Secret Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I can’t convince you to come to the Ambassador’s reception for Generalmajor von Deitzberg?” Perón asked her.

  “I really have to go to the estancia,” Claudia said firmly.

  Perón looked at his watch. “And I really must return to my duties,” he said. “I’ll come by Coronel Díaz for you and Dorotéa about seven, Cletus?”

  “I’ll see you there, Tío Juan,” Clete said.

  Perón set off to find his car.

  “Come by the museum a minute,” Clete said to Claudia when Perón was out of earshot.

  “All right,” she said.

  “Curiosity is a female prerogative,” Claudia said, helping herself to a snifter of cognac in the downstairs sitting. “Was that ‘social event’ where you met the blonde in your apartment at the Alvear?”

  Clete nodded. “Juan Domingo seemed fascinated with her,” he replied.

  “I noticed. I thought she was a little old for him.” Claudia laughed.

  “If you want to buy that place, come up with a price.” Clete said.

  “Don’t do me any favors, Cletus.”

  “I’ve got too much on my plate as it is,” Clete said. “I don’t know anything about radio stations, and I don’t have either the time or the inclination to learn. I have some Texas ranch-hand’s ideas about improving production on the estancias.”

  “Such as?”

  “There’s a better use for more than four feet of good, thick topsoil than to raise grass for cows to chew.”

  “Such as?”

  “Putting in corn, for example. If I feed them corn, I can get a beef to market months before I can by feeding it grass.”

  “You mean that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I mean it. My uncle Jim used to say, ‘When you have a chance to make some money, take it. Next year, there’ll damned sure be a drought.’”

  Claudia chuckled. “Your father used to talk about feedlots,” she said. “He apparently saw them in the United States. Which may be why he never got around to doing anything about it.”

  “I’m one of the good gringos, Claudia.”

  “Your father would be pleased to know that you’re taking an interest in the estancias.”

  “That—and flying airplanes—is about all I know, and I have some ideas about making money with airplanes, too, that I want to play with.”

  She met his eyes. “I’ll get some estimates,” she said. “Top peso and bottom peso, and we’ll split it down the middle. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “You behave yourself tonight with those Nazis.”

  “I will.”

  She drained her brandy, then walked to him and kissed him tenderly—rather than pro forma—on the cheek and walked out of the downstairs sitting.

  [FOUR]

  Wachtstein Bahnhof

  Kreis Wachtstein, Pomerania

  2105 11 May 1943

  The train was an hour late, having been sidetracked three times by military trains headed for Russia, which of course had higher priority. One had been a troop train—two second-class coaches for the officers and a long line of third-class coaches for the enlisted men. The other two had been freight trains, loaded with military equipment and vehicles. Each of the three had two special flatcars, one immediately behind the locomotive, the other about halfway down the line of cars.

  These held machine-gun positions, steel plates further protected by sandbags. Generalleutnant Graf von Wachtstein identified them as Waffenwagen, armed cars. They were unfortunately necessary because the army and the SS, despite valiant effort, had not been able to completely suppress partisan activity in Russia.

  Their own train had one first-class car, no second-class, and a line of third-class cars. The first-class car was nearly empty, and its few passengers were either army or SS officers.

  Though there was opportunity for talk in their compartment, Peter’s father showed no inclination to do so, and Peter knew his father well enough not to press him. There would be ample opportunity for that once they reached Wachtstein and the Schloss.

  They were the only passengers to leave the train at Wachtstein, and at first glance the station seemed deserted. But just as they were about to enter the small station building, a man in a leather overcoat stepped out of the shadows, showed them his Gestapo identity disk, and demanded their papers.

  “When I see Reichsprotektor Himmler next week, I will report your zeal,” the Graf said.

  The Gestapo man handed the Graf his identity documents, looked him in the face, raised his hand in the Nazi salute, and then turned away without speaking.

  The Graf motioned for Peter to precede him through the station. The street outside was empty and dark, with the only light coming faintly through the shuttered windows of the gasthaus a block away.

  “How do we get from here to the Schloss?” Peter asked.

  “If we’re lucky, the battery in the Horch will not have run down,” the Graf said. “It’s in the stable behind the gasthaus.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t know what to do with it,” the Graf said, “after you went to Argentina.”

  “I meant, why at the gasthaus?”

  “The Schloss has been pressed into service as a hospital,” the Graf said. “I didn’t want the Horch being used by the officer in charge. And of course, I couldn’t have it at Wolfsschanze.”

  They walked down the cobblestone street to the gasthaus and pushed open the door. Though it smelled of beer, just as Peter remembered it, it was now also somehow more drab, less happy, than before.

  The proprietor, Herr Kurt Stollner, was leaning on the bar, a white apron tied around his ample middle. Stollner’s father and grandfather had been the proprietors before him, but his son would not be. His son, ten years older than Peter, had died for the Fatherland in Poland.

  Eight men and an old woman were sitting at three of the tables. Once they recognized the Graf, the men rose respectfully to their feet.

  The Graf nodded to Herr Stollner, then went to the old lady and called her by name to tell her that he had Hansel with him. She smiled toothlessly at Peter. Then Peter followed his father around the room and they shook hands with all the men. Two of the older men called him “Hansel.” The others called him Herr Baron.

  Herr Stollner handed Peter and the Graf gray clay mugs of beer. The Graf raised his and called “Prosit!”, then signaled for Stollner to give everyone a beer.

  It was a ritual. As a small child, Peter remembered coming to the gasthaus with his grandfather. Everyone had stood up and waited for the Graf to shake their hands. Then the Graf was handed a beer, took a sip, and ordered beer all around. Afterward, the village elders had come, one at a time, for a private word.

  Herr Stollner came close to the Graf.

  “Do you think we will be able to start the Horch?” the Graf asked.

  “I have charged the battery once a week, Herr Graf.”

  “I knew I could rely on you.”

  “It will take us a moment to get it for you,” the proprietor said. “To move the hay.”

  Peter had a mental image of the car buried under bales of hay in the stable behind the gasthaus to keep it out of sight.

  “I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble, Kurt.”

  “I am happy to be of service,” the proprietor said. He made a motion with his hand to several of the men in the room, then led them through the kitchen and out to the stable.

  Five minutes later, they filed back in. “I left the engine running, Herr Graf,” the proprietor said.

  The Graf, with Peter following, moved again to each of the men and shook their hands, and then they went outside.

  The Horch was covered with dust from the hay it had been buried under, and the Graf read Peter’s mind: “It w
ill blow off long before we reach the Schloss.” The Graf signaled for Peter to get behind the wheel, then climbed in beside him.

  Peter got the car moving.

  “We can talk now,” the Graf said. “About the only place I am reasonably sure the Gestapo doesn’t have a microphone is in this car.”

  “In the Schloss?”

  “We will have to be discreet in the Schloss,” the Graf said. “We’re going to drive to Munich to see von Stauffenberg in hospital. That should give us the time we need.”

  “He is going to live?”

  “Yes. But he was really badly hurt. At first, he was even blinded…”

  “Damn,” Peter said.

  “…but he has the sight of one eye, and the use of one hand and arm.”

  Peter didn’t reply. His mind was full of images of Claus von Stauffenberg as a handsome, athletic young man, and of what he must look like now, as a scarred, horribly wounded, one-eyed cripple.

  “What are you thinking, Hansel?” the Graf asked.

  Peter didn’t want to tell his father what he was thinking. “A friend of mine in Argentina has a car like this. Almost identical, I think.”

  “What friend is that?” the Graf asked. There was a tone of impatience, perhaps of annoyance, in his voice.

  “My friend is an enemy officer,” Peter said. “A major of the U.S. Marine Corps. He was once a fighter pilot, and now he is an agent of the American OSS.”

  “And?”

  “On orders from Berlin, my friend’s father was murdered while riding in his Horch.”

  “His father was?”

  “Oberst Jorge Guillermo Frade, who was probably going to be president of Argentina. A fine man.”

  “And the son and you are friends?”

  “Yes,” Peter said. “We are friends.”

  “He’s not just using you?”

  “I suppose you could say we are using each other,” Peter said. “You want the whole story?”

  “Please.”

  Peter told his father the whole story of his relationship with Cletus, up to Operation Phoenix and a plan for a refuge in South America if the war was lost.

  “Apparently, starting with the Führer,” Peter concluded, “there is less absolute confidence in the Final Victory than they would have us believe.”

  “Just before I left Wolfsschanze this morning, Hansel, there was a final message from General von Arnim in Tunisia.”

  “A final message?”

  The Graf stilled him with a quick wave. “According to von Arnim, his troops have done all they could. But he is out of ammunition, has many casualties, the situation is hopeless, and to preserve the lives of his men, he has sent emissaries to the Americans. He believes there will be a cease-fire as of 0700 tomorrow.”

  “So we have lost Africa,” Peter said.

  The Graf waved his hand again. “Von Arnim concluded his message ‘God Save Germany!’” He went on. “It fell to me to take the message to the Führer.”

  “Why you?”

  “Probably because Generaloberst Jodl decided that if a head was to roll, mine was the most expendable. When something goes wrong, the Austrian corporal often banishes the messenger.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Whatever he is, Hitler is no fool,” the Graf said. “His face whitened, but he took the news quite calmly. He touched my shoulder. He knew it wasn’t my fault, he said, and that I was one of a very few of his generals in whom he had complete trust. He then very courteously asked me to ask Generalfeldmarschall Keitel and Generaloberst Jodl if they could tear themselves from their duties to confer with him.”

  The Graf sighed, then went on: “When they went in, we could hear him screaming at them, despite the thick walls. His tantrum lasted ten minutes. He actually picked up chairs and smashed them against the floor. And then Keitel came out, ashen-faced, and ordered me to message Von Arnim that surrender was out of the question; that the officers who had recommended such action to him were to be shot; and that he was to fight to the last cartridge and the last man.”

  “Mein Gott!”

  “When I went to the communications bunker, there was a final message from Africa. They were destroying their cryptographic equipment and radios so it would not fall into the hands of the Americans.”

  The Graf paused, looked at his son, and almost visibly changed his mind about what he was going to say.

  “And now tell me why you are here.”

  Peter then explained what happened on the beach, and how Boltitz and Cranz were trying to establish who was responsible.

  “Do they suspect Ambassador von Lutzenberger?” the Graf asked when Peter had finished, and then answered his own question. “Of course they do. My God, what a mess!”

  “The possibility exists, of course, that they will, in the absence of some proof to the contrary—”

  “These people don’t need proof, Hansel,” the Graf interrupted. “There is no presumption of innocence.”

  “—conclude that the Argentines were responsible. They have a very efficient counterintelligence service, the Bureau of Internal Security, run by an Oberst Martín. The Argentine officer corps was furious when Oberst Frade was murdered.”

  “That sounds like wishful thinking,” the Graf said.

  Peter slowed the car. His headlights had picked up a striped pole barring the road, and a guard shack. Two soldiers wearing steel helmets, with rifles slung over their shoulders, came out of the guard shack.

  “We’ll talk no more tonight,” the Graf said. “There’s a lot for me to think about.”

  When Peter had stopped the Horch and the soldiers came to the car, Peter saw they were both Stabsgefreiters (lance corporals), and both well into their forties. And both were surprised and nervous to see a Generalleutnant of the General Staff appearing at their guard post.

  Peter cranked down the window.

  “Generalleutnant Graf von Wachtstein,” he said rather arrogantly.

  One of the Stabsgefreiters rushed to raise the barrier pole.

  A few minutes later, the headlights illuminated the gate in the wall of Schloss Wachtstein. A sign had been erected next to the gate:

  * * *

  Recuperation Hospital No. 15

  * * *

  XV

  [ONE]

  Schloss Wachtstein

  Kreis Wachtstein, Pomerania

  2150 11 May 1943

  An elderly Oberstleutnant Arzt was commandant of Recuperation Hospital No. 15. He appeared in the main hall of the castle as the Graf and Peter were climbing the stairs to the second floor, where the family apartments were located. “Heil Hitler!” he said, giving the Nazi salute. “Oberstleutnant Reiner at your service, Herr Generalleutnant Graf.”

  The Graf returned the salute casually.

  “Your aide, Herr Generalleutnant Graf, telephoned to say you would be coming. I have been waiting for your call to send a car to the Bahnhof. These days, there is no telling when a train will arrive—”

  “Hauptmann von und zu Happner was apparently unaware that we would be driving,” the Graf interrupted him.

  “Your staff was informed of your coming, Herr Generalleutnant Graf, and I believe they have prepared a dinner for you.”

  “This is my son, Major von Wachtstein,” the Graf said.

  Peter saluted the old man and shook his hand.

  “If there is any way I may be of service while you’re here, Herr Generalleutnant Graf…”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I can’t think of a thing we’ll need,” the Graf said. “Good evening, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

  He started up the stairs, and Peter followed him.

  A pedestal-mounted sign—ENTRANCE STRICTLY FORBIDDEN—stood in the corridor leading to the family apartm
ents on the second floor. The door was unlocked, and there were lights in the corridor inside, and the smell of sauerkraut.

  The Graf went directly to the kitchen. All that remained of the staff—an old woman and her even older husband, too old to do anything but care for the empty apartments—were sitting at a table drinking coffee. They stood up quickly, but not without visible effort, when they saw the Graf and Peter.

  “Good evening,” the Graf said.

  “Herr Graf,” they both said, and bobbed their heads.

  The old lady said, “Hansel,” and Peter went to her and let her embrace him.

  The old man called him “Herr Major.”

  “It won’t be much, Herr Graf,” the old woman said, pointing to a large pot simmering on the stove. “If I had more time…”

  “It smells marvelous,” the Graf said. “We have missed your cooking, Frau Brüner, haven’t we, Hansel?”

  “Absolutely,” Peter said. It was true. The smell of the pork and sauerkraut was actually making him salivate.

  Frau Brüner smiled.

  “When will it be ready?” the Graf asked.

  “Whenever Herr Graf is ready.”

  “I’m ready now,” the Graf said. “Is there any beer?”

  “Of course, Herr Graf.”

  Peter followed his father into the dining room. Two places had been set at one end of the large table. Herr Brüner, came in with gray pottery mugs of beer as soon as they sat down.

  The Graf raised his mug. “To being home,” he said.

  Peter touched his mug to his father’s and took a deep swallow.

  The beer, brewed locally, was good—the brewery, like much of the farmland, was the property of the family.

  A little sharper, Peter thought, than the beer in Argentina.

  That triggered a memory of Alicia. He wondered how she would look sitting at this table; what she would think of the Schloss, of the estate. For Pomerania, the von Wachtstein estate was very large. But compared to Estancia Santo Catalina, it was tiny.

  “What’s in your mind, Hansel?” the Graf asked. “You seem far away.”

  “I was thinking…a friend in Argentina has an eighty-odd-thousand-hectare estate.”