Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Have you been to Rastenburg?” von Deitzberg asked.

  “Yes, Sir, I have.”

  “Oh, of course. That’s where the Führer gave you the Knight’s Cross, right?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Your father is in excellent health, and a valued member of the OKW,” von Deitzberg said. “And very proud of you.”

  “I am very proud my father, Herr General,” Peter said. “And I’m also in excellent health. I’m not so sure how valuable a member of the German Embassy I am.”

  “You would rather be at home, on active service, so to speak?”

  “May I speak honestly, Herr General?”

  “Of course.”

  “I am a soldier, Sir. I can only presume that my superiors have decided I can make a greater contribution to Germany here than in a cockpit. Having said that, there is a good deal to be said for being in Argentina.”

  “Well put, von Wachtstein,” von Deitzberg said. “I appreciate candor.”

  “The food is magnificent, and the women spectacular,” Peter said. “The people remind me of Hungarians. They have a zest for life.”

  “From what little I’ve seen,” von Deitzberg said, gesturing out the window as they passed the Hipódrome, “I can already see that my prejudgment of this country was in error. This is not how I envisioned South America. This is European.”

  “In many ways, Herr General, it is. When I was ordered here, I expected it would be like Spain. It’s not. It’s Argentina.”

  “That’s right, you served in Spain, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Sir. Three tours with the Condor Legion.”

  “Three?”

  “I was given the choice twice, Sir, of returning to Spain, or doing a tour in Germany teaching people how to fly.”

  “And you preferred active service to teaching?”

  “I decided that if it was my destiny to die for the Fatherland in an airplane, I would prefer to do so in a war, rather than teaching some farmer how to fly.”

  Von Deitzberg laughed. “And the women in Spain had nothing to do with it, of course?”

  “Oberstleutnant Aschenburg, my commanding officer—”

  “Dieter von und zu Aschenburg?” von Deitzberg interrupted.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “An old acquaintance. He’s now flying Condors for Lufthansa, you know.”

  “Yes, I do,” Peter said. “The Oberstleutnant used to say that in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king; and in Spain, the land of the black-haired, dark-skinned, dark-eyed male, the blue-eyed, blond-haired, fair-skinned Aryan is king.”

  “He being a blue-eyed, blond-haired, fair-skinned Pomeranian like you, right, von Wachtstein?”

  “I believe he’s Prussian, Herr General.”

  “I believe you’re right,” von Deitzberg said.

  “We’re almost there, Herr General. The Alvear Palace is two blocks down, once we reach the crest of the hill.”

  “Then it’s time we get down to business,” von Deitzberg said. “I’m going to have to talk to you, you understand, about what happened to Oberst Grüner and Standartenführer Goltz, and about what you can expect when you get to Germany.”

  “Jawohl, Herr General.”

  “But that can wait until tomorrow. What I have to do today is talk to Oberst Perón. I understand you’re friends?”

  “Sir, I am acquainted with Coronel Perón, but I don’t presume to think we’re friends.”

  “Do you think you could find him for me, present my compliments, and tell him I would consider it a great personal favor if he would receive me as soon as possible? Today?”

  “I will do my best, Herr General. Oberst Perón is now the principal assistant to the Minister of War, General Ramírez. I’ll try his office.”

  “Find him, von Wachtstein,” von Deitzberg said, firmly. “While I’m taking a shower.”

  “Jawohl, Herr General.”

  Getting el Coronel Juan Domingo Perón on the telephone was less difficult than Peter thought it would be. The number of the Ministry of War was in the telephone book, and when Peter dialed the number, gave his name, and asked to speak to Perón, the Minister was on the line thirty seconds later.

  “What can I do for you, my young friend?” Perón asked in his melodious voice.

  “Mi Coronel, I am calling to pay the compliments of Generalmajor von Deitzberg.”

  There was a pause, and the warmth was gone from Perón’s voice when he asked, “Generalmajor von Deitzberg?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I know an Oberführer von Deitzberg.”

  “Sir, I believe that Oberführer von Deitzberg has been seconded to the Wehrmacht.”

  “I see. Are you telling me he’s here, in Buenos Aires?”

  “Sí, mi Coronel. He just got off the airplane. He’s at the Alvear Plaza.”

  “Well, Mayor, please extend my compliments to Generalmajor von Deitzberg and my warmest wishes of welcome to Argentina.”

  “Si, Señor. Señor, the general asked me to tell you that he would consider it a personal service if you would receive him at your earliest convenience, preferably today.”

  There was another long pause.

  “There are questions of protocol, Mayor, as I’m sure you will understand. I would be delighted to receive the General socially, as an old friend, but I’m afraid coming here…”

  “I believe the General wishes to pay his respects as a friend, mi Coronel.”

  There was another pause.

  “I have yet to find myself a suitable apartment, Mayor. For the time being, I’m staying at the house of an old friend, at 4730 Avenida Libertador—that’s right across from the Hipódrome.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  That’s Cletus Frade’s guest house.

  “Would you please tell the General I would be pleased to receive him there, as an old friend, at, say, half past seven tonight?”

  “It will be my privilege, mi Coronel,” Peter said.

  “Socially, you understand, Mayor?”

  “Sí, mi Coronel.” The line went dead. Peter hung up and looked at the door to the bath. He could hear the shower running.

  He reached in his pocket and opened the letter from his father. It was typewritten.

  * * *

  THE FÜHRER’S HEADQUARTERS

  30 APRIL 1943

  MY DEAR SON,

  GENERALMAJOR VON DEITZBERG HAS KINDLY AGREED TO CARRY THIS TO YOU IN BUENOS AIRES. IT WILL THUS ARRIVE SOMETIME BEFORE MY LETTER OF 27 APRIL, WHICH UNFORTUNATELY DEALS WITH THE SAME SUBJECT.

  I MUST, WITH PROFOUND REGRET, INFORM YOU THAT OUR FRIEND COLONEL GRAF CLAUS VON STAUFFENBERG HAS BEEN SERIOUSLY WOUNDED WHILE SERVING WITH THE AFRIKA KORPS. AS NEAR AS I CAN PIECE THE FACTS TOGETHER, HE WAS TRAVELING IN A CAR WHICH WAS ATTACKED BY AMERICAN AIRCRAFT.

  HE HAS LOST HIS RIGHT HAND, HIS LEFT EYE, AND THE THIRD AND FOURTH FINGERS OF HIS LEFT HAND. HE WAS FLOWN FROM AFRICA TO MUNICH, AND WHEN GENERAL STABBEN AND I VISITED HIM IN HOSPITAL THERE, HE WAS REFUSING PAIN-REDUCING MEDICINE IN THE BELIEF THAT DOING SO WOULD FACILITATE HIS RETURN TO DUTY.

  I GO INTO THESE UNPLEASANT DETAILS BECAUSE I AM SURE THAT YOU WILL WISH TO WRITE TO HIM-YOU ALWAYS THOUGHT OF HIM AS AN OLDER BROTHER—TO EXPRESS YOUR BEST WISHES, AND I WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOU SAID NOTHING, IN AN ATTEMPT TO CHEER HIM UP, THAT WOULD MAKE HIM FEEL WORSE.

  I AM IN GOOD HEALTH, BELIEVE I AM DOING MY DUTY TO THE FATHERLAND, AND THINK OF YOU OFTEN.

  THE WARMEST WISHES OF YOUR FATHER, OF COURSE.

  * * *

  One hand, one eye, and fingers gone from the other hand. He’s a fucking cripple!

  Christ, Claus, I’m sorry!

  Sonofabitch!

  “Shit,” Peter said a
loud.

  “I confess,” von Deitzberg said from the bathroom door, “that I knew the sad news that letter contained. I decided it would be best if you heard it from your father, if only by letter.”

  “Thank you, Herr General.”

  “I think I should also tell you that I did not tell your father that you will shortly have the opportunity to see him. I decided that it would be a nice surprise for him if he didn’t know you were coming to Germany.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Sir.”

  “Now, about Oberst Perón?”

  “The Colonel will receive you at half past seven tonight, Herr General. At his temporary residence.”

  “Good man, von Wachtstein!”

  “Sir, Oberst Perón took pains to make it clear that he is receiving you as a friend, and not officially. He said there were questions of protocol….”

  “I understand completely,” von Deitzberg said. “And my reason to see him is entirely personal. Do you know where this ‘temporary residence’ is?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good, then you can come with me.”

  “Jawohl, Herr General.”

  “How is the beer in this beautiful country, von Wachtstein?”

  “Excellent, Sir. All the brewmasters are German.”

  “Why don’t you get us some while I’m dressing?”

  “Jawohl, Herr General.”

  X

  [ONE]

  4730 Avenida Libertador

  Buenos Aires

  1735 5 May 1943

  “Have you seen much of Colonel Perón since you’ve been here, von Wachtstein?” von Deitzberg asked as Günther Loche drove them from the hotel.

  “No, Sir.”

  “It might be wise to cultivate him,” von Deitzberg said. “He is a power in Argentina, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he becomes more powerful.”

  “Oberst Grüner told me the same thing, Sir. But he didn’t tell me how to do it. Perón’s an oberst, a senior oberst, and I am a very junior major.”

  “But Perón likes you,” von Deitzberg said. “Make an effort.”

  “Jawohl, Herr General.”

  That sounds as if he expects me to come back from Germany. Is he doing that to put me at ease, to lower my guard?

  “There’s a very interesting dossier on him,” von Deitzberg said. Peter didn’t reply. “The last thing in the world one would expect of a man like that,” von Deitzberg went on. “But there’s no question about it: The photographer was very good.”

  Is he telling me Perón is homosexual? Is that what that “but Perón likes you” remark meant?

  “You’re not curious, von Wachtstein?” von Deitzberg asked, smiling at him.

  “Herr General, I went to Spain as a corporal. I asked then Major von und zu Aschenburg a question. I didn’t get an answer, but I received advice from him that I have never forgotten. It is probably the most valuable advice anyone has ever given me about being a soldier.”

  “Which is?”

  “‘If your superiors think you should know something, they’ll tell you. Don’t ask questions.’”

  Von Deitzberg laughed. “Dieter stood you tall, did he?”

  “Very tall, Herr General. And one never forgets a Deiter von und zu Aschenburg dressing-down.”

  “So you’re curious, but too smart to ask me what’s in Perón’s dossier?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I think I shall, von Wachtstein, see how good a detective you would make,” von Deitzberg said. “After our meeting with Oberst Perón, you tell me what character flaw you suspect.”

  “If the Herr General wishes.”

  “You don’t like being tested?”

  “Not if I strongly suspect the test will reveal my stupidity,” Peter said, and then leaned forward on his seat. “Günther, it’s in the next block. The mansion.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Major,” Günther replied as he slowed the car.

  “You’ve been here before, have you?” von Deitzberg asked.

  “Yes, Herr General. I spent my first night in Argentina in that house. It is the Frade family guest house.”

  “And that’s Perón’s ‘temporary residence’?”

  “That’s what he said, Herr General.”

  “God is smiling on our mission, von Wachtstein.”

  “Sir?”

  “I thought you didn’t ask questions.”

  “I beg the Herr General’s pardon.”

  “Did Deiter ever give you the lesson, vis-à-vis the behavior of officers in the presence of their superiors, that I myself have found very valuable?”

  “I’m not sure what the Herr General means.”

  “Mouth shut, eyes and ears open.”

  “Jawohl, Herr General.”

  Günther pulled the Mercedes to the curb, stopped, and then raced around the rear of the car to open the door for von Deitzberg.

  They walked across the sidewalk to the fence—made of what looked like gold-tipped ten-foot spears—and pushed a doorbell mounted in the gate.

  “That,” von Deitzberg said, pointing to a finely detailed family crest set in the gate, “is presumably the Frade coat of arms?”

  “I would suppose so, Herr General.”

  The lock buzzed and Peter pushed the gate open, allowing von Deitzberg to walk ahead of him for the thirty feet from the gate to the shallow flight of stairs leading to the front door. The Frade crest was also in stained glass on the door of the large, four-story, turn-of-the-century masonry mansion. The door was opened by a smiling, middle-aged woman in a black dress with crisply starched white collar and cuffs. “El General von Deitzberg to see el Coronel Perón,” Peter said.

  “El Coronel will receive you in the library, caballeros,” she said, and motioned them across the foyer.

  A middle-aged woman, similarly dressed, had greeted Peter with the same kind of warm smile the last time he had been in the Frade guest house. The killers-for-hire Grüner had sent to the house to assassinate Cletus Frade had slit her throat in the kitchen before going upstairs to deal with Cletus.

  “If the Herr General prefers, I could wait here,” Peter said, indicating one of the chairs lining the foyer wall.

  “I want you with me,” von Deitzberg said. “I don’t speak much Spanish, and you can interpret.”

  “Jawohl, Herr General.”

  “As well as hone your skills of observation and intuition,” von Deitzberg added with a smile.

  The housekeeper pushed open the door to the library and stepped inside. Juan Domingo Perón, in a well-cut dark-blue suit, rose from a dark red leather armchair and smiled when they entered the room. “Guten Abend,” he said in correct but heavily accented German. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Manfred.”

  “Thank you for receiving me, Juan Domingo,” von Deitzberg said in German, bowed, clicked his heels, and then put out his hand.

  Perón took it and then looked at Peter.

  “A sus órdenes, mi Coronel,” Peter said, clicking his heels and bowing his head.

  “And it is always a pleasure to see you, my young friend,” Perón said, stretching out his hand with a warm smile. “And tonight especially, when you are going to be very useful to an Argentine who speaks terrible German, and a German whose Spanish is a little less than perfect.”

  “It will be a pleasure to be of service, mi Coronel,” Peter said. “But your German sounds fine to me.”

  “First things first,” Perón said, smiling, in Spanish. “Would you please translate ‘What may I offer you to drink?’”

  Peter did so.

  “First, Juan Domingo, let me say what a beautiful house this is,” von Deitzberg said in German. “Then I will have a glass, if that would be possible, of your very good Arg
entine beer.”

  Peter translated.

  Perón nodded and looked at the housekeeper. “Señora Lopez, would you bring us some beer, and perhaps some cheese and ham and crackers?”

  “Sí, Señor.”

  “And after that, we can take care of ourselves,” Perón said.

  Except for von Deitzberg, who walked to a wall and complimented the “exquisite paneling,” not another word was said until the housekeeper and a maid had delivered two silver Champagne coolers, each holding several bottles of beer, and two silver serving trays loaded with hors d’oeuvres. This happened so quickly that it was obvious it had all already been prepared. They then left the room.

  “This beautiful building, Manfred—please translate for me, Mayor von Wachtstein—was owned, until his murder, by my lifelong friend el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade.”

  Peter translated. Von Deitzberg did not reply.

  “It is now owned by his son, my godson, Mayor Cletus Frade. In the kitchen of this house, the housekeeper, whom I knew for many years, was brutally murdered by assassins sent to kill my godson.”

  Peter translated again, hoping his surprise at what amounted to an accusation was not evident.

  “I was not aware of the history of the house, Juan Domingo,” von Deitzberg said, waited for Peter to translate, and then went on: “But I cannot think of a better place for me to tell you what I have been sent from Germany to say.”

  “And what would that be, Manfred?” Perón said, smiling coldly.

  “I will presume to speak as both a friend, Juan Domingo, and as a brother officer.” He waited for Peter to translate, and for Perón to nod, and then went on: “I come to you as a Generalmajor of the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, and bring to you their apology for the outrageous and unpardonable actions of an officer of the Sicherheitsdienst who was permitted, for reasons I do not pretend to understand, to wear the uniform of an army colonel. I refer, of course, to the late so-called Oberst Grüner.”

  “The last time I saw you, Manfred,” Perón said, “you were wearing the uniform of the SS.”