Blood and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  ‘‘You’re very kind, mi General.’’

  ‘‘Not at all. Your father was a lifelong friend, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am, how ashamed, that this terrible thing happened to him.’’

  The small room gradually filled with the officers who had been following them around since Clete had gotten off the plane. When Capitán Lauffer had provided each of them a brandy snifter, Ramírez raised his own glass high.

  ‘‘Gentlemen, I give you our late comrade-in-arms, friend, and distinguished Argentinian, el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade.’’

  They all raised their glasses and drained them—surprising Clete, who thought they would take a small ceremonial sip. Then, apparently in order of rank, with Ramírez doing so first, they each shook Clete’s hand, expressed their condolences a final time, and left the room.

  ‘‘Capitán, what did you do wrong?’’ Clete asked Lauffer. ‘‘You seem to be stuck with me.’’

  ‘‘It is my privilege, Señor. I served under your father.’’

  ‘‘Well, I think you can go home after you take me back to the house. All I’m going to do, frankly, is have another stiff drink and go to bed.’’

  Capitán Lauffer looked uncomfortable.

  ‘‘I don’t think that’s what you had in mind, is it?’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘I thought perhaps you might wish to call on your aunt and uncle, Señor.’’

  Christ, I forgot all about them!

  ‘‘La Señora de Duarte left here only minutes before you arrived,’’ Lauffer said. ‘‘She asked me to tell you that she waited as long as she could, but she had an appointment with Monsignor Kelly, some final points about the mass and interment tomorrow.’’

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ Clete said. ‘‘The embarrassing truth is I completely forgot about my aunt and uncle.’’

  ‘‘Under the circumstances . . .’’ Lauffer said.

  ‘‘And so, if you would be so kind, I would appreciate a ride over to the Avenue Alvear.’’

  ‘‘My car is out in back,’’ Lauffer said. ‘‘It will save you passing through the crowd in front.’’

  I also forget Dorotéa. Jesus Christ! And Tony and Dave Ettinger. And Peter. I really want to see him. And with Capitán Lauffer hanging around, how am I going to be able to?

  And—Jesus H. Christ!—Claudia! She wasn’t married to him, but if anybody feels worse about my father than I do, it’s Claudia, and I didn’t even think of her until just now.

  [THREE] Alvear Palace Hotel Avenida Alvear Buenos Aires 1930 9 April 1943

  Anton von Gradny-Sawz, First Secretary of the Embassy of the German Reich to the Republic of Argentina, was wearing his heavily gold-encrusted diplomatic uniform when the top-hatted doorman pulled open the door of the Embassy’s Mercedes sedan in the arcade of the hotel.

  Gradny-Sawz was more than a little annoyed that he had learned only an hour before that the ‘‘distinguished personage ’’ who had arrived on the Lufthansa Condor was Standartenf ührer Josef Goltz. It was another instance of Ambassador von Lutzenberger not electing to tell him information he believed he was entitled to know. In this instance, it was particularly galling because he and Josef Goltz were not only old friends but had worked together in the uniting of Germanic Austria with the Reich.

  He could only hope that his old friend would believe him when he said he would have been at the airport to greet him when he arrived, and to take him into his home, if only he had known he was coming.

  Early on, when he was a relatively junior officer in the Foreign Ministry of the Austrian Republic, Gradny-Sawz decided that Adolf Hitler and his National Socialists were the one hope of the Deutsche Volk, and that Austria should ‘‘return’’ to the German fatherland.

  After he had made this judgment, a visiting German of ficer, a Sturmbannführer (SS Major) by the name of Josef Goltz, somewhat delicately brought up the subject of Austria becoming part of the Reich, and of the way this might be accomplished. Gradny-Sawz understood that this was that opportunity which comes but once in one’s lifetime, and took the chance. He assured Goltz that he was in complete agreement with Adolf Hitler’s plans for the German people and would do whatever he could to bring Austria into the Thousand Year Reich as soon as possible.

  He had bet on the right horse, he liked to somewhat smugly think. In 1938, with not a little assistance from Anton Gradny-Sawz, the Austrian Republic fell in an almost bloodless coup d’état, the Wehrmacht marched on Vienna, and Austria became Ostmark.

  Grateful for his services, the German Foreign Ministry ‘‘absorbed’’ Gradny-Sawz—with a promotion and decoration ‘‘for services rendered.’’ In January 1940, he was assigned to the Embassy in Rome as Third Secretary for Commercial Affairs. In 1941, he was assigned to Buenos Aires as First Secretary.

  In Buenos Aires, he saw it as his mission to do whatever he could to see that Argentina declared war on the Allies, and if that proved impossible, that Argentine neutrality be tilted as much as possible to the advantage of Germany.

  ‘‘Wait here,’’ he ordered his driver. ‘‘I will be back directly. ’’

  The doorman was displeased. There was room for only three or four cars under the hotel arcade. Because Gradny-Sawz ’s Mercedes blocked one of the spaces, the traffic flow would be impeded. But there was nothing he could do. The Mercedes carried the CD insignia and Corps Diplomatique license plates. Diplomatic status gave one the privilege of parking wherever one elected to park.

  Gradny-Sawz marched into the lobby and stopped by the desk to inquire as to Standartenführer Goltz’s room number. When he had it, he ordered, in not very good Spanish, ‘‘Be so good as to inform the Standartenführer that I am on my way up. I am First Secretary Gradny-Sawz of the German Embassy.’’

  ‘‘I know who you are, Señor Gradny-Sawz,’’ the desk clerk said in a tone that bordered on the insulting.

  Gradny-Sawz climbed the second flight of stairs and entered the elevator.

  When Gradny-Sawz knocked, Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein opened the door to Goltz’s suite.

  Gradny-Sawz was relieved to see that von Wachtstein was in full dress uniform, complete to the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross hanging around his neck. He was sometimes negligent about this. Gradny-Sawz was willing to grant him the benefit of every doubt—he was, after all, a fellow nobleman—but sometimes he seemed unable to grasp that he was now assigned to diplomatic duties, with concomitant responsibilities vis-à-vis dress and other matters of protocol.

  ‘‘I hope you have been taking very good care of Standartenf ührer Goltz, Hans-Peter,’’ Gradny-Sawz said.

  ‘‘I have been doing my best,’’ Peter said. ‘‘I thought we would see you at the Residence.’’

  Goltz came out of the sitting room, curious to see who was at the door. Anton Gradny-Sawz raised his right arm in the Nazi salute.

  ‘‘Heil Hitler!’’ Gradny-Sawz barked.

  ‘‘Anton, my old friend!’’ Standartenführer Goltz cried happily, went to him, and embraced him. ‘‘You’re just in time. Major von Wachtstein and I just opened a bottle.’’

  ‘‘Josef,’’ Gradny-Sawz said, taking Goltz’s arm as they walked into the sitting room, ‘‘if you had not become so important, the Ambassador would have told me it was you arriving, and I would have been at the airport with a bottle of champagne, to take you to my house.’’

  ‘‘I know you would have,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘But security . . .’’

  ‘‘Well, at least we’ll move you out of here tonight,’’ Gradny-Sawz said. ‘‘I’ll have von Wachtstein take care of it.’’

  ‘‘Will it wait until tomorrow? I’m just a little worn out.’’

  ‘‘Moving may wait, but what we might find when we get there tonight, Josef, might not be there tomorrow.’’

  Goltz took his meaning.

  ‘‘I thought you might be getting too old for that sort of thing, Anton.’’

  ‘‘God, I hope not!’’

  ‘‘In that
case, I think I just may have to impose on the already abused Freiherr von Wachtstein.’’

  ‘‘Sir?’’ Peter asked, coming into the room and hearing his name.

  ‘‘Hans-Peter,’’ Gradny-Sawz ordered, ‘‘would you see that the Standartenführer’s luggage is packed and moved to my home?’’

  ‘‘Yes. Sir.’’

  ‘‘The Standartenführer and I are old and dear friends,’’ Gradny-Sawz said. ‘‘We can’t have him staying in a hotel. ’’

  ‘‘Yes, Sir.’’

  ‘‘And be so good as to call my houseman and tell him we’ll be there directly after paying our respects at the Edi ficio Libertador, and to make sure everything is in order when we arrive.’’

  ‘‘Yes, Sir,’’ Peter said. ‘‘I was just about to introduce the Standartenführer to the very fine native champagne.’’

  ‘‘Well, by all means, continue,’’ Gradny-Sawz said. ‘‘It’s quite good. It’s not a good German Sekt, of course, but every bit as good as any French I’ve ever had.’’

  Peter poured the champagne.

  ‘‘Welcome to Argentina, Josef!’’ Gradny-Sawz said, touching his glass to Goltz’s, and then, after a moment, to von Wachtstein’s.

  ‘‘Hear, hear,’’ von Wachtstein said.

  ‘‘Nice,’’ Goltz said, tasting the champagne.

  ‘‘Their wine is nice, and so is their beer,’’ von Wachtstein said. ‘‘And their beef! Magnificent!’’

  ‘‘And so, according to Oberst Perón, are the women?’’ Goltz said. ‘‘Or were you just being diplomatic, von Wachtstein?’’

  ‘‘No, Herr Standartenführer, I was not being diplomatic. Their women are magnificent.’’

  ‘‘Aryan?’’

  ‘‘I never thought about that before,’’ von Wachtstein said. ‘‘I’m not sure where the Spaniards and the Italians fit in as Aryans. The majority here are Spanish or Italian. Some Germans, some English, even some Slavs. Poles, for example.’’

  ‘‘If I were you, von Wachtstein, I don’t think that I would take some Spanish or Italian beauty home to Poppa in Pomerania.’’

  Von Wachtstein laughed.

  ‘‘I’m not ready, Herr Standartenführer, to take some Berlin blonde of impeccable Aryan background home to my father.’’

  ‘‘Nor would I if I were in your shoes. Enjoy life while you can. Before you know it, you’ll be as old as Anton here.’’

  Anton Gradny-Sawz’s smile was strained.

  ‘‘I think we had better leave,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s time.’’

  ‘‘I’ll see that the Standartenführer’s things are packed, and take them to your residence, and then come to the Residence. ’’

  ‘‘You’re a good man, von Wachtstein,’’ Goltz said, smiling at von Wachtstein and touching his arm.

  He went to the mirror by the door, put on his black brimmed cap with the death’s-head insignia, and adjusted it twice before he was satisfied.

  Peter closed the suite door after them, helped himself to another glass of champagne, and waited for the maid’s knock. When she arrived, he showed her what he wanted done. He then told her he had business in the lobby and would wait for the luggage in the lobby bar, and left the room.

  When he got on the elevator he told the operator to take him to the roof garden. Once there, he stood in the line waiting before the maître d’hôtel’s table. And when he reached the head of the line, he replied to the maître d’s surprised look at seeing him both in uniform and alone by announcing he had to make a quick telephone call.

  The maître d’ picked up the telephone. Peter gave him a number, which the maître d’ repeated, then handed the receiver to Peter.

  ‘‘This is the Duarte residence,’’ a male voice announced.

  ‘‘Señorita Alicia, please,’’ he said. ‘‘Señor Cóndor is calling.’’

  ‘‘I will see if the lady is at home, Señor,’’ the butler said.

  He didn’t know if there were listening devices on the Duarte line; there might be. There were almost certainly listening devices on the line in Goltz’s hotel room. But even if someone was listening to the Duarte line, no suspicions would be aroused, unless Alicia, in her naïveté, said something she should not. He had arrived in Buenos Aires speaking fluent Spanish. Since then he had worked very hard to acquire the Porteño (Buenos Aires Native) accent and idiom. Cóndor—which they had chosen as a nom d’amour from the Argentine national bird, and because he was a pilot—was a fairly common name. It was unlikely that any telephone monitor would find one more call from a young man to Señorita Alicia Carzino-Cormano suspicious, or that Señor Cóndor was a German officer.

  ‘‘Hola?’’

  Every time he heard her soft, somehow hesitant voice, his heart jumped.

  ‘‘How are you?’’

  ‘‘How do you think I am? Where are you?’’

  ‘‘In the roof garden of the Alvear.’’

  ‘‘I mean, really?’’

  ‘‘I mean, really.’’

  ‘‘I thought you said you had to go to work.’’

  ‘‘I am working. I am carrying the luggage of a distinguished personage. Later, I’m part of the official party which will go to the Edificio Libertador to pay our respects to el Coronel Frade. . . .’’

  ‘‘Oh, Peter!’’

  ‘‘I should be free after that. About ten, I think.’’

  ‘‘Well, I can’t leave here, obviously, and you can’t come here.’’

  ‘‘The Duartes have told me I am always welcome,’’ he teased.

  ‘‘Cletus is here,’’ Alicia said.

  ‘‘Cletus is there?’’

  I’ve got to see him. How the hell am I going to arrange that?

  That was the last thing in the world he expected to hear.

  ‘‘Not here. Right now, no one seems to know where he is. But he’s in Buenos Aires. He’ll probably, certainly, come here sooner or later. In addition to everything else, Mother is frantic.’’

  ‘‘How do you know he’s in Buenos Aires?’’

  ‘‘Someone called Beatrice Duarte and said that she saw him at the casket . . . at Edificio Libertador. He was with General Ramírez.’’

  Well, if he’s with Ramírez, everybody in Buenos Aires will know he’s back.

  ‘‘If you see him before I do, would you tell him to get in touch with me, please?’’

  ‘‘Of course,’’ Alicia said, then: ‘‘Cariño,11he’s not in danger, is he?’’

  ‘‘I don’t think so.’’

  Not as long as he’s with Ramírez, anyway. And maybe not for a day or two, until Grüner has time to set up another assassination.

  ‘‘Peter, I’m worried for him.’’

  You and me both, Schatzie.12

  ‘‘He’ll be all right,’’ von Wachtstein said.

  ‘‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’’ she said.

  ‘‘I love you.’’

  ‘‘Yes, of course, I feel the same way.’’

  ‘‘Somebody’s there?’’

  ‘‘Yes, certainly.’’

  ‘‘Isabela?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  Isabela was the elder of the two daughters of Señora Claudia Carzino-Cormano. Clete referred to her as ‘‘El Bit-cho, ’’ Peter remembered with a smile. The feeling was mutual. Isabela loathed Clete, and she was not very fond of Peter either, which he suspected was because he had shown no interest in her from the moment he had laid eyes on Alicia.

  ‘‘Stick your finger in her eye,’’ Peter said.

  ‘‘That’s a very good idea, if somewhat impractical. Thank you for calling. Goodbye.’’

  He hung up and looked up and saw the maître d’ examining his extended index finger. Then he mimed sticking it in his eye.

  ‘‘Mother or sister?’’ the maître d’ inquired.

  ‘‘The sister.’’

  ‘‘I will pray for you. Sisters are more dangerous than mothers.’’

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ Peter
said. He slipped the maître d’hôtel a bill and got back on the elevator. He rode to the main floor, took a seat in the lobby bar, ordered a beer, and waited for either the maid or a bellman to bring him Standartenf ührer Goltz’s luggage.

  [FOUR] 1420 Avenida Alvear Buenos Aires, Argentina 2105 9 April 1943

  The Mercedes pulled up to the heavy gate in the twelve-foot -tall wrought-iron fence. As it did so, a police sergeant, one of three policemen standing on the sidewalk before the mansion, put out his hand and ordered it to stop.

  An officer in the uniform of the Húsares de Pueyrredón was not an ordinary citizen, but the sergeant’s orders had been explicit. He was to ensure that no one intruded on the privacy of the mourning Duarte family.

  ‘‘Are you expected, mi Capitán?’’ he asked politely when Lauffer rolled down the window.

  ‘‘We are expected,’’ Lauffer replied, and added: ‘‘This is Señor Frade.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Sir,’’ the sergeant said, saluted, and signaled for one of his men to open the gate.

  The door to the mansion was opened by a maid; but a butler, a black mourning band on his arm, appeared the next moment.

  ‘‘Señor Frade,’’ Lauffer announced. ‘‘To see Señor Duarte.’’

  ‘‘I will announce you,’’ the butler said. ‘‘May I show you into the reception13?’’ He met Clete’s eyes. ‘‘You have my most sincere condolences on the loss of your father, Señor Frade.’’

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ Clete said.

  Clete and Lauffer followed the butler across the foyer to a double door. He opened the door and bowed them through it, then closed the door after them and began to climb the stairs to the second floor.

  ‘‘Cletus!’’ a svelte woman in her fifties cried, rising out of one of the armchairs and walking quickly to him. She was dressed in a black dress with a rope of pearls its only ornamentation. Her luxuriant black, gray-flecked hair was parted in the middle and done up in a bun at the neck.

  Señora Claudia de Carzino-Cormano kissed Clete on the cheek.