Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

“You’re really something, Inge,” Peter said, smiling at her. “I like you.”

  “After what we’ve been doing, I should certainly hope so.”

  He smiled at her. She ran her bare foot up his trouser leg.

  “Have you thought about getting your money out of Germany?” Inge asked conversationally.

  “They put people who get caught doing that in Sachsenhausen,” he said. “And confiscate all their property.”

  “I got some of mine—Erich’s—out,” she said. “Werner helped me. Maybe he’d help you.”

  “Why would he want to do that?”

  “Well, maybe you could be very nice to him,” she said. “I saw the way he looks at you.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Inge!”

  “I’m just trying to figure a way to make you see that you, me, and lots of money in Brazil is a very interesting thought,” she said. “I like you, Peter, but I don’t have enough money for both of us.”

  “Going to Brazil is out of the question for me, Inge,” he said seriously. “You’d better understand that.”

  “It is possible,” she said, ignoring him, “that when you get to Berlin—” She interrupted herself. “You really didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Standartenführer Goltz, did you?”

  “I didn’t even know where we were going, much less what he and Grüner were trying to do. I was just taken along because of my strong back to carry the crates.”

  “That’s a little hard to believe, darling,” she said. “You and Goltz seemed pretty chummy.”

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you even this much,” he said, thinking he better tell her something.

  “But you will?” she asked, rubbing her foot against his calf again. “Because you know it will earn you a prize just as soon as we get back to the house?”

  “Oh, God, Inge!”

  “What were you about to say?” she asked, chuckling.

  He proceeded with what he considered his own “official” version of the truth: “Goltz told me that since I was a pilot, I probably knew enough navigation to take a boat from El Tigre—”

  “From where?”

  “It’s a port in Buenos Aires. Like Venice, lots of streams and boats, but without the old buildings.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see Venice,” Inge said. “It’s supposed to very romantic.”

  “Anyway,” Peter went on, “Goltz had bought a boat in El Tigre, a little one. And with Grüner’s driver and his father—they’re Germano-Argentines—as my crew, I took the boat down the coast to Samborombón Bay. Goltz told me I didn’t need to know what was going on. When I got to this little port, I spent the night in the house of another Germano-Argentine. Goltz showed up in the middle of the night, and the first thing in the morning, I took him out to a Spanish ship anchored in the bay. The idea was to use the boat I had to make the landing, but the captain of the ship took one look at it and decided it was useless to land on a beach.

  “That was the first I had heard of a beach. They loaded some crates into one of the lifeboats from the ship, and we went ashore. I still don’t know where we were. Grüner was waiting for us. The minute Goltz and I got out of the boat, people started shooting at us. I have no idea who. Grüner and Goltz were killed; I almost was. I put their bodies into the lifeboat and went back to the ship.

  “They took the bodies aboard the ship, and I took the little boat I’d come down the coast in back to El Tigre. I still don’t know what the hell was going on, except that they were trying to smuggle whatever was in the crates into Argentina, and got caught.”

  Inge looked at him thoughtfully, as if trying to make up her mind whether or not to believe him.

  “Werner thinks the OSS has a spy in the German Embassy,” she said finally.

  “Here, or in Buenos Aires? If he means Buenos Aires, he’s wrong. Grüner was in charge of security there. And if he didn’t trust even me enough to tell me what was going on, how could anyone else know about it?”

  “Well, somebody told whoever shot at you where you were going to be,” she said.

  “Well, it wasn’t me,” he said. “So I have nothing to worry about.”

  “In Berlin they may decide they need somebody to blame. And if they decide on you, it won’t matter if you didn’t know anything about it or not.”

  “Can we get off this subject?”

  She looked into his eyes for a moment, then smiled. “For dessert, you can have a lime sherbet in what looks like an enormous cocktail glass. They pour champagne over the sherbet. It’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac,” she said.

  “You think I need something like that?”

  “Well, we’ll see, won’t we, darling? It can’t do any harm to be sure, can it?”

  Sturmbannführer Werner von Tresmarck was waiting for them, somewhat impatiently, in the sitting.

  Will I now be spared servicing Inge?

  “I was wondering where you were,” he said.

  Does that mean that you were thinking we had taken off for Brazil?

  “Peter insisted on taking me to dinner,” Inge said. “You said you would probably be late.”

  “That was unnecessary, von Wachtstein,” he said. “We have a first-rate cook.”

  “It was my pleasure, Herr Sturmbannführer,” Peter said.

  “Inge, if you will excuse us, I have a little business to discuss with Peter.”

  “Of course. If you don’t mind, either of you, I think I’ll go to bed. It’s been a busy day.”

  “I asked the maid to pack for me,” he said. “Would you please check to make sure I have everything to last me two or three weeks?”

  “Certainly,” Inge said.

  “Excuse me, Herr Sturmbannführer,” Peter said. “We’ll be in the Storch. It will have to be a small case that you can hold on your lap during the flight.”

  “Damn it,” von Tresmarck said, looking at Peter with annoyance. Then he went on. “In that case, Inge, you will have to repack my things. Put what’s absolutely necessary in the small black bag. And then pack everything else I might need for three weeks in a larger bag, or bags. It’s possible we won’t leave Buenos Aires immediately, and a messenger can bring them to me before we go.”

  “All right,” Inge said agreeably.

  “May I suggest, Herr Sturmbannführer,” Peter said, aware that he was enjoying discomfiting von Tresmarck, “that there are liable to be very stringent weight requirements on the Condor?”

  “I’m very much aware of that, von Wachtstein,” von Tresmarck said, almost angrily. “We’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

  “Yes, of course, Herr Sturmbannführer,” Peter said.

  “I’ll see you, of course, in the morning, Peter,” Inge said. “Good night.”

  “Sleep well, Frau von Tresmarck,” Peter said, and bowed and clicked his heels.

  Von Tresmarck waited until Inge had closed the door behind her, then touched Peter’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, Peter, but I don’t want to arrive in Berlin looking like a refugee.”

  “I understand, Herr Sturmbannführer.”

  “Do you think you could bring yourself to call me Werner?”

  “That’s very good of you, Sir.”

  “We are, after all, so to speak, in this mess together, aren’t we?” von Tresmarck said, and before Peter could form a reply, went on. “Let me get us a little brandy, and then you can tell me what you know about what happened on the beach in Argentina.” Von Tresmarck went to the bar, where he poured generous drinks of French cognac into snifters, then handed one to Peter.

  Peter raised his. “Unser Führer!” he barked, correctly.

  “Adolf Hitler!” von Tresmarck said, and took a swallow.

  “What, exactly, happened on the beach, Peter? In
fact, tell me all you know about the whole tragic incident.”

  “With all possible respect, Herr Sturmbannführer, I don’t believe I am at liberty to discuss this.”

  Von Tresmarck looked at him intently for a long moment. “I told you a moment ago you could address me informally,” he said. “But perhaps you’re right. You may consider, Herr Major Freiherr von Wachtstein, that we are now dealing with one another officially. That, in other words, I put that question to you as a Sturmbannführer of the Sicherheitsdienst.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Peter said.

  “Well?” von Tresmarck asked impatiently.

  “Where would you like me to begin, Herr Sturmbannführer?”

  “At the beginning,” von Tresmarck snapped.

  Peter began at the beginning. Though he told von Tresmarck essentially the same “official” version he had told Inge earlier, he fleshed it all out in great detail.

  Thus he provided von Tresmarck with a detailed description of Günther Loche and his father, including their dedication to National Socialism and their loyalty to Oberst Grüner, to Ambassador von Lutzenberger, and to Peter himself. He followed this with a detailed description of El Tigre, the river launch Coronel Gasparo, and the difficulty of sailing such a vessel into the oceanlike River Plate estuary.

  By the time Peter reached the end of the tale, Von Tresmarck was visibly relieved. There were a few questions, mostly in an attempt to get Peter to admit to more knowledge than he claimed to possess, and to having learned this somehow beforehand.

  But those questions seemed perfunctory.

  Which means either that he believes me—I think Inge does—or that he thinks I’m lying, and that since there’s not much he can do about that here, he’ll wait until we get to Berlin.

  Von Tresmarck looked at his watch. “It’s later than I thought, Peter,” he said. “And we have an early day tomorrow. Why don’t we have a nightcap, and then turn in?”

  “May I pass on the nightcap, Herr Sturmbannführer? I don’t like to drink very much if I’m flying the next day.”

  “I understand,” von Tresmarck said, and then remembered something that now obviously bothered him. “What is the rule? Nothing to drink for twenty-four hours before you’re scheduled to fly?”

  “The body, Herr Sturmbannführer, will neutralize one drink each hour. My body will be alcohol-free when it is time for us to fly.”

  Von Tresmarck seemed relieved to hear that. “I think, Peter,” he said, smiling at him, “we can go back to a first-name basis, at least when we’re alone.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So, good night, Peter.”

  “Good night, Werner. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  Von Tresmarck gestured toward the door, and Peter followed him through it, then up the stairs to the second floor.

  He undressed and went to bed. It had been freshly made. He wondered what the maid thought.

  He could hear the sound of Inge’s and von Tresmarck’s voices, but could not make out what they were saying.

  He closed his eyes and went immediately to sleep.

  Sometime later—it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes—he became aware not only of Inge’s presence but that she had decided to begin without his full attention.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again in here,” he said, and then, involuntarily, “Jesus, be careful!”

  “Sorry,” she said, and moved up the bed so that her face was beside his.

  “You could have stayed awake,” she said coyly.

  “I didn’t think you were coming,” he said.

  Actually, I was delighted that I didn’t think you would.

  “I told you, he wants to weep on the manly chest of his lover.”

  “And he won’t be back?”

  “Not for a while,” she said. “Did you like what I was doing?”

  “If I could get you in my suitcase, I’d take you along as my alarm clock,” he said.

  “Not me, darling. I love you, but not enough to go to Berlin with you.”

  “I’m crushed.”

  “Maybe to Brazil,” she said.

  And then she straddled him, and he was no longer in the mood to rehash a conversation they’d already had.

  [TWO]

  Calle Martín 404

  Carrasco, Uruguay

  0805 3 May 1943

  Inge was shaking his arm. He opened his eyes and looked at her. It took him a moment to realize that it was light, and that she was fully dressed.

  He did not remember her leaving his bed.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said. “You didn’t answer my knock.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Breakfast in fifteen minutes, all right?”

  “Fine. Thank you very much.”

  She walked out of the room, wiggling her rear end for his benefit.

  He got out of bed and took a long hot shower and shaved. The mirror told him he looked like a man who hadn’t gotten much sleep.

  When he went down to the dining, he saw that Sturmbannführer Werner von Tresmarck looked very much the same.

  Frau von Tresmarck looked as if she had spent a long, restful, and entirely satisfying night in bed.

  There was nothing in von Tresmarck’s attitude that suggested he knew Peter had been anything but a houseguest.

  Does that mean he doesn’t know, or suspect? Or that if he knows, or suspects, he doesn’t care?

  After they reached the embassy, von Tresmarck announced that there was no reason for them to come inside and they could wait in the car; but soon after entering the building, he returned to announce that Ambassador Schulker wanted to see Peter.

  Peter got out of the car and followed von Tresmarck to Schulker’s office.

  “Heil Hitler, Excellency!” Peter barked, giving a straight-armed salute and clicking his heels. “I was not aware that the Herr Ambassador wished to see me.”

  Schulker returned the salute and the greeting. “I have two envelopes for you to take to Buenos Aires, von Wachtstein,” Schulker said.

  “Jawohl, Excellency!”

  “Forster, this is Major Freiherr von Wachtstein,” Schulker said. “Herr Forster is our commercial attaché.”

  Peter clicked his heels and nodded his head. “Herr Councilor,” he said.

  Forster gave him his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, von Wachtstein,” he said. “I’ve heard of your heroic behavior on the beach.”

  Peter smiled broadly at him. “I regret, Herr Forster, that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Schulker chuckled. “The world of diplomacy, von Wachtstein,” he said, “may be compared to peasant women gathered around the village pump. A lot of things people would rather not have talked about are discussed in some detail.”

  “I am a soldier, Excellency. I try very hard to comply with my orders.”

  “And do so admirably, von Wachtstein,” Schulker said. “Well, here’s what needs to be taken to Buenos Aires.” He handed Peter two envelopes, a large one apparently containing routine papers—it was addressed to Gradny-Sawz—and a smaller one, bearing Schulker’s embossed family crest and addressed to Ambassador von Lutzenberger.

  “I would like to make the point,” von Tresmarck said, “that whatever my friend Forster has heard about some beach, he did not hear from me.”

  “Or from me,” Schulker said. “But doesn’t that prove that Forster has been doing what we diplomats are supposed to do, keep our eyes and ears open for something of interest?”

  “Your discretion is admirable, von Wachtstein,” Forster said.

  “It is very nice to have made your acquaintance, Herr Councilor,” Peter replied. “And may I say that I am grateful that you understand my position?”

  “I
have no doubt that we’ll see each other again,” Forster said. “And may I wish both of you a very pleasant home leave?”

  “Now, that I told him, von Wachtstein,” Schulker said.

  “In that case, Herr Councilor, thank you very much.”

  “Have a drink for me at the Adlon,” Forster said.

  “I’ll do that,” Peter said.

  In the car on the way to the airport, von Tresmarck said, “Peter, there is a story going around—I don’t know if it’s true or not, and I tell you this in confidence—that Forster is not entirely what he represents himself to be, that he has other duties, if you take my meaning.”

  “He’s the Sicherheitsdienst’s man in the embassy,” Inge said, “and everybody knows it.”

  “No one knows that, Inge,” von Tresmarck said. “And you should be very careful about who you say something like that to.”

  “I wondered how he heard about the beach,” Peter said.

  “What beach is that, Peter?” von Tresmarck asked.

  While they were loading the Storch, Peter saw that von Tresmarck was more than a little nervous about flying the 160-odd kilometers across the River Plate in the small single-engine airplane.

  It easily occurred to him that once they were out of sight of land, he would add to von Tresmarck’s discomfiture by causing the engine to backfire, or by perhaps adding some sudden up-and-down movement to the aircraft.

  The customs and immigration officers showed up at the terminal while Peter was checking the weather. After they asked about his destination they immediately left (without bothering to proceed out to the parking ramp to check what he might be taking out of Uruguay).

  Inge kissed her husband’s cheek, offered her hand to Peter, then changed her mind and kissed his cheek, too.

  “Be careful,” she said. “Both of you.”

  Ten minutes later, they were off the ground. Peter flew out over the River Plate in a shallow climb, put the fort-on-the-hill on his tail, and set the compass course for Buenos Aires. When he had climbed to 2,500 meters, he trimmed the aircraft up, and then, without really being aware he was doing it, took his feet momentarily off the rudder pedals and raised both hands above his head to check the condition of the trim.