Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Do they have ‘Galahad’?” Graham asked quickly. “The code name, I mean?”

  “No. Or at least it didn’t come up.”

  “What happened on the beach at Samborombón Bay has to be common knowledge to the Argentine brass,” Graham said. “Army and Navy. And they are not stupid. They know there’s no way Cletus Frade could have known when and where the Océano Pacífico was going to try to put that stuff ashore unless he had someone in the German Embassy. And they would like to know who he is. And use him. El Coronel Martín of the BIS is as good as they come—”

  “What do you think the Argentines know, or suspect, about Operation Phoenix?” Donovan interrupted.

  “If they know, or suspect, anything, they didn’t get it from Frade.”

  “Do you think they have somebody in the German Embassy?”

  “I’d be very surprised if they didn’t. I told you, Bill, this guy Martín is good. But—presuming they do have somebody there—I don’t think that he, or she, knew anything about the Océano Pacífico. Frade said Galahad himself didn’t know the details until shortly before they made the landing. If he didn’t know—”

  “The question was what do you think the Argentines know, or suspect, about Operation Phoenix?”

  “I have no idea,” Graham said.

  “And Lindbergh?”

  “I don’t think they know about that,” Graham said firmly.

  “The President told me he wants Galahad’s name,” Donovan said.

  “And what did you tell the President?”

  “I told him you wouldn’t give it to me.”

  “And?”

  “He asked me how I thought you would react if he personally ordered you to identify Galahad.”

  “Is that what this is about, goddamn it?” Graham replied, his temper visibly on the rise. “I’m to face Roosevelt?”

  “I told the President I believed you would tell him the same thing you told me,” Donovan said.

  “And?”

  “He said, ‘Well, if Colonel Graham feels that strongly about it…’ Or words to that effect.”

  Their eyes met.

  “Why don’t I like that?” Graham asked finally.

  “Actually, there was a little more to it. Before we got to the ‘What if I order Graham myself?’ part, I told him that I thought you would resign before you told me. And I told him I didn’t want to lose you. That I couldn’t—the country couldn’t—afford to do without your services.”

  “And he caved in?” Graham said, quietly sarcastic.

  “You have to understand, A. F., that FDR really does not want to tell Winston Churchill that his intelligence people are reluctant to share their knowledge with their brothers in London. It might suggest we don’t trust them. And that’s what he’d have to do, unless he wanted to tell Churchill Galahad’s identity is none of his business.”

  “In other words, he didn’t really cave in?”

  “I think Roosevelt, the consummate politician, decided there was no sense in having a confrontation with either of us to get something he can get by other means.”

  “Huh,” Graham grunted.

  “If, for example, he gave the task of identifying Galahad to our friend J. Edgar Hoover, Edgar would turn to it with a relish beyond his thrill in being personally handed an intelligence mission by FDR. He would know that if he succeeded, it would humiliate me and the OSS. Or if Roosevelt ordered ONI to come up with the name, they would turn to the task with a zeal based on their opportunity to show up both the FBI and the OSS. And Franklin Roosevelt likes to bet on a sure thing—I know, I still play poker with him. It’s highly likely that by now—my meeting with him was two nights ago—both the FBI and the ONI have identifying Galahad at the head of their lists of Things To Do.”

  Graham grunted again.

  Donovan smiled, then asked: “The FBI’s guy in Buenos Aires—what’s his name? Leibermann? He knows who Galahad is, right?”

  Graham met Donovan’s eyes again but said nothing.

  “Let me rephrase, A. F. Is Leibermann one of your good guys? Or is he associated with those you think of as the forces of evil?”

  Graham chuckled. “I’m very fond of Milton Leibermann, Bill.”

  “Then I don’t suppose you would be willing to listen to my argument that since the FBI is sure to find out who Galahad is anyway, you could get your gringo friend Bill Donovan back in the good graces of FDR by telling him now?”

  “That is correct, Mr. Director,” Graham said, smiling.

  “Then I won’t offer that argument.”

  Graham grunted again. “Bill, you didn’t have to tell me this,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m trying to be one of your good guys, A. F.,” Donovan said. “I guess I didn’t really realize how much I need you until I had to start defending you.”

  “Is that what they call ‘blarney’?”

  “No, A. F.,” Donovan said. “It isn’t. Let me know how you make out with the goddamn Mexican telephone company.”

  “I’ll do that,” Graham said. “Thank you again, Bill.”

  Donovan smiled broadly. “Vaya con Dios, mi amigo,” he said, and walked out of Graham’s office.

  [SIX]

  The Office of the Reichsführer-SS

  Berlin

  1545 10 May 1943

  SS-Obersturmbannführer Karl Cranz took one step inside the office of Reichsprotektor Heinrich Himmler, came to attention, and with a click of his heels rendered a stiff-armed Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler!” he barked.

  Himmler returned the salute with a casual wave of his hand, but said nothing for a moment, “I didn’t expect to see you so soon, Cranz,” Himmler said finally. It was both a statement and a question.

  “I’m afraid I might be wasting the Herr Reichsprotektor’s valuable time—”

  Himmler interrupted him by raising his hand from the wrist. “What do you have, Cranz?”

  “I met the Condor from Buenos Aires—”

  “You met?” Himmler interrupted again.

  “Boltitz and I, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

  “To properly set the stage, don’t you think you should tell me about Korvettenkapitän Boltitz?”

  “My initial reaction, Herr Reichsprotektor, is that he is highly intelligent and quite competent.”

  “I didn’t think Canaris would send a man who wasn’t,” Himmler said.

  “I saw nothing that suggests, Herr Reichsprotektor, that he is anything but a reliable professional officer.”

  “Fully qualified to take Grüner’s place in Buenos Aires?”

  “Yes, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

  “Perhaps I should have said ‘reliable enough to take Grüner’s place’?”

  “Based on what little I have seen of him, yes, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

  “I don’t like qualified answers, Cranz.”

  “I beg the Herr Reichsprotektor’s pardon. My judgment is that he will unquestioningly obey his orders.”

  Himmler thought that over a second, and then said, “You went to Lisbon?”

  “Yes, Herr Reichsprotektor. We took the three of them from the Condor, took them to dinner that night, and then brought them to Berlin via Swiss Air today. I came here directly from Templehof.”

  “And which of the three do you suspect?”

  “Permit me to say, Herr Reichsprotektor, that I have nothing that removes any of them from suspicion.”

  “I was rather hoping that it was the Austrian,” Himmler said. “He has already proved capable of treason.”

  “He is, I think, the sort of man whose nervousness would betray something like that.”

  “He’s a diplomat,” Himmler argued. “He has been tr
ained to conceal what he’s thinking, and to lie.”

  “With respect, Herr Reichsprotektor, I considered that.”

  “And our man?”

  “Von Tresmarck is nervous—Boltitz quickly picked up on that—but that may very well be because of what is in his dossier.”

  “Refresh my memory about that.”

  “There are Sicherheitspolizei files—”

  “Homosexuals cannot be trusted,” Himmler protested, suddenly remembering. “When Goltz came to me with that argument—that von Tresmarck could be trusted because that was hanging over him—I was struck by how charmingly Machiavellian it was, and I indulged him. His error in judgment may have cost him his life. That might be poetic justice, except that I don’t want to face the Führer after knowingly giving someone like that so much responsibility.”

  “Herr Reichsprotektor, may I respectfully suggest that if the traitor does turn out to be von Tresmarck, the situation can be dealt with without von Tresmarck’s sexual predilections coming to the Führer’s attention?”

  Himmler looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment. “And apparently neither you nor Boltitz thinks von Wachtstein is the traitor?”

  “Herr Reichsprotektor, a shot—or shots—were fired at von Wachtstein, yet I think it odd that he wasn’t killed when Grüner and Goltz were shot in the head.”

  “So do I,” Himmler agreed.

  “And I hope to get the true story of that when I speak to the master of the Océano Pacífico, Kapitän de Banderano.”

  “When will the ship be in Spain?”

  “On the sixteenth or seventeenth, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

  “And what do we do with our three friends until then? Or until we hear something from von Deitzberg in Buenos Aires that will clear this up?”

  “I was going to suggest, Herr Reichsprotektor, that after they give us their statements—”

  “You haven’t taken their statements yet?”

  “Herr Reichsprotektor, so far the interrogation has been informal. In my experience, when suspects are required to give a formal statement after they’ve been interrogated informally, the guilty tend to act nervous. My suggestion is for someone they haven’t met before to take their official statements—say, as a surprise, tomorrow morning. And then give them a few days’ leave. Meanwhile, we’ll let them stew while we wait for all the rest of the information to come in—the result of my interrogation of de Banderano, and what we get from von Deitzberg in Buenos Aires. And then you and the other senior officers must examine everything. We’ll explain this to the three, and then that you will almost certainly want to talk to them personally after all that has taken place.”

  “Give them something to think about while they’re on leave?”

  “That is my suggestion, Herr Reichsprotektor. If you approve, I will see that the commanding officer of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler—I sent von Tresmarck to their barracks—authorizes him leave within Berlin. If the Herr Reichsprotektor could suggest to the Foreign Minister that Gradny-Sawz be given a few days to visit his beloved Vienna…”

  “Keep them separated, right? And under surveillance?”

  “That is my suggestion, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

  “And the pilot?”

  “I’m sure von Wachtstein would like to visit his father.”

  “At Wolfsschanze?”

  “Unless Generalleutnant von Wachtstein could be spared for a few days from his duties.”

  “I’ll have a word with Keitel,” Himmler said. “I’m sure he’ll understand the situation.”

  He looked at Cranz for a moment, as if making up his mind, then went on: “Putting down the insurrection in the Warsaw ghetto has proved to be a greater problem than anyone imagined.”

  “Oh, really?” Cranz asked, genuinely surprised.

  “When the SS troops in Warsaw saw they would be unable to put it down immediately, they sought assistance from the Wehrmacht. The Wehrmacht also underestimated the situation, and have found it necessary to bring in tanks and artillery—”

  “Excuse me, Herr Reichsprotektor. Do I understand you to say the Jews are still giving us trouble?”

  “As incredible as it sounds, Cranz, yes. It’s only a matter of time, of course, until the situation is under control, but at the moment Generalfeldmarschall Keitel finds himself in the unenviable position of having to report to the Führer twice a day on the situation in Warsaw.”

  “I see.”

  “And as you yourself know, Cranz, our Führer—”

  “Is sometimes an impatient man, Herr Reichsprotektor?”

  Himmler’s lips curved in a very tight smile, and he nodded. “Keitel and I, and Canaris and Bormann, have decided that it is not necessary to burden the Führer with Operation Phoenix problems until we have that situation under control.”

  “I understand, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

  “It occurs to me, Cranz, that if young von Wachtstein were to go to Wolfsschanze, his father would probably arrange for him to pay his respects to the Führer. And the Führer would very likely wonder why he was back in Germany.”

  “I understand, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

  “Where is young von Wachtstein now?”

  “At the Hotel am Zoo, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

  “Why don’t you keep him there until I have a word with the Generalfeldmarschall about giving Generalleutnant von Wachtstein a few days off?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

  [SEVEN]

  Office of the Director, Abwehr Intelligence

  Berlin

  1605 10 May 1943

  When he looked up at Fregattenkapitän Otto von und zu Waching standing in his open door, Admiral Wilhelm Canaris’s face darkened with annoyance, but he said nothing and waited.

  Von und zu Waching did not offer an apology for disturbing the Admiral. He knew the Admiral was aware that he regretted wasting his valuable time, and that an apology would do nothing but waste more time. “Boltitz just called, Herr Admiral,” von und zu Waching said. “He’s at the Hotel am Zoo with Major von Wachtstein.”

  A flicker of surprise crossed Canaris’s face. “Did you know he was coming to Berlin?”

  Von und zu Waching shook his head.

  Canaris looked at the ceiling for a moment. “Otto, present my compliments to Korvettenkapitän Boltitz, and tell him that you and I would be pleased to accept his kind invitation to have a drink with him and Major Freiherr von Wachtstein.”

  “At what hour, Herr Admiral?”

  “There is no time like the present, is there, Otto? Have the car in front in five minutes.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Admiral.”

  Having just concluded that the glass of Berliner Kindl beer he was drinking in the bar of the Hotel am Zoo, while vastly superior to the beer in Portugal, really had nothing to recommend it over the Quilmes cerveza of Buenos Aires, Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein turned on his stool as Korvettenkapitän Karl Boltitz slid onto the stool beside him. “From the look on your face—” Peter said, smiling at him.

  “What look?” Karl interrupted.

  “Utter disbelief. What’s wrong? Has your beloved been swept off her feet by a dashing Luftwaffe pilot?”

  “Admiral Canaris has accepted my offer to share a drink with you and me,” he said.

  “Mein Gott! What’s that all about?”

  “I think a good guess would be that the Admiral wants a personal look at the dashing Luftwaffe pilot. Fregattenkapitän von und zu Waching will be with him. And Peter…”

  “What?”

  “They should be here directly.”

  Mein Gott! Karl thought. I stopped myself just in time from warning him not to judge von und zu Waching by his friendly face and simplicity.

  “Who is Whatsisname?�
��

  “I think of him as the Minister Without Portfolio,” Karl said. “He and Canaris are very close.”

  And I shouldn’t have even said that.

  Karl reached out and touched the shoulder of a passing waiter. “We will be joined by a senior officer,” he said. “We will require a table.”

  The waiter looked at him dubiously. “That may be difficult, Mein Herr.”

  “Arrange for it,” Karl ordered coldly.

  “I will see what I can do, of course,” the waiter said, and walked away.

  Von Wachtstein laughed.

  “What’s funny?”

  “He wanted you to give him money.”

  “To hell with him.”

  “If you had given him money, he would have scorned you. Now he respects you. He understands that you are speaking for the senior officer, not sucking up to him.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  “Your father is a senior officer, you should know the drill.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  Is that what it is? Is that why I like von Wachtstein? Because we are both children of senior officers?

  The waiter unsmilingly provided a banquette in the rear of the bar. Three minutes later, Canaris and von und zu Waching entered the room, standing for a moment just inside so their eyes could adjust to the darkness. As soon as the waiter saw them, he approached them and, now smiling broadly, led them to the table.

  Canaris impatiently waved the two young officers back into their seats after they’d popped to attention. “My name is Canaris, Major von Wachtstein,” he said, offering his hand.

  “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Herr Admiral,” Peter said.

  “Fregattenkapitän von und zu Waching,” Canaris said, pointing to him.

  Von und zu Waching offered Peter his hand but said nothing, then offered his hand to Boltitz and said nothing to him either.

  “Good evening, Sir,” Boltitz said.

  “We’ll have whatever these gentlemen were drinking,” Canaris said to the waiter.

  “Immediately, Herr Admiral,” the waiter said.

  “I understand you had a difficult time at Samborombón Bay, Major,” Canaris said, “the details of which I am sure will be in Boltitz’s report. I wanted to talk to you about the Graf Spee internees.”