“Tony, have you considered that it’s at least a possibility—I mean, this isn’t some girl you’ve known for years. You just met her—that as soon as you give her the money, she says ‘Muchas gracias’ and goes back to her boyfriend?”
“I told you it’s not like that. And she didn’t ask me for a dime. I had to pull the story out of her.”
Yeah, sure you did. While she looked at you with big, tearful eyes and a few well-timed sobs.
“And anyway, I wasn’t going to ask you to give me the fucking money, just help me get it in a hurry down here from my bank in Chicago. I got fifty-three grand in the bank.”
“Where’d you get fifty-three thousand dollars?” Clete asked in surprise.
And is the girl you don’t love and is absolutely not playing you for a sucker aware you’re got fifty-odd thousand dollars?
“Three of it was my college money, and my grandfather left me fifty grand when he died. I figured, since you know people here, you could help me get thirteen grand down here, maybe fifteen, just to be sure.”
As sure as Christ made little apples, he’s being played for a sucker; but I can’t convince him of that.
So what do I tell him?
He stuck with you. Loyalty is loyalty, and it works down as well as up. This guy is on your team. So what you do is try to help him. If you can minimize the damage, fine, but you help him.
“Tony, I’ll tell you what I will do. You come up with the facts. Your girlfriend’s name, her father’s name, the name of the bank…all the information you can get out of her. I’ll check it out. If it checks out…”
And I’ll be goddamned surprised if it does!
“I got it right here,” Tony said. He dug into his white hospital uniform trousers and came out with a thick wad of paper.
“You can’t keep those…” Tony said.
Why am I not surprised?
“…because her father needs them back. He’s running around trying to get the money from other people, family mostly. I got two grand from Ettinger, it was all he had, and he’s come up with about four. So we still need seven.”
Ettinger can’t afford to lose two thousand dollars. But he couldn’t turn Tony down. And you almost did.
Clete quickly went through the documents, more than a little surprised to see that the mortgage, made by the Anglo-Argentine Bank, looked legitimate. He wrote down the pertinent facts, remembering as he did so that Uncle Humberto was a banker and that he could ask the appropriate questions.
“Mi Teniente,” Enrico said, frowned, and tapped his wristwatch.
“Yeah, OK. He’s going.” He handed the documents back to Pelosi. “No promises, Tony. I’ll check it out.”
“Thank you,” Tony said. “I…Thanks, Clete. I really hated to bother you with this, you being in the deep shit and all.”
“It’s OK, Tony. If I can help, I’ll be glad to.”
“Now I feel like a shit,” Tony said.
“Why?”
“I lied to you. And Dave.”
“About what?”
“I knew what you’d think,” Tony said.
“If what, Tony?”
Jesus!
“If I told you I’m in love with her. I am, Clete.”
Either it’s pure love at first sight, or you’re thinking with your dick, one or the other.
Who the hell are you to ridicule him for falling in love at first sight?
“Tony, just make sure that what you feel for this girl is the real thing,” Clete said. “We’re down here alone…”
“Yeah. I knew that’s what you’d think. But I’m glad I told you anyway.”
“You have to get out of here,” Clete said.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be in touch, through Enrico or one of his friends,” Clete said, and put out his hand.
“Thanks, Clete.”
“You and Ettinger watch your ass, Tony. These bastards are liable to come after you. They probably will.”
“We’ll be all right, Lieutenant.”
I wonder.
[TWO]
The Office of the Military Attaché
The Embassy of the German Reich
Avenue Córdoba
Buenos Aires, Argentina
0925 21 December 1942
“You wished to see me, Herr Oberst?” Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein asked as he entered Oberst Karl-Heinz Grüner’s office.
“The Ambassador wants to see you, Peter,” Grüner said. “His secretary called here at nine oh two.” Grüner waited until the young Luftwaffe officer had squirmed uncomfortably for a while, then went on. “I told her you were in the rest room.”
“Thank you, Herr Oberst. I regret that I was delayed.”
Smiling, Grüner held up his hand and stopped him.
“A late, romantic evening, I gather, von Wachtstein?”
“Romance is difficult, Herr Oberst, when the object of your intentions is connected like a Siamese twin to her older sister.”
Grüner chuckled. “You are an enterprising young man. You’ll find a solution.”
“Is Ambassador von Lutzenberger waiting for me, Herr Oberst?”
“He wants to see you at 9:40. Not 9:35, not 9:45. 9:40. The Ambassador is a very precise man, von Wachtstein.”
Peter looked at his wristwatch.
“We have a few minutes,” Grüner said, then handed Peter a folded newspaper. Peter saw that it was the Buenos Aires Freie Presse. “Have you seen this, Peter?”
He pointed to a story with the headline “Murder and Robbery in Belgrano.”
“Not this story, Herr Oberst. But I saw a similar one in the Herald. The hotel placed one before my door; I read it at breakfast.”
“‘The best laid plans of mice and men,’” Grüner said. “I think it was a Scotsman who said that.”
“I saw young Frade earlier in the evening,” Peter said. “He came into the hotel.”
“So I understand,” Grüner said. “It was reported to me that you had angry words.”
“He was angry with the lady, Herr Oberst.”
“And she with him, I understand,” Grüner said. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what went wrong, except that I violated the adage that one should never underestimate one’s enemy. Leutnant Frade may not be the babe in the woods I took him to be.”
“May I ask what happens now?”
“Well, first you see von Lutzenberger. I suspect there may have been a letter for you in the diplomatic pouch. There was a Condor flight this morning.”
“Oh, really?”
“He will deliver the standard speech, that you are not free to use the diplomatic messenger service for personal business. That should take about three minutes. He probably has you on his schedule, ‘von Wachtstein, nine-forty to nine forty-four.’”
Peter smiled, thinking it was expected of him.
“And when he turns you loose, I thought we would take a look at the advertisements in the Freie Presse and see about finding a suitable apartment for you. Or would that interfere with your romantic life?”
“No, Herr Oberst. Thank you very much,” Peter said.
Grüner stood up.
“I noticed in the Freie Presse three or four apartments for rent that might be suitable for you. When von Lutzenberger is through with you, I suggest we have my driver take us past all of them. We will then wind up at my quarters, where my wife has her camera prepared to take pictures, to send to Willi. She will even feed us lunch. And afterward, if any of the apartments has taken your fancy, we can have a closer look on our way back here.”
“You’re very kind, Herr Oberst.”
“Nonsense. Your father would do no less for Willi. But now I suggest you go to the Ambassador’s office so that you will be there when the second hand on his watch indicates that it’s precisely nine-forty.”
“Thank you, Herr Oberst.”
“Oh, one final thing.”
“Yes, Herr Oberst?”
“When young
Frade surfaces—Internal Security has him in the military hospital, but he should be out and about in several days—you should telephone to him and express your delight that he came through this terrible event unscathed.”
“I don’t think I understand, Herr Oberst.”
“You know him socially. You are a German officer and a gentleman. This is a neutral country. It would be the correct thing to do. And when Oberstleutnant Martín gets the transcript of the telephone call, it will drive him mad trying to figure out the connection between you two.”
“I’ll call him, Herr Oberst.”
Grüner, now delighted with his idea, had an even better one.
“Better yet, invite Leutnant Frade to lunch at the downtown officers’ club. We’ll stop in there during the apartment search and obtain a membership for you.”
[THREE]
“You wished to see me, Mr. Ambassador?”
“Ah, yes, von Wachtstein,” von Lutzenberger said. “I have a letter for you. There was a Condor flight this morning.”
The Ambassador rose from his desk and walked to a wall safe concealed behind the official photograph of Adolf Hitler. He worked the combination, pulled the safe open, took an envelope from it, carefully closed it, and then spun the combination dial.
He handed Peter the envelope; it was sealed with green wax, in which was the impression of a signet ring. The letter was from his father. Peter recognized this, however, by the paper of the envelope and not the seal. A box of this stationery was kept in the library at Schloss Wachtstein; it was purchased in London by Peter’s grandfather; and it was used up at the rate of one sheet and one envelope per year to announce births, deaths, marriages, and other significant family events to his grandfather’s sister (and her descendants). She had married an Englishman and lived in Scotland.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Ambassador,” Peter said.
“Read it here, von Wachtstein,” the Ambassador ordered softly.
Peter looked at him in surprise.
“That came to me by hand,” von Lutzenberger said. “Not in the pouch. I suspect it should not leave this room.”
Peter broke the wax seal and opened the envelope.
* * *
Schloss Wachtstein
Pommern
Hansel—
I have just learned that you have reached Argentina safely, and thus it is time for this letter.
The most serious violation of the code of honor by which I, and you, and your brothers and so many of the von Wachtsteins before us have tried to live is of course regicide. I want you to know that before I concluded that honor itself demands that I contribute to such a course of action, I considered all of the ramifications, both spiritual and practical; I am at peace with my decision.
A soldier’s duty is first to his God, and then to his honor, and then to his country. The Allies in recent weeks have accused the German state of committing atrocities on such a scale as to defy description. I must tell you that information has come to me that has convinced me that the accusations are not only based on fact, but are actually worse than alleged.
The officer corps has failed its duty to Germany, not so much on the field of battle, but in pandering to the Austrian Corporal and his cohorts. In exchange for privilege and “honors” the officer corps, myself included, has closed its eyes to obscene violations of the Rules of Land Warfare, the Code of Honor, and indeed most of God’s Ten Commandments. I accept my share of the responsibility for this shameful behavior.
We both know the war is lost. When it is finally over, the Allies will demand a terrible retribution from Germany.
I see it as my duty as a soldier and a German to take whatever action is necessary to hasten the end of the war by the only means now available, eliminating the present head of the government. The soldiers who will die now, in battle, or in Russian prisoner of war camps, will be as much victims of the officer corps’ failure to act as the people the Nazis are slaughtering in concentration camps.
I put it to you, Hansel, that your allegiance should be no longer to the Luftwaffe, or the German State, but to Germany, and to the family, and to the people who have lived on our lands for so long.
In this connection, your first duty is to survive the war. Under no circumstances are you to return to Germany for any purpose until the war is over. If you are ordered to return, find now some place where you can hide safely.
Your second duty is to transfer the family funds from Switzerland to Argentina as quickly as possible. You have by now made contact with our friend in Argentina, and he will probably be able to be of help. In any event, make sure the funds are in some safe place. It would be better if they could be wisely invested, but the primary concern is to keep them safe from the Sicherheitsdienst until the war is over.
In the chaos that will occur in Germany after the war, the only hope our people will have, to keep them in their homes, indeed to keep them from starvation, and the only hope there will be for the future of the von Wachtstein family, and the estates, will be the money that I have placed in your care.
I hope, one day, to be able to go with you again to the village for a beer and a sausage. If that is not to be, I have confidence that God in his mercy will allow us to be all together again, your mother and your brothers, and you and I, in a better place.
I have taken great pride in you, Hansel.
Poppa
* * *
Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein turned away from the desk of the Ambassador of the German Reich to the Republic of Argentina and cleared his throat; and then, because it was necessary, he took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes and cheeks.
“Excuse me, Mr. Ambassador.”
“May I see the letter, please?”
“It is a personal letter, Mr. Ambassador.”
“You either trust me or you don’t, Freiherr von Wachtstein.”
Peter met his eyes for a moment, then handed the letter over.
The Ambassador read it.
“Your father is eloquent, as well as a brave and honorable man, von Wachtstein,” the Ambassador said, and then added, “Hold it over the wastebasket and burn it.”
Peter met his eyes again.
“No, Sir,” he said. “I don’t wish to burn it.”
“If Oberst Grüner finds that letter…”
“He will not find it, Mr. Ambassador.”
The Ambassador considered that for a moment, and nodded.
“As to the other matter,” he said. “Transferring the funds here from Switzerland is a simple matter of sending a cable. Keeping their presence here unknown, and investing them wisely, is quite another problem.”
“I understand.”
“How much help do you think your friend Frade will be?” von Lutzenberger asked. “His uncle is General Manager of the Anglo-Argentine Bank.”
“I don’t think I follow you, Mr. Ambassador.”
“You are beginning to frighten me, von Wachtstein, and to annoy me,” von Lutzenberger said coldly. “Please don’t waste my time by telling me you didn’t warn Frade about Grüner’s idiotic plan to eliminate him. Frade owes you his life. My question is how helpful you think he will be. If that young Duarte fool hadn’t gotten himself killed at Stalingrad, the Anglo-Argentine Bank would have been a helpful connection.”
“I hadn’t thought about…”
“Start thinking, von Wachtstein. Otherwise we’ll both be dead.”
[FOUR]
Room 305
Dr. Cosme Argerich Military Hospital
Calle Luis María Campos
Buenos Aires
0905 22 December 1942
Clete was lying on the bed, reading La Nación and sipping at a cup of coffee, when he heard the locked door being opened. Enrico, whom he thought was sound asleep, was instantly awake, with the Remington in his hands.
El Teniente Coronel Bernardo Martín stepped into the room, carrying a small suitcase. After a moment, Clete recognized it; it was his. Martí
n looked at Enrico and his ready shotgun with approval.
“Buenos días, Suboficial Mayor,” Martín said dryly, then switched to English. “How are you this morning, Mr. Frade?”
“I’m fine, thank you. A little bored.”
“Well, the doctors tell me that you can leave the hospital,” Martín said.
What doctors? I haven’t seen a doctor since the one who hacked away at me when I got here.
“So I have taken the liberty of bringing you some of your things from the Guest House.”
He laid the suitcase on the bed.
“Thank you,” Clete said. “You mean, I’m free to go?”
Martín ignored the question. “I hope that you will report to the man from your embassy that you have been well-treated here.”
“What man from the embassy?”
“Your embassy seems extraordinarily concerned with your welfare,” Martín said. “As soon as the story of your encounter with the burglars appeared in the Herald, they started making quite a nuisance of themselves, first at the Policía Federal, and lately at the Foreign Ministry.”
“Is that so?”
“There’s a Consular Officer, a man named Spiers, waiting downstairs to see you now. He was told you’re being given a final physical examination, which should be over about half past nine. Will that give you time for a shower and a shave? Or shall I have him told you’ll be a little longer?”
“You didn’t answer my question. Am I free to go?”
“Certainly, now that we are sure you are in the best of health, and the Policía Federal have concluded their investigation of the unfortunate incident on Avenida Libertador.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Martín said. “You might be interested to know that the criminals have been identified. Both of them have long criminal records, including a history of armed robbery. The Policía Federal will not miss them.”
“Thank you again.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“Your Consular Officer might misinterpret Sergeant Major Rodríguez’s shotgun. Would you feel comfortable if he put it away? I assure you that adequate protection for you is in place.”
Honor Bound Page 52
