His Excellency, Manfred Alois Graf von Lutzenberger, Ambassador of the German Reich to the Republic of Argentina, was a slight, very thin, fifty-three-year-old who wore what was left of his thinning hair plastered across his skull. Von Lutzenbergers, he often thought when he had to deal with Gradny-Sawz, had been treading without nervousness the marble-floored corridors of one embassy or another since 1660, when Friedrich Graf von Lutzenberger had arranged Prussia’s full independence from Polish suzerainty for Friedrich Wilhelm, the Great Elector. That was nearly three hundred years ago. When, in other words, Gradny-Sawz’s ancestors in Hungary were just learning how to ride horses using saddles, and Grüner’s antecedents were sleeping with their milch cows in some stone-and-thatch cottage in a remote meadow in the Bavarian Alps.
“Your Excellency, there has been a cable from the Foreign Ministry vis-à-vis the Duarte remains,” Gradny-Sawz began. “I thought Oberst Grüner should be brought into this as soon as possible.”
“That’s the Argentinean boy who was killed at Stalingrad?” von Lutzenberger asked.
“Yes. His remains are to be placed aboard the General Belgrano of the Líneas Marítimos de Argentina y Europa at Lisbon. They are being accompanied by a Hauptmann von Wachtstein of the Luftwaffe. The Belgrano is scheduled to sail from Lisbon for Buenos Aires at 0700, Lisbon time, November 8.”
“Have you a first name on von Wachtstein?”
“I have it here somewhere,” Gradny-Sawz said, and began to search in his pockets for a notebook.
“I don’t have his first name at hand, Sir,” Grüner said. “But he is the son of Generalmajor Graf von Wachtstein.”
“How did you come by that information?”
“In a cable informing me that he is being assigned to me as my Deputy for Air,” Grüner said.
“Hans-Peter are his Christian names, Your Excellency,” Gradny-Sawz announced, reading from his leather-bound notebook. “He has been awarded, personally, from the hands of the Führer, the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross.”
“How interesting,” the ambassador said. “I’m sure there is a reason why it was impossible to consult with me—or, for that matter, you, Grüner—before this gentleman was assigned to us.”
Both Grüner and Gradny-Sawz smiled uneasily, but said nothing. Ambassador von Lutzenberger frequently complained that the Foreign Ministry did not consult with him as often as was necessary.
Well, they swallowed that whole, von Lutzenberger thought, a trifle smugly. I asked who von Wachtstein was; when told, I was annoyed that no one informed me about his assignment here. Therefore, they don’t have any idea that his father and I are connected.
“There is a question of protocol, Your Excellency, that I thought you should resolve,” Gradny-Sawz said.
“Which is?”
“On the one hand, Hauptmann Duarte was the only son of Humberto Valdez Duarte, the banker. Under those circumstances, one would think that as First Secretary, I would deal with the family, as I did when we learned of Captain Duarte’s tragic death. On the other hand, Captain Jorge Duarte’s mother—Beatrice Frade de Duarte—is the sister of Oberst Jorge Guillermo Frade; I think it reasonable to presume he was named for him. Under those circumstances, considering Frade’s importance, perhaps Grüner would be the man to handle things.”
Ambassador von Lutzenberger focused on Gradny-Sawz’s motives in raising the question, rather than on the question itself, the answer to which seemed self-evident. The more important an indigenous official was, the more senior the Embassy official should be. In the diplomatic hierarchy, a first secretary was far senior to a military attaché.
And Gradny-Sawz certainly knew this.
So why was he raising the question? In terms of real power, so far as von Lutzenberger was concerned, the two were about equal, and thus equally dangerous. In addition to being his man in Argentina, Grüner was a close personal friend of Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, the head of the Abwehr. One did not cross Canaris, or his friends, without good reason.
Gradny-Sawz’s influence, above and beyond that which went with his rank in the Foreign Ministry, came from his early and close ties to the inner circle of the Nazi party. The National Socialists had been desperate early on for the support of the aristocracy. It lent them, they believed, a respectability they would otherwise not have had. Gradny-Sawz’s early support of the Nazis had been a clever career move. He had nothing, really, to lose by announcing his conviction that Adolf Hitler and his National Socialists were the one hope of das deutsche Volk, and that Austria should “return” to the German fatherland.
He could have been discharged from the Austrian Foreign Ministry, of course—and certainly should have been—for bad judgment, or disloyalty. But he was only a minor functionary at the time, and he didn’t need a job. The Gradny-Sawz estates in Hungary were extensive; and in those days he had dual citizenship; he might even have been able to buy his way into the Hungarian Foreign Service.
But he bet on the right horse. The National Socialists came to power; and in 1938 Austria became Ostmark. And the Nazis rewarded their friends: Gradny-Sawz was “absorbed” into the German Foreign Ministry and assigned to the Embassy in Paris as Third Secretary for Commercial Affairs. In 1941, he was assigned to Buenos Aires as First Secretary.
A colleague in the Foreign Ministry took von Lutzenberger aside during a visit to Buenos Aires and warned him that Gradny-Sawz had friends at the highest levels in the Sicherheitsdienst—the German Secret Service—and it could be presumed that he was reporting to them whenever Embassy personnel—the Ambassador included—strayed from his notion of the correct National Socialist path.
Gradny-Sawz reveled in high-level social intercourse.
Ordinarily, Die grosse Wienerwurst would be doing whatever he could to make sure Grüner did not usurp this privilege. He would not be asking me whether I think Grüner should be brought into the matter. The question then becomes, why?
Because he is afraid that something is going to go wrong. What, I have no idea, for what can possibly go wrong with a funeral, however grotesquely medieval it will be here in Catholic Argentina?
Perhaps he is concerned that he will somehow offend Colonel Frade. Or a member of his family. And he wants to see that Grüner is the one who will be in hot water if it does. Or else he wants to be able to say, if something goes wrong, that I ordered him to deal with the Duartes and/or Colonel Frade.
Gradny-Sawz, I know, belongs to the School of Diplomatic Practice that holds that one cannot endanger one’s diplomatic career if one avoids any situation of conflict, however unimportant.
“Quite right, Gradny-Sawz,” the ambassador said. “It is a delicate matter. Give me the details, and I will contact Frade myself. Have him to lunch, perhaps. And then I will decide which of you should carry out our role in Hauptmann Duarte’s funeral.”
He could tell from the look on Gradny-Sawz’s face that that was not the response he was looking for.
What did you want me to say? What are you after?
“While I have you both here,” Ambassador von Lutzenberger said. “It seems that three American—North American—nationals, employed by the Radio Corporation of America, have disappeared. This has been reported to the Argentinean authorities, specifically to the police commander of the Distrito Federal.”
(The Federal District, somewhat similar in character to the District of Columbia, lies within the Province of Buenos Aires, and includes the city of Buenos Aires.)
“Oh, really?” Gradny-Sawz said, somewhat smugly.
“It is being bandied about that certain individuals connected with our embassy have knowledge of this matter. These allegations have also come to the attention of the Federal Police.”
“I heard the same story,” Gradny-Sawz said. “In fact, I have the feeling that the Americans will not be heard from again.”
“Tell me what rumors you have heard,” the Ambassador said.
“Your Excellency will understand that these are only rumors,” Grad
ny-Sawz said, visibly enjoying himself, “for I, of course, have no personal information about this incident.”
“What did you hear, Anton?” the Ambassador pursued, hoping that neither impatience nor disgust was evident in his voice.
“I heard, Your Excellency, that these three Yankees were suspected of certain activities involving neutral shipping—”
“Suspected by the Argentine authorities, you mean?” von Lutzenberger interrupted.
“Yes, Sir. They were suspected of attempting to interfere with neutral shipping, specifically with a Swedish merchant vessel, the Sundsvall, which was anchored in the Bahía Samborombón while conducting repairs to one of its engines.”
(The Río de la Plata, which empties into the South Atlantic Ocean, separates Argentina from Uruguay. The mouth of the river, which is defined as a line between Punta Norte del Cabo San Antonio, Argentina, and Punta del Este, Uruguay, is approximately 160 miles wide. The Bay of Samborombón lies just inside this line.)
“Where exactly in the Bay?” von Lutzenberger asked.
“Approximately thirty kilometers east of Pipinas, Your Excellency,” Gradny-Sawz said. “The Americans, or so the story goes, were about to attempt to sabotage the Sundsvall—to blow a hole in her hull. To this end, they acquired a small motorboat. Their activities came to the attention of the Argentinean Navy, and a patrol boat was sent to locate them. The Americans refused orders to heave to, and a warning shot was fired. Unfortunately, the gunner’s aim was off, and the warning shot hit their vessel and sank it.”
“But there has been no official report of this incident?”
“I would ascribe that, Your Excellency, to Argentinean pride. It would be embarrassing for them to publicly acknowledge that their gunnery is not what it should be. And unfortunately, there were no survivors.”
“You’re sure of that?” von Lutzenberger asked.
“My sources inform me, Your Excellency, that a search of the area was made and no survivors were found. I doubt if there will be.”
Von Lutzenberger grunted.
“And do your sources confirm what the First Secretary has told me, Herr Oberst?”
“Yes, Sir. The details are essentially the same.”
“And do you both confirm that no one can connect these unfortunate events with anyone at the embassy?”
“I very much doubt if anything like that will happen, Your Excellency,” Gradny-Sawz said.
“Herr Oberst?”
“I think that the Argentineans and the Americans will both try to forget this incident as quickly as possible.”
“And, Herr Oberst, did your sources tell you whether these three unfortunates might be employed by the American Federal Bureau of Investigation or their Office of Strategic Services?”
“It seems, Your Excellency,” Grüner said, “that they were connected with the OSS.”
Von Lutzenberger looked at Gradny-Sawz, who nodded.
“Pity,” von Lutzenberger said. “If we could have tied them to the ‘Legal Affairs Office’ of the U.S. Embassy, we could almost certainly have had several people expelled as persona non grata. And what of the ship? The Sundsvall?”
“I believe that once her engines were repaired, she sailed the following morning.”
“And her master made no report of this incident?”
“Her master probably decided the less he had to with the Argentinean authorities, the better,” Gradny-Sawz said.
“Then she won’t be coming back?”
“She is to be replaced, Sir,” Grüner replied. “She was in these waters for almost two months; her stores were nearly exhausted.”
“The Bay of Samborombon is quite wide and quite empty. I would like to know how these Americans located the ship,” von Lutzenberger said. “Do you think someone in the Argentinean Navy, or elsewhere in the government, told them?”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” Gradny-Sawz said, almost indignantly.
“Anything is possible, my dear Anton,” von Lutzenberger said. “Since we know that people in the Argentinean military services and their government will confide in you matters they perhaps should not, I think we have to presume, don’t you, that there are people in the same places who talk to Americans about things they probably should not talk about.”
“There are even, my dear Gradny-Sawz,” Colonel Grüner said, “some Argentineans, in and out of the government, who hope for an Anglo-American victory.”
Gradny-Sawz gave him a cold look, but did not reply.
“If there’s nothing else, gentlemen?” von Lutzenberger asked, looked at the two of them, and then added, “Thank you for your time.”
[TWO]
The Monteleone Hotel
New Orleans, Louisiana
0730 9 November 1942
Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, CE, AUS, late of the 82nd Airborne Division, was shaving when he heard the knock at his hotel room door. He was taking special care. Today, officers of the U.S. Navy were going to teach him something about ships—and about blowing them up, or at least sinking them. He suspected they would know that he was an Army officer, even if he was in civilian clothing. All the same, he wanted to look like an officer and a gentleman.
He was still smarting about how he looked when he first arrived—no goddamned socks, and a goddamned zipper jacket, for Christ’s sake! Especially when Sergeant Ettinger was wearing a suit that made him look like a banker. And Lieutenant Frade—after showing up at the railroad station in his cowboy suit—looked like an advertisement in Esquire magazine.
Tony, who was naked, wrapped a towel around his waist, then walked to the door and opened it. He stood behind it so no one would see him wearing only a towel.
“This is for you, Sir,” a bellman said, and handed him a twine-wrapped paper package that looked like something you would get back from a Chinese laundry.
“Just a minute,” Tony said, then went to the bed and slid his hand between the mattress and the box spring and pulled out his wallet. He took a dollar bill from the wallet and gave it to the bellman.
After he closed the door, he carried the package to the bed and sat down, making sure that he didn’t sit on his new tweed sports coat and gray flannel pants that he had laid out to wear. Though it was not what he originally picked out, he liked the clothing more now than when he first bought it. Lieutenant Frade “suggested” then that he buy what he did. He was the commanding officer of the team, so Tony went along. Now he was glad he did.
For the first time, Tony saw a sheet of hotel notepaper stuck inside the twine on the package. He took it out and unfolded it:
Pelosi, put this stuff on, and meet me in the dining room at 7:45. A.
A. stood for Adams, one of the three mentors sent down from Virginia. Tony now understood that the word meant something like teacher or counselor; it was just like the OSS to use a word that nobody understood. Adams was somewhere in his thirties, a slight, bright-eyed man who had been an assistant professor of engineering at the University of Idaho. When Tony asked him how he’d wound up in the OSS, Adams replied, “That’s not really any of your business, is it, Pelosi?”
Tony opened the drawer in the bedside table, took out his pocketknife, cut the twine, and unwrapped the package. It contained a pair of blue dungarees, a canvas jacket with a corduroy collar, a navy-blue woolen turtleneck sweater, a woolen knit cap, long-john underwear, heavy woolen socks, and a pair of work shoes. Each item of clothing was marked somewhere with “USN.” It was, Tony realized, the Navy equivalent of Army fatigue clothing.
And then he realized it was Navy enlisted men’s work clothing. He’d heard somewhere that in the Navy, officers didn’t wear work clothing, because it was below the dignity of a Navy officer to get his hands dirty.
How the hell am I going to look like an officer and a gentleman if I have to wear this Navy enlisted man’s shit?
He didn’t like what he saw in the mirror when he had put on the clothing. And when he walked into the Monteleone Hotel di
ning room in the Navy fatigues, he got a dirty look from the headwaiter.
No wonder! I look like I’ve been sent to unstop the fucking toilet, for Christ’s sake, not sit down and have my breakfast.
He looked around the dining room and saw Adams sitting at a table with three sailors. There was a full lieutenant, a chief petty officer, and a bo’sun’s mate first class. They were all wearing regular blue uniforms. Two tables away, he saw Lieutenant Frade with a couple of mentors. He had on a blue, brass-buttoned blazer, a crisp white shirt, and a striped necktie.
Lieutenant Frade saw him, smiled as if he thought Tony wearing a sailor’s work uniform was the funniest thing he had seen all week, and winked at Tony and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Tony pretended he didn’t see him and walked to Mr. Adams’s table.
“Mr. Pelosi,” Adams made the introductions, “this is Lieutenant Greene, Chief Norton, and Bo’sun Leech. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Pelosi.”
The sailors looked at him with frank curiosity.
Lieutenant Greene shook his hand without speaking. Chief Norton said, “What do you say, Pelosi?” And Bo’sun Leech grunted and tried to squash his hand when he shook it.
There was little conversation at breakfast. Adams and the Navy men—all of whom were at least ten years older than he was, and all of whom, he was sure, thought he looked as funny as Lieutenant Frade did—had already eaten their breakfasts. They waited impatiently for him to order and then eat his.
Two vehicles were waiting outside: a Navy-gray truck, sort of a panel truck, but with windows and seats in the back, and Frade’s Buick convertible. Frade and his mentors got into the Buick and drove off.
“Why don’t you sit in the back, Pelosi?” Lieutenant Greene suggested.
Bo’sun Leech came in the back with him. Lieutenant Greene went behind the wheel, and Chief Norton got in the front beside him.
That pretty well sets up the pecking order, putting me on the bottom, Tony thought. I wonder if Lieutenant Greene knows I’m an officer.
Honor Bound Page 16