Death and Honor

[ONE]

The Reich Chancellery Berlin, Germany 1230 23 June 1943

Parteileiter Martin Bormann—a short, stocky forty-three-year-old who wore his hair closely cropped—pulled open the left of the huge double doors to his private office and smiled apologetically at the waiting Vizeadmiral Wilhelm Canaris, who was short, trim, and fifty-five years old.

Compared to just about everybody else in the senior hierarchy of Nazi Germany but the Führer himself, both men were simply uniformed. Bormann was wearing a brown shirt and trousers, and he had on shoes rather than boots. His right sleeve bore a red Hakenkruez armband with the black swastika in the center of a white circle. Canaris was wearing a naval uniform, but without the flag officer’s silver belt to which he was entitled, and which almost every other admiral wore. Neither was either man wearing a holstered pistol, another item of fashion among most senior officers.

“I’m really sorry to have kept you waiting, Canaris, but you know how it gets in here sometimes,” Bormann greeted the vizeadmiral.

“It’s not a problem, Herr Reichsleiter,” Canaris replied.

He thought: I knew very well that you would keep me waiting. Not to do so would have been an admission that you were not working your fingers to the bone for the party. It is important to you that you appear important. That’s why I called you “Herr Reichsleiter.”

Bormann’s official title—he was second only to Hitler himself in the Nazi party—was Parteileiter, “party leader.” But on several occasions Hitler had referred to him as “Reichsleiter”—a leader of the Reich. Canaris was convinced Hitler had simply misspoke, but the sycophants around Hitler, who were convinced the Führer never made a mistake, had begun to call Bormann “Reichsleiter” and Bormann liked it.

“I’ll try to make amends with a good lunch,” Bormann said, waving Canaris into his office. “With your permission, of course, I thought we would eat here. Just the two of us. That way we won’t be interrupted.”

“That sounds wonderful. But I can’t believe we won’t be interrupted.”

“Trust me, we won’t be,” Bormann said.

Bormann took his arm and led him through another set of enormous doors into his private dining room, where a table large enough for twenty had two place settings on it.

A pair of waiters in white jackets, nice-looking young men in their late teens or early twenties, stood ready to serve them.

They were interns, Canaris knew, “studying the operations” of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei so that they would be able to later assume roles of responsibility in the Thousand-Year Reich. This was important enough for them to be given “temporary” exemption from military service.

There were more than two dozen of them working for Bormann. Every one of them, Canaris knew, was either the son or the nephew of a high-ranking Nazi Party official.

Which is corrupt and immoral, Canaris thought.

He believed that sort of favoritism was the basic flaw in the Nazi party and its leadership.

The SS, especially, is riddled through with thieves and sociopaths.

“May I offer you a glass of wine, Canaris? Or champagne, perhaps?” Bormann asked as he sat down and gestured for Canaris to take the chair at the side of the table.

“Thank you, no, Herr Reichsleiter. If there is any, I’ll have a glass of beer.”

Bormann snapped his fingers and one of the interns hurried to produce a bottle of beer, the proper glass for it, and to set it before Canaris.

Bormann lifted the silver covers on the plates on the tables, and nodded approvingly at what they had been keeping warm.

“That will be all, thank you,” he said to the waiters. “The admiral and I will serve ourselves.”

Both young men clicked their heels, bowed crisply, and walked out of the dining room, closing the door after themselves.

Canaris wondered if Bormann had his wire recorder running and was recording this meeting. It was an idle thought, as Canaris always acted as if he knew whatever he was saying was being recorded, and said nothing that could possibly be used against him.

Wordlessly, the two served themselves. First, a consommé, then roast pork with mashed potatoes, green beans, applesauce, and red sauerkraut.

“Very nice,” Canaris said.

“Truth to tell, Canaris,” Bormann said. “I suspected getting people out of the office and my desk clear was going to take more time than I would have liked, and that I would be forced to ask you to wait. So a special lunch was in order, by way of apology. And if I proved to be wrong, and I could have received you on time, you would have been impressed by both my efficiency and the lunch.”

Canaris smiled and chuckled dutifully.

“I wanted to talk to you about Argentina, about Operation Phoenix,” Bormann then said. “That’s becoming a problem, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would.”

“And with everything else the Führer has to deal with, I really hate to bother him with it.”

“I understand,” Canaris said. “It hasn’t gone well, has it?”

“The only good news was that we didn’t lose the special shipment on the shore of . . . what was it? Bonbon Bay? Something like that?”

“Samborombón Bay,” Canaris furnished.

“Why do you suppose that was, Canaris? Why didn’t the people who shot Standartenführer Goltz and Oberst Whatsisname, the military attaché?”

“Grüner,” Canaris furnished.

“. . . and Oberst Grüner grab the special shipment?”

“There are several possibilities,” Canaris said. “The story Korvettenkapitän Boltitz got from the captain of the Océano Pacífico suggests that they didn’t have time to even begin unloading the special cargo from the Océano Pacífico’s lifeboat when the shooting started. The Luftwaffe officer, von Wachtstein, then put the bodies into the boat and they went back to the ship.”

“You believe that story? I’ve always thought it was odd that the other two were killed and von Whatsisname wasn’t hurt.”

“Von Wachtstein,” Canaris furnished. “May I go on, Herr Reichsleiter?”

“Of course. Excuse me, Canaris.”

“What I was about to say was that that suggests the possibility that the Argentines accomplished what they may have set out to do. That is, get revenge for the killing of Oberst Frade by killing two German officers. Once that was done, they had no further interest in the boat or its crew. And von Wachtstein was in civilian clothing, which suggests the possibility they thought he was just another seaman. And, of course, they had no idea what was in the crates.”

“You think, then, that it was an act of revenge? By Argentine army officers?”

“Excuse me, Herr Reichsleiter, but what I said was that it suggests the possibility. We have no facts to go on. But, having said that, the fact that they showed no interest in the crates suggests they didn’t have any idea what they contained, and didn’t care. Robbery was not the motive, ergo sum. And robbery would offend the Argentine officer’s code of honor.”

“They can murder in cold blood but not steal?”

“In a sense. They consider revenge to be one thing, theft another.”

“How do you think they knew when and where the landing would be attempted? ”

“Again, several possibilities. They have a man in their Bureau of Internal Security, an Oberst Martín, who is far more competent than one would expect. One possible scenario is that he maintained aerial surveillance of the Océano Pacífico once she entered the River Plate. They have the capability to do that. And once the Océano Pacífico left the normal channel to the Buenos Aires harbor, and moved toward Samborombón Bay, he sent up a watch on the shore in that area. He also has that capability.”

“What you’re saying is that you don’t think we have a traitor in the embassy in Buenos Aires?”

“I’m not saying that at all, Herr Reichsleiter,” Canaris replied. “There very well may be. If there is, I’m sure Brigadeführer von Deitzberg will find that out. If indeed he hasn’t already. Has anyone heard from him?”

“Not that I know of,” Bormann said. “You didn’t mention your man just now, Korvettenkapitän Whatsisname?”

“Boltitz, Herr Reichsleiter. He’s a junior officer and he’s taking his orders from, and will make his report through, von Deitzberg. He’s not really an intelligence officer . . . an intelligence officer for something like this.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Herr Reichsleiter. Boltitz is a good man. Very smart. If you want an assessment of the Royal Navy, of the probable course and speed of a convoy crossing the North Atlantic in January, that sort of thing, he’s quite useful. He was a submarine officer—many successful patrols—but he doesn’t have much experience—any at all, actually—in counterintelligence, which is what von Deitzberg is dealing with here.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Bormann said.

“When von Deitzberg came to me asking if I had someone who could talk, as a seaman and in Portuguese, to the captain of the Océano Pacífico about what happened at Samborombón Bay, I assigned Boltitz to him. And Boltitz apparently impressed von Deitzberg, because he asked me if he could have him to go with him to Argentina.”

“He speaks Portuguese?”

“Yes. And Spanish. And English. Many naval officers are multilingual.”

“I suppose that would be useful to a naval officer.”

“Yes. But, frankly, Herr Reichsleiter, I wondered if Boltitz wouldn’t be more useful here in Berlin. I deferred to von Deitzberg.”

“Huh,” Bormann grunted. “It is sometimes hard, is it not, not to defer to a high-ranking SS officer?”

“Sometimes, as I suspect you well know, to do one’s duty it is necessary. But we have a saying in the navy, Herr Reichsleiter, that it is always wise to conserve one’s ammunition until you really need it.”

Bormann chuckled.

I think the Herr Reichsleiter swallowed that whole.

Boltitz is not a counterintelligence officer. And he’s in Argentina not because I wanted him there, but because von Deitzberg asked for him, and I didn’t think objecting was worth the trouble it would cause.

“We’re getting a little off track here, Herr Vizeadmiral,” Bormann said. “What I wanted to talk to you about is making Operation Phoenix a success, not about the problems we’re having with it at the moment.”

“I’m not sure I follow you, Herr Reichsleiter.”

“I’m sure, one way or another, we can get the special shipment into Argentina. What I’m concerned about is what we do with it when we get it there. What I’m saying, I suppose, is that I’ve been thinking we need a good Argentine ally.”

Canaris nodded but said nothing.

“Someone of influence,” Bormann went on, “someone who can make sure Operation Phoenix becomes a reality and, most importantly, remains a secret.”

“I see what you mean.”

“Someone we can trust,” Bormann added. “I have learned over the years that one can usually trust people who have something to gain personally from the success of the enterprise in which one has an interest, more than you can people simply doing something as a duty, or for altruistic philosophical reasons.”

Canaris nodded.

“That has also been my experience, Herr Reichsleiter.”

“I thought perhaps you might know someone who would be suitable.”

“I’ll have to give it some thought, Herr Reichsleiter, but off the top of my head, no one comes to mind.”

“But you do have friends in Argentina?”

“None that I would entrust with knowledge of Operation Phoenix,” Canaris said. “We simply cannot afford any risk of having the Argentine government learn what we plan to do, and what friends I have there are officers of the Armada Argentina.”

“So?”

“They might feel honor bound to inform their government what we are planning.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Bormann said. “Does the name Perón mean anything to you, Canaris?”

“He’s one of the colonels around General Ramírez. According to the late Oberst Grüner, he was instrumental in the coup which deposed President Ramón Castillo a couple of weeks ago—on June seventh, to be precise.”

“You didn’t meet him when he was here?”’ Bormann asked, as if surprised.

“I knew of him,” Canaris said. “But I don’t think I ever met him.”

Of course I knew of him.

Despite what Bormann and his ilk like to believe, all Argentines are not two steps away from embracing Der Führer and National Socialism. There are God only knows how many refugees from the Thousand-Year Reich down there.

It was my duty to learn something about an Argentine officer attached to their embassy here and being fawned over by the elite. It was possible—unlikely but entirely possible—that he was working for the British.

I’ve often thought that the same Germano-Argentines who helped me escape from internment so I could return to serve the Fatherland would now go out of their way to ensure that Germans interned there now stay there, rather than return here to serve Hitler, proof of that being Oberst Grüner having absolutely no success getting any of the Graf Spee crew out of internment and back here.

Oberst Juan Domingo Perón is not a very interesting man, except for his unusual, if rather disgusting, sexual proclivities.

What’s Bormann’s interest in Perón?

“I made an effort to get to know him while he was here,” Bormann said. “And, as a result, learned there are several very interesting things about him.”

Well, one probably is that he likes young girls.

I wonder what Bormann thinks the others are?

“And they are?”

“He believes in National Socialism,” Bormann said. “The philosophy, Canaris, not the party. That distinction is important. He came to Europe first to study Mussolini’s fascism. He was impressed that our friend Benito has made the trains run on time. Efficiency, in other words, impresses him. Then he came here and—I think surprising him—learned that we Germans are somewhat more efficient than the Italians. He was particularly impressed with the autobahn. And with our social programs.”

He’s waiting for my response.

What I would like to say is, “So what?”

“That doesn’t surprise you, does it, Herr Reichsleiter?” Canaris asked.

“He sees how Germany is doing things as something Argentina should emulate is my point, Canaris.”

“I see.”

“And he is very impressed with our Führer, Canaris, the man and the leader.”

“Well, of course, he should be.”

I daresay Roosevelt and Churchill are also impressed with the Bavarian corporal. Again, “So what?”

What the hell is he talking about?

“You’re a clever man, Canaris,” Bormann said, smiling. “You know where I’m going, don’t you?”

“I’m not clever enough to understand where you’re going, Herr Reichsleiter. ”

“And a cautious man, too,” Bormann said, approvingly. “All right, let me give you another hint or two. Colonel Perón is ambitious. He sees himself as a future leader of Argentina, perhaps even as a future leader of more than just Argentina. ”

“That is a weakness of many South American officers,” Canaris said. “They dream of glory.”

“And wealth. Their officer corps does not come from the aristocracy, the landed gentry, so to speak. They have to live on what they’re paid.”

“Excuse me, Herr Reichsleiter, but that’s not always the case,” Canaris said. “The late Oberst Frade came from the landed gentry.”

“Indeed?”

“Oberst Grüner told me that he had—in addition to other business interests—farmlands in excess of eighty-four thousand hectares.”

“I wasn’t aware of that,” Bormann said.

“He was also a close friend of your Colonel Perón,” Canaris said. “I wondered then, and wonder now, if eliminating Frade was really a wise thing to do. The message it was supposed to have sent to the Argentine officer corps— if the deaths of Grüner and Goltz were in fact an act of revenge—seems to have backfired.”

“Perhaps,” Bormann said somewhat impatiently. “But you will of course agree that we no longer have to worry about having a president of Argentina whose son is an American OSS agent.”

“That’s inarguable, Herr Reichsleiter.”

“What we need is a president of Argentina who admires the Führer, National Socialism, believes in the final victory, and is interested in both his political future and feathering his own nest, wouldn’t you agree?”

“And, ideally, who could be trusted with the Phoenix secret,” Canaris said. “And you think Colonel Perón would fit the bill?”

“I’ve thought so for some time, actually. Which brings us to the point of this very private conversation.”

Canaris didn’t reply.

“I’ve actually taken some steps to recruit Colonel Perón’s cooperation in this enterprise,” Bormann said. “Are you familiar with Anton von Gradny-Sawz, Herr Vizeadmiral?”

“The first secretary of the Buenos Aires embassy,” Canaris said. “When the question of a traitor in the embassy came up, I collected and read his dossiers.”

“ ‘Collected and read his dossiers’?” Bormann parroted. “Plural?”

“We had one—just the basic facts—and the Sicherheitsdienst had a somewhat more comprehensive one, and then after the Anschluss, I took over the personnel records of the former Austrian government.”

“And the party had one. Did you ask for that?”

“No. I presumed you had one, and that if there was anything in it that would be of interest to me, you would have passed that on.”

“And what is your opinion of the Herr Baron?”

“Are you asking if I think he may be our traitor?”

“That would be included in your opinion, wouldn’t it? What I was asking was what you think of him.”

“He is a dedicated National Socialist who early on decided that it was his patriotic duty to bring Austria into Greater Germany, and was very helpful in doing so.”

“And for being helpful was rewarded when Austria became Ostmark?”

“Yes.”

“In other words, he was an opportunist?”

“I would be reluctant to use that term, but I can see where others might come to that conclusion.”

“In your opinion, is it possible Gradny-Sawz is the traitor in Buenos Aires?”

“Anything is possible, Herr Reichsleiter, but I think that’s unlikely.”

“Why?”

“What would he have to gain?”

Bormann nodded and smiled.

“On the other hand,” Bormann said, “he might decide that if Colonel Perón were to prosper, some of that might accrue to him?”

“I don’t know the man well, Herr Reichsleiter, so this is not in the order of a judgment, but a question: Could you trust this man, knowing of his opportunistic tendencies?”

“I decided some time ago, Canaris, that because of his opportunistic tendencies, he probably could be trusted, up to a point. He would have to be watched, of course.”

“At the risk of repeating myself, I don’t know the man well enough to make a decision like that.”

“The decision was not yours to make, Canaris, but mine. Gradny-Sawz has already begun to make approaches to Perón. The problem is that Grüner is no longer available to watch Gradny-Sawz.” He paused to let that sink in, and then went on. “That’s what we’re really talking about here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“We need a replacement for Grüner. Von Deitzberg has suggested Boltitz.”

“Why not the ambassador?” Canaris asked. “Wouldn’t that be the obvious choice?”

“I’m sure von Deitzberg has considered Graf von Lutzenberger,” Bormann said, “and concluded Boltitz would be preferable.”

“Is there an implication in that that von Deitzberg has less than full faith in von Lutzenberger?”

“The traitor in the embassy has not yet been detected,” Bormann said. “Until he has been, everyone is therefore under suspicion.”

“Even so, while I am reluctant to question SS-Brigadeführer von Deitzberg, I’m not at all sure that Boltitz is a wise choice.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, Boltitz has no experience—absolutely none at all—in these areas—”

“And, for another, you’d like him back here in Berlin?” Bormann interrupted.

“Frankly, yes, I would. I would like him doing work for which he is qualified. And he’s not qualified for this.”

“He has two very important qualifications for this. He enjoys the full confidence of SS-Brigadeführer von Deitzberg and Vizeadmiral Canaris.”

“He does not have my full confidence to perform in a role like this,” Canaris said.

“The decision has been made, Canaris. Frankly, von Deitzberg said that he thought you would be unhappy with it. I understand. But we must think of what is best for Operation Phoenix, Operation Perón, and the Führer.”

“Those are also my priorities, Herr Reichsleiter. I can propose to you the names of half a dozen—”

He stopped when Bormann held up both hands, palms outward.

“Perhaps you didn’t understand me when I said the decision has been made, Herr Vizeadmiral,” Bormann said with a cold smile.

Canaris didn’t reply.

“Korvettenkapitän Boltitz will be assigned to the embassy as naval attaché,” Bormann went on, “where he will be in a position to keep an eye not only on Gradny-Sawz but on the ambassador and von Wachtstein as well. He will—von Deitzberg will set up the details of how before he returns—report directly to me. I will, of course, furnish you with the pertinent details of his reports.”

Canaris nodded his understanding.

"A word of advice, Canaris, in case you were thinking of appealing this decision. ”

“I know full well how much faith the Führer has in you, Herr Reichsleiter. And I try hard to avoid fighting battles I know I cannot win.”

“Don’t think of it as a battle, Canaris. But rather as an accommodation— even a sacrifice—on your part for the common good.”

Canaris nodded.

“And now, Herr Reichsleiter, may I plead the press of duties and ask to be excused?”

“I understand,” Bormann said.

“Thank you for a splendid luncheon,” Canaris said.

“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Canaris.”

Canaris laid his napkin on the table, came to attention, thrust his right arm out, and barked, “Heil Hitler!”

Bormann returned the salute with an almost casual wave of his arm.

Canaris’s car, an Opel Kapitän, was the least pretentious on the row of official cars lined up outside the Reich Chancellery. All the others were either a Mercedes-Benz or a Maybach; there even was an American Packard. The vizeadmiral walked to his Opel and got in before the SS trooper in charge of what was the parking lot for very senior officers could have it waved to meet him at the steps.

Canaris thought about the exchange with Bormann all the way to his office. It had gone well, far better than he had hoped it would, and thinking that raised caution flags.

When things are obviously going very well, they almost surely are not.

He opened the door for himself when he got to his office building, and returned the salutes of the navy petty officers on guard with a military—not the Nazi—salute.

He went into his office and told his secretary to get him a cup of coffee, then leave him undisturbed.

He waited until the coffee—black, and in a heavy navy-issue china mug— was delivered. Then he got from behind his desk and went to his private toilet.

After a moment, without having used the facility, he flushed the toilet and turned the water on in the sink.

And then, very softly, almost in a whisper, he said, “I will be goddamned. The swine not only let my fox into his chicken coop, but practically pushed him in.”