“Where did you hear about the Alfred Thomas?” Nestor interrupted.
“Apparently it’s common knowledge.”
“I asked you how you heard about it. Did Ettinger tell you?”
You don’t like it that Ettinger told me about the destroyer and didn’t tell you. And that I didn’t tell you either. But screw that. I’m not going to let you get on Ettinger’s back for that.
“No, I heard it from Enrico Mallín. Why can’t this destroyer sink the Reine de la Mer?”
“It’s not your business to question decisions like that, if I have to point that out to you. But the reasons seem self-evident. The Reine de la Mer is a Portuguese ship. Portugal is neutral. The United States does not torpedo neutral ships.”
“But it’s all right for the three of us to sink it? What’s the difference? Aside from the fact that a destroyer has the capability to take it out, and we don’t?” Clete asked, and then went on without waiting for a reply: “I’d like to plead my case up the chain of command.”
“It doesn’t work that way. You’re in the OSS now. You take your orders from me, and you don’t have the privilege of questioning them. What’s the matter with you, Frade?”
Clete felt frustration and anger sweep through him.
“I know what orders are, Mr. Nestor, and I’ll try to obey mine,” he said. “All I’m asking you to do is pass the word up the chain of command. Tell them that I told you that I’ll need more to take out the Reine de la Mer than good intentions and twenty pounds of explosives. A very fast powerboat, maybe. Certainly another two hundred pounds of high explosive. Or a TBF from Brazil. Something.”
“A what from Brazil?”
“A TBF,” Clete repeated. And then, when he realized that Nestor had no idea what a TBF was, he added, “A torpedo bomber.”
“A torpedo bomber?” Nestor asked sarcastically.
“I’m a fighter pilot, but I can fly TBFs. I could go to Brazil, pick up the plane, fly it to that dirt strip we used for the airdrop in Uruguay, where Pelosi would be waiting with enough avgas to get me to the Reine de la Mer…”
Nestor looked at him with incredulous contempt.
“…and put a torpedo in her.”
Nestor shook his head sadly, as if he had failed to make a point to a backward child.
“Frade, that would be just as much an act of war as the Alfred Thomas attacking the Reine de la Mer.”
“I could then fly over my father’s estancia, put the plane on a course that would carry it out over the Atlantic, and bail out,” Clete said.
“And that’s what you want me to suggest to my superiors?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You simply refuse to understand the situation. Sinking the Reine de la Mer with a torpedo bomber was, I am quite sure, one of the options considered. It was obviously discarded. It’s out of the question. Quite impossible.”
“So is doing the Reine de la Mer any harm with twenty pounds of explosive. And I will not order my men to do something that has no chance of success, and that will get them killed,” Clete said. “I respectfully request that you pass that up the chain of command.”
“I don’t think there is any point in continuing this conversation, Lieutenant Frade,” Nestor said. “You leave me no choice but to report your insubordination—if that’s all it is—up, as you put it, ‘the chain of command.’”
“What do you mean, ‘if that’s all it is’?” Clete demanded, coldly angry.
“What would you call it when an officer refuses to obey an order because there is an element of personal risk involved?”
Clete pulled to the curb and slammed on the brakes.
“Get out,” he ordered. “Before I punch you into next week.”
Nestor looked at him in surprise, then opened the door and stepped out.
[SIX]
Avenida Alvear
Buenos Aires
1815 17 December 1942
“And here we are at the Alvear Palace Hotel,” Oberst Karl-Heinz Grüner, military attaché of the Embassy of the German Reich to the Republic of Argentina, said quite unnecessarily to Hauptmann Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein, who was residing there. “Just a few minutes’ walk from the Duarte mansion.”
They were both in civilian clothing, and had just come from Peter’s formal introduction to Ambassador von Lutzenberger at the embassy.
“I estimate a three-minute walk, Herr Oberst,” Peter said straight-faced.
“No more, I am sure.”
The military mind at work. Or an oberst-and-higher’s mind at work. My father can’t park a car without a detailed operational plan. Why should this man be any different?
“It was the original intention of the Argentines to line with cavalry from the Husares de Pueyrredón both sides of Avenida Alvear from the Frade mansion to the Basilica of Saint Pilar, which is approximately a kilometer in that direction,” he pointed. “I talked them out of that.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“The avenue will be lined from a point approximately twenty-five meters from the Duarte mansion with troops of a regular regiment—the Second Regiment of Infantry. There will be a representative honor guard of the Husares de Pueyrredón at the mansion itself. On my side, I thought it would be best, for public relations purposes, to have regular troops in field gear—they wear our helmets, you know, and are armed with Mausers, and look very much like German troops. And on their side, I suspect they were pleased at the suggestion. With that many men in those heavy winter-dress uniforms, in this heat, it was statistically certain that a number of Husares would faint and fall off their mounts.”
He looked at Peter with what could have been the suggestion of a smile.
“It is always embarrassing, Herr Oberst, when men faint while on parade.”
“Precisely,” Grüner said. “I had a tactical officer at the infantry school who used to quite unnecessarily threaten us that anyone who fainted on parade would regret it.”
Peter now felt quite safe in smiling at Grüner, and did so. Grüner smiled back.
“The Husares de Pueyrredón, the mounted troopers,” he went on, “will line the path of the procession from the point where Avenida Alvear ends at the Recoleta Park, at the foot of this small hill.” He pointed again, and resumed walking.
When they reached the foot of the small incline, he stopped and pointed again.
“There is the Basilica of St. Pilar,” he said. “Did you have the opportunity to visit churches when you were in Spain?”
“On one or two occasions, Herr Oberst. I am Evangelisch”—Protestant.
“Yes, I know. So am I,” Grüner said. “And there are not very many of us in Bavaria. The Recoleta Cemetery, where Hauptmann Duarte’s remains will be interred, is immediately behind the Basilica. What I started to say was that if you visited a Catholic church in Spain, you will feel quite at home in this one. It is jammed with larger-than-life-sized statues of various saints—I have often wondered if the admonition against making even graven images is in the Catholic version of the Ten Commandments…”
Peter chuckled, and Grüner smiled.
“…including one of St. Pilar,” Grüner continued, “the source of whose prestige in the Catholic faith remains a mystery to me, plus the to-be-expected Spanish Baroque ornamentation covering every inch of the place.”
Peter chuckled again as Grüner started across the street, and they started walking up a fairly steep hill toward the Basilica.
“How the Husares will keep their mounts’ footing on this incline,” Grüner observed, “is fortunately not my problem.”
They reached the church and stopped in a small exterior courtyard.
Grüner pointed again.
“Following the high requiem mass, the casket will be brought to this point. By that time, the dignitaries—including you and me, of course—will be standing there, against that wall. The Ambassador will step forward, and you and I will also step forward, stopping one pace behind him. The Ambassador will the
n briefly express the condolences of the Führer and the German people to the Duarte family and the government of Argentina. He will then take one step backward, and I will take one step forward.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You will be holding a small pillow on which will rest the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I will then read the order of the Oberkommando of the Wehrmacht posthumously awarding, in the name of the Führer, the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross to Hauptmann Duarte. I will then take three steps forward to the casket. You will follow me, do a left face to me, and extend the pillow to me. I will take the decoration from the pillow and pin it to the Argentine colors that will be covering the casket.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“How do you feel about that, Herr Hauptmann?”
“Sir?”
“I personally felt the Knight’s Cross was a bit much,” Grüner said. “It is a decoration that should be won because of outstanding valor. A simple Iron Cross would be sufficient, I think.”
“Herr Oberst, it is not my place to question the award of a decoration by the Oberkommando of the Wehrmacht.”
“Nor mine,” Grüner said. “But between soldiers…”
Peter did not reply.
“We will then, at my command, do the appropriate facing movement, so that we are facing the casket. On my command, we will take two steps backward and then render the German salute. The Navy somehow gets away with the hand-to-the-temple salute, but those of us in the Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe must obey the Führer’s order to render the German salute. Don’t forget!”
“No, Sir.”
“On my command again, we will conclude the salute, do an about-face, and march back to our positions behind Ambassador von Lutzenberger.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“The casket will then be carried out of this courtyard, to the right and through the main entrance to the cemetery. You will remain behind, and when the last of the dignitaries has left the courtyard, you will enter the cemetery through that gate.”
He pointed, then walked to a small iron gate in the wall, which turned out to be locked.
“I will see that it is unlocked,” Grüner said. “For now, we will enter the cemetery by the main gate.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You will pass through that gate and—you will probably have to move quickly—proceed to the Duarte tomb, where you will remain until the casket has been placed inside. After the family has departed, you will remove the Knight’s Cross from the casket, return it to its box, and proceed to the Duarte mansion, where, exercising great tact, you will present the decoration to Señor Duarte.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I say ‘exercising great tact’ because of the mother. She is, poor lady, not in the best of health, mentally speaking.”
Oberst Karl-Heinz Grüner made a circling motion with his index finger at his temple.
“I understand, Herr Oberst.”
“We will now locate the Duarte tomb for you, and the path from the small gate in the courtyard.”
“Yes, Sir.”
That took about five minutes. Peter found the cemetery fascinating. It was almost literally a city of the dead, with every inch except the walkways covered with elaborate tombs, some small and some as large as small houses. In fact, they all looked like houses. Almost all of them had a glass-covered wrought-iron door, through which small altars could be seen. The altars were usually complete to either a large brass cross or a statue of Christ on His cross, or both. And in each tomb/chapel a casket could be seen, either on the altar itself or in front of it. Several of the caskets were small and white, children’s caskets, which made Peter uncomfortable.
When Oberst Grüner saw him looking into the tombs, he explained:
“The most recently deceased has his casket left on or in front of the altar until the next death in the family, whereupon it is placed in what for a better word I think of as the basement of the tomb. There are three, four, as many as six subterranean levels, I’m told.”
“Fascinating.”
“Bizarre, is more like it. Catholic bizarre, plus Spanish bizarre. Incredible!”
Something else raised Peter’s curiosity as they walked through the cemetery, a tomb with no Catholic symbols or pious words—the burial place of an atheist and his family? He asked Grüner about it: “I thought only Catholics could be buried in a Catholic cemetery.”
“So did I, until I came here.” He paused and shook his head at the failure of Argentines to be logical. “Consecrated ground, they call it. No heathens or Evangelische need apply. The last time I was here—it’s over there someplace—I even came across a tomb reserved for Freemasons. I thought the Catholics hated Freemasons about as much as the Führer.” He smiled. “There is no explanation, except that this is Argentina, and Argentina is like nowhere else in the world.”
Finally, they were through, just outside the cemetery’s main gate. Grüner made Peter recite, in detail, his role in the funeral of Hauptmann Duarte.
I expected this. Sound military practice. You tell someone what you’re going to teach him. You teach him what you want him to know. And then you make him tell you what he has just been taught.
“So, this is done,” Grüner said. “And what do you suppose we should do now?”
“I have no idea, Herr Oberst,” Peter replied.
“What do all soldiers, from private soldiers to Feldmarschalls, do when they have finished their assigned duties and there is no superior officer around?”
“Look for a woman?” Peter blurted.
Grüner chuckled. “Close, but I was thinking of finding a beer,” he said. “Fortunately, we are close to a place where we can do just that. And who knows, there just might be someone there who catches your eye.”
XV
[ONE]
Restaurant Bavaria
Recoleta Plaza
Buenos Aires
1905 17 December 1942
With Peter moving in step beside him, Oberst Karl-Heinz Grüner marched across Recoleta Plaza to a restaurant. A brass sign mounted on the wall identified it as Restaurant Bavaria. Peter stepped ahead of Grüner and opened the plate-glass door.
A heavyset, barrel-bellied man in his fifties approached them the moment they were inside. He was wearing a stiffly starched shirt and a suit that looked too tight, and he was immaculately shaved, except for a Hitler-style mustache on his lip.
“Guten Tag, Herr Oberst,” he said, with a snap-of-his-neck bow. “What a great pleasure it is to see you.”
Grüner nodded somewhat imperiously.
“Herr Krantz,” he said, “I have told this young gentleman that the imitation schnapps in this pathetic copy of a gasthaus is sometimes drinkable.”
“I like to think it is decent.”
“This young gentleman is my new assistant, Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein, of the Luftwaffe,” Grüner said, waited until Krantz had made his little bow, and then added, “holder of the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross.”
Krantz snapped his head again.
“A great honor, Sir,” he said.
It is apparently true, Peter thought. The Knight’s Cross and a Reichsmark will sometimes get you a glass of schnapps.
“Herr Krantz,” he said.
Peter looked around the restaurant. It not only had solid, Germanic-appearing furniture, but the walls were decorated with the crests of the German states and some of the larger cities, and with horned rehbock skulls and mounted boar heads. It looked truly German; it could have been in Munich or Frankfurt am Main or Berlin.
“Would the Herr Oberst and the Herr Freiherr prefer a table by the window, or…”
“One of the rooms upstairs, Krantz, overlooking the Recoleta, would be preferable,” Grüner said. “I have told the Freiherr that some of the prettiest women in Buenos Aires march past your windows at this hour. And we are going to have a little private chat.”
Krantz led them to
the rear of the restaurant and up a flight of stairs, then down a corridor and into a small room with windows overlooking the Recoleta.
“Would this be satisfactory to the Herr Oberst?”
“Thank you, Krantz,” Grüner said. “This will do.”
“Perhaps I might interest the Herr Oberst in something besides a schnapps?”
“With the outrageous prices you charge, schnapps—imitation schnapps is all…”
“The Herr Oberst forgets that I have told him time and time again that his money is not acceptable here,” Krantz said.
“How kind of you, Krantz,” Grüner said, and added to Peter: “Herr Krantz is a good German, Herr Hauptmann. A leader of the German colony here.”
Krantz beamed.
“Permit me, Herr Oberst, to send you something of my choice.”
“How kind of you, Krantz,” Grüner said.
Grüner disappeared.
“He has been very valuable, helping us get officers from the Graf Spee* out of the country,” Grüner said. “You’ll become involved in that, of course.”
“How many of the Graf Spee’s men are here?” Peter asked. He remembered the loss of the Graf Spee and the suicide of her captain, but it never entered his mind to wonder what happened to her crew.
“Eight hundred and something other ranks, and about forty-nine officers,” Grüner said. “Getting the officers out is a high priority for me, largely because Admiral Canaris has an understandable personal interest.”
Admiral Wilhelm Canaris was Chief of German Intelligence (Abwehr).
“Excuse me?”
“Canaris was himself interned here during the First World War, and escaped.”
“I didn’t know that,” Peter confessed.
Strange that I didn’t. Admiral Canaris and my father are close. I wonder if Grüner knows that. I wonder how much he knows about my father, or for that matter about me. Did they send a copy of my service records over here? Or my Abwehr dossier? More than likely.
Krantz came back, bearing a bottle in his right hand and holding the stems of three glasses between the fingers of his left.
“I know the Herr Oberst likes a little Slivovitz to whet his appetite, and I thought the Herr Freiherr might like a taste.”
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