Blood and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  ‘‘In case you can’t make contact with him before I do, you mean?’’

  ‘‘I really don’t understand you at all, Frade,’’ Delojo said.

  ‘‘Stay behind a minute, will you, Tony?’’ Clete said, adding to Delojo, ‘‘I mean just a minute, Commander. You can wait for him.’’

  He went to the door and held it open for Delojo, then closed it after he had gone through.

  ‘‘What the hell was that all about?’’ Tony asked.

  ‘‘He would have liked to stand me at attention and order me to do what he thinks should be done, but he’s not sure he has the authority.’’

  ‘‘I picked up on the way he kept calling you ‘Major.’ ’’

  ‘‘Tony, I don’t trust Dave.’’

  ‘‘Excuse me?’’

  ‘‘To stay at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, I mean.’’

  ‘‘You want me to sit on him?’’

  ‘‘Can you get away from the Embassy?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. Delojo has apparently had a little talk with the Military Attaché. Now he disappears when he sees me, instead of handing me shitty little details.’’

  ‘‘Go to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and sit on Dave until I get back,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘Right,’’ Tony said. ‘‘Unless you want me to go with you and get the airplane?’’

  ‘‘I thought about that. But you’re on a diplomatic passport. . . .’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ Tony said, then put out his hand. ‘‘Good luck, Clete. Don’t do anything foolish.’’

  [THREE] The Embassy of the German Reich Avenida Córdoba Buenos Aires, Argentina 1025 14 April 1943

  Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein had been in his small, high-ceilinged office—it was taller than it was wide, he once decided—no more than thirty seconds, just long enough to take off his jacket and start to put it on a hanger, when Günther Loche came in.

  ‘‘Good morning, Herr Major Freiherr,’’ Günther said cheerfully, placing a stack of newspapers and several magazines on Peter’s somewhat battered desk. ‘‘Did the Major Freiherr have a pleasant flight from Montevideo this morning? ’’

  Very nice, thank you for asking. Herr Standartenführer Goltz had his balls in an uproar about flying back here in a hurry, so we flew over the water. I managed to make the engine backfire and splutter three times when we were out of sight of land, and if the Herr Standartenführer didn’t actually piss his pants, to look at the expression on his face, he came close.

  ‘‘Very nice, thank you,’’ Peter replied. ‘‘And you, Günther, are disgustingly cheerful this morning. Been pulling wings off flies again, have you?’’

  ‘‘Excuse me, Herr Major?’’ Günther asked, confusion all over his handsome, if somewhat vacant, face.

  Peter took pity on him.

  ‘‘I said you seem very cheerful,’’ Peter said. ‘‘Some good news?’’

  ‘‘Oberst Grüner told me he is looking into a scholarship for me, Herr Major Freiherr,’’ Günther said.

  ‘‘Is that so? What kind of a scholarship?’’

  ‘‘Diesel-engine technology, Herr Freiherr Major. In the Fatherland. The Herr Oberst says that diesel engines are the wave of the future.’’

  ‘‘In the Fatherland’’?

  ‘‘And when did you have this discussion with the Herr Oberst, Günther?’’

  ‘‘This morning. He told me that Standartenführer Goltz talked to him about it.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’

  What the hell is this all about?

  ‘‘Over the weekend, I was driving the Herr Standartenf ührer and First Secretary Gradny-Sawz, Herr Major Freiherr. The Herr Standartenführer was kind enough to report to the Herr Oberst that he was favorably impressed with my performance of duty, and that I was worthy of being trained to accept greater responsibilities.’’

  ‘‘Fascinating,’’ Peter said.

  ‘‘For a very important man, Herr Freiherr Major, the Herr Standartenführer is very friendly.’’

  What is that sonofabitch Goltz up to? Is he a faggot? God knows there’s enough of them in the SS, including his good friend Werner von Tresmarck in Montevideo.

  ‘‘Yes, I have noticed,’’ Peter said.

  ‘‘Oberst Grüner said Ambassador Graf von Lutzenberger will have to give his approval, Herr Freiherr, but he sees no problem in arranging for a scholarship. The Herr Oberst told me he will tell the Herr Ambassador that I am a reliable, hardworking employee, with promotion potential.’’

  ‘‘And you would go to Germany on this scholarship?’’

  ‘‘Yes, Herr Major Freiherr. For six months or so. To the Daimler-Benz Technical Institute in Stuttgart.’’

  ‘‘Stuttgart, eh?’’

  ‘‘And the Standartenführer 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 Günther to Germany? Why?

  ‘‘Well, good luck, Günther.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Herr Major Freiherr!’’ Günther 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 Nación, La Prensa, the Buenos Aires Herald, and several of the magazines. He opened one of the latter, La Vida!, a weekly magazine devoted mainly to rotogravure photographs of younger members of Buenos Aires’s upper 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 unexpectedly 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 970012

  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 ‘‘correspondent relationship’’—whatever the hell that meant—with the Handelsbank. 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 ‘‘administrative 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, another 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 ‘‘correspondent relationship’’ with both the Bank of Switzerland and Argentina and the Anglo-Swiss Bank of Commerce, as did the Handelsbank. ‘‘Less due caution,’’ he said, ‘‘is exercised between banks which have correspondent relationships, Peter, as you can well understand, than with ban
ks, 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 Handelsbank to move the funds to either the Anglo-Swiss Bank, where he—Humberto— 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-Argentine Bank in Buenos Aires.

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

  Ordinarily, when Dieter flew a Condor into Buenos Aires, they got together—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 absolutely 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 Standartenführer 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 Standartenführer?’’ Peter asked, getting to his feet anyway.

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

  ‘‘Nothing specific, Herr Standartenführer, 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 Standartenführer, and La Nación and La Prensa and . . .’’ He pointed to the newspapers and magazines Günther had laid on his desk. ‘‘I go through them to find information of interest to Oberst Grüner. ’’

  ‘‘Of course, I should have thought of that. What have the English to say today?’’

  ‘‘That they have achieved glorious victories on all fronts, Herr Standartenführer.’’

  ‘‘Oh, really?’’

  ‘‘The war will be over sometime next month, Herr Standartenf ührer, 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 Standartenführer, there is something. Most often in the personals, oddly enough. The assignment of Anglo-Argentines to various British units, for example, which often furnishes the location of the unit. I believe Oberst Grüner 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 Standartenführer—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 Standartenführer. 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 using Catalinas, American Navy aircraft— but under the right circumstances—’’

  ‘‘The ‘right’ circumstances, or the ‘wrong’ ones?’’

  ‘‘I suppose, Herr Standartenführer, 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 Standartenführer.’’

  ‘‘. . . and relay his paternal disapproval.’’

  "Paternal disapproval duly noted, Herr Standartenführer."

  ‘‘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 Standartenführer, 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 Standartenführer.’’

  ‘‘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 ührer, 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 Bartolomé 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 Señor 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 ñor 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 figured 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 business interests were even more extensive than he had suspected, and more complic
ated. 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 forget, 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 hours’ 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 Argentines.

  ‘‘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 conference, 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 Bartolomé 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 carrying 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. Embassy had its offices. He saw buildings housing the National City Bank of New York; La Banco de Galacia; and the Dresdener Bank.