rose from his desk and walked to a wall safe concealed behind the official photograph of Adolf Hitler. He worked the combination, pulled the safe open, took an envelope from it, carefully closed it, and then spun the combination dial.
He handed Peter the envelope; it was sealed with green wax, in which was the impression of a signet ring. The letter was from his father. Peter recognized this, however, by the paper of the envelope and not the seal. A box of this stationery was kept in the library at Schloss Wachtstein; it was purchased in London by Peter's grandfather; and it was used up at the rate of one sheet and one envelope per year to announce births, deaths, marriages, and other significant family events to his grandfather's sister (and her descendants). She had married an Englishman and lived in Scotland.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Ambassador," Peter said.
"Read it here, von Wachtstein," the Ambassador ordered softly.
Peter looked at him in surprise.
"That came to me by hand," von Lutzenberger said. "Not in the pouch. I suspect it should not leave this room."
Peter broke the wax seal and opened the envelope.
Schloss Wachtstein
Pommern
Hansel-
I have just learned that you have reached Argentina safely, and thus it is time for this letter.
The most serious violation of the code of honor by which I, and you, and your brothers and so many of the von Wachtsteins before us have tried to live is of course regicide. I want you to know that before I concluded that honor itself demands that I contribute to such a course of action, I considered all of the ramifications, both spiritual and practi-cal; I am at peace with my decision.
A soldier's duty is first to his God, and then to his honor, and then to his country. The Allies in recent weeks have accused the German state of committing atrocities on such a scale as to defy description. I must tell you that information has come to me that has convinced me that the accusations are not only based on fact, but are actually worse than alleged.
The officer corps has failed its duty to Germany, not so much on the field of battle, but in pandering to the Austrian Corporal and his cohorts. In exchange for privilege and "honors" the officer corps, myself in-cluded, has closed its eyes to obscene violations of the Rules of Land Warfare, the Code of Honor, and indeed most of God's Ten Com-mandments. I accept my share of the responsi-bility for this shameful behavior.
We both know the war is lost. When it is fi-nally over, the Allies will demand a terrible retribution from Germany.
I see it as my duty as a soldier and a German to take whatever action is necessary to hasten the end of the war by the only means now available, eliminating the present head of the government. The soldiers who will die now, in battle, or in Russian prisoner of war camps, will be as much victims of the officer corps' failure to act as the people the Nazis are slaughtering in concentration camps.
I put it to you. Hansel, that your alle-giance should be no longer to the Luftwaffe, or the German State, but to Germany, and to the family, and to the people who have lived on our lands for so long.
In this connection, your first duty is to survive the war. Under no circumstances are you to return to Germany for any purpose un-til the war is over. If you are ordered to re-turn, find now some place where you can hide safely.
Your second duty is to transfer the family funds from Switzerland to Argentina as quickly as possible. You have by now made contact with our friend in Argentina, and he will probably be able to be of help. In any event, make sure the funds are in some safe place. It would be better if they could be wisely invested, but the primary concern is to keep them safe from the Sicherheitsdienst until the war is over.
In the chaos that will occur in Germany af-ter the war, the only hope our people will have, to keep them in their homes, indeed to keep them from starvation, and the only hope there will be for the future of the von Wachtstein family, and the estates, will be the money that I have placed in your care.
I hope, one day, to be able to go with you again to the village for a beer and a sau-sage. If that is not to be, I have confidence that God in his mercy will allow us to be all together again, your mother and your broth-ers, and you and I, in a better place.
I have taken great pride in you, Hansel.
Poppa
Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein turned away from the desk of the Ambassador of the German Reich to the Republic of Argentina and cleared his throat; and then, because it was necessary, he took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes and cheeks.
"Excuse me, Mr. Ambassador."
"May I see the letter, please?"
"It is a personal letter, Mr. Ambassador."
"You either trust me or you don't, Freiherr von Wachtstein."
Peter met his eyes for a moment, then handed the letter over. The Ambassador read it.
"Your father is eloquent, as well as a brave and honorable man, von Wachtstein," the Ambassador said, and then added, "Hold it over the wastebasket and burn it."
Peter met his eyes again.
"No, Sir," he said. "I don't wish to burn it."
"If Oberst Grner finds that letter..."
"He will not find it, Mr. Ambassador."
The Ambassador considered that for a moment, and nodded.
"As to the other matter," he said. "Transferring the funds here from Switzerland is a simple matter of sending a cable. Keeping their presence here unknown, and investing them wisely, is quite another problem."
"I understand."
"How much help do you think your friend Frade will be?" von Lutzenberger asked. "His uncle is General Manager of the Anglo-Argentine Bank."
"I don't think I follow you, Mr. Ambassador."
"You are beginning to frighten me, von Wachtstein, and to annoy me," von Lutzenberger said coldly. "Please don't waste my time by telling me you didn't warn Frade about Grner's idiotic plan to eliminate him. Frade owes you his life. My ques-tion is how helpful you think he will be. If that young Duarte fool hadn't gotten himself killed at Stalingrad, the Anglo-Argentine Bank would have be
en a helpful connection."
"I hadn't thought about..."
"Start thinking, von Wachtstein. Otherwise we'll both be dead."
[FOUR]
Room 305
Dr. Cosme Argerich Military Hospital
Calle Luis Maria Campos
Buenos Aires
0905 22 December 1942
Clete was lying on the bed, reading La Nation and sipping at a cup of coffee, when he heard the locked door being opened. En-rico, whom he thought was sound asleep, was instantly awake, with the Remington in his hands.
El Teniente Coronel Bernardo Martin stepped into the room, carrying a small suitcase. After a moment, Clete recognized it; it was his. Martin looked at Enrico and his ready shotgun with ap-proval.
"Buenos dias, Suboficial Mayor," Martin said dryly, then switched to English. "How are you this morning, Mr. Frade?"
"I'm fine, thank you. A little bored."
"Well, the doctors tell me that you can leave the hospital," Martin said.
What doctors? I haven't seen a doctor since the one who hacked away at me when I got here.
"So I have taken the liberty of bringing you some of your things from the Guest House."
He laid the suitcase on the bed.
"Thank you," Clete said. "You mean, I'm free to go?"
Martin ignored the question. "I hope that you will report to the man from your embassy that you have been well-treated here."
"What man from the embassy?"
"Your embassy seems extraordinarily concerned with your welfare," Martin said. "As soon as the story of your encounter with the burglars appeared in the Herald, they started making quite a nuisance of themselves, first at the Polic¡a Federal, and lately at the Foreign Ministry."
"Is that so?"
"There's a Consular Officer, a man named Spiers, waiting downstairs to see you now. He was told you're being given a final physical examination, which should be over about half past nine. Will that give you time for a shower and a shave? Or shall I have him told you'll be a little longer?"
"You didn't answer my question. Am I free to go?"
"Certainly, now that we are sure you are in the best of health, and the Polic¡a Federal have concluded their investigation of the unfortunate incident on Avenida Libertador." "Thank you."
"Thank you for your cooperation," Martin said. "You might be interested to know that the criminals have been identified. Both of them have long criminal records, including a history of armed robbery. The Polic¡a Federal will not miss them."
"Thank you again."
"May I make a suggestion?"
"Of course."
"Your Consular Officer might misinterpret Sergeant Major Rodriguez's shotgun. Would you feel comfortable if he put it away? I assure you that adequate protection for you is in place." Clete shrugged his shoulders.
"Here and at your home. The Polic¡a Federal are more than a little embarrassed that such a terrible incident could have hap-pened on Avenida Libertador at the home of one of our more prominent citizens. I feel sure that for the next month, at least, the area will be heavily patrolled."
"You think it will take that long for my father to arrange to have me expelled?"
"This is Argentina. Even under these circumstances, any ad-ministrative procedure takes a long time." Martin put out his hand.
"While I regret the circumstances, Mr. Frade, it has been a pleasure meeting you. Perhaps we will see one another again in the future."
Clete shook Martin's hand.
"Thank you," he said.
"Take care of yourself, Mr. Frade," Martin said. He smiled at Enrico, offered him his hand, and then left the room. This time there was no sound of a key being turned in the lock.
"Is it permitted to ask what that was all about?" Enrico asked.
"Put the shotgun away, Enrico," Clete said. "I'm about to be visited by an American diplomat, and it would frighten him. After that, we can leave."
Enrico nodded.
"Out of sight," he said. "Not away."
He moved his chair beside the bed, then slipped the shotgun under the sheet.
"I'm going to take a shower and a shave," Clete said. "If someone knocks, let him in."
[FIVE]
"Mr. Frade, I'm H. Ronald Spiers, Vice Consul of the United States here in Buenos Aires."
He was a slightly built, thickly spectacled, somewhat hunch-shouldered man in his late twenties. He was wearing a seersucker suit and carrying a stiff-brimmed straw hat and a briefcase. He gave Clete a calling card.
"How do you do?" Clete asked.
He saw a question in Enrico's eyes and nodded reassuringly at him.
"I'm really sorry it took so long for me to visit you," Spiers said. "Please believe me, we have been trying since the story appeared in the Herald."
"I appreciate your concern," Clete said.
"Frankly, you're sort of a special case," Spiers said.
"How's that?"
"Senator Brewer sent a cable asking us to keep an eye on you," Spiers said. "And to notify him immediately if you en-countered any problems down here."
After a moment Clete remembered Senator Brewer. He was the senior senator from the state of Louisiana. "He is a pompous windbag of incredible stupidity," Cletus Marcus Howell called him. "But he's surprisingly useful to me if I have the time to explain in excruciating detail what I want done."
Just like the Old Man, Clete thought, smiling, having a word with the Senator, telling him to make sure the embassy looks out for me down here.
And then another thought:
I don't think this Spiers guy has any idea what's really going on.
"Well, you can cable the Senator that I'm fine," Clete said. "They have given me the best of treatment, and I have been told that the investigation is over. The people who robbed the house have been identified as known criminals."
"I'm delighted to hear that," Spiers said. "And I'm sure the Ambassador will be."
"I was just about to leave, as a matter of fact."
"Could I drop you off?" Spiers asked. "I have a car and driver."
"I'd appreciate that," Clete said. "Are you sure it's no im-position?"
"Not at all. My pleasure."
Clete turned to Enrico.
"We're leaving," he said in Spanish. "What are you going do about the shotgun?"
"The shotgun?" Spiers asked, visibly surprised.
Shit, he speaks Spanish. I should have thought of that. Diplo-mats aren't very useful if they can't speak the language.
"Se¤or Rodriguez is my father's gamekeeper," Clete contin-ued in Spanish. "We were looking at a shotgun-we're going to my father's estancia this afternoon-and we sort of hid it when we heard you were coming."
"The bird shooting here is supposed to be magnificent," Spiers said. "I myself don't hunt, but I have friends who do."
"You don't hunt?"
"I just can't stand the thought of killing anything," Spiers said.
[SIX]
4730 Avenida Libertador
Buenos Aires
1105 22 December 1942
Two policemen were strolling down the sidewalk in front of the Guest House, and Clete saw a car that was almost certainly an unmarked police car parked farther down the street.
Clete thanked Spiers for the ride, and for his concern, then passed through the gate and up to the door.
A maid he didn't recognize, a middle-aged woman, opened the door and looked at him dubiously.
Se¤ora Pellano will never open the door to me again. Shit!
"This is Se¤or Frade," Enrico said behind him.
The woman stepped out of the way.
Now that he was here, Clete was sorry he had come.
"I don't think I want to stay here," he said to Enrico. "I think I'll put some clothes in a bag and check into a hotel."
"It is better that you stay here," Enrico said. "I can protect you better, and this is your home, mi Teniente."
"OK," Clete said, deciding he was being a litt
le overemotional.
"Mi Teniente, when do you plan to go to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo? I must see that we have petrol, the air in the tires..."
Christ, Se¤ora Pellano's funeral!
I have to go. If I don't, he won't go with me. And he has the right to be at his sister's funeral.
W E B Griffin - Honor 1 - Honor Bound Page 56