“Good of you, Krantz,” Grüner said as Krantz poured the liquor.
“I am chilling some champagne, Argentinean. The German is gone, and I didn’t think French appropriate to properly welcome the Herr Freiherr to Argentina. And then with the Herr Oberst’s approval, I thought perhaps a nice Schnitzel, mit Kartoffeln und Apfelbrei—breaded veal cutlet, potatoes, and applesauce.
“We place ourselves in your capable hands, Krantz,” Grüner said.
Krantz picked up his glass and raised it.
“Herr Oberst,” he said, “Herr Freiherr, unser Führer!”
Grüner and Peter stood and made the toast.
“To victory!” Grüner said.
“Death to our enemies!” Krantz said passionately.
Cletus Frade is by definition my enemy. But I don’t wish to seehim dead. I just don’t want him to kill me. Why do people who have never worn a uniform—who have never had to kill anyone—seem to be in love with death and killing?
The Slivovitz burned his throat. But he remembered that his mother liked it. There was a dinner at the Drei Husaren Restaurant in Vienna, near St. Stephen’s Cathedral…
“How long have you been in Argentina, Herr Krantz?” he asked.
“I was born here,” Krantz replied. “My father was brought here as a small child.”
That explains your bellicosity, doesn’t it? You’ve never heard a bomb fall, or the screams of the dying, or seen the body of the enemy burned to a crisp.
“But you have visited Germany?”
“Only once, as a child. I intend to go after the war.”
This man is an amiable idiot. Still, Grüner says he’s useful. What’s the matter with you, anyway? All this man is doing is being polite and patriotic. No. Polite and treasonous. If he was born here, doesn’t that make him an Argentinean, not a German? He owes his allegiance to Argentina, not Der Führer.
“One more,” Krantz said, refilling his and their glasses. “What is it they say? A bird who flies with only wing does so badly?”
Grüner and Krantz drank theirs at a gulp. Peter returned his glass to the table barely touched. He didn’t like Slivovitz, and he was concerned about alcohol loosening his tongue—Krantz was sending champagne, and there would probably be more than one bottle. It was entirely likely that the purpose of Grüner’s friendliness was to feel him out. Ambassador von Lutzenberger warned him to be careful around him.
Krantz finally left.
“No more of this for you?” Grüner asked as he picked up the Slivovitz bottle.
“Thank you, no, Herr Oberst.”
“You don’t like it, or you’re a little afraid of drinking with your new commanding officer?”
“A little of both, Herr Oberst.”
“Good for you. In my line of work, alcohol is a dangerous thing. And I suppose the same is true with flying.”
“We have a saying in the Luftwaffe, Herr Oberst, that there are old cautious pilots, somewhat fewer old bold pilots, and no old drunken pilots at all.”
Grüner smiled his appreciation of that.
“In my line of work—it will now to some degree be your line of work as well—a tongue loosened by alcohol is a dangerous thing. One is often possessed of knowledge that should not be shared with others.”
“I’m sure that’s true, Herr Oberst.”
“I have, for example, two pieces of information about you that I elected not to share with Ambassador von Lutzenberger.”
“Whatever the accusations, Herr Oberst, I plead guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the court.”
Grüner laughed.
“The first makes Krantz’s free champagne especially appropriate,” Grüner said. “The Ambassador will soon be notified, and he will in his own diplomat’s good time notify me, that you have been promoted major.”
“Really? You’re sure, Herr Oberst?”
“The reason I am sure is that my source is impeccable,” Grüner said, obviously pleased with himself. “A source about whose credibility I have absolutely no doubt.”
“The Führer told you I was being promoted?”
“No.” Grüner chuckled, then reached into his pocket and tossed a photograph on the table.
Peter picked it up. It showed two pilots standing under the engine nacelle of a Messerschmitt ME-109, holding between them the bull’s-eye fuselage insignia torn from a shot-down Spitfire. Both wore black leather flying jackets, each of which was adorned with brand-new second lieutenant’s insignia and brand-new Iron Crosses. One was Second Lieutenant Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein and the other was Second Lieutenant Wilhelm Johannes Grüner.
Did I shoot that Spit down? Or Willi? Or was that piece of fuselage fabric just one of the half-dozen around the officers’ mess, and we picked it up to have the photo taken?
“Willi,” Peter said. “France. Calais, I think. Or maybe Cherbourg. 1940.”
Why the hell didn’t I make the connection? I knew Willi’s father was an officer, an Oberstleutnant. Because I don’t like to think of Willi Grüner? Because the last time I saw Willi was outside London. His aircraft was in flames, and he was on his way down by parachute.
“Willi,” Grüner repeated.
“Have you heard from him?” Peter asked, remembering only now that there had been word from the International Red Cross. Willi was a POW, alive but injured.
“You weren’t paying attention,” Grüner said. “I learned about your promotion from Willi.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He had himself named escort officer for a group of seriously wounded prisoners exchanged via Sweden. He’s now in Berlin. Hauptmann Willi.”
“I was with him the day he was shot down,” Peter said.
“Yes, he told me. He also told me that you followed him to the ground to make sure the English didn’t use him for target practice.”
“He would have done the same for me,” Peter said.
“In any event, Willi was in Berlin, and looking for you. At the Oberkommando of the Luftwaffe, he found that you’ve been sent here, but promoted major as well.”
“I’m surprised the word got here so quickly,” Peter thought aloud. “It almost got here before I did.”
“Well, there is Condor service, of course. Willi’s letter was on last week’s flight.” German four-engine transports, called “Condors,” were engaged in transatlantic service via Spain and Africa. “It used to be twice a week, but it’s down to once a week, sometimes once every other week. The aircraft have been temporarily diverted to supply von Paulus at Stalingrad.”
Well, scratch the Condors from the property books. Stalingrad is lost, and so will be the aircraft trying to supply von Paulus.
“If you have his address, I’d like to write him,” Peter said.
“Of course. I’ll see that it goes in the diplomatic pouch.”
Krantz returned, leading a two-waiter procession bearing champagne bottles in coolers.
“I think you will find this satisfactory, Herr Freiherr,” Krantz said as he popped the cork and began to pour. “It is not quite as good as German, of course, but it is drinkable.”
Peter took a sip and pronounced it very nice.
The bottle was empty by the time they finished their meal, and then Krantz produced a bottle of French cognac.
During the meal, Peter couldn’t fail to notice that there were indeed an extraordinary number of good-looking, long-legged, nicely bosomed young females parading down the sidewalk outside.
“The French,” Herr Krantz proclaimed as he poured the cognac, “may well be a decadent people, but they do know how to make brandy.” Krantz’s face was flushed, doubtless from sampling the brandy himself.
And he took a long time to leave.
“He attaches himself like a leech,” Oberst Grüner observed. “But his food is not only first-class, but free. And you can bet he will invite you to return as often as your duties permit.”
“That would be very nice.”
“Tell me,
Peter,” Grüner said, for the first time addressing Peter by his Christian name, “how much of Frade’s son did you see when you were in Oberst Frade’s guest house?”
Now it comes. Even though Willi and I are close. He is after all, as von Lutzenberger put it, the “embodiment” of the Sicherheitsdienst and the Abwehr in the embassy.
“Not much. I was there when he walked in. He said hello, had a glass of cognac with me, and went to bed.”
“He is a serving officer of the American Marine Corps. Did you know that?”
“No, Sir. Really?”
You have just violated the Officer’s Code of Honor, Hauptmann von Wachtstein. An officer has asked you a question in the execution of his office, and you consciously and deliberately lied to him. That von Lutzenberger told you to is not justification, and you know it. So why did you do it? Who are you to criticize Herr Krantz for not knowing his allegiance?
“You’re familiar with the American Marine Corps, of course?”
“No, Sir.”
“An elite force, like the Waffen-SS,” Grüner said.
“Really?”
Cletus was furious when I made that comparison.
“Like yourself, he is an aviator. His father introduced him at the Centro Naval—that’s the downtown officers’ club, used by both services, I will get you a guest membership—as a veteran of the Pacific, specifically Guadalcanal.”
“Interesting. What is he doing in Argentina, if I may ask? For that matter, how did he wind up in the American Army—”
“Marine Corps,” Grüner corrected him. “It is part of the U.S. Navy.”
“—excuse me, in the Marine Corps—if he’s an Argentinean?”
“His mother was an American. He was raised there. He has dual citizenship. I have an agent in Internal Security, a Comandante—Major—Habanzo. He showed me his dossier.”
“Fascinating. What did you say he’s doing here?”
“No one seems to know. He came ostensibly to make sure that American petroleum is not being diverted from here to Germany.”
“And obviously the Americans don’t like that.”
“No, of course they don’t. We managed to acquire some petroleum products here at the start of the war—at a great cost, I might add. But the Americans solved that problem early on by controlling the amount of petroleum they are willing to sell Argentina, and by applying diplomatic pressure. Meanwhile, the Argentines have a growing need for oil, so there is less and less available to us, no matter what we’re willing to pay for it.
“So, while it is possible that young Frade is here to make sure Germany is not buying American oil, I doubt it. That leaves several more likely possibilities. The most logical is that he is here to influence his father.”
Grüner stopped, and looked at Peter.
“The only way I can explain that is to deliver a lecture on Argentinean politics. I’d planned to do so in a day or two anyway. But why not now?”
“Please do, Herr Oberst.”
“Their politics are Byzantine. Or perhaps Machiavellian, or Spanish, or perhaps simply Argentinean. But certainly not democratic, as Northern Europeans understand the term. They have elections every once in a while—between takeovers of the government by military juntas. The election of the current president of Argentina was, by local standards, remarkably honest. The man’s name is Castilló—and he is quite sympathetic to Germany. But he has lost favor with the people, not in small part because of British influence here. The British built the Argentine rail system and the telephone network, and they trained their Navy. The Navy is therefore sympathetic to the British. German engineers built their dams and power stations, and we trained their Army. The Army is therefore pro-German—generally speaking, with certain specific exceptions.”
“I understand. I hope I understand.”
“It takes some getting used to. And the British do better with propaganda, frankly, than we do. That recent declaration, for example.”
“Sir?”
“Where they accused us of murdering hundreds of thousands of Jewish women and children.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Herr Oberst.”
“They put out a proclamation, in the name of the King, Stalin, the President of the United States, and even that ludicrous Frenchman, de Gaulle, charging Germany with murdering hundreds of thousands of Jews. An absolutely fantastic accusation, but one which got wide play in the local press, including, so help me, Die Freie Presse.” (The Freie Presse, a German-language newspaper, was then published daily in Buenos Aires.)
“I haven’t heard anything…”
“You were on the ship. I have a copy in the office, and I’ll let you read it. It’s absolutely outrageous. I can’t believe they actually thought anyone would believe a word of it, but unfortunately, many people seem to take the document seriously.
“Anyway, whether because of British propaganda or not, Castilló has lost much of his support. Thus, if the elections were held today, he would almost certainly lose. So he has naturally decided to ignore the results of the next election.”
“Can he get away with that?”
“If it weren’t for the G.O.U.—the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos—he probably could. But if El Presidente does not voluntarily relinquish power when he loses the election—or even if he wins it—the G.O.U. will almost certainly stage a coup d’état. And to anticipate your question, Peter, can they get away with that? Yes, I think they can. And so does the Bureau of Internal Security, I’m reasonably certain.”
“And that junta would not be pro-German, but pro-Allies?”
“Not necessarily. There are both pro-German and pro-Allied factions within the G.O.U. The power within the G.O.U., however, the money and the brains, belongs to el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade. On the one hand, Frade is the uncle of the heroic Hauptmann Duarte, who died fighting godless communism with von Paulus at Stalingrad. And on the other, he is the father of Lieutenant Frade of the United States Marine Corps.”
“I see.”
“Which very possibly explains the presence of ‘ex’-Lieutenant Frade, in civilian clothing, in Argentina. He has been sent here to tell his father that the Americans will help him in any way they can. And, very probably, to establish a line of communication with him.”
“Yes,” Peter said thoughtfully.
“Now, with Oberst Frade, there is another factor involved,” Grüner said. “You met, I believe, Oberst Juan Domingo Perón in Germany?”
“Yes, Sir. He came as far as the Franco-Spanish border with me.”
“And your relationship with Oberst Perón?”
“Actually, Sir, we got along rather well. He told me I would enjoy my time in Argentina and was quite gracious to me.”
“That cordiality almost certainly will be valuable later on,” Grüner said. “The point is that, despite their different backgrounds—Frade is one of the most wealthy men in Argentina, and Perón’s background is simple—Perón and Frade are quite close. They became friends in the army when they were both lieutenants.”
“I see what you mean, Sir, by Byzantine.”
“Perón is very sympathetic to Germany, in particular with Germany’s socialist political philosophy, and with Germany’s demonstrated concern for the welfare of the working man.* It is to study our system that he is in Germany. And the reason he wishes to become expert, so to speak, in German socialist social policy is that, when the G.O.U. stages its coup d’état and takes over the government, Oberst Perón will become what we would call the Minister for Public Welfare.”
“A military man as Minister of Social Welfare?” Peter asked, surprised.
“The military runs Argentina, Peter. You must keep that in mind. Which means that our mission is to ensure that our colonels, and not the British colonels, are in charge.”
“I understand,” Peter said.
“The third possibility is that ‘ex’-Lieutenant Frade is a member of the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services, and that he is here to damage
or sink a U-boat replenishment vessel we have in the River Plate.”
“Really? How?”
“Good question. He probably knows no more about sinking a ship than you do.
“Now all this leads to a distasteful aspect of our duty here, one that frankly troubles me personally, but which I have come reluctantly to decide is essential. There is no civilized way to wage war, and we are fooling ourselves when we think there is.”
“Yes, Sir. I agree.”
“It is not in Germany’s interests to permit a cozy relationship between Lieutenant Frade—that is to say, the American government—and Oberst Frade, who will almost certainly be a major influence on Argentine policy.”
“Obviously.”
“Considering the stakes—Germany needs and buys enormous quantities of Argentine wool, Argentine leather, Argentine foodstuffs—we cannot afford to have someone in a position of influence who will lead Argentina into the war on the side of the Allies…or stand by while our supply line is cut. Since removing Oberst Frade is obviously out of the question, that leaves ‘ex’-Lieutenant Frade. The question then becomes how.”
What does he mean by remove? Certainly not “assassinate”?
“Excuse me, Herr Oberst. ‘Remove’?”
“There is no civilized way to wage war, and we are fooling ourselves when we think there is,” Grüner quoted himself, met Peter’s eyes for a moment, and then went on. “To that end, in my conversations with Major Habanzo of BIS, I have been advancing the theory that Lieutenant Frade is an OSS agent sent here to violate international law vis-à-vis the actions permitted of belligerent powers resident in a neutral country. I have suggested specifically that young Frade is here in order to cause harm to neutral vessels suspected of supplying German submarines. The BIS knows there was a team of OSS agents here with that mission.”
“Was, Herr Oberst?”
“They disappeared. No one seems to know what happened to them. They were not successful.”
“And you think that the BIS will arrange for Lieutenant Frade to similarly disappear?”
“That would be the ideal solution,” Grüner said. “But in my business—in our business, Peter—one seldom finds an ideal solution. No, I don’t think that the BIS will cause Lieutenant Frade to disappear. What I am hoping is that Oberst Frade will soon learn from his friends within the BIS that the BIS believes his son is an OSS agent sent here to cause damage to our replenishment vessel.”
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