Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Can you do that?” von Tresmarck’s voice came metallically over the intercom. “Take your hands off the controls?”

  “For a few seconds,” Peter replied. By then he had both his hands and his feet back on the controls. In that moment, he decided he would not cause the engine to backfire, or initiate maneuvers that would put von Tresmarck’s stomach into a tighter knot than it already was in.

  He remembered a whipping his father had given him when he was nine or ten. He had been cruelly teasing a retarded boy from the village. His father had seen him, grabbed his arm, and marched him all the way up the hill to the Schloss. There he had taken him into the tack room of the stable, bent him over, and had at his bare bottom with a quirt. Half a dozen lashes, several of which broke the skin, all of which were painful.

  And all he said was, “A gentleman, Hansel, does not take advantage of someone who cannot defend himself.”

  The poor bastard in the backseat is frightened. And with good reason. It might well be decided in Berlin that he was the source of the information that resulted in the deaths of Goltz and Grüner. And of the three of us, he is the most expendable, and he must know that. Gradny-Sawz has many highly placed Nazi friends, and no reason to betray Operation Phoenix. They might in the end decide that I’m expendable, but not before they think long and hard about the cost. It will be difficult—which does not mean impossible—to tell Hitler that the son of Generalleutnant von Wachtstein, an officer around whose neck he had himself hung the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, was suspected of treason. It would be much easier to lay the blame on an SS officer, who, it had recently been learned, was a deviate.

  “Inge likes you.” Von Tresmarck’s voice came over the intercom. “I can tell.”

  “And I like Frau von Tresmarck,” Peter said. “A charming lady.”

  “There is a great difference in our ages,” von Tresmarck said. “And, frankly, we have our problems. She, of course, misses Berlin and the young people. There aren’t very many young people around Montevideo…suitable young people. She was so pleased when you took her to dinner.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Peter said.

  “When we return, I wonder if you would have the time to do it again. Perhaps, if I sent her to Buenos Aires, you could show her around. It’s a much more sophisticated city than Montevideo.”

  “It would be my pleasure, of course,” Peter said.

  Freely translated, that means, “Peter, my friend, it’s perfectly all right with me if you want to fuck my wife.”

  The Storch suddenly encountered turbulence, and the aircraft rapidly lost altitude, and then as rapidly regained it. It had just about leveled out when the engine suddenly spluttered, gave off clouds of smoke, and almost died. Then there was more turbulence.

  In the backseat, Sturmbannführer Werner von Tresmarck became airsick.

  Günther Loche and the Mercedes of the Military Attaché were waiting for them at El Palomar. “Herr Sturmbannführer, this is Günther Loche,” Peter said, “who does very fine work for the Office of the Military Attaché.”

  Günther popped to attention. “A great honor, Herr Sturmbannführer,” he said.

  “Oh, yes,” von Tresmarck said. “Major von Wachtstein has been telling me about you.”

  Is Günther really pissing his pants, or does it just look that way?

  “What we’re going to do, Günther, is drop me by the Embassy, and then, for as long as Sturmbannführer von Tresmarck is with us, you will be his driver, and otherwise make yourself as useful to him as you can.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Major.”

  “But he’s your driver, Peter,” von Tresmarck protested.

  “Rank hath its privileges, Herr Sturmbannführer,” Peter said. “Where is the Herr Sturmbannführer going to stay, Günther?”

  “At the Alvear Palace, Herr Major.”

  “When I’m in the embassy, I’ll tell Gradny-Sawz. I know he wants to see you,” Peter said.

  “And will we see each other while I’m here, Peter?”

  “That, of course, will depend on what Gradny-Sawz has planned for you, but I’m sure we will.”

  Peter’s maid, Señora Dora, was a forty-five-year-old Paraguayan Amazon who outweighed him by at least thirty pounds. As he came through the door of his apartment, she greeted him with the announcement that Señorita Carzino-Cormano had called him many times, most recently twenty minutes before, and seemed very anxious that he call her back.

  “Make some coffee, please,” Peter said.

  “Sí, Señor.”

  “And if the señorita calls again while I am in the shower, tell her that you expect me in thirty minutes.”

  “Sí, Señor.”

  He started for his bedroom, then changed his mind and headed for the laundry room, off the kitchen.

  As far as she could remember, Señora Dora had never seen the Señor Mayor go into the laundry, so she followed him there.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Señor?”

  There it is. I knew it would be here. Every laundry room in the world has a stiff brush and a bar of mostly acid yellow soap for really dirty jobs.

  When she saw what he had in his hands, Señora Dora asked, “Is there something I can wash for you, Señor?”

  “No, this is something I have to wash myself, but thank you anyway, Señora Dora.”

  He went to his bedroom and then into the bath. There he turned on the hot water, stripped off his clothing, and, taking the yellow soap and the scrub brush with him, stepped into the shower.

  When he came out five minutes later, his skin was bright red and actually felt sunburned.

  But he still felt dirty.

  Please, God, he prayed, don’t ever let Alicia find out.

  [THREE]

  Bureau of Internal Security

  Ministry of Defense

  Edificio Libertador

  Avenida Paseo Colón

  Buenos Aires

  1240 4 May 1943

  There were three telephones on the desk of Coronel Bernardo Martín. There was also a fourth in the credenza against the wall behind his desk. The fourth phone’s number was known to no more than two dozen people, and it was tested at least once a day to make sure it had not been tapped.

  It rang, and he quickly turned around, pulled open the credenza door, and reached for it. “Hola?”

  “Bernardo, this is Milton,” his caller announced.

  “And how are you, Milton?”

  “Very well, thank you. Bernardo, I have just been informed about some really fascinating buys at very good prices at Sant Elmo. Are you at all interested?”

  Sant Elmo was a neighborhood not far from El Bocha where a number of dealers in antiques, silver, old books, and things of that nature were located. It was usually crowded with bargain hunters, and was a good place to meet.

  “It sounds very interesting, but I’m not sure I can get away from the office.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. You could probably make a very good bargain, and I really think you’d be interested.”

  “Well, I’ll see what I can do. In any event, thank you for thinking of me.”

  “Don’t be silly. What are friends for?”

  Forty-five minutes later, Martín spotted Milton Leibermann, sitting over a cup of coffee, in a café on the Plaza de Sant Elmo.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” Martín said. “May I join you?”

  “Of course,” Leibermann said.

  Martín pulled up a small chair and, when the waiter appeared, ordered a café cortado.

  Leibermann slid a three-by-five-inch filing card across the table.

  * * *

  GENERALMAJOR MANFRED VON DEITZBERG

  (HIMMLER’S ADJUTANT, ACTUALLY SS-OBERFÜHRER)

  DEPUT
Y FOREIGN MINISTER GEORG VON LÖWZER.

  STANDARTENFÜHRER ERICH RASCHNER

  WILL BE ON NEXT LUFTHANSA FLIGHT, PROBABLY IN 72 HOURS OR LESS

  KORVETTENKAPITÄN KARL BOLTITZ, WORKS FOR CANARIS, WILL FOLLOW, TO BECOME NAVAL ATTACHÉ. DON’T KNOW WHEN.

  * * *

  “What’s this all about, Milton?” Martín asked, slipping the filing card into his pocket.

  “Argentina’s a beautiful country. They may be tourists. Or they may be here to eat. I understand there’s a growing food shortage where they’re coming from.”

  “How good is this information?”

  Leibermann held out his balled fist, thumb extended upward. “You can take it to the bank, Bernardo,” he said.

  “And if you had to make a guess, why would you say they’re coming here?”

  “I don’t know if this is true or not, but I’ve heard that the German Military Attaché left for home under somewhat mysterious circumstances.”

  “I’ve heard that myself,” Martín said, and smiled. “And what can I do for you, Milton?”

  “Odd that you should ask, my friend. As you know, I’m very interested in photography. If, wandering around Sant Elmo, you should happen to come across some photographs of interesting faces…”

  “I’ll see what I can do, Milton.”

  “It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, Bernardo.”

  Martín reached into his pocket for money to pay for the coffee.

  Leibermann stopped him. “My pleasure, Bernardo.”

  “You’re very kind. Are we still on for Saturday?”

  “Oh, I’m glad you brought that up. No. I have been invited to a wedding.”

  “In the country?”

  Leibermann nodded.

  “Well, if it’s the same wedding I’m thinking of, perhaps I’ll see you there.”

  “That would be nice, Bernardo.”

  On the way back to his office, Bernardo had an unpleasant thought. The Military Attaché of the German Embassy, the late Coronel Karl-Heinz Grüner, had as a gesture of friendship given two Leica I-C cameras, together with a wide assortment of lenses and other accessories, to the Bureau of Internal Security. It was entirely possible that the former chief of the BIS, el Almirante Francisco de Montoya, had considered at least one of the camera sets as a personal gift and taken it with him when he had been retired.

  When he reached the Edificio Libertador, he was greatly relieved to find both camera sets in a locked cabinet.

  Within two hours, they had been set up at El Palomar.

  [FOUR]

  El Palomar Air Field

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  1545 5 May 1943

  “Mi Coronel,” the senior control tower operator said to el Coronel Bernardo Martín, Chief of the Ethical Standards Office of the Bureau of Internal Security, “the Lufthansa flight reports they are fifteen minutes from the field.”

  “Muchas gracias,” Martín replied. He was wearing a brown tweed sports jacket, gray flannel trousers, and the necktie of St. George’s School, where he had received his secondary education (as had his father). He had been at the Monthly Old Boys Association Luncheon at Claridge’s Hotel before coming out to El Palomar.

  The food, as usual, had been very nice, but it had been otherwise a sad occasion. He had known two (and possibly three) of the four Anglo-Argentine Old Boys who had died for King and Country during the past month.

  He looked around the control tower, then out its plate-glass window. Everything was in place and ready. In the control tower itself was a Leica I-C 35mm camera, equipped with a telephoto lens and mounted on a tripod. A 1939 Ford panel truck was parked on the grass beside the tarmac where Lufthansa Flight 102 would soon be parked. A crew of workmen were standing by a ditch working on the electrical line that ran to the lights along the runway. Inside the truck, another photographer with another Leica I-C would photograph everyone coming down the stairs after it rolled up to the aircraft.

  Fifteen minutes later, a very long, very slender, very graceful four-engine aircraft dropped out of the sky and lined up with the runway. The Focke-Wulf 200B Condor, first flown in 1937, was a twenty-six-seat passenger airplane, powered by four 870-HP BMW engines, and had been built for Lufthansa, the German airline. A military modification, the 200C, turned the aircraft into an armed, long-range reconnaissance plane/bomber.

  To Martín, the Lufthansa Condor looked something like the American Douglas DC-3, particularly in the nose. It was painted black on the top of the fuselage, and off-white on the bottom. On the vertical stabilizer and on the rear of the fuselage were red swastikas, outlined in white.

  It touched smoothly down, rolled to the end of the runway, then turned and taxied back to the terminal, where a ground crew waved it into a space near the 1939 Ford panel truck.

  As it approached the terminal, a group of people came out of the terminal building. Martín recognized only two of them, First Secretary Anton Gradny-Sawz, and the acting Military Attaché, Major von Wachtstein. “Get those people waiting for the airplane,” Martín ordered.

  “Sí, mi Coronel,” the photographer replied.

  He hoped the photographer in the truck would have enough sense to also take their pictures.

  Movable stairs were rolled up to the airplane, and in a moment the door opened and people began to descend.

  At this point, Martín thought, both cameras will suffer mechanical problems. Meaning first that I won’t have pictures of these Nazis to distribute to my men or give to Milton Leibermann, and then that Milton will be justifiably suspicious when I tell him, sorry, we didn’t get any pictures.

  The first down the stairs was a plump little man in his forties wearing a mussed black suit. He was carrying a leather briefcase.

  That has to be Löwzer, the Deputy Foreign Minister.

  Next was a tall, slim, well-dressed blond man.

  Manfred von Deitzberg, Martín decided. Himmler’s adjutant? I wonder how Milton knew that? I also wonder how Milton knew these people were coming, and even when. Has he got someone in the German Embassy? Or was their arrival announced over RCA, and intercepted by the OSS, and they told him?

  And am I going to tell General Obregon that this man is Himmler’s adjutant? He thinks Himmler is a great man.

  Not now. Until I can verify that fact, it’s unsubstantiated. I can always say I either didn’t know or wasn’t sure, and therefore did not think I should include it in my report.

  A middle-aged woman, followed by a man who was probably her husband, came down next.

  Who the hell are they?

  I’ll have the manifest. I can find out.

  The next person to appear was a short, stocky man in a tight dark-blue suit. He stopped in the doorway for a moment and looked around before coming down the stairs.

  That man is a policeman. He had a careful look around. Policemen always look around a room as they enter it, and getting off an airplane is like entering a room. That has to be Sturmbannführer Erich Raschner.

  Confirmation came immediately. Once Raschner had reached the foot of the stairway, Gradny-Sawz marched up to the three men and gave the Nazi salute. Von Wachtstein, three steps behind him, repeated the gesture. They all shook hands, and then Gradny-Sawz gestured for them to proceed to the terminal building.

  One of the immigration officers, also one of Martín’s men, was under instructions to take their passports into a room where a camera was waiting to photograph them, if he could do so without causing any suspicion. There was often useful information on passports besides place and date of birth, and even those were sometimes useful.

  Martín walked across the control tower to look out the window that gave a view of the terminal parking lot. Three Mercedeses with CD plates, two small ones and a larger one—presumably Ambassador Von Lut
zenberger’s—were parked illegally right in front of the entrance.

  It was five minutes before any of the Germans came out of the building and got in the cars. Löwzer and Gradny-Sawz stepped into the larger Mercedes, von Deitzberg and von Wachtstein got into one of the smaller cars, and Raschner and a chubby forty-year-old, with a mustache like Hitler’s, got into the third.

  Who’s he? He’s obviously important enough to be out here to meet Löwzer and von Deitzberg. But he’s not with the German Embassy here; I know all their faces, if not their names. Maybe a Germano-Argentine? I thought I knew all of them, at least the Nazis, at least the important Nazis.

  Maybe Milton can tell me.

  Does who got in which car establish the pecking order? Löwzer is more important than von Deitzberg, and gets to ride in the big car? But is a deputy foreign minister more important than Himmler’s adjutant? I don’t think so. A major general is less important than a deputy foreign minister, and for some reason Himmler’s adjutant wants people to think he’s a major general. Why?

  Martín turned away from the window and faced the photographer, who was still taking pictures of people around the Condor. “Stay here another thirty minutes to make sure no one else gets off the airplane,” Martín ordered. “Then—you personally—develop that film, and make three sets of large prints.”

  “Sí, mi Coronel.”

  “Bring them, and the negatives, to my office. I’ll probably be there. If I am not, give them to Suboficial Mayor José Cortina.”

  “Sí, mi Coronel.”

  [FIVE]

  “I have something for you, von Wachtstein,” von Deitzberg said as they drove down Avenida Libertador. He reached into his jacket pocket and came out with an envelope. It bore the embossed crest of the von Wachtstein family. “I was at Wolfsschanze just before we left,” von Deitzberg went on, “and stopped by to see your father. He asked me to give you that.”

  “The Herr General is very kind,” Peter said. He put the envelope in his pocket.