Honor Bound

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I brought Karl’s car out here,” Peter said, changing the subject. “I didn’t know what to do with it. I thought perhaps you might want to use it.”

  The Graf picked up the bottle of cognac and found a glass.

  “Now that I think about it,” Generalmajor von Wachtstein said, “one of these might be in order.” He raised the glass. “To your new assignment.”

  “Thank you. Did you hear what I said about the Horche?”

  “I might as well use it, I suppose,” the Graf said. “Otherwise it will be taken for the greater good of the German Reich. Ferrying some Nazi peasant’s mistress to the opera, for example.”

  Peter grunted. “You must have had a bad week.”

  “The Luftwaffe has not been able to—will not be able to—provide von Paulus’s troops at Stalingrad with a tenth of the supplies he needs. But when this is brought to the attention of the Austrian Corporal, he replies, in effect, ‘Nonsense, Goering has given me his word, the supplies will be delivered.’”

  “And you were the bearer of those bad tidings?”

  “No. Fortunately not. Unser Führer is made uncomfortable by people like me. I have been reliably informed that he has said that the Prussian officer class are defeatists to the last aristocrat.”

  Peter laughed. “Aren’t you? Aren’t we? There’s no way we can win this war, Poppa.”

  “I really hope you are careful to whom you make such observations.”

  “I’m talking to you, Poppa. The war was lost when we were unable to invade England,” Peter said. “Perhaps before that, when we were unable to destroy the Royal Air Force.”

  “I think we should change the subject,” Graf von Wachtstein said. “Have they told you when you’re going?”

  “They are having trouble with the corpse,” Peter said. “Or the casket for the corpse. They have to line it with lead, which apparently comes in sheets. But the Foreign Ministry can’t seem to find any lead in sheets. They are working on the problem; I have been told to hold myself in readiness.”

  “And are you ready?”

  “There is of course a rather detailed list of the uniforms a military attaché is required to have. I have been given the necessary priorities for such uniforms. Unfortunately, priority or no priority, there does not seem to be the material available in Berlin. The Foreign Ministry is working on the problem.”

  “Perhaps you could have them made in Buenos Aires. It is a major city; there are military tailors, I’m sure. And God knows, they have woolen material. We buy it from them by the shipload. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone were making woolens dyed to Luftwaffe specifications there.”

  “Dress-uniform specifications?” Peter asked. It struck him as unlikely.

  “If I were a Luftwaffe procurement officer,” Generalmajor von Wachtstein said, “I think I would make sure that when unser grosse Hermann wanted yet another dress uniform, the material would be available.” Unser grosse Hermann—Our Big Hermann—was Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering, Commander of the Luftwaffe, and a man who was more than generously large.

  Peter chuckled.

  “Buttons and insignia might be a problem,” Generalmajor von Wachtstein went on, in his usual thorough manner. “Make sure you take that sort of thing with you. Including major’s insignia.”

  “Jawohl, Poppa.”

  “Don’t mock me, Peter, please. These details are important. The last thing we want is to have you sent back here because the military attaché decides you are unsuitable for the assignment.”

  “Sorry,” Peter said, genuinely contrite. “I’m sure there will be tailors. Oberst Perón painted a fascinating picture of Buenos Aires for me.”

  “Who?”

  “Argentine Oberst Juan Domingo Perón. He’s attached to their embassy over here studying our welfare programs. He’s a friend of the family of the Duarte fellow. I met him at the Foreign Ministry, and I’ve had dinner with him. He called me up.”

  Generalmajor von Wachtstein nodded, then dismissed the Argentine officer as unimportant.

  “Peter, we have to talk about money,” he said.

  “A delicate subject, Poppa. One the son is glad the father brought up first. From what I’m told, Buenos Aires is a very expensive place to live. It was put to me that I would have difficulty making ends meet, and that it was hoped I could somehow augment my pay.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” his father said. “But tell me about it. Would that be permitted?”

  “I think encouraged,” Peter said.

  “Did you have the feeling there would be a limit on how much money you could take to Argentina?”

  “I had the feeling that the more you’d be willing to give me, the better they would like it.”

  “Pay attention to me,” the Graf said sharply.

  “Sir?” Peter responded, surprised at his father’s tone, and baffled by his question.

  “There is money, Peter. A substantial amount here, most of it in English pounds and Swiss francs, and an even more substantial amount in Switzerland, in a bank. Actually, in two banks.”

  Peter was now genuinely surprised. Simple possession of currency of the Allied powers or neutral countries was a serious offense. Maintaining bank accounts out of Germany was even more stringently forbidden.

  “This war will pass,” the Graf said, now sure that he had his son’s attention. “This government will pass. We, you and I, will pass. What is important is that the family must not die, or that we, the family, don’t lose our lands. We have been on these lands for more than five hundred years. My duty—our duty—is to see that we do not lose them. If we lose the war, and I agree we cannot win it, we will lose our lands…unless there is money. Not German money, which will be devalued and useless, but the currency of the victors, or a neutral power. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “First, the money in Switzerland. The accounts there are numbered. I am going to give you the numbers. You must memorize the numbers. When you are settled in Argentina, I want you to have the money transferred there from Switzerland, secretly, and put somewhere safe, where we will have access to it after the war.”

  “How will I do that?”

  “Von Lutzenberger will probably be able to help, but we can’t bank on that.”

  “Ambassador von Lutzenberger?” Peter asked. Someone had given him the name of the German Ambassador to Argentina during the last couple of days, but he hadn’t expected to hear it from his father.

  “He’s a friend,” his father said. “But you would do well to consider him your last reserve, Peter, not to be used until you are sure you can’t deal with a situation by yourself, without help.”

  “But he knows about your money?”

  His father nodded, then corrected him. “Not my money, Peter. Von Wachtstein money. Money that has come down to us from our family, with the expectation that it will be used wisely and for the family.”

  Peter nodded, accepting the correction.

  “A good man. We were at Marburg together. And he has as much to risk as we do. But keep in mind, Peter, that a situation may come where he will have to make a sacrifice for the common good, and you might be that sacrifice.”

  “How is it you never told me about any of this?”

  “Because your possession of the knowledge would place you in jeopardy. If they found out you .knew about it, you would be as culpable as I am. Your Knight’s Cross notwithstanding, you would wind up in a concentration camp.”

  Peter blurted what came into his mind: “But what if you had died? What would have happened to the money then?”

  “Dieter von Haas and I have an arrangement. If anything happened to me, he would have told you. If anything happens to him, I will inform Frau von Haas of the similar arrangements he has made.”

  Peter looked at his father for a long moment.

  “I’m not good at memorizing numbers,” he said. “I never have been.”

  “Then write
the numbers down, make them look like telephone numbers or something. And then, to be sure, construct a simple code,” the Graf von Wachtstein said, a touch of impatience in his voice. “One or two digits up from the actual numbers. Something like that.”

  “Yes,” Peter said simply.

  “About the cash here,” the Graf went on. “Do you think you will be searched when you leave the country?”

  Peter thought about that for a moment.

  “No,” he said. “The body will be accompanied by an honor guard as far as the Spanish border. I don’t think anyone will search me. And the moment I cross the border, I will have diplomatic status.”

  He looked at his father.

  When I leave here, he thought with a sudden chilled certainty, I will never see him again.

  “I think it would be best if you took the money with you when you return to Berlin tomorrow. They may solve the problem of sheet lead for the casket, and you might not be able to come back here. And I wouldn’t want to be seen passing anything to you at the train station. Do you have someplace safe to keep it? Where are you staying in Berlin?”

  “With a friend, in Zehlendorf.”

  “Better than a hotel,” the Graf said. “Well, I’ll write the numbers down for you, and while you’re copying them into a code, I’ll get the money. And then we’ll see about finding something to eat.”

  “You know what I would like for supper, Poppa?” Peter said. “I’d like to go into the gasthaus in the village and have sausage and potatoes and beer.”

  Generalmajor Graf Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein looked at his son. His left eyebrow rose.

  “Yes, Peter, I think I would too,” he said after a moment.

  V

  [ONE]

  The Vieux Carré

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  1955 1 November 1942

  It was still raining when the 1938 Durham-bodied Cadillac pulled to the curb across the street from the Monteleone Hotel in the Vieux Carré. Clete wiped his hand on the window to clear the condensation.

  “There he is. He even looks like the picture Graham showed me,” Clete said.

  He started to open the door. His grandfather stopped him. He had a microphone in his hand.

  “Samuel, the gentleman we are meeting is standing to the left of the…”

  Clete took the microphone from him.

  “Samuel, pull up in front of the hotel. Don’t get out of the car. I’ll call to him.”

  “Have it your way,” the old man said, then leaned across Clete to look out the window he had cleared. “He doesn’t look like a Jew.”

  “What does a Jew look like?”

  “Not like that,” the old man said.

  Samuel found a place in the flow of traffic and drove the thirty yards to the marquee of the Monteleone. Clete opened the door and called to Ettinger. Ettinger was visibly surprised to see the car, but after a moment came quickly across the sidewalk.

  “We’re only going around the corner, but why get wet?” Clete said, offering his hand. “David, I’m glad to meet you.” Then he turned to the old man. “Grandfather, may I present Mr. David Ettinger? David, this is my grandfather, Mr. Cletus Marcus Howell.”

  “How do you do?” the old man said.

  “How do you do?” Ettinger said, offering his hand.

  With a just-perceptible hesitation, the old man took it. Briefly. Then he picked up the microphone again. “Arnaud’s, Samuel,” he ordered. “After you have found a place to park the car, go into the kitchen and tell them I would be obliged if they gave you something to eat.”

  Clete saw Ettinger’s eyebrow rise, and smiled at him.

  A waiter greeted them at the door to Arnaud’s and led them through the crowded main dining area to a small private dining room. The waiter pulled aside the curtain on the doorway and bowed them in.

  The table had been set. There was an impressive array of crystal, silver, and starched napkins. A menu was at each place.

  “I took the liberty, Mr. Howell,” the waiter said, removing the cover from a plate in the center of the table, “to have a few hors d’oeuvres prepared for you, while you decide.”

  “The last time you did that,” the old man said, “the remoulade sauce was disgraceful.”

  “Indeed it was. The saucier was shot at dawn the next morning. We showed him no mercy, although he pleaded he was the sole support of his old mother. Can I bring you something from the bar?”

  Clete saw Ettinger smiling; the smile vanished when Ettinger noticed the old man turning toward him.

  “Mr. Ettinger?” the old man asked.

  “Not for me, thank you, Sir. I wouldn’t want to anesthetize my tongue before eating in a place like this.”

  The old man flashed Clete a triumphant smile.

  “Then may I suggest we have a quick look at the menu to see whether fish, fowl, or good red meat?”

  “May I ask that you order for me?” Ettinger said.

  “I would be happy to translate the menu for you,” the old man said. “They do it in French only to humiliate their patrons.”

  “I speak French, if your ordering for me would be an imposition,” Ettinger said.

  “No imposition at all,” the old man said. “What would you recommend tonight, Harold?”

  “I hesitate to recommend anything. You have been coming in here for thirty years, and I have yet to bring you anything that met your approval.”

  “In that case, we will try to wash these hors d’oeuvres down with a bottle of Moët, the ’39, if there’s any left. And you will then go to the kitchen and tell the chef that we are hungry enough to eat anything that hasn’t fallen on the floor.”

  “There was some shrimp-and-oyster bisque a while back that didn’t smell too badly.”

  “We place ourselves in your somewhat less than knowledgeable hands,” the old man said.

  “I am overwhelmed,” the waiter said. “It is, in any case, good to see you, Mr. Frade. Didn’t I hear you were in the Marines?”

  “It’s good to see you too. I was in the Marines. I was just discharged.”

  “Then welcome home.”

  “Thank you.”

  The waiter left.

  The old man turned to Ettinger. “For reasons I can’t imagine, that man fancies himself the best waiter here; and by inference, the best in New Orleans.”

  “It’s probably his table-side manner,” Ettinger said.

  The old man actually chuckled.

  “The problem with Argentina, Mr. Ettinger,” Cletus Marcus Howell proclaimed, “is that it is a theocracy.”

  He was leaning back in his chair, cradling a brandy snifter in his hand. The dinner had gone well. The food, as Clete knew it would be, had been superb.

  The shrimp-and-oyster bisque was followed by Filet de Boeuf à la Venison, a dish Ettinger had never previously encountered. When he admitted this, he thus offered the old man the opportunity to display his culinary knowledge as to its preparation.

  Ettinger seemed not only genuinely interested, but also showed himself to be quite familiar with the subtleties of haute cuisine. He mentioned to the old man, for instance, that the Moroccans made a similar dish; they substituted mutton for the beef, however, while marinating it and otherwise cooking it like venison.

  He also showed a genuine and knowledgeable enthusiasm for the wine. By the time the brandy was served, the old man was almost beaming. And Clete was amusing himself with what was surely his grandfather’s current opinion of Staff Sergeant Ettinger: Jew or not, that fellow is a gentleman.

  He was even daring to hope that the old man was in such a good mood he would not mention his daughter. Clete now realized, resignedly, that that was not to be.

  “A theocracy, Sir?” Ettinger asked.

  “A government which is controlled by a religion,” the old man explained.

  “Such as Spain,” Ettinger said.

  “Precisely. And, as in Spain, that religion is Roman Catholicism,” the old man said. “Now,
don’t misunderstand me. There is not a prejudiced bone in my body, and I have tried to pass my tolerance for other people’s religious convictions on to my son, and especially my grandson. As a matter of fact, I have a number of Roman Catholic friends, including, to put a point on it, the Archbishop of New Orleans. Weather permitting, for twenty-odd years, every other Thursday, I took his money at the Metairie Country Club.”

  “You are speaking of theocracy,” Ettinger said.

  “Indeed. You are, I understand, Spanish?”

  “I am now an American citizen,” Ettinger said carefully. “I formerly held German citizenship. I am of Spanish heritage.”

  “You know Spain?”

  “I lived there.”

  “Then you will feel right at home in Argentina. The most outrageous things are done there in the name of Christianity, which of course there means Roman Catholicism.”

  “I see.”

  “It doesn’t happen here,” the old man said. “Archbishop Noonan is as fine a gentleman as they come. But, of course, that is because our Constitution wisely forbids a state religion.”

  “I understand.”

  “The Roman Catholic theocracy in Argentina murdered my daughter, Cletus’s mother,” the old man said.

  “Grandfather, do we have to get into this?”

  “I think I should,” the old man said.

  “You are embarrassing our guest,” Clete said.

  “I don’t see why he should be embarrassed. He’s a Jew, as I understand it. To him this is a neutral matter. Why should he be embarrassed if I tell him what he will find when you reach Argentina?” He sat up and leaned across the table. “Am I embarrassing you, Mr. Ettinger?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “My daughter married an Argentinean, Mr. Ettinger. Cletus’s father is an Argentinean. Did you know that?”

  “Colonel Graham mentioned something about Lieutenant Frade having been born there, Sir.”

  “Jorge Guillermo Frade is his name,” the old man said. He pronounced it in Spanish—Horgay Goool-yermo Frah-day—each syllable reflecting his loathing. “Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day is, among other things, a cattleman.”

  “Is that so?” Ettinger asked.