Secret Honor
Page 38
“Will this wait, Boltitz, until I take a piss?”
Well, he’s obviously not afraid of me. Is that an indication of innocence? Or ignorance?
“Absolutely,” Boltitz said with a smile.
The first of the three to come out of the men’s room was Sturmbannführer von Tresmarck. He marched purposefully to Boltitz. “I understand you’re from the embassy?”
“That’s right,” Boltitz said. “And you’re…?”
“Sturmbannführer von Tresmarck,” he replied, and then went on: “I…uh…had rather expected someone from the SS would meet us.”
“Obersturmbannführer Cranz is here,” Boltitz said with a nod toward the window and the Condor outside, “arranging to have your luggage removed from the airplane.”
“What did you say?” von Tresmarck asked quickly.
This one’s afraid.
“We’re going to spend the night here,” Boltitz said, “and then fly on to Berlin via Zurich on Swiss Airways.”
“What’s that all about?”
“I’m sure Cranz will explain everything,” Boltitz said.
That scared him even more. What’s he got to hide? Was he turned by the Argentines? By what’s-his-name? Colonel Martín? Or is it something else?
Gradny-Sawz came out of the men’s room and walked up to them. “Baron von Wachtstein tells me you’re from the embassy,” he said. “I’m Gradny-Sawz, the First Secretary of our embassy in Buenos Aires.”
“Yes, I know, Herr Baron,” Boltitz said.
“What is your exact function at the embassy? What did you say your name is?”
“I’m Korvettenkapitän Boltitz, Herr Baron. Actually, I’m with the Abwehr.”
Boltitz looked quickly between the two men.
Von Tresmarck looks even more uncomfortable. Possibly because I said “Abwehr”? The Austrian doesn’t look worried at all.
“They’re taking our luggage off, Anton,” von Tresmarck said. “We’re going from here to Berlin via Zurich tomorrow on Swiss Airways.”
“Thank God! I need a night in a good bed.”
Von Tresmarck laughed dutifully.
Cranz came through the door a moment later, and was the picture of charm and affability as he introduced himself and explained the change in plans. “Boltitz thought it would be a good idea if we had a word with you before we both go to Cadiz to chat with Kapitän de Banderano. And before he goes on to Buenos Aires. And we didn’t think we’d have the time to do that while the airplane was being refueled, so we arranged for us all to travel on Swiss Airways tomorrow.”
“But Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop expects me in Berlin as soon as possible,” Gradny-Sawz said.
Did he say that because he doesn’t want to talk to us? Because he wants to get to Berlin for some other reason as quickly as he can? Or to impress Cranz and me with his importance?
“Herr von Ribbentrop was kind enough to tell me the Sicherheitsdienst had wide discretion in this matter,” Cranz said, just coldly enough to put Gradny-Sawz in his place. Then he turned on the charm again. “And really, Herr Baron, after that long flight—which must have been grueling—I rather thought a good dinner and a night in a comfortable bed would be appealing.”
“Obersturmbannführer Cranz,” Boltitz said as von Wachtstein walked up to them. “This is Major Freiherr von Wachtstein.”
“It’s always an honor to meet a holder of the Knight’s Cross, Herr Baron,” Cranz said.
Von Wachtstein clicked his heels and bowed.
“We’re apparently going to spend the night here, Hans,” Gradny-Sawz said. “Before flying on to Berlin tomorrow on Swiss Airways.”
“You don’t seem very pleased, Herr Baron,” Cranz said.
“To the contrary, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” von Wachtstein said, smiling. “I’m always delighted to fly in an airplane I know the Amis are not going to try to shoot down.”
[THREE]
1810 8 May 1943
Five minutes after Boltitz left Cranz in the bar of the Grand Palace Hotel to go to his room for a shave and shower before dinner—just long enough to be standing naked next to the bathtub, waiting for the water to heat up—there was an imperious knock at his door.
It was Cranz, as always smiling and affable, but also all business. “Sorry to burst in on you like this, Karl.”
“What’s up?”
“Before dinner, I want your first reaction to our three friends.”
“I don’t know if I have one,” Boltitz said.
“We all have first reactions,” Cranz said. “My first reaction to you in Himmler’s office was that you looked like a submarine officer, not an Abwehr officer.”
Boltitz smiled.
“And you certainly had one of me,” Cranz said.
“I thought you didn’t look very menacing for someone in your line of work.”
Cranz laughed. “That’s what I want now, about these three, the first thoughts that came to your mind.”
“Von Tresmarck is nervous, as if he has something to hide. The Austrian is a typical aristocratic bureaucrat. Von Wachtstein is a soldier.”
“And which of the three is the guilty party?”
“None of them may be.”
“But if you had to guess, which one would it be?”
“I don’t like to guess about something like that.”
“Which one, Boltitz?”
“Especially when the man who comes to mind wears the same uniform as the man asking the question.”
“Because von Tresmarck’s nervous?”
Boltitz nodded.
Cranz met his eyes for a long moment. “I agree that von Tresmarck’s hiding something. A man may have many reasons for looking nervous, many skeletons in his closet. But none of them may be treason.”
“That’s why I don’t like to guess about this sort of thing.”
“The traitors most difficult to detect, Karl, are those who believe their treason is holy. If I had to guess, it would be the pilot.”
“Why not the Austrian? He’s already demonstrated his willingness to betray an oath.”
“Interesting point,” Cranz said. “That, for the moment, slipped my mind.”
Why do I think that very little ever slips your mind—especially something like Gradny-Sawz’s change of sides?
“And he’s a diplomat; diplomats are taught to lie,” Boltitz said, tempering it with a smile.
Cranz returned the smile. “After we’ve had our dinner, why don’t you take von Wachtstein out and get him laid?”
“You’re serious?”
“Absolutely. It would establish a camaraderie. People tell their friends things they ordinarily wouldn’t talk about.”
“Says the friendly Obersturmbannführer.”
Cranz laughed.
“But I really like you, and I’m not sure about von Wachtstein. I have a feeling….”
And if you have a feeling about von Wachtstein, you probably have one about me.
“I would have no idea where to look for women in Lisbon.”
“But you’re resourceful, Karl. I know that.”
[FOUR]
2305 8 May 1943
Over dinner the wine and Champagne flowed freely. When they’d finished, Cranz announced he knew about a nightclub famous for its floor show they all might want to see.
“I’m not much for floor shows,” Boltitz announced. “I thought I’d take Hans on a tour of Lisbon’s other cultural attractions.”
Obviously, Peter decided, our separation has been prearranged. Cranz is going to find out what he can from Die Grosse Wienerwurst and von Tresmarck, and Boltitz will do the same with me.
“I’m going to have a nightcap in the bar and go to bed,” Peter announce
d.
“We’ll start in the bar and see where that leads us.”
“I think the señorita likes you, Hans,” Boltitz said after the bartender had delivered a second cognac. He nodded toward two young women sitting in a banquette.
“Do me a favor, Karl,” Peter said. “Don’t call me ‘Hans.’”
“OK. Why not?”
“When I was a kid, they called me ‘Hansel,’ as in ‘Hansel and Gretel.’”
Boltitz laughed. “I think the señorita likes you, Peter. OK?”
“Why shouldn’t she like me? Not only am I handsome beyond her wildest dreams, but I look as if I can probably afford her.”
“You think they’re whores?”
“I would say there is a very strong probability that two young women sitting in a hotel bar smiling at two obvious foreigners are business girls.”
“But such attractive business girls—”
“If you want to get your ashes hauled, Karl, go ahead.”
“I could put both of them on my expense voucher as ‘research expenses.’”
“‘In connection with investigating what happened on the beach of Samborombón Bay’?”
“Well, that’s why I’m here.”
“Why don’t you just ask me, and save the Reich some money?”
“Is there anything wrong with mixing business with pleasure?”
“Look…you don’t have to. Just ask me what you want to know.”
“You have a girl,” Boltitz challenged. “You’re being faithful! Will wonders never cease? A Luftwaffe fighter pilot turning down some hanky-panky!”
“With all possible respect, Herr Korvettenkapitän Boltitz, whether I have a girl or not is none of your goddamn business. But I will tell you this: Despite the damage it might do to the reputation of Luftwaffe fighter pilots as the world’s greatest swordsmen, I am uncomfortable with the notion of this one hopping into bed with the first available prostitute who spreads her legs, even at the expense of the SS.”
“I’m not SS, I’m Abwehr,” Boltitz blurted.
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes, Herr Major von Wachtstein, there is.”
Peter didn’t reply, but his face clearly showed that he didn’t believe this at all.
And, of course, neither do I, Boltitz had to admit to himself.
So what does this mean?
He does have a lady friend. Where? Is she German, and he doesn’t want to go to her bed in Berlin fresh from a whore’s bed here? Or is she Argentinian? Why do I suspect that? And if she’s Argentinian, it’s entirely possible that she works for our friend Oberst Martín of their Bureau of Internal Security. Von Wachtstein is a fighter pilot, not an intelligence officer. He would probably find it difficult to believe that the love of his life is an agent.
And if she is, there’s the leak from the embassy.
If, of course, von Wachtstein knew where they were going to land the special cargo from the Océano Pacífico.
“I’ve been told the women in Argentina are beautiful,” Boltitz said.
“And they are, and can we change the subject?”
“One more question: Am I going to meet this lady when I’m in Buenos Aires?”
Von Wachtstein met his eyes. “I was just thinking about that,” he said. “I don’t see how I can keep that from happening. Yeah, you’ll meet her. But let me tell you beforehand that she’s nineteen years old, doesn’t work for the BIS, and doesn’t even know anything happened at Samborombón Bay.”
“I had to ask, Peter,” Boltitz said.
“Yeah, I guess you did,” Peter said.
“What if we take the bottle with us, go to your room, and you tell me what happened at Samborombón Bay?”
“Why do I feel that I don’t have any choice?”
“Probably because you know you don’t,” Boltitz said.
The bartender came to them.
“We’ll take the bottle,” Peter said. “My friend from the Abwehr will pay.”
“Señor?”
Boltitz put down some money, grabbed the bottle, and followed Peter out of the bar.
[FIVE]
The Office of Strategic Services
National Institutes of Health Building
Washington, D.C.
0825 9 May 1943
Colonel A. (Alejandro) F. (Federico) Graham, USMCR, the Deputy Director for Western Hemisphere Operations of the Office of Strategic Services, was already in a bad mood when the door to his office opened and OSS Director William J. Donovan walked in and almost immediately made things worse.
Almost exactly twenty-four hours before, Graham had been eating breakfast in his hotel room in Mexico City when the Mexico City Station Chief unexpectedly appeared and wordlessly handed him a message.
* * *
URGENT
TOP SECRET
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
FROM DIRECTOR
MSG NO 2072 1310 GREENWICH 8 MAY 1943
TO STATION CHIEF MEXICO CITY
FOR DIRECTOR WHO
YOUR PRESENCE REQUIRED HERE NOT LATER THAN 0800 TOMORROW.
STACHIEF MEXICO CITY DIRECTED TO PROVIDE FASTEST AVAILABLE TRANSPORTATION TO SAN ANTONIO WHERE AIR CORPS WILL PROVIDE FURTHER TRANSPORTATION TO WASHINGTON.
ACKNOWLEDGE RECEIPT AND ETA SAN ANTONIO.
DONOVAN
* * *
Graham had tried to telephone Donovan to ask if whatever was so important couldn’t wait twenty-four hours while he finished his business in Mexico City, but all he could get was “the Director is not available and won’t be until sometime after six tonight.” By six, he thought, he could be in San Antonio, so he really had no choice but to break his dinner date with a Mexican attorney with close ties to the Mexican president and head for San Antonio.
He could not, of course, explain to the Mexican lawyer that he had been suddenly ordered to Washington, which rubbed the lawyer the wrong way. And then he didn’t get to San Antonio until after seven. And then the B-26 that was flying him to Washington had been forced to make a “precautionary landing” in northern Alabama.
He had arrived in Washington with barely time to stop at his apartment for a quick shave, shower, and change of clothes, before reporting at the proper place and the proper time.
At two minutes before eight, he had arrived at OSS Headquarters, in what had once been the National Institutes of Health Building. There Donovan’s secretary told him she had no idea when the Director would be coming in, “but probably a little after nine.”
“Well, you made it,” Donovan greeted him. “Good.”
“I thought the hour was 0800,” Graham said.
Donovan ignored him.
“I was supposed to have dinner last night with a guy who probably could have been paid to let our people into the telephone company,” Graham said.
“‘Could have been paid’?” Donovan parroted.
“Right. Past tense. He was miffed when I had to break our dinner date. Latins tend to be miffed when people are late for important meetings.”
“And you’re Latin, right?” Donovan said, and immediately regretted it.
“Yes, I am.”
“Raise the ante,” Donovan said. “That’s important.”
“I thought it was important,” Graham said. “I’d rather that we intercept German communications than have the Brits do it for us and then send us a ‘You Owe Us’ bill every month for the next fifty years.”
“I want to talk to you about Galahad,” Donovan said, sailing on.
“Jesus Christ, Bill!” Graham said incredulously, contemptuously, “You brought me back to talk about Galahad?”
Donovan nodded.
“We’ve been over that before,” Graham said, c
oldly furious, and added: “You’re as bad as the goddamn Mexicans! You never know when to quit!”
“‘The goddamn Mexicans’?” Donovan quoted mockingly. “Why, Alejandro Federico, I didn’t expect to hear something like that from someone like you.”
That pushed Graham over the edge. “Goddamn you!” he exploded. “I’m an American, not a goddamn Mexican! When your ancestors were rooting for potatoes in some Irish bog, my ancestors were fighting this country’s wars, starting at the Alamo! When my great-grandfather was marching on Mexico City with General Winfield Scott, your goddamn ancestors, the goddamn San Patricio Brigade, deserted to the Mexicans!” The San Patricio Brigade had been made up of Catholic Irish-Americans who’d deserted to the Catholic Mexicans. After the war, they were caught and executed.
Donovan smiled but said nothing for almost a full minute.
“Got it out of your system enough to listen to me, A. F.?” he said finally.
Graham glowered at him for a moment, then smiled. “If you’re waiting for an apology, gringo, don’t hold your breath.”
“I wasn’t asking for an apology,” Donovan said.
“Then let me save you some time. No, I won’t tell you who Galahad is. Do you want my resignation?”
Donovan ignored the question. “The Navy and the Brits know about him,” he said. “Or at least that we have someone in the German Embassy in Buenos Aires.”
“The Navy and the English?” Graham asked.
“I don’t know who told the other,” Donovan said. “But from what you tell me, the Argentine Navy brass is close to the Brits, so that seems likely.”
“Our naval attaché down there is ONI,” Graham said, thoughtfully, referring to the Office of Naval Intelligence. “It’s possible he has some kind of arrangement with the English.”
Donovan nodded but said nothing.
“Or the reverse,” Graham said. “The English found out first, and told the ONI. How do we know the English know?”
“Because Churchill wants Roosevelt—Hands Across the Sea, of course—to give him Galahad’s name.”