Death and Honor

[ONE]

Office of the Commercial Attaché Embassy of the German Reich Avenida Córdoba Buenos Aires, Argentina 0910 23 July 1943

“You wished to see me, Herr Cranz?” Fregattenkapitän Karl Boltitz asked at the door of SS-Standartenführer Karl Cranz’s office.

Cranz, who was wearing one of his new suits in the guise of commercial attaché, gestured for Boltitz to come in.

“I asked to see you and von Wachtstein,” Cranz said, his tone making it a question.

“I believe he went quite early to El Palomar airfield, Herr Cranz. I had the impression you wanted him to fly to Uruguay.” His tone, too, made it a question.

“Is that what he told you?” Cranz asked, indicating that Boltitz should come around his desk to look at something he had laid out on it.

“What he said, Herr Standart . . . Sorry, sir.”

Cranz made a it doesn’t matter gesture, then smiled and said, “Actually, Karl, today I feel more like a standartenführer than a bidder for frozen cubed beef.”

“I doubt the Standartenführer ever feels like a natural bidder for frozen cubed beef,” Boltitz said.

“I can hear one day my nephew asking, ‘And what was your most painful experience in the war, Oncle Karl?’ And I can hear me replying, ‘Standing in a freezing warehouse on the docks in Buenos Aires, leibling, trying to buy frozen cubed beef.’ ”

Boltitz chuckled dutifully.

“Did von Wachtstein tell you I wanted to go to Uruguay in the Storch?” Cranz asked.

“Yes, sir, I did,” Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein said from the office door. “If I had known you wanted to see me, sir, I would have tried—”

“No matter, von Wachtstein,” Cranz interrupted him. “You’re here. Is the Storch flyable?”

“Yes, sir. And if we leave in the next hour, we can arrive in Montevideo in time for a nice lunch at the casino in Carrasco.”

“We’re not going to Uruguay,” Cranz said.

“I had the impression, sir—”

“Impressions are often wrong, von Wachtstein.”

“Yes, sir, I suppose that’s true.”

“I tried, and apparently succeeded, von Wachtstein, to give you the erroneous impression that I wanted you to fly me to Uruguay.”

Von Wachtstein stood silently and thought, What the hell is this bastard up to?

“Doesn’t that make you curious?” Cranz went on.

“Yes, sir, it does.”

“But not enough to ask me why I would do that?”

“No, sir. I assume you had your reasons.”

“Are you a naturally curious man, von Wachtstein?”

“I think I am, sir.”

“But you never asked me about something I feel sure arouses your curiosity, ” Cranz said. “Do you take my meaning?”

“No, sir. I’m lost.”

“You were curious about the special shipment, weren’t you?” Cranz asked, smiling.

Peter felt the base of his neck tighten.

“Yes, sir, I admit that I was. Am.”

“Two weeks ago, I told you the special cargo had been loaded aboard U-BOAT 405. Weren’t you curious, von Wachtstein, about what was going to happen next?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“But you never asked me about that, did you?”

“No, sir. I thought you would tell me when you thought I should know.”

“Did you perhaps ask the fregattenkapitän?”

Von Wachtstein looked at Boltitz, then back to Cranz. “Yes, sir, I did.”

“And what did he tell you?”

“Essentially that I would learn about it when you decided I should know, sir.”

“Is that all you asked the fregattenkapitän?”

That’s a loaded question.

And I don’t like the smile on his face.

But this is not the time to hesitate in replying.

“The truth, sir, is that I asked Karl—”

“ ‘Karl’? Not the ‘fregattenkapitän’?”

Von Wachtstein exchanged a glance with Boltitz and decided Boltitz also had no idea where Cranz was going with his line of questioning.

“No disrespect was intended, sir,” von Wachtstein said to Cranz. “I had the privilege of the fregattenkapitän’s friendship before he became a fregattenkapitän. ”

“So you did. So what did you ask your friend the fregattenkapitän?”

“Sir, I asked him if he knew and wouldn’t tell me, or whether he didn’t know anything himself.”

“And the fregattenkapitän’s response?”

“The fregattenkapitän told me that was none of my business, sir, and that I should have known better than to have asked him something like that.”

Cranz smiled broadly and laughed.

“And indeed that’s what Karl should have told you, Hans,” he said. “But you are forgiven. And Karl didn’t know any more than you did. What he was doing was what most officers—including this one—do: give their subordinates the erroneous impression they know more than they actually do.”

Boltitz chuckled dutifully.

“It is not kind to make fun of a simple fighter pilot,” von Wachtstein said.

Cranz and Boltitz both laughed.

“Speaking of flying,” Cranz said, and motioned for von Wachtstein to come around the desk.

Von Wachtstein did. There was a map of the Argentine coast laid out on it. He saw that the map had come from the Ejército Argentino’s Topographic Service.

Cranz took a pencil from a jar on his desk and pointed at the map, to a point on the Atlantic Ocean von Wachtstein estimated to be about two hundred kilometers south of Samborombón Bay.

If that isn’t where they intend to bring that special cargo ashore, I can’t imagine what it is.

“If I told you I wanted you to fly me there, von Wachtstein, what would be your reply?” Cranz asked softly.

“ ‘Yes, sir, with qualifications.’ ”

“Meaning?”

“If you wanted to land there, sir, I would need somewhere I could put down the Storch.”

“And?”

“If you wanted to come back, I would need fuel. I can make it there with a comfortable margin of safety, but to get back . . .”

“A smooth field would suffice, am I correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And two hundred liters of aviation-grade gasoline? Would that be enough?”

“Yes, sir. More than enough.”

“And how long would it take us to get there?”

“I would guess,” von Wachtstein said, and made a compass with his fingers, and then put them on the map scale, “that that’s about five hundred kilometers from El Palomar . . .”

“Four hundred eighty-three, to be precise,” Cranz corrected him, just a little smugly.

“Then a few minutes more than three hours, Herr Cranz.”

“It’s now twenty-two past nine,” Cranz said. “If we left here now, and it takes us an hour to get to El Palomar and to take off, that’s ten-thirty. Plus three hours. That means we could be at Necochea at one-thirty. Correct?”

Von Wachtstein made a rocking gesture with his hand that meant more or less.

“How much is . . . ?” Cranz mimicked von Wachtstein’s gesture.

“No more than thirty minutes, perhaps even less, either way, sir. Depending on weather, winds, et cetera.”

“Then that, as I said, would put us down there at a little after one, wouldn’t it?” Cranz said, and without waiting for a reply turned to Boltitz: “A car will pick you up at half past nine at the door, Boltitz. An American Packard. It will take you and Sturmbannführer Raschner to meet us at Necochea.”

“Yes, sir,” Boltitz said, then added, “An American Packard?”

“A dark blue one,” Cranz said.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Neither of you has any questions?” Cranz said.

“None that I dare ask,” von Wachtstein confessed.

“Correct, von Wachtstein,” Cranz said, smiling, then grew serious: “What we’re about to do is important business both to the Reich and to ourselves. If we succeed, we can take pride in having successfully performed our mission. If we fail, I would have to report our failure to Reichsprotektor Himmler, something I really would be loath to do. I came here to Argentina determined not to fail. Do you understand me, gentlemen?”

Both said, “Yes, sir.”

“My decision not to make either of you privy to the details of the landing of the special cargo was based on several factors, including the fact that we suspect—but do not know—that Herr Frogger was the traitor in our midst. In your case, von Wachtstein, there are those who felt your escaping from the debacle at Samborombón Bay without a scratch was a little suspicious. I did not share in this suspicion, of course, but it was there. Now, since I have not taken even Fregattenkapitän Boltitz into my confidence, he could not possibly have taken you into his. If there is trouble today, I will know—and can inform the reichsprotektor—that neither of you could possibly be the traitor.

“If it goes well—and Sturmbannführer Raschner and I have worked very hard to ensure that it will—it will tend to give some credibility to my belief that Frogger is, was, our traitor. Unfortunately, I’m afraid that it will not wipe completely from his mind what suspicions the reichsprotektor has about you, von Wachtstein.”

“Excuse me?” von Wachtstein said.

“You could hardly have informed your friend Major Frade—or anyone else—of the planned landing of the special shipment, could you, since you didn’t know, still don’t know, what those plans are, could you? That’s not quite the same thing as saying you would not have, had you been aware of them. And you won’t, now, have that opportunity.”

Von Wachtstein didn’t reply.

“You’re not going to stand there with a look of indignation on your face, are you, Hans? Pretending you didn’t know you were—indeed, still are—under suspicion?”

“I knew I was, Herr Standartenführer,” von Wachtstein said coldly. “At first. But in my naïveté, I thought I had been cleared by both you and Boltitz.”

“Neither Boltitz nor I think you’re our traitor, Hans. But there are those— Raschner among them, I’m afraid, as well as the people in Berlin—who still wonder about you. We live in that kind of world, I’m sorry to say.”

Von Wachtstein didn’t reply.

“If there are no further questions, gentlemen, I suggest we be on our way,” Cranz said. He looked at von Wachtstein. “No questions, Hans?”

“No questions, sir.”

“You called me Herr Standartenführer a moment ago.”

“I apologize, sir.”

“You were a little upset,” Cranz said. “Understandably.”

“It won’t happen again, sir.”

“Actually, I’m glad it happened. When we get to Necochea, and while we’re there, I think that if you and Boltitz addressed me by my rank, it would have a salutary effect on the people who will be there. God knows, it’s hard to work up a lot of respect for a commercial attaché in his new suit.”

Cranz stood, then took a 9mm Luger P-08 pistol from his drawer, ejected the magazine, then after ensuring it was full put it back in, worked the action to chamber a cartridge, clicked on the safety, and finally slipped the weapon inside his waist band.

Von Wachtstein had several thoughts:

Ready to do battle for the Thousand-Year Reich, are you, Standartenführer?

Why am I not surprised he’s got a P-08?

Most of these SS bastards never have heard a shot fired in anger; for them a Luger’s like those stupid daggers they wear on their dress uniform—a symbol, rather than a tool.

The first thing that Dieter von und zu Aschenburg did when I showed up with a Luger in Spain was take it away from me and give me a .380 Walther PPK.

“A Luger’s for looks, Hansel, my boy. If you’re going to shoot somebody, you’ll need something that doesn’t jam after the first shot. Or before the first shot.”

As he and Cranz walked across the sidewalk to get into the embassy Mercedes, he had three more thoughts:

I still have the PPK; it’s in the bedside table in my apartment.

Cranz didn’t say anything about me taking a gun.

My God! Was there some sort of threat in him making sure I saw he had the P- 08 ready to fire?