Gott! Boltitz thought, chagrined. I didn’t ask von Wachtstein one question about the internees!
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about them, Herr Admiral,” Peter said.
Canaris ignored him. “For one thing, despite repeated requests, the late Oberst Grüner was until very recently unable to provide aerial photographs of the place of their internment. And they weren’t very good photographs.”
“Villa General Belgrano was overcast, and it was raining the day they were taken, Sir,” Peter said, adding, “and with a Leica, not an aerial camera.”
Canaris looked closely at him. “You were about to add, Major?”
“That it’s a bit difficult, Herr Admiral, to shoot pictures with a Leica while taking off in a small aircraft from a dirt strip.”
“You couldn’t just…?” Canaris asked, describing a circle with his hands.
I’ll be damned, Boltitz thought. Peter took the aerial photographs I used. Why didn’t that occur to me before?
“Not under the circumstances, Herr Admiral.”
“Which were?”
Peter looked uncomfortable. “Herr Admiral, the Argentines forbid aerial photography. My orders were to do the best I could without giving the Argentines cause to revoke our privilege to fly to Villa General Belgrano.”
“Your orders from whom?”
“Ambassador von Lutzenberger, Herr Admiral.”
“Don’t you—didn’t you—normally get your orders from Oberst Grüner?”
Peter’s answer had to wait until the waiter, with a flourish, served four glasses of Berliner Kindl. When he had gone, Canaris looked at Peter, waiting for him to go on.
“Herr Admiral, in this case,” Peter said, “there was some question whether the photographs should have been taken at all. First Secretary Gradny-Sawz was concerned that the Argentines would revoke our privilege to fly to Villa General Belgrano and brought the matter to the Ambassador for a decision.”
“And why do you think Gradny-Sawz was so concerned about losing the privilege?”
Peter hesitated.
“The first thing that came to your mind, Major!” Canaris said sharply.
“Herr Admiral, Villa General Belgrano is a two-day trip by rail and car from Buenos Aires. Four days round-trip—”
“I know the Luftwaffe doesn’t think much of the Navy, Major,” Canaris interrupted almost rudely. “But most of us really can multiply by two.”
“I beg the Herr Admiral’s pardon.”
“Go on.”
“In the Storch, you can fly there and back in one day.”
“So you’re suggesting that Gradny-Sawz believed his convenience was more important than my request for aerial photographs?”
“Herr Admiral—” Peter began uncomfortably.
Canaris chuckled, and stilled Peter with a raised hand. “Those of us in the services tend to have difficulty finding diplomatic ways to say something awkward, don’t we, Major von Wachtstein?”
“Yes, Sir,” Peter said.
Why is Admiral Canaris so interested in these aerial photographs? Boltitz wondered. And then he remembered what his father had said about listening to what Canaris was not saying. Canaris doesn’t really give a damn about those aerial photographs. So what is he doing? Seeing how von Wachtstein behaves under pressure?
Canaris looked at Boltitz, then back at von Wachtstein. “Did you ever wonder, when you got to Buenos Aires, von Wachtstein, why they had an airplane there and—until you got there—no one to fly it?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“The airplane was Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop’s idea,” Canaris explained. “It was his idea that when the opportunity presented itself, Ambassador von Lutzenberger would make a gift of it to the Argentine Army as a gesture of friendship.”
He looked between Peter and Karl again. “So the airplane was sent to Buenos Aires and parked in a hangar at El Palomar to await the propitious moment to manifest our great respect for the Ejercito Argentine,” Canaris went on. “And then I had a thought, which I shared with Oberst Grüner. Did he think, and more importantly, would Ambassador von Lutzenberger think, that perhaps the aircraft might be more useful to Germany than as a public relations gesture?”
The translation of that, Karl decided, what Canaris was not saying, was that he had somehow talked von Ribbentrop into making a gift of an airplane to Argentina and all along intended that it be used by Grüner.
And is he saying, by not saying that, he has Ambassador von Lutzenberger in his pocket?
“Apparently, von Lutzenberger has not yet found the propitious moment to make the gift,” Canaris said. “And in the meantime, the airplane has proven useful, has it not?”
“Yes, Sir,” Peter said. “It’s been very useful.”
“And if you accommodate Gradny-Sawz again, sparing him a two-times-two-day—how much is that, four?—trip by train and auto, perhaps the next time the weather will be such that we’ll have some better photographs.”
“I’ll try, Herr Admiral,” Peter said. “And I now know the buildings where the officers are being housed.”
“What is your assessment of their morale? Are they to a man anxious to return to active service?”
Peter opened his mouth to reply. But before he could speak, Canaris held up his hand to silence him.
“When I ask you a question, von Wachtstein,” Canaris said, “I want to hear the first thing that comes to your mind, rather than what you think you should say.”
“Jawohl, Herr Admiral,” Peter said. “I would suggest that most of them are like me. While we recognize our duty as serving officers, living in Argentina doesn’t offer much to complain about.”
“That’s what I want,” Canaris said. “The truth.”
He looked at Karl and then back at Peter. “The investigation of the Samborombón Bay incident can’t be concluded until Boltitz and Cranz speak with Kapitän de Banderano,” Canaris went on. “And, of course, until we hear from von Deitzberg in Buenos Aires. Which means you will have a few days on your hands here. What are your plans?”
“I’d hoped to see my father, Sir.”
“Well, perhaps that can be worked out,” Canaris said. He turned to Boltitz. “I’d like a few minutes with you, Boltitz.”
“Of course,” Karl said.
Canaris stood up.
Peter and Karl immediately rose.
Canaris put out his hand to Peter. “It is always a privilege to meet a holder of the Knight’s Cross,” he said.
“It has been my privilege, Herr Admiral,” Peter said, and clicked his heels as he curtly bowed his head.
“If you do see your father, please give him my compliments; I get to see very little of him these days.”
“Of course, Herr Admiral,” Peter said.
Canaris nodded at Peter, then marched out of the bar, followed by Boltitz and von und zu Waching—who neither spoke nor offered his hand.
The Admiral’s Horch was parked in front of the hotel. There was the sound of solemn organ music—funeral music, Karl thought—from the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church a few yards away. Canaris motioned for Boltitz to get in front beside the driver. Von und zu Waching sat in the back, followed by Canaris.
“I don’t want him going to Wolfsschanze,” Canaris said.
“Jawohl, Admiral,” von und zu Waching said.
“Interesting young man, Boltitz,” Canaris said. “An honest one, I think. Possibly because of his heritage. I would be very distressed to learn that he has been lining his pockets by taking thirty gold coins from the enemy.”
He means more than he said. What didn’t he say?
“Herr Admiral, I have the feeling that he is honest.”
“I’m disappointed to hear you say that, Boltitz,” Canaris said. “
In our business, we can afford to trust no one. Or practically no one.”
Then he made an impatient gesture with his hand, a signal that he had said all he was going to say.
“Until further notice,” von und zu Waching said, “stay as close to him as you can, and call every few hours.”
“Jawohl, Herr Fregattenkapitän,” Karl said, and left the car.
XIII
[ONE]
The Lobby Bar
The Hotel am Zoo
Kurfürstendamm, Berlin
1720 10 May 1943
Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein watched Admiral Canaris, von und zu Waching, and Boltitz walk out of the bar and then sat down at the banquette.
What the hell was that all about?
Canaris didn’t touch his beer; the other guy drained his.
Obviously, Canaris wanted to see me personally.
But why here?
Did I let anything slip?
A short, muscular, blond Luftwaffe officer in his early twenties slid onto the banquette seat beside him. “If the Herr Major doesn’t mind, I will have the Admiral’s beer,” he said, and reached for Canaris’s untouched beer.
“Willi! Jesus Christ!” Peter said.
“He’s not coming back, is he? I mean, when I was coming back from the pisser, I saw him head for the door.”
“He’s not coming back,” Peter said. “Help yourself.”
“Waste not, want not, I always say,” Hauptmann Wilhelm Johannes Grüner said, and took a deep swallow from the glass.
Peter and Willi Grüner had flown in France together. His father was—had been—Oberst Karl-Heinz Grüner, late Military Attaché of the German Embassy in Buenos Aires.
Maybe he’s drunk. He doesn’t act like a man whose father was murdered less than a month ago. Or even particularly surprised to see me in Berlin.
“How’s it going, Willi?” Peter asked.
“Can’t complain,” Willi said. “And how are things in far-off Argentina? My old man been riding your ass?”
My God, he doesn’t know!
“What have they got you doing these days?” Peter asked.
“I have—had—your old squadron.”
“Had?”
“New assignment.”
“Doing what?”
“I can’t tell you, as much as I would like to. State secret.”
Korvettenkapitän Karl Boltitz walked up to the banquette and looked down at them.
“Willi, say hello to Karl Boltitz. Karl, this is my old friend Willi Grüner. Wilhelm Johannes Grüner, known throughout the Luftwaffe as ‘Grüner the Great.’”
“And justifiably so,” Willi said. “Aside from Peter, here, of course, I am both the greatest fighter pilot and the greatest swordsman in the Luftwaffe.”
Boltitz chuckled and put out his hand. “Hello, Willi,” he said.
I said “Grüner” three goddamned times, and he didn’t pick up on it!
Maybe he doesn’t want to?
“U-boat man, are you?” Willi asked.
Karl nodded.
“You guys have more balls than I do,” Willi said. “More than Peter and I do combined. Can I buy you a beer?
“I haven’t finished this one yet,” Karl said, and picked his up.
“Grüner’s been telling me he now has, or had, my old squadron,” Peter said.
“‘Had’?” Karl parroted.
“And Hansel here was about to tell me how badly my father has been riding his ass,” Willi said, almost visibly wanting to change the subject.
Karl looked at Peter and met his eyes. “And your father is?” Karl asked.
“He’s the Military Attaché in Buenos Aires,” Willi said. “Where Hansel here has been sitting out the war.” He turned to Peter. “Not that I blame you, Hansel.”
When Peter didn’t reply, Willi grew serious. “You used to erupt when I called you Hansel, Hansel. So what’s wrong? What’s going on here that when I sat down made me think I was the last guy in the world you wanted to see?”
“Jesus!” Peter said, and looked at Karl.
“Obviously, Hauptmann Grüner,” Karl said, “there has been some sort of administrative slipup, some breakdown in communications—”
“Whatever you’re trying to say, say it,” Willi interrupted rather unpleasantly.
“Not here,” Karl said. “I think we should step outside.”
“What’s wrong with here?” Willi asked. “What the hell is going on?”
“Please come with me, Hauptmann Grüner,” Boltitz said formally, making it unmistakably an order. “And you, too, von Wachtstein.”
He stood up, and Peter followed his example. Willi Grüner looked up at them for a moment, then shrugged and got to his feet and followed them out of the bar, through the lobby, and onto the Kurfürstendamm.
[TWO]
Führerbunker #3
Wolfsschanze
Near Rastenburg, East Prussia
1720 10 May 1943
Generalleutnant Graf Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein—slight, nearly bald, and fifty-four years old—had been in his small, windowless, two-room suite only ten minutes, just long enough for a quick shower and shave, when he heard a barely audible knock on the steel door.
He was reasonably sure that his caller was either his aidede-camp or, more likely, his batman; he had left his boots in the corridor outside his room so his batman could have them polished by the dinner hour.
Von Wachtstein was barefoot and bare-chested, and he was wearing only his riding breeches, with the broad red stripe of a general down the seams, which were held up by normally out-of-sight—and almost shabby—dark blue braces. His tunic was on the bed, where he had tossed it when he entered his quarters.
A good deal had been done, of course, to make the quarters of the senior officers assigned to the Führer’s Wolfsschanze headquarters as comfortable as possible. But Führerbunker #3 was a reinforced-concrete bunker, designed to withstand direct hits from heavy artillery and even the largest aircraft bombs. Despite the genius of German engineering, its construction gave it two temperatures—too hot and too cold.
Today was a too-hot day, and von Wachtstein had been reluctant, after his shower, to climb into his uniform again. He had instead made a pot of coffee on a small electric burner. He didn’t like coffee, and this was bad coffee, but he was drinking it for the caffeine. He knew that he would have trouble staying awake at dinner—the Führer liked to speak, often at length, after dinner. Since coffee was not served at the Führer’s table, staying awake was sometimes difficult.
“Come!” von Wachtstein called loudly, so his voice could he heard through the door.
Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel, head of the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, entered the room. More than a little embarrassed, Generalleutnant von Wachtstein jumped to his feet. “I hope the Generalfeldmarschall will excuse my appearance—”
Von Wachtstein was really surprised to see Keitel. When Keitel had something to say to him, one of his aides would be dispatched to summon him either to the Führer’s personal bunker or to the bunker he shared with Admiral Wilhelm Canaris and Generaloberst Alfred Jodl, the chief of the Armed Forces Operations Staff.
Wolfsschanze was about four hundred miles from Berlin and about four miles from Rastenburg. It was a large compound—an oblong approximately 1.5 by .9 miles—which was entirely surrounded by two rings of barbed wire, machine-gun towers, machine-gun positions on the ground, and an extensive minefield.
Just inside the outer wire perimeter—separated as far as possible from each other to reduce interference—were some of the radio shacks and antennas over which instant communication with the most remote outposts of the Thousand-Year Reich was maintained.
Inside the compound itself were two com
pounds, both ringed with barbed wire and machine-gun positions.
One of them was the Führer’s compound, which contained thirteen bunkers, including the largest of all, the Führer’s bunker, which stood apart from the others.
Across a narrow street were two bunkers that housed Hitler’s personal aides and doctors, Wehrmacht aides, the Army personnel office, the signal officer, and Hitler’s secretaries.
To the east, Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring had both an office building and his own personal bunker. Between these and the Führerbunker was a VIP mess called the “Tea House.”
Next closest in distance from the Führer’s bunker were the offices and bunker assigned to Keitel, Jodl, and Canaris. It was a five- or six-minute walk from that bunker to the Führerbunker, and when the Führer wished to speak to someone, he was usually annoyed if it took that long for that individual to make an appearance.
Keitel never wanted to be far away when the Führer summoned him.
The bunker where Generalleutnant von Wachtstein and a dozen other general officers had their quarters was an additional four- or five-minute walk.
Von Wachtstein could not remember Keitel ever coming to his quarters.
Keitel held up his hand to silence von Wachtstein’s apology, and what could have been a small smile crossed his aristocratic face. He closed the door behind him, then turned back to von Wachtstein. “Karl,” he said. “How would you like a few days off?”
“I don’t think I understand, Herr Generalfeldmarschall.”
“A day, perhaps two, in Berlin, and then perhaps another few days in Pomerania?”
“I have not requested leave, Herr Generalfeldmarschall.”
“That wasn’t the question, Karl,” Keitel said, smiling. “The question was if you would like a few days’—say a week’s—leave?”
“It’s been quite a while since I had some time off, Herr Generalfeldmarschall,” von Wachtstein said.
“Yes, I know,” Keitel said. “And what is it the English say, ‘all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’?”
Secret Honor Page 40