Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I’m sure von Deitzberg understands that,” von Löwzer said.

  “I come here with the authority of the Foreign Minister, Herr Ambassador,” von Deitzberg challenged.

  “What you have, Herr Generalmajor, is the Foreign Minister’s authority to conduct an investigation under my authority as the Führer’s representative in Argentina. You have no more right to question my authority than you do to question that of the Führer. If there is any question in your mind about that, I suggest we can get clarification from Berlin in twenty-four hours or so.”

  Von Deitzberg backed down. “I had no intention of questioning your authority, Herr Ambassador,” he said.

  “I did not have that feeling a few moments ago.”

  “The plan to repatriate the Graf Spee officers is—was—a state secret of the highest order, Manfred,” von Löwzer said, obviously pouring oil on the troubled waters. “Certainly, you can understand von Deitzberg’s surprise that you felt you had to compromise it.”

  “I thought perhaps the Herr Generalmajor,” Von Lutzenberger said, looking directly at von Deitzberg, “would consider that until the Argentine Bureau of Internal Security found an answer satisfactory to them for our presence at Samborombón Bay, they would keep looking. Of ‘the three state secrets of the highest order’ involved here, the Graf Spee officer repatriation was, in my judgment, the least important. If compromising that secret satisfied the curiosity of the BIS, then that price simply had to be paid.”

  “Well, I can certainly agree with your reasoning,” von Löwzer said.

  “You didn’t inform Berlin of your action,” von Deitzberg said.

  That’s still a challenge, von Lutzenberger thought. But the arrogance factor has been reduced by—what? Say three-quarters?

  “I decided that it could wait until you and von Löwzer got here.”

  “I hope the Herr Ambassador will understand how much of a fish out of water someone like me is in the world of diplomacy,” von Deitzberg said.

  That’s even getting close to an apology.

  “As a soldier, you mean?” von Lutzenberger asked.

  “Precisely.”

  You’re not a soldier. You’re Himmler’s adjutant.

  “Let me try an analogy,” von Lutzenberger said. “I’ve often thought that an ambassador is something like a just-graduated lieutenant taking command of his first platoon in combat. He doesn’t know where he is, or what his captain wants him to do with all the authority he’s suddenly been given. Yet he has to do something, and can only hope that what he does is the right thing.”

  “Very well put, I would say,” von Deitzberg said.

  “And about the first thing he learns is that if he compromises his authority, he never gets it back,” von Lutzenberger added.

  “Well, from my own experience, I can certainly agree with that,” von Deitzberg said.

  “Now, there are some advantages to having authority, either as a young lieutenant, or an ambassador,” von Lutzenberger said seriously. “And high among them is being able to meet nature’s call without asking for permission. If you gentlemen will excuse me for a few minutes?”

  It took both von Deitzberg and von Löwzer a few seconds to take his meaning. By then, von Lutzenberger was almost out of his office. Then both laughed at von Lutzenberger’s sense of humor. Von Deitzberg’s laugh sounded a little forced, and von Löwzer’s a little relieved.

  Von Lutzenberger entered the men’s room, made sure it was empty, then locked the door. He went into a stall, carefully raised the seat, bent over it, and vomited. When he stood up he held his hands out in front of him. They were trembling, and it took him some time to will them to be still.

  It is always a mistake to underestimate your enemy, but I think I have put that Nazi bastard in his place.

  Von Lutzenberger washed his hands, then wiped his face with a cold water-soaked towel. He looked at himself in the mirror for a moment, then walked back to his office.

  “Now, where were we?” he asked.

  “While you were gone, Manfred,” von Löwzer said, “I wondered about the reaction of the diplomatic community to the murders.”

  “Generally speaking, of course, and vis-à-vis Oberst Frade, they thought that was a mistake,” von Lutzenberger said. “As did I, you will recall, Friedrich. I advised against that action. And vis-à-vis Grüner and Goltz, they feel we should not have been surprised that the Argentine military did not turn the other cheek.”

  “I was opposed to the elimination of Frade myself,” von Deitzberg said. “And said so. That decision was made at the highest levels.”

  You really are a stranger to the truth, aren’t you, my dear Generalmajor?

  “Then time has proven you and me right, hasn’t it?” von Lutzenberger said.

  “I confess to being a little surprised—if I understand you correctly—that the diplomatic community believes Germany was involved.”

  “They take their lead from the Argentine military, and the military never had any doubt who was responsible.”

  “Late yesterday afternoon, I went to see Oberst Perón,” von Deitzberg said. “I conveyed to him the regrets of his many friends in Germany, especially within the officer corps, that an out-of-control SS officer, acting without authority, caused the death of Oberst Frade.”

  Von Lutzenberger looked at him with interest.

  “Before you do anything like that again, Herr Generalmajor, please consult with me,” von Lutzenberger said.

  “I made it quite plain to Perón, Mr. Ambassador, that my visit was unofficial.”

  “And you said Goltz was the loose cannon on our deck?”

  “No. Grüner,” von Deitzberg said.

  “Grüner? Do you think he believed you?”

  “Yes. I think so. Von Wachtstein was with me. He said he thought Perón believed me.”

  “Von Wachtstein has become close to the Duarte family. The mother of Hauptmann Duarte, Frau Duarte, who is mentally unbalanced, is especially fond of him. When von Wachtstein came to me for guidance in the matter, I encouraged him—on the advice of both Goltz and Gradny-Sawz—to cultivate the relationship. Frau Duarte is the late Oberst Frade’s sister, and her husband is the managing director of the Anglo-Argentine Bank. That could very well be quite valuable in connection with Operation Phoenix.”

  “How much does von Wachtstein know about Operation Phoenix?”

  “Goltz was going to tell him what he thought he should know.”

  “And how much do you think he did tell him?”

  “I’m sure he told him about the Graf Spee officers’ repatriation. He was going to be involved in that.”

  “And nothing else?”

  “I don’t know what else he told him, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he at least alluded to Operation Phoenix. And I would be very surprised if von Wachtstein—he’s a very bright young man—hasn’t wondered why we went to all that trouble to smuggle shortwave radios and civilian clothing from a Spanish vessel into Argentina, when one can buy radios and civilian clothing in Buenos Aires.”

  “He’s asked questions, has he?”

  “Oh, no. He’s a soldier, General. He obeys orders and doesn’t ask questions.”

  “Then you would say he’s not the source of the information that permitted Oberst Frade’s son to be waiting on the beach at Samborombón Bay?”

  “For several reasons, I think that’s highly unlikely.”

  “Would you tell me why?”

  “First of all, I don’t think he knew. Secondly, if he knew, I don’t think he had a motive to tell anyone—or the opportunity. But even if he had both, I don’t think he would have betrayed his country.”

  “Because you think he’s a reliable young soldier?”

  “Because he is a bright young man who would under
stand the consequences to his father.”

  “Well, if you had to guess, how would you say that Frade knew when and where the special shipment was going to be landed?”

  Von Lutzenberger then spelled out the story of the river launch in El Tigre: It had been purchased by Argentine-born ethnic Germans, he explained, who had no idea about the schedule for the landing of the special shipment. Nor did von Wachtstein, who was brought into the picture because he knew how to navigate.

  “Given that,” he continued, “I strongly suspect that our involvement with the boat came to the attention of the BIS. As I’ve said before, Oberst Martín is very good. Why would a German immigrant sausage maker be buying a riverboat? More important, where would he get the money? Perhaps from the German Embassy? The word goes out, watch the boat. The boat sets out with the German Assistant Military Attaché for Air as her captain. Not up the river, but down the river, into the River Plate estuary. What’s in the River Plate estuary? The Océano Pacífico, which is suspected of being a German replenishment vessel. It goes to Puerto Magdalena, where, as the Argentine police watch, her crew goes to the home of Herr Steuben, another ethnic German. The BIS agents watching Goltz report that Goltz gets up in the middle of the night and drives to Puerto Magdalena to the home of Herr Steuben, and then gets on the river launch and heads out to the Océano Pacífico. The BIS agents watching Grüner report that he, too, gets up very early in the morning and drives in the same direction.

  “Now Oberst Martín has a problem. If Goltz and Grüner are really smuggling, he can’t arrest either of them because of their diplomatic status. He can make a report through channels, and at worst I will be chastised by the Foreign Minister, and he will get in trouble with some of our friends in the Argentine military who will think he should have looked the other way.

  “I don’t think it strains credulity to suspect that Oberst Martín told young Frade that Oberst Grüner and Standartenführer Goltz were going to land on the shores of Samborombón Bay in the next couple of hours—”

  “My God!” von Löwzer said.

  “—in circumstances that would preclude any diplomatic indignation on my part if something happened to them there.”

  “And, after the fact, the reaction of the Argentine military was ‘Good for young Frade, he revenged his father’?” von Deitzberg asked.

  Von Lutzenberger nodded. “That is all speculation, of course,” he said. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s the best theory I have heard so far,” von Deitzberg said. “But I wondered…Why did von Wachtstein come through unscathed? Why wasn’t he shot along with Grüner and Goltz?”

  “He was shot at, and they missed. Or so Kapitän de Banderano—with whom I managed to speak for an hour—told me. Von Wachtstein came under fire while he courageously pulled Grüner and Goltz into the boat from the Océano Pacífico. Banderano seemed to feel he acted with great courage.”

  “Well, he does have the Knight’s Cross, doesn’t he?” von Deitzberg said agreeably.

  I don’t think he accepted that explanation nearly as much as he wants me to think he has. And if he doesn’t believe that, he questions the rest of the story as well.

  “In the belief that both you and von Löwzer would like to go through our records, I instructed Untersturmführer Schneider, who is in charge of surveilling the Embassy’s officers, to have his records available for you this morning.”

  “All the Embassy’s officers?”

  “Everyone but myself and Gradny-Sawz,” von Lutzenberger said.

  “I would very much like to see them,” von Deitzberg said, “and to talk to Untersturmführer Schneider.”

  “He is at your disposal, Herr Generalmajor.”

  “And there is another thing, of a somewhat indelicate nature,” von Deitzberg said with a smile. “How do you feel about giving a diplomatic reception, to afford the diplomatic community, and the more important Argentines, an opportunity to meet von Löwzer? And, of course, myself.”

  “I think that’s a splendid idea. I’ll have Fräulein Hässell get started right away.”

  “You’re very kind. This Saturday, perhaps?”

  “That could be arranged, but I don’t think the important Argentines will be available this Saturday.”

  “Why not?”

  “Young Frade is getting married on Saturday. Presidente Rawson will be there, and so will most of the important Argentines.”

  “You and I are going to have to have a long talk about young Frade,” von Deitzberg said, smiling. “But not now. I know you’re busy, and I want to talk to Schneider. And we’re having dinner tonight, I understand?”

  Von Lutzenberger nodded. “At the Alvear. I think you’ll like it.”

  “I’m sure I will,” von Deitzberg said, and stood up and gave the Nazi salute.

  “Heil Hitler!” he barked.

  [THREE]

  Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

  Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

  0925 6 May 1943

  Martha Howell had heard thunder during the night, and when she looked out of her window when she woke, she saw dark clouds hovering over the pampas. When she went into Marjorie’s room, she wasn’t there; and when she went into Beth’s room, Beth said that her sister was flying with Clete.

  In this weather?

  She said nothing to Beth. Clete was no fool and a good pilot; he wouldn’t fly if it was dangerous. But she was a mother, and after she’d had her breakfast, she walked down to the airstrip with a cup of coffee in her hand.

  Enrico Rodríguez was sitting in a chair under the wing of the Lockheed Lodestar. When he saw her coming, he rose to his feet. “Buenos dias, señora,” he said politely.

  She was not surprised to find him there. “Keep your seat, Enrico,” she said in Spanish, with a smile.

  I would have been surprised if he wasn’t here. His devotion to Clete is doglike.

  That thought triggered a memory. Of Jim’s dog. Oscar. A black Labrador. Although Jim had been dead a year now, Oscar still spent most of his days lying on the porch of the house at Big Foot Ranch with his head between his paws, waiting for Jim to come home.

  James Fitzhugh Howell, her husband, the only man she had ever loved, and whom she missed desperately, had stepped away from the bar at the Petroleum Club in Midland and dropped dead before he got to the men’s room.

  She saw a lot of Jim in Cletus, some of it genetic, but most of it in his character—although she had to admit, after seeing so many pictures of Clete’s father, that in his physical features he favored the Frades more than the Howells. They had been like father and son, and Clete had copied Jim in many ways. He even walked like him.

  She forced the memories of her husband and Oscar from her mind and looked at the Lodestar. It was painted a brilliant red—Clete said the color was called “Staggerwing Red” because many Beechcraft Staggerwing aircraft were painted that color.

  Clete had been very vague about why this plane was painted that color, or even why President Roosevelt had sent it as a gift, “an expression of friendship and admiration,” to the late Colonel Frade to replace the Staggerwing Beechcraft that had been lost in an “accident.”

  She looked down the runway and thought that the pampas were much like the plains around Midland, except that here there was rich topsoil, five and six feet deep. Around Midland the land was arid and the topsoil shallow. It took ten times as much acreage to sustain a beef on Big Foot Ranch as it did here.

  Two minutes later, her ears picked up the peculiar sound of a Piper Cub’s engine. A minute later, the plane came into view.

  As it made its approach, Martha saw her daughter in the front seat. It touched down, immediately took off again, and repeated this process three times before finally completing its landing roll and taxiing up to the hangar.

  She was annoyed but not
surprised.

  Clete said he was going to give Marjorie some instruction, and that’s what he’s doing. He’s like Jim in that, too. If he says he’s going to do something, he does it.

  Jim had taught all of them to fly, Martha included. Clete had been flying all over the ranch by himself long before he was old enough to get a license. And he had regularly flown to and from College Station on weekends when he was at Texas A&M. Jim had waited until the girls were sixteen before teaching them how to fly.

  “How’d it go?” Martha asked when they had climbed out of the Cub.

  “Another two hundred hours of dual,” Clete said, “and she’ll be ready to taxi it by herself.”

  “You can go to hell, Clete,” Marjorie said.

  “Actually, she’s not bad,” Clete said. “She was trying to find Buenos Aires, and she was actually pointed in the right direction—”

  “Go to hell twice,” Marjorie said.

  “—but I didn’t like the weather, so we came back.”

  They walked back to the big house, with Enrico trailing behind them with his shotgun. As they approached the steps to the wide veranda, one of the maids came out. “Patrón, you have a telephone call,” she said. “A Captain Ashton.”

  “He’s on the phone?” Clete asked, doubtfully.

  “Sí, Patrón. I heard the airplane coming, and…”

  Clete trotted up the stairs, went to the desk in his apartment, and picked up the telephone. “If this is who I think it is, what a pleasant surprise,” he said.

  “Captain Ashton, Sir.”

  “Where are you, Max?”

  “At the embassy.”

  “And you’ve called to tell me you’ve found work?”

  “Sir, I have been appointed as an assistant military attaché.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “We arrived last evening, Sir,” Ashton said. “Sir, I need to see you, at your earliest convenience.”

  What’s with this “Sir” business?

  “Will it wait until Saturday? Consider yourself invited to my wedding.”

  “Thank you, Sir. Would it be possible to see you today, Sir?”