Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Thank you, Sir,” von und zu Happner said, clicked his heels, gave the Nazi salute, and walked out of the bar.

  “Hauptmann,” the Graf said. “Hansel and I are on the three-oh-five to Wachtstein. There’s not much to do there but drink beer and eat sausages, but if you don’t have better plans, we both would be pleased to have you join us.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Sir,” Willi said, “but I’m on the five-fifteen to Augsburg.”

  “Pity,” the Graf said.

  I wonder, Boltitz thought, what the state secret in Augsburg is?

  “And I have to leave you, too, Peter,” Boltitz said. “Fregattenkapitän von und zu Waching telephoned me a few moments ago to tell me I have been charged with organizing Oberst Grüner’s funeral. He wants to talk to me about it now.”

  Willi looked at him but said nothing.

  “Willi, I’ll want to talk to you about that, obviously,” Boltitz said. “Where can I get in touch with you?”

  “That may pose a problem,” Willi said. “I am under very specific orders to tell no one where I’m going.”

  “I’m sure the Luftwaffe will know,” Boltitz said. “And be able to tell me.”

  “Good luck,” Willi said wryly. “They couldn’t find me to tell me my father had…died, could they?”

  “I’m sure that can be straightened out,” Boltitz said.

  He stood up. “It was a very great pleasure to meet you, Herr Generalleutnant Graf,” he said, clicking his heels and bobbing his head in a curt bow.

  “It was my pleasure,” the Graf said.

  “Have a pleasant leave, Peter,” Boltitz said, putting out his hand to him.

  “I’ll try,” Peter said.

  Boltitz came to attention again, gave a stiff-armed Nazi salute, then walked out of the bar.

  The Graf, Peter, and Willi watched him walk out, but none of them said anything.

  [SIX]

  The Admiral’s Mess

  Office of the Director, Abwehr Intelligence

  Berlin

  1305 11 May 1943

  Korvettenkapitän Karl Boltitz stepped into the small, darkly paneled private dining room of the Director of Abwehr Intelligence, came to attention, rendered the Nazi salute, and barked, “Heil Hitler!”

  Canaris’s reply was to point to a chair.

  “Good afternoon, Herr Admiral, Herr Fregattenkapitän,” Boltitz said, and sat down.

  A steward in a stiffly starched short white jacket immediately began to ladle soup onto their plates.

  “If we are to judge from the excellent photography so kindly provided to us by the SS,” Canaris said, his fingers grazing over a large brown envelope, “von Wachtstein was not at all interested in the recreation available to him at the am Zoo—”

  “Certainly less interested than Hauptmann Grüner,” von und zu Waching said, “and yourself.”

  My God, that Gestapo swine photographed me and the Hungarian redhead!

  Canaris looked at Boltitz.

  What the hell am I supposed to say?

  “It has been my experience, Boltitz,” Canaris said after a long moment, “that when one has nothing to say, one should say nothing.”

  “You might consider it a learning experience,” von und zu Waching said. “The SS is second to no one in their zeal.”

  What could have been a smile crossed Canaris’s face. Then he picked up the brown envelope and held it out to the steward.

  “Have this burned,” he said.

  “Jawohl, Herr Admiral.”

  “Do you see some significance in von Wachtstein’s chastity?” Canaris asked.

  “Herr Admiral, he is involved with a woman in Argentina, I believe he thinks he’s in love.”

  “You would say, then,” Canaris said, “that he is not a candidate for a pink triangle?”

  “No, Sir. I saw nothing that would suggest that at all.”

  “And his reaction to his unexpected encounter with Hauptmann Grüner?” Canaris asked.

  It was the question Canaris had told Boltitz to expect, and he had given a good deal of thought to it. Providing an answer posed ethical problems for him.

  There was no question in his mind that there was an element of guilt, perhaps even shame, in von Wachtstein’s reaction to Willi Grüner. The question was, however, what the guilt or shame meant.

  Von Wachtstein’s version of what had happened at Samborombón Bay—related in his hotel room in Lisbon, when he had been drinking but not drunk—was straightforward. He and Goltz had just stepped ashore from the Océano Pacífico’s ship’s boat, and were greeting Grüner, when they were suddenly fired upon, before they had even begun to unload the special shipment from the boat.

  Von Wachtstein claimed there were at least three shots. The first two killed Grüner and Goltz. The third—but perhaps there’d been more—had been aimed at him as he was bending over Grüner’s body.

  According to von Wachtstein, the sailors from the Océano Pacífico had been “terrified and useless,” and he had had to drag both bodies from where they had fallen to the ship’s boat. They had then returned to the Océano Pacífico.

  The only people who could verify—or disprove—von Wachtstein’s story were the sailors from the Océano Pacífico, including Kapitän de Banderano, and Boltitz couldn’t interrogate them until the ship tied up in Cadiz. In a week or more.

  In the meantime, he had to consider that it was entirely possible that von Wachtstein had not been harmed because the riflemen did not want to kill him. If they were good enough snipers to kill two men with two shots to the head, why had they missed a third?

  The most logical reason for their “miss” was that they regarded von Wachtstein as a friend, or if not a friend, as someone who had been useful to them.

  That line of reasoning presumed von Wachtstein was a traitor. Boltitz was not willing to make that accusation. Not yet, not without further proof.

  It was possible, of course, that the shame and guilt that showed on his face when he saw Willi Grüner could simply be the reaction of an officer who felt doubly guilty, doubly shamed, because he had not been able to carry out his orders, and was still alive when Oberst Grüner—who was both his commanding officer and the father of his comrade-in-arms—was dead.

  Boltitz was aware that he would like to believe that von Wachtstein had simply been lucky. That the Argentine—or American—sharpshooters had shot at him and missed. He had to admit it was significant that none of the six Océano Pacífico crewmen had been shot, either.

  That could suggest that the snipers had fired three—or more—carefully aimed shots as quickly as they could, then immediately left the area to avoid detection.

  Boltitz was aware that he liked von Wachtstein and that Generalleutnant von Wachtstein reminded him of his father, and that this might tend to color his reasoning. Yet he knew his duty was to find the truth, whether or not he liked it.

  And his duty was to report to Canaris the truth, not his suspicions. An officer like Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein, who practiced, as Boltitz himself did, adherence to the officer’s code of honor was entitled to the benefit of the doubt.

  “Herr Admiral,” Karl Boltitz said carefully, “von Wachtstein and Hauptmann Grüner served together. Grüner believes that when he was forced to parachute from his aircraft over England, von Wachtstein saved his life—at considerable risk to his own—by protecting him until he landed.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Canaris said.

  “And, Sir, I learned that before France, they served together in Spain, and were commissioned from the ranks on the same day. They are good friends.”

  “And what was von Wachtstein’s reaction to seeing his old friend?”

  “He was very uncomfortable, Sir.”

  “And you have
an opinion about that?”

  “Hauptmann Grüner had not been informed that his father had been killed, Sir. Von Wachtstein had to tell him. I would have been uncomfortable in that circumstance. And, in my opinion, I felt that von Wachtstein was made more uncomfortable because he wasn’t injured or killed at Samborombón and Oberst Grüner was.”

  Canaris nodded but said nothing.

  “Herr Admiral, Hauptmann Grüner told us both—and Generalleutnant von Wachtstein—that he is under orders not to reveal his present assignment to anyone. He let slip that he’s going to Augsburg.”

  Canaris looked at von und zu Waching and nodded his head.

  “Messerschmitt has developed a new fighter for the Luftwaffe,” von und zu Waching said. “They call it the ME-262. It is propellerless, and supposedly capable of speeds approaching nine hundred kilometers per hour. When it is operational, the Führer expects it will remove the Allied bomber fleet from our skies. Adolf Galland has been charged with its final testing and making it operational. Hauptmann Grüner has been selected by Galland as one of his pilots.”*

  “In Augsburg?” Boltitz asked, then asked the question that had sprung to his mind, “Nine hundred kilometers per hour?”

  “Sounds incredible, doesn’t it?” Canaris said. “One should never underestimate German engineering genius. Or the genius of Reichsmarschall Göring.”

  He looked at Boltitz for a moment, then went on:

  “Galland is a friend of mine,” he said. “Despite the press of his duties, I am sure that he will feel Grüner can be spared long enough to participate in the funeral of his father. And I’m sure that von Wachtstein would like to be there, to pay his last respects to Oberst Grüner. Perhaps it might be wise for you to plan to leave for Argentina immediately afterward. It might be possible for you and von Wachtstein to travel together.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Admiral.”

  “What are the von Wachtsteins’ plans?”

  “They are going to Pomerania, Herr Admiral. Generalleutnant von Wachtstein mentioned something about going to see a friend of theirs, an Oberstleutnant von Stauffenberg, who is in a hospital in Munich.”

  “The families are old friends,” Canaris said. “Von Stauffenberg was severely wounded in Africa.”

  “What would the Herr Admiral have me do?” Boltitz asked.

  “Just what you are doing now, Boltitz,” Canaris said.

  “Jawohl, Herr Admiral.”

  What I’m really going to have to do, Karl Boltitz thought, is remember this conversation as carefully as I can, and then hope I can guess what he really means by what he has not said.

  XIV

  [ONE]

  4730 Avenida Libertador

  Buenos Aires

  1215 11 May 1943

  El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón, fresh from a shower and wearing a blue silk robe, was sitting on the bed in the topfloor master bedroom of the mansion across from the Hipódrome Argentino. There he consulted a small leather-bound address book and found the number he was looking for.

  He dialed all the digits but one, laid the address book on the bedside table, adjusted the pillows of the bed against the headboard, and, swinging his legs up onto the bed, arranged himself comfortably against the pillows.

  He dialed the last number. It was answered on the second ring.

  “Coronel Martín.”

  “Juan Domingo Perón. Buenas tardes, Alejandro.”

  “Buenas tardes, mi Coronel. How may I help you?”

  Perón chuckled. “You’re going to have to remember, Alejandro, that you are now a coronel yourself, and that protocol permits coronels to address one another by their Christian names.”

  “That’s very gracious of you, Juan Domingo,” Martín replied. “But may I suggest, with all possible respect, that there is a vast difference between a coronel so junior that the shellac is still on his insignia, and a very senior coronel who is also the Special Assistant to the Minister for War?”

  “That of course, would have to be taken into account, Alejandro, by a wise officer—such as yourself—who understands the value of discretion,” Perón said charmingly. “But I really wish you would call me Juan Domingo.”

  “I will be honored, Juan Domingo. Thank you.”

  “Juan Domingo is calling, Alejandro, not the Special Assistant to the Minister for War.”

  “And how may I help you, Juan Domingo?”

  “I have a small problem that you might possibly help me with.”

  “Whatever I can do, Juan Domingo.”

  “I can’t imagine that the BIS would have Señor Cletus Frade under surveillance, Alejandro, but I really have to get in touch with him, and I thought perhaps that—perhaps you heard something over a cup of coffee—you might have an idea where he is.”

  “Oddly enough, Juan Domingo, just a few minutes ago, while I was having a cup of coffee, I did hear something about Señor Frade. He and Señora Frade were seen on the highway from Mar del Plata not more than an hour ago.”

  “If you had to guess, Alejandro, were they headed for Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo?”

  “No, Sir, it was this side of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. If I had to guess, I would guess that Señor and Señora Frade are coming to the city.”

  “I tried both the estancia and Llao Llao,” Perón said—referring to a luxury hotel in San Carlos de Bariloche.

  “I believe the story that the Frades were going to Llao Llao on their wedding trip was a diversionary maneuver, Juan Domingo.”

  “I can understand that. A man is entitled to be left alone on his honeymoon.”

  “My mother-in-law couldn’t seem to understand that, Juan Domingo.”

  Perón laughed appreciatively.

  “I would say, Juan Domingo—just a guess, you understand—that you could probably reach Señor Frade in about an hour at his home on Coronel Díaz, or at the home of Señor Mallín.”

  “Not at the Frade guest house?” Perón asked.

  “I think they would go to either Señora Mallín de Frade’s family home, or to the house on Coronel Díaz.”

  “I have the Coronel Díaz number. You wouldn’t happen to have the Mallín number?”

  “I think I’ve got it here somewhere, Juan Domingo,” Martín said, and a moment later furnished it. Perón carefully added it to the correct page in his address book.

  “You have been very obliging, Alejandro,” Perón said.

  “It has been my pleasure to be of some small service.”

  “I’ll call one day next week, and if you can find the time, we’ll have lunch.”

  “That would be delightful.”

  “Thank you again, Alejandro,” Perón said, and hung up.

  He swung his legs out of bed and telephoned both numbers, leaving the same message at each: He would be grateful if Señor and Señora Frade would take dinner with him tonight, that he would call back in an hour to confirm the details.

  He hung up, and sat thoughtfully for a moment. He was pleased that he had finally thought of calling Martín. He should have thought of that before wasting time calling the estancia and Llao Llao.

  He consulted his address book again and dialed a number. “Generalmajor von Deitzberg, por favor. Coronel Perón of the Ministry for War is calling.”

  Von Deitzberg came on the line a moment later. “Buenas tardes, Juan Domingo. It’s always a pleasure to hear from you.”

  “Likewise, Manfred,” Perón said. “About tonight…”

  “Unfortunately, he’s more interested in his bride than in sipping Champagne with a group of diplomats?”

  “Actually, the problem was finding him. I have finally done so.”

  “Then he’ll be at the hotel…the Plaza…tonight?”

  “I think under the circumstances that it would b
e nice if an invitation was waiting for him at the door.”

  “He’s coming alone?” von Deitzberg asked.

  “An invitation for both Frade and his wife,” Perón said. “And unless something happens, we will arrive together.”

  “There will be invitations at the door, Juan Domingo,” von Deitzberg said. “And I look forward to seeing you. Incidentally, Señor and Señora Duarte have accepted.”

  “Splendid. I think this personal meeting is important, Manfred.”

  “And I quite agree, Juan Domingo.”

  “The…unfortunate…business has to be put behind us.”

  “I agree.”

  “I’ll see you tonight, then, Manfred,” Perón said, and hung up.

  It isn’t enough, Perón thought, that I arrange for Cletus to attend the reception for von Deitzberg and von Löwzer. He is so like his father, unpredictable, unwilling to forgive. I have to make sure that he accepts the apology of the German officer corps for the death of Jorge. And that he understands the importance of doing so.

  Which means I will have to have a word with him—in private; not with his bride listening—before we go to the Plaza tonight.

  “Tío Juan,” Maria-Teresa said, “are you about finished? I’m hungry.”

  Perón turned to look at her, and then smiled. She was in the bed beside him in a pink bathrobe. “You are hungry, my precious?” he asked, and crawled onto the bed on his knees and looked down at her.

  She was tall and thin, with long, rich dark-brown hair, which she wore parted in the middle.

  “Yes, I am,” she said, pouting.

  “Would you like to go somewhere for a pastry? Some ice cream? Or are you really hungry?” He reached down and gently tugged at the bow of the cord holding the bathrobe together.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “Well, we could drive downtown,” he said. The belt came loose and he unfastened it completely, then very slowly opened the bathrobe. Her breasts were small and firm, and the light brown tuft of hair between her legs was adorable.

  I don’t care how beautiful a woman is otherwise, disgusting pendulous breasts overwhelm any other physical charms. And if her pubic hair looks like a pampas swamp that could conceal a herd of feral pigs, she has absolutely no appeal to me.