Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  Of course, come to think of it, it is entirely possible that von Deitzberg’s primary mission might be to make sure the next attempt to smuggle the “special cargo” into Argentina is successful. Despite what the message said.

  Speculation is useless. I will know what they are after only after they arrive.

  He looked up at Fräulein Hassell. “Ingebord, is Herr Gradny-Sawz in the Embassy?”

  “Not yet, Sir. The First Secretary normally arrives at nine.”

  “And Major von Wachtstein?”

  “The Herr Major will probably come at the same time, Excellency.”

  “As soon as they find time to come to work, would you ask them to see me immediately, Ingebord?”

  “Jawohl, Excellency.”

  Fraülein Hässell left the Ambassador’s office and immediately telephoned Peter von Wachtstein. He sounded sleepy when he answered, as if he had just gotten up or was still in bed.

  She told him the Ambassador wanted to see him immediately.

  She liked the young Pomeranian. She did not like First Secretary Gradny-Sawz, and did not telephone his apartment.

  [TWO]

  Anton von Gradny-Sawz arrived at five minutes to nine. He was forty-five, tall, almost handsome (with a full head of luxuriant reddish-brown hair), and somewhat overweight (von Lutzenberger privately thought of him as Die grosse Wienerwurst—the Big Vienna Sausage).

  As he stepped into von Lutzenberger’s office, he raised his right arm at the elbow. “Heil Hitler,” he said. “Good morning, Excellency.”

  Von Lutzenberger returned the salute and the greeting.

  Converts to National Socialism, von Lutzenberger thought, are something like converts to Catholicism: more Catholic than the Pope.

  “We have heard from Berlin, Anton,” von Lutzenberger said, handing him the message. “Read this while we wait for von Wachtstein.”

  “They want us in Berlin,” Gradny-Sawz said as he was reading the message.

  Figured that out by yourself, did you?

  “I suggested that either you or I might be helpful to explain what happened in Berlin,” von Lutzenberger said. “They apparently feel that you could do that best. You and von Wachtstein. I have no idea what von Tresmarck—”

  He interrupted himself. “Ah, there you are, von Wachtstein.”

  Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein (whom von Lutzenberger often thought could have been a model for an SS recruiting poster) gave a crisp Nazi salute, his right arm fully extended.

  “Heil Hitler!” he barked.

  Von Lutzenberger returned the salute.

  “When you’re through with that, Anton,” he said, “let von Wachtstein see it.” He turned to von Wachtstein. “Two questions, Peter. How soon can you fly to Montevideo? And how much luggage can you carry in that little airplane of yours?”

  “There is room for one small suitcase behind the passenger’s seat, Excellency.”

  “That’s all?”

  “The passenger might be able to hold a larger suitcase on his lap, Excellency, but it would not be comfortable.”

  “Here you are, Peter,” Gradny-Sawz said, handing him the message. He then added, “That’s a nice suit. New?”

  “Thank you, Herr Baron,” von Wachtstein said. “Yes, it is. Señor Duarte introduced me to his tailor.”

  “You’ll have to give me his name,” Gradny-Sawz said.

  “Of course,” von Wachtstein said, then read the message.

  It was what he had expected, and he had steeled himself for the official notice.

  Being prepared did no good. He felt a pain in his stomach.

  I don’t think Gradny-Sawz believes I have any responsibility for what happened on the beach, and von Lutzenberger has done what he could to reinforce that belief. Or is that just wishful thinking?

  Von Tresmarck doesn’t have any reason to think I’m involved, either, but he is going to start shitting his pants when the SS questions him. He’s lost Goltz as his protector. If they start suggesting that I had some responsibility, he’ll go along with anything they say, just so long as it diverts attention from him.

  And not only because of what happened on the beach: He doesn’t want to wind up in Sachsenhausen with a pink triangle pinned to his shirt. (Homosexuals in concentration camps were required to wear a pink triangle.)

  “I want you to go to Montevideo and bring von Tresmarck here,” von Lutzenberger said, “as soon as possible. I don’t know when the Condor will arrive, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it is already en route.”

  “Jawohl, Excellency.

  “How soon can you leave?”

  Von Wachtstein looked at his wristwatch. “With a little luck, Excellency, I could probably make it over there and back today, Sir.”

  “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough for your return,” von Lutzenberger said. “Von Tresmarck will need time to settle his affairs and pack. I’m going to give you a note to Ambassador Schulker, explaining all this.”

  “All this, Excellency?” Gradny-Sawz asked.

  “So much of all this, Anton, as pertains to bringing von Tresmarck here for the flight to Berlin.” He turned to von Wachtstein again. “Could you put him up, Peter? Or shall I arrange a hotel room for him?”

  “There’s plenty of room in my apartment, sir, and I would be happy to put him up. But it might be awkward vis-à-vis the Duartes.”

  “How so?”

  “I am often invited to dine with the Duartes, and I’m not sure their invitations would include him.”

  “Anton?” von Lutzenberger asked.

  Gradny-Sawz didn’t reply for a moment. He was always very careful when asked for an opinion. “My first reaction, Excellency,” he finally said, “if you agree, is that von Wachtstein’s relationship with the Duartes is so important—”

  “Vis-à-vis Operation Phoenix, you mean, Anton?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe the Anglo-Argentine Bank can be very useful to us in carrying out Operation Phoenix. And Humberto Duarte is Managing Director of the Anglo-Argentine Bank.” (In Argentine business, managing directors carried out the functions of presidents in American business.)

  “Yes,” von Lutzenberger said. “We wouldn’t want them to think we were forcing anyone on them, would we—particularly an SS officer?”

  “Not, I respectfully suggest, Excellency, if we can avoid that by putting up von Tresmarck in a hotel.”

  Von Lutzenberger appeared to be thinking that over. He wanted Gradny-Sawz to remember (in case he was asked by either von Löwzer, von Deitzberg, or Boltitz) that it was he who had recommended that von Tresmarck stay in a hotel rather than in von Wachtstein’s apartment. “I think you are probably right, Anton,” he said finally. “Put him in a good hotel—the Alvear, if you can. Or the Plaza.”

  “I’ll see to it, Excellency,” Gradny-Sawz said.

  “And what, Herr Baron,” von Wachtstein asked, “should I tell Sturmbannführer von Tresmarck?”

  Gradny-Sawz again looked uncomfortable.

  Von Wachtstein pressed the issue. “He’s sure to ask, Herr Baron,” he added reasonably.

  “I would think, wouldn’t you, Excellency,” Gradny-Sawz finally replied, “that there would be little harm in telling von Tresmarck that the three of us are being summoned to Berlin to assist both the Foreign Ministry and the SS in their evaluation of the unfortunate events on the beach?”

  “Tell him, von Wachtstein,” von Lutzenberger said, “that all you know is that you’re all being sent to Berlin, and that it self-evidently has something to do with ‘the unfortunate events on the beach.’”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “How soon can you leave, Peter?” von Lutzenberger asked.

  “It’ll take me an hour, maybe a little longer, to drive to my apartme
nt, pack a small bag, and get out to El Palomar,” von Wachtstein said. “When I flew it over the weekend, the Storch had a little compass problem, but that should have been taken care of by now….”

  “Where did you go over the weekend?” Gradny-Sawz asked.

  “I made a small training flight, to keep up my piloting skills, Herr Baron, and just coincidentally found myself over Estancia Santo Catalina, where, by another coincidence, Señor and Señora Duarte happened to be.”

  “Good for you!” Gradny-Sawz said. “And was there a chance to discuss investments?”

  “I didn’t want to be too obvious, Herr Baron. I share your opinion that it is a delicate relationship that must be carefully nurtured.”

  “Make sure you pay your respects before we go to Berlin.”

  “Of course, Herr Baron.”

  “You said something about a compass problem with the aircraft?” von Lutzenberger asked.

  “A minor problem, Excellency. Probably a loose wire or corroded terminals. It should be repaired by now.”

  “Don’t be too sure. This is Argentina,” von Lutzenberger said.

  Von Wachtstein chuckled, then went on: “At the very latest, I should clear Argentine customs and immigration, and get off the ground, by one-thirty or two o’clock. It’s an hour, or a little more, to Montevideo, depending on the winds.”

  “Make sure the airplane is in perfect condition, von Wachtstein,” von Lutzenberger said. “I really would rather not have to tell Berlin that you have disappeared into the Río Plate.”

  “I will make very sure it is as safe to fly as possible, Sir.”

  “If I can get through by telephone to Ambassador Schulker, I’ll tell him to have someone waiting for you at the airport from two-thirty,” von Lutzenberger said.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Give me a minute to dictate a note to Fräulein Hassell, and then you can be on your way.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Have Loche follow you to your apartment and then take you out to the field,” von Lutzenberger ordered. “Then you won’t have to leave your car out there.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Sir,” Peter said, and left the office, hoping that no one—especially the Big Sausage (as he, too, thought of him)—had sensed his annoyance with the Ambassador’s kindly gesture. The last thing he wanted right now was Günther Loche breathing down his neck.

  Günther, a muscular, crew-cut-blond twenty-two-year-old, was an ethnic German—he had been born in Argentina to German immigrant parents and was an Argentine citizen—who was employed by the German Embassy as driver to the Military Attaché.

  He—and his parents—saw Adolf Hitler as the greatest man of the twentieth century, and National Socialism as the hope of mankind. From the moment Günther had first seen von Wachtstein, he knew he had found his idol in life, a Luftwaffe fighter pilot who had received the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross from the hands of the Führer himself.

  Günther’s worship had been bad enough when he had been Grüner’s driver, but it was worse now that Grüner had nobly given his life for the Fatherland (which Günther had never seen) and the Herr Major Freiherr was acting as Military Attaché.

  If I let him, Peter thought, he would sleep on the rug outside my bedroom door, like an Alsatian.

  Peter had to tell Cletus Frade about the message from Germany, and having Günther around was going to complicate that.

  Peter walked down the corridor from von Lutzenberger’s office to his own, mentally repeating von Deitzberg–Raschner–von Löwzer–Boltitz; von Deitzberg–Raschner–von Löwzer–Boltitz; von Deitzberg–Raschner–von Löwzer–Boltitz, over and over.

  Günther was sitting in a chair in the corridor outside Grüner’s office—now temporarily Peter’s. He stood up when he saw Peter, coming almost to attention. “Guten morgen, Herr Major Freiherr,” he said.

  Peter smiled and held up his hand to signal him to wait. He went into his office, sat down at Grüner’s desk, and quickly scribbled “von Deitzberg–Raschner–von Löwzer—Boltitz” on a notepad.

  He exhaled audibly in relief that his concentration had not been broken. Then he tore off the sheet of paper, as well as the eight sheets beneath it, folded them, and put them in his pocket.

  “Günther!”

  Günther appeared immediately. “Yes, Sir?”

  “In five minutes, I will drive my car to my apartment and pack a small bag,” Peter announced. “You will then drive me to El Palomar.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Major.”

  “Tomorrow, you will be at El Palomar at eleven o’clock to meet me when I return.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Major.”

  “I may be delayed by unforeseen circumstances. If I am, I will attempt to leave word at the embassy. If I am not at El Palomar by one o’clock, you will call the embassy and see if there is any word from me. If there is not, you will call the embassy every hour to see if I have called. If I have not, you may leave El Palomar at dark. You understand?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Major Freiherr,” Günther said, and waited for further orders.

  “Now you may either drive to my apartment now, and wait for me, or follow me there when I’m finished here. Whichever you prefer.”

  Günther looked uncomfortable. “Whichever the Herr Major would prefer for me to do, Herr Major.”

  “Then go now. Then we won’t have to worry about losing one another in traffic.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Major,” Günther said. He clicked his heels, raised his hand in salute, and barked, “Heil Hitler!”

  “Heil Hitler!” Peter repeated, and returned the salute crisply.

  Is there something in the German character that makes us happy to receive orders—the more detailed, the better—and to comply with them precisely and without question? And, on the other hand, makes us uncomfortable when a decision is required?

  When Günther had closed the door behind him, Peter took the sheets of notepaper from his jacket pocket, and then filled in the first names and ranks and titles and associations.

  Then he composed his message to Cletus.

  * * *

  2 May 10 am

  Bagman, sausage and I ordered to Berlin on next Lufthansa flight, probably within 72 hours. Condor will bring here SS Oberführer Manfred von Deitzberg in uniform of Army General Staff Generalmajor, Standartenführer Erich Raschner, and Deputy Foreign Minister Georg von Löwzer. Korvettenkapitän Karl Boltitz, Abwehr, will follow later to be Naval Attaché. Hope to see you soon.

  Fritz.

  * * *

  He read it carefully to make sure it contained everything, then smiled, wondering what quaintly American code names Clete would assign to the newcomers.

  “Bagman” was von Tresmarck, a reference to his function as the man taking money to ransom Jews from concentration camps; Clete had told him it was American slang for a gangster collecting bribes. Because he had told Cletus that von Lutzenberger called Gradny-Sawz “Die Grosse Wienerwurst,” he was “Sausage.” He had signed himself “Fritz,” not only because that’s what Cletus called him when he was angry, but also because his official code name, “Galahad,” made him uncomfortable.

  Sir Galahad, an honorable knight, had lived by the code of chivalry. His name seemed inappropriate for an officer who was consciously betraying his oath of allegiance and his country.

  Günther was waiting outside his apartment, standing by the Embassy Mercedes, obviously relishing the right Corps Diplomatique license plates gave him to ignore the No Parking signs on Avenida Pueyrredón.

  Peter parked his own car in the basement garage, climbed the stairs to the lobby, and motioned through the plate-glass lobby window for Günther to wait for him, then rode the elevator to his apartment.

  He quickly packed a uniform—he didn’t think he would need it, bu
t you never could tell—and a change of linen in a small bag. Then he went into the kitchen and took from a cabinet a small, cheap, patent-leather purse still in its original box. From another cabinet he took a three-inch-wide roll of bright red ribbon with waving rows of sequins glued on it.

  He went back to his bedroom, opened the purse, and inserted the sheets of notepaper, then two large open-ended wrenches. He closed the purse, then ripped off a fifteen-foot length from the roll of sequined ribbon, wrapped it firmly around the purse, and tied it. Next he took a flight suit from a hanger in his closet and, not without difficulty, managed to stuff the purse into the pocket on the lower right leg.

  He picked up his small satchel, draped the flight suit over his arm, and started to leave the apartment; but then he remembered he had not left a note telling the maid he would be out of town overnight.

  To hell with it. I’ll have Günther come back here and tell her. It will give him something to do.

  Günther saw him getting off the elevator and almost ran into the lobby to carry the Herr Major’s luggage.

  When he reached for the flight suit, Peter told him he would take it himself.

  Then he got in the backseat. Günther closed the door, slid behind the wheel, and started for the airfield.

  An hour later, Peter sat in the Feiseler Storch at the threshold of El Palomar’s Runway Three Six, now wearing the flight suit over his shirt and trousers. The suit jacket was with the satchel, strapped to the backseat.

  He was about to tell El Palomar he was rolling, when he remembered the purse. Getting it out of the pocket in the air would be a bitch.

  After another struggle, he managed to tug it loose. He then rolled the red sequined tape into a neat tube and fastened everything to his lap with the seat belt. He picked up the microphone. “El Palomar, German Embassy One rolling,” he called in Spanish. He shoved the throttle forward, and the Storch began to move. There was no need to worry about the flaps. He had all the runway he needed.