“I don’t think I understand, Herr Oberst.”
Grüner didn’t respond to the question.
“The new replenishment vessel is here,” he went on. “At anchor in the Bay of Samborombón, within Argentina’s territorial waters. It arrived several days ago.”
“Herr Oberst, you’re moving too fast for me.”
“Bear with me. It would be ideal for us if Lieutenant Frade is in fact an OSS agent. As I said, I doubt that is the case. But if he were, he would get on with his mission of trying to cause damage to our U-boat replenishment vessel. That attempt would be doomed to failure. The ship is thirty-odd kilometers offshore; and it is moved five or ten kilometers every day or so. It is armed. It is highly unlikely that Lieutenant Frade could even find it, and no way that he and his men could come close to it.”
Peter was now wholly confused.
“Unfortunately, I’m afraid, the impossibility of harming our ship will be evident to him. They already lost one team trying to damage the last one. So he won’t try it. And that leaves him in place to do what I believe he is really here for, to influence his father.”
“May I ask a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Why don’t the Americans simply sink our boat with their Navy?”
“Our ship,” Grüner corrected him. “For propaganda purposes. When the British damaged the Graf Spee, they were very careful not to violate Uruguayan and Argentinean territorial waters or Uruguayan and Argentinean neutrality. This paid off in enormous goodwill for them. We Germans were regarded as the aggressors, the violators of neutrality. The Americans follow the English lead in most things diplomatic; they are not going to ignore that lesson of history.”
“I understand,” Peter said. “I understand that, Sir. But…”
“How do we remove Lieutenant Frade?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Speaking hypothetically, Peter. Perhaps a tragic auto accident…Or burglars might kill him in his home…”
Good God, he is talking about having Clete assassinated!
“Could that be accomplished without causing suspicion?”
“I’m sure it could be,” Grüner said matter-of-factly. “Argentina has a criminal element who could teach our criminals a lesson or two. And they relish violence. But hypothetically speaking, of course, a lack of public interest in Lieutenant Frade’s removal might not be as much in Germany’s interest as widespread public attention.”
Grüner looked at Peter for his reaction, was apparently satisfied with what he saw, and went on: “For example, if on the day after tomorrow—the day after the funeral of his heroic cousin, Hauptmann Duarte—Lieutenant Frade were found in his bed, with his throat cut, with ‘death to godless communists and their allies’ written in soap on his dresser mirror…”
You’re not just talking assassination, Herr Oberst. Murder. You’re talking about brutal, cold-blooded murder!
“…that would certainly get in the newspapers. Even in the Gottverdammte Buenos Aires Herald,” Grüner said.
“Oberst Frade won’t believe it.”
“It doesn’t matter if he does or not.”
He looked at Peter, and Peter understood that he expected approval, perhaps even enthusiastic approval.
“May I ask two questions, Herr Oberst?”
“Of course.”
“Hypothetically, of course.”
“Of course.”
“If this were to happen, wouldn’t Oberst Frade suspect something?”
“He is a very intelligent man. I’m sure he would.”
“And, Herr Oberst, wouldn’t he hate us for killing his son?”
“Yes, of course he would hate us. And yes, he is a powerful man. But according to my information, he does not at this point absolutely control the G.O.U. And his power would be weakened when the word spread that his son was an OSS agent.”
But, goddamn you, you don’t know that he is!
What’s the difference? The interests of Germany require that Clete be “removed.” This is simply a way of accomplishing that “removal” in the most efficacious way.
“Even though the other members of the G.O.U. would sympathize with Oberst Frade’s loss, they would still question whether Frade had a connection with the Americans that he has concealed from them. Oberst Frade has too much invested in the G.O.U. to risk losing his influence there. That means he must minimize his relationship with his son…and thus with the Americans. Like you and me, Peter, and like Willi, he is a soldier. He knows that one most accept one’s losses and get on with the mission.”
“Herr Oberst, I’m flattered, but more than a little surprised that you have taken me into your confidence.”
“This was just a hypothetical discussion, Peter. And, hypothetically, don’t you think that a man in my position can safely trust a man who comes from a distinguished military lineage? Who has risked his life for my son? And who wears the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross as proof of his dedication to Germany?”
“I will try to prove myself worthy of your confidence, Herr Oberst.”
I didn’t get the goddamned Knight’s Cross for cold-blooded murder. And part of my distinguished military heritage includes a concept of honor.
“I’m sure you will, Peter.”
“May I infer, Herr Oberst—hypothetically—that Ambassador von Lutzenberger is not aware of your plans?”
“He is not. But he will approve ex post facto. He has nothing to lose.”
But my friend Clete does.
“One final hypothetical question, Herr Oberst?”
“One final question.”
“Can you trust the people you mentioned to carry out the plan?”
“To carry out my instructions? Absolutely. I pay them well, and they are violent men. Do I trust them? Absolutely not. After they do what they have been hired to do, they will leave Buenos Aires for Paraguay. I have given them the address of a hotel in Encarnación, a small town just across the border, where they expect to take a holiday until things calm down here in Buenos Aires. In fact, others will meet them there; and that is the last anyone will ever see of them.”
Two more murders. Maybe three, or even four. You are a cold-blooded bastard, aren’t you, Herr Oberst?
“I am really not qualified to judge a plan like this, Herr Oberst,” Peter said. “But for what it’s worth, it seems to me you have covered every contingency.”
[TWO]
Suite 701
The Alvear Palace Hotel
Buenos Aires
0915 19 December 1942
In response to the fifteenth or twentieth ring of the telephone on the table beside his bed, Hauptmann Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein finally sat up abruptly and answered it.
“Buenos días, Señor,” an outrageously courteous, infuriatingly cheerful female voice came over the line. “It is nine o’clock, Señor.”
“Gracias,” Peter said, picking up a stainless-steel-cased wristwatch from the bedside table and with some effort focusing his eyes on it. It informed him that it was not nine, but 09:15:40.
“I will require immediately a pot of coffee,” he ordered. The way his tongue felt, like a North African desert, he was surprised that he could speak at all.
“I will connect you with Room Service, Señor. Un momento, por favor.”
He looked at the watch again as he replaced it on the bedside table. It was a U.S. government-issue Hamilton chronograph identical to the one he had spotted on the wrist of Lieutenant Cletus Frade of the flying service of the Corps of U.S. Marines, who would have his throat cut tonight.
This Hamilton had been issued to the pilot of a U.S. Army Air Corps B-26 Peter shot down over Cherbourg. An Abwehr Hauptmann showed up at the squadron’s officers’ mess the same night and announced that Peter’s brilliant aerial victory—having been witnessed by three reliable spectators—was confirmed and made a matter of official record; and the Hauptmann thought the Hauptmann Freiherr might like the watch as a souvenir (the
Hauptmann took it from the pilot during interrogation).
Peter did not immediately reply. He was a little drunk at the time, but sober enough to recognize the foolhardiness of lecturing an Abwehr captain—who goddamned well should have known it—that stealing from prisoners of war was not only a violation of the Geneva Convention, but a pretty goddamned dishonorable thing for an officer to do.
“And where is the prisoner now, Herr Hauptmann?”
“He has been taken to the Central Detention Facility outside Paris, Herr Hauptmann Freiherr. At Senlis.”
“And do you happen to have this officer’s name, Herr Hauptmann?”
“Not at the moment, Herr Hauptmann Freiherr,” the asshole replied, and then the confusion on his face was replaced by comprehension. “Of course, I should have thought of that myself. It will have more meaning to you if you know his name. I will find it for you.”
It will also permit me to return this officer’s watch to him, preferably in person, together with an apology from one officer to another for the shameful behavior of an asshole wearing a German officer’s uniform.
“I would be very grateful, Herr Hauptmann.”
“My great pleasure, Herr Hauptmann Freiherr.”
I never got the poor bastard’s watch back to him. When the Abwehr asshole never sent me his name, I just kept it. Good watch. I’m glad I wasn’t wearing it when I met Cletus. He wouldn’t have understood.
Yeah, Cletus would have understood.
And what the hell am I going to do about Cletus? Simply sit around with my finger in my ass waiting for Herr Oberst Grüner to happily inform me that his Argentine gangsters have followed his neat little Operational Plan and cut Clete’s throat?
“Buenos días, Room Service.”
“This is Señor von Wachtstein in 701. Will you send up a pot of coffee, please? Right away?” He looked at the Hamilton chronograph again. “How long will that take?”
“I will have it there within half an hour, Señor.”
That means an hour. I don’t have an hour. Goddamn it!
“Forget it, thank you just the same.”
He hung up, then walked quickly to the bathroom and stood under the cold shower for five minutes. Then he shaved, cutting himself twice in the process, put on his winter dress uniform, and left his suite.
In the elevator, he felt woozy.
I have to put something in my stomach, or I will be one of those poor bastards that fall on their face during the ceremony. Wasn’t there a restaurant in the lobby?
There was, in a wide corridor to his right when he stepped off the elevator. He walked to it, found a small table, and sat down. He looked around for a waiter. Several of them were standing near a buffet table. He finally managed to attract one’s attention.
“Coffee, por favor, and a pastry of some kind.”
“Señor,” the waiter said. “It is a buffet. Complimentary to guests of the hotel. Señor is a guest?”
“Yes, of course I am,” Peter replied, and took a closer look at the buffet. A line of prosperous-looking people were there. A man inclined his head toward him and smiled. And another did the same.
What the hell is that all about? Oh, hell, of course. These people are here for the funeral, and they are being charming to the young man whose dress uniform and Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross tell them he is the man who brought poor Whatsisname’s body home for burial.
Peter smiled and nodded back.
Do I have that goddamned thing on right?
He looked down at his chest. He didn’t have the goddamned thing on at all.
“Señor,” the waiter asked. “Would you be so kind as to give me your name and room number?”
Peter looked at him.
He reached in his pocket and came out with money.
“I am Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein,” he said. “I am now going to my room, Number 701, where I forgot something. When I return, if there is a glass of orange juice and a coffee cup with a double cognac in it on this table, this is yours.”
“It will be my great pleasure,” the waiter said with a smile.
Why the hell not? He works in a hotel. I am not the first painfully hung-over guest he has seen.
When he returned with his Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross in its proper place on his uniform and walked as straight as he could to the table, even more people smiled at him.
And there was a large glass of orange juice on the table, plus a glass of soda water, and a coffee cup filled to the brim with a dark substance that was not coffee.
If anyone thought it was strange that the young German officer gulped down half the orange juice, mixed the rest of it with coffee poured from his cup, gulped that down, diluted the last of the coffee with soda water, and then gulped that down, he was of course too polite to remark on it.
Three minutes after he returned to the dining room, Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein marched erectly out of the dining room, through the lobby, out the door, and turned left down Avenida Alvear toward the Duarte mansion.
A long line of people sought entrance to the mansion, many with their invitations in their hands. The line stretched from the door out onto Avenida Alvear. Mounted troopers of the Husare de Pueyrredón, already showing signs of the heat, lined the driveway, while policemen—and men in civilian clothing who looked like plainclothes policemen—kept a watchful eye on those waiting to enter the mansion.
I don’t have an invitation. I don’t suppose I need one, but I don’t think I should just go to the head of the line and announce my arrival. I’ll stand in line and see what happens.
Just inside the gate, a large, smoothly shaved man in civilian clothing eyed Peter unabashedly for a full thirty seconds, then walked toward him.
“El Capitán von Wachtstein?”
“Sí.”
“Let this gentleman pass,” the man ordered the policemen. “He is with the family.”
When Peter walked to him, he explained, “Mi Capitán, I am Enrico. If you will come with me, please, Sir, I will take you to el Coronel.”
“Gracias,” Peter said.
Enrico did not look entirely at ease in his blue business suit, and he had the somewhat stiff walk—as if on parade—of the long service sergeant.
Enrico was almost certainly Suboficial Mayor Enrico, Peter thought. Clete told me about him, an old soldier who worked for el Coronel Frade from the time el Coronel was a teniente. They are a type. For twenty-five years, my father had Oberfeldwebel Manntz running his errands, taking care of him, until Manntz’s luck ran out in Norway.
Enrico marched him past the door of the house, where people were checking invitations against a typewritten list, then through the foyer, where the late Capitán Duarte’s casket rested on a catafalque, and into a small sitting room.
“If the Capitán would be so good as to wait here, I will tell el Coronel that you have arrived.”
Enrico headed for a man wearing an ornate uniform that looked like a costume for a Viennese light opera about shenanigans in some obscure Balkan dukedom.
Jesus Christ, he realized somewhat belatedly, that’s Cletus’s father!
Beatrice Frade de Duarte, wearing a black silk dress, a hat with a veil, and a single strand of enormous pearls, saw him first. She came quickly across the room, took his arm, and led him into the presence of Cletus’s father.
“Capitán von Wachtstein,” she said, as if they were at a dress ball, “may I present my brother, el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade?”
“A sus órdenes, mi Coronel,” Peter said, then clicked his heels and bowed, which caused him to feel alarmingly light-headed.
“Capitán von Wachtstein is the officer who brought Jorge home, Jorge,” Señora de Duarte said.
“So I have been informed,” el Coronel Frade said. “Might I have a word with you, Capitán?”
“Of course, mi Coronel.”
Frade took his arm and led him out of the foyer down a corridor into the kitchen. He went to a refrigerator, to
ok out a lemon, sliced it into thirds, and handed one of the thirds to Peter.
“If you eat the whole thing, skin and all, it will probably mask the fumes of the cognac,” Frade said.
Oh, shit!
“Apologies are in order. I extend them. And I thank you,” Peter said, and put the piece of lemon in his mouth, chewed it, and swallowed it.
“I cannot ask an apology from you for doing exactly what I have been doing,” Frade said. Peter looked at him in surprise. “I required the same liquid courage,” Frade went on. “If I had not arranged for the Ministry of Defense to approve my nephew’s idiot notion to go to Germany, neither of us would be here.”
What an astonishing thing to say!
“Oh damn you, Jorge, you promised!” a very striking middle-aged woman said, mingled anger and resignation in her voice. “And don’t try to tell me that lemon is for tea.”
“That is exactly what it’s for,” Frade said. “El Capitán von Wachtstein and I are about to have a cup of tea. And then I thought I would offer the Capitán a little liquid courage to help him through this…this obscene ceremony.”
“Jorge!”
“Capitán, may I present Señora Carzino-Cormano, who has the odd notion that she is entitled to treat me like a child.”
“Encantado, Señora,” Peter said, and clicked his heels and bowed again.
“If you are visibly drunk, I will never forgive you,” Claudia said to Frade, ignoring Peter.
“I am never visibly drunk.”
“Cletus just arrived,” Claudia said. “Just as you came in here.”
“The Señora, Capitán,” Frade said, “refers to my son, late Teniente of the U.S. Corps of Marines aviation service. He served with great distinction at Guadalcanal. Presumably, you have heard of Guadalcanal?”
“Jorge, my God!” Claudia protested, and turned to Peter. “You must excuse el Coronel, Capitán. He mourns the death of his nephew more than he is willing to admit.”
Honor Bound Page 44