Secret Honor

MANFRED VON DEITZBERG TO THE OBER KOMMANDO DER WEHRMACHT, WHERE HE WILL

SERVE AS GENERALMAJOR OF THE GENERAL

STAFF. FELDMARSCHALL KEITEL,

REICHSLEITER BORMANN, REICHSFUHRER

HIMMLER AND I ARE AGREED THAT GEN ERALMAJOR VON DEITZBERG WILL SUPER VISE THE INVESTIGATION OF THIS

INCIDENT. VON DEITZBERG WILL PROCEED

TO BUENOS AIRES IN THIS CAPACITY ON

THE NEXT LUFTHANSA FLIGHT. DEPUTY

FOREIGN MINISTER GEORG VON LOWZER

AND STANDARTENFUHRER ERICH RASCHNER

WILL TRAVEL TO BUENOS AIRES AT THE

SAME TIME.

ADDITIONALLY, WITH THE CONCURRENCE

OF ADMIRAL CANARIS, I HAVE DESIG NATED KORVETTENKAPITAN KARL BOLTITZ

AS NAVAL ATTACHE AND HE WILL

PROCEED TO BUENOS AIRES AS SOON

AS CERTAIN ADMINISTRATIVE

MATTERS CAN BE CONCLUDED.

THE PRESENCE IN BERLIN OF FIRST

SECRETARY GRADNY-SAWZ, MAJOR

FREIHERR VON WACHTSTEIN AND

STURMBANNFUHRER VON TRESMARCK OF

THE EMBASSY OF THE GERMAN REICH

IN MONTEVIDEO WILL BE REQUIRED

IN THIS REGARD. YOU ARE DIRECTED

TO ADVISE THE GERMAN AMBASSADOR

IN MONTEVIDEO, AND TO ARRANGE

FOR THESE OFFICERS THE HIGHEST

PRIORITY FOR TRAVEL TO BERLIN ON

THE NEXT LUFTHANSA FLIGHT.

IT IS PRESENTLY INTENDED THAT

THESE OFFICERS WILL BE RETURNED

TO THEIR POSTS AS SOON AS

POSSIBLE.

AT THE DIRECTION OF THE FUHRER.

VON RIBBENTROP, FOREIGN MINISTER

OF THE GERMAN REICH.

If she were a man, von Lutzenberger thought for the five hundredth time, she would make an excellent

Stabsfeld-webel-Regimental Sergeant Major.

He read it carefully, without expression.

It was more or less what von Lutzenberger had expected. The only good news was that he himself had not been ordered to Berlin-an order that would have carried with it the powerful suggestion that he was being held responsible for the deaths of Goltz and Griiner, or, worse, the failed attempt to smuggle the Operation Phoenix "special cargo" into Argentina.

That good news could change, of course, when Gradny Sawz, von Tresmarck, and von Wachtstein were questioned by the SS-probably by Himmler himself.

He thought a moment about the specific ways the good news could become bad.

Gradny-Sawz, for starters, now believed that von Wacht stein had nothing to do with how the Americans learned the details of the "special shipment" landing; but if it looked to him as if he were himself under deep suspicion, a man who had betrayed his country would have no compunctions about throwing someone to the wolves-anyone: von Tresmarck, von Deitzberg, von Wachtstein, or even Ambassador Graf

Manfred Alois von Lutzenberger.

As for von Tresmarck, von Lutzenberger knew very little about him except that he was SS, and that meant that he would be perfectly willing to point his finger at anyone at all, to divert it from being pointed at him.

It was bad news pure and simple that von Ribbentrop was sending von Lowzer, a dangerous man and, even worse, a devout Nazi.

It was even worse news that they had chosen to send von

Deitzberg, a far more dangerous Nazi, even though it had to be expected that the hierarchy would send someone from the SS to conduct an investigation.

The naval officer was obviously one of Canaris's agents, and was probably going to take over Griiner's Abwehr intel ligence functions. And von Deitzberg's deputy, Raschner, was almost certainly going to take over Griiner's Sicher heitsdienst responsibilities.

Somebody-probably Canaris-had recognized that it had been a mistake for Griiner to serve as both the senior

Sicherheitsdienst officer and the Abwehr's resident agent under cover of his military attache function. Not only was it too much responsibility for one man, but the Abwehr liked to keep an eye on the Sicherheitsdienst, and vice versa, and that was impossible if both offices were held by the same man.

Of course, come to think of it, it is entirely possible that von Deitzberg's primary mission might be to make sure the next attempt to smuggle the "special cargo" into Argentina is successful. Despite what the message said.

Speculation is useless. I will know what they are after only after they arrive.

He looked up at Fraulein Hassell. "Ingebord, is Herr

Gradny-Sawz in the Embassy?"

"Not yet, Sir. The First Secretary normally arrives at nine."

"And Major von Wachtstein?"

"The Herr Major will probably come at the same time,

Excellency."

"As soon as they find time to come to work, would you ask them to see me immediately, Ingebord?"

"Jawohl, Excellency."

Fraulein Hassell left the Ambassador's office and immedi ately telephoned Peter von Wachtstein. He sounded sleepy when he answered, as if he had just gotten up or was still in bed.

She told him the Ambassador wanted to see him immedi ately.

She liked the young Pomeranian. She did not like First

Secretary Gradny-Sawz, and did not telephone his apart ment.

[TWO]

Anton von Gradny-Sawz arrived at five minutes to nine. He was forty-five, tall, almost handsome (with a full head of luxuriant reddish-brown hair), and somewhat overweight

(von Lutzenberger privately thought of him as Die grosse

Wienerwurst-the Big Vienna Sausage).

As he stepped into von Lutzenberger's office, he raised his right arm at the elbow. "Heil Hitler," he said. "Good morning,

Excellency."

Von Lutzenberger returned the salute and the greeting.

Converts to National Socialism, von Lutzenberger thought, are something like converts to Catholicism: more

Catholic than the Pope.

"We have heard from Berlin, Anton," von Lutzenberger said, handing him the message. "Read this while we wait for von Wachtstein."

"They want us in Berlin," Gradny-Sawz said as he was reading the message.

Figured that out by yourself, did you?

"I suggested that either you or I might be helpful to explain what happened in Berlin," von Lutzenberger said.

"They apparently feel that you could do that best. You and von Wachtstein. I have no idea what von Tresmarck-"

He interrupted himself. "Ah, there you are, von Wacht stein."

Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein (whom von

Lutzenberger often thought could have been a model for an SS recruiting poster) gave a crisp Nazi salute, his right arm fully extended.

"Heil Hitler!" he barked.

Von Lutzenberger returned the salute.

"When you're through with that, Anton," he said, "let von

Wachtstein see it." He turned to von Wachtstein. "Two ques-J tions, Peter. How soon can you fly to Montevideo? And howii much luggage can you carry in that little airplane of yours?"

"There is room for one small suitcase behind the passen ger's seat, Excellency."

"That's all?"

"The passenger might be able to hold a larger suitcase on his lap, Excellency, but it would not be comfortable."

"Here you are, Peter," Gradny-Sawz said, handing him the message. He then added, "That's a nice suit. New?"

"Thank you, Herr Baron," von Wachtstein said. "Yes, it is.

Senor Duarte introduced me to his tailor."

"You'll have to give me his name," Gradny-Sawz said.

"Of course," von Wachtstein said, then read the message.

It was what he had expected, and he had steeled himself for the official notice.

Being prepared did no good. He felt a pain in his stomach.

I don't think Gradny-Sawz believes I have any responsi bility for what happened on the beach, and von Lutzenberger has done what he could to reinforce that belief. Or is that just wishful thinking?

Von Tresmarck doesn't have any reason to think I'm involved, either, but he is going to start shitting his pants when the SS questions him. He's lost Goltz as his protector. If they start suggesting that I had some responsibility, he 'II go along with anything they say, just so long as it diverts attention from him.

And not only because of what happened on the beach: He doesn 't want to wind up in Sachsenhausen with a pink triangle pinned to his shirt. (Homosexuals in concentration camps were required to wear a pink triangle.)

"I want you to go to Montevideo and bring von Tresmarck here," von Lutzenberger said, "as soon as possible. I don't know when the Condor will arrive, but I wouldn't be surprised if it is already en route."

"Jawohl, Excellency.

"How soon can you leave?"

Von Wachtstein looked at his wristwatch. "With a little luck,

Excellency, I could probably make it over there and back today,

Sir."

"Tomorrow morning will be soon enough for your return," von

Lutzenberger said. "Von Tresmarck will need time to settle his affairs and pack. I'm going to give you a note to Ambassador

Schulker, explaining all this."

"All this, Excellency?" Gradny-Sawz asked.

"So much of all this, Anton, as pertains to bringing von

Tresmarck here for the flight to Berlin." He turned to von

Wachtstein again. "Could you put him up, Peter? Or shall I arrange a hotel room for him?"

"There's plenty of room in my apartment, sir, and I would be happy to put him up. But it might be awkward vis-a-vis the

Duartes."

"How so?"

"I am often invited to dine with the Duartes, and I'm not sure their invitations would include him."

"Anton?" von Lutzenberger asked.

Gradny-Sawz didn't reply for a moment. He was always very careful when asked for an opinion. "My first reaction,

Excellency," he finally said, "if you agree, is that von Wacht stein's relationship with the Duartes is so important-"

"Vis-a-vis Operation Phoenix, you mean, Anton?"

"Yes, sir. I believe the Anglo-Argentine Bank can be very useful to us in carrying out Operation Phoenix. And Hum berto Duarte is Managing Director of the Anglo-Argentine

Bank." (In Argentine business, managing directors carried out the functions of presidents in American business.)

"Yes," von Lutzenberger said. "We wouldn't want them to think we were forcing anyone on them, would we-particu larly an SS officer?"

"Not, I respectfully suggest, Excellency, if we can avoid that by putting up von Tresmarck in a hotel."

Von Lutzenberger appeared to be thinking that over. He wanted Gradny-Sawz to remember (in case he was asked by either von Lowzer, von Deitzberg, or Boltitz) that it was he who had recommended that von Tresmarck stay in a hotel rather than in von Wachtstein's apartment. "I think you are probably right, Anton," he said finally. "Put him in a good hotel-the Alvear, if you can. Or the Plaza."

"I'll see to it, Excellency," Gradny-Sawz said.

"And what, Herr Baron," von Wachtstein asked, "should I tell Sturmbannfuhrer von Tresmarck?"

Gradny-Sawz again looked uncomfortable.

Von Wachtstein pressed the issue. "He's sure to ask, Hen Baron," he added reasonably.

"I would think, wouldn't you, Excellency," Gradny-Sawz finally replied, "that there would be little harm in telling von

Tresmarck that the three of us are being summoned to Berlin to assist both the Foreign Ministry and the SS in their evalu ation of the unfortunate events on the beach?"

"Tell him, von Wachtstein," von Lutzenberger said, "that all you know is that you're all being sent to Berlin, and that it self-evidently has something to do with 'the unfortunate events on the beach.' "

"Yes, Sir."

"How soon can you leave, Peter?" von Lutzenberger asked.

"It'll take me an hour, maybe a little longer, to drive to my apartment, pack a small bag, and get out to El Palomar," von

Wachtstein said. "When I flew it over the weekend, the

Storch had a little compass problem, but that should have been taken care of by now…"

"Where did you go over the weekend?" Gradny-Sawz asked.

"I made a small training flight, to keep up my piloting skills, Herr Baron, and just coincidentally found myself over

Estancia Santo Catalina, where, by another coincidence,

Senor and Senora Duarte happened to be."

"Good for you!" Gradny-Sawz said. "And was there a chance to discuss investments?"

"I didn't want to be too obvious, Herr Baron. I share your opinion that it is a delicate relationship that must be carefully nurtured."

"Make sure you pay your respects before we go to Berlin."

"Of course, Herr Baron."

"You said something about a compass problem with the aircraft?" von Lutzenberger asked.

"A minor problem, Excellency. Probably a loose wire or corroded terminals. It should be repaired by now."

"Don't be too sure. This is Argentina," von Lutzenberger said.

Von Wachtstein chuckled, then went on: "At the very latest,

I should clear Argentine customs and immigration, and get off the ground, by one-thirty or two o'clock. It's an hour, or a little more, to Montevideo, depending on the winds."

"Make sure the airplane is in perfect condition, von

Wachtstein," von Lutzenberger said. "I really would rather not have to tell Berlin that you have disappeared into the Rio

Plate."

"I will make very sure it is as safe to fly as possible, Sir."

"If I can get through by telephone to Ambassador

Schulker, I'll tell him to have someone watting for you at the airport from two-thirty," von Lutzenberger said.

'Thank you, Sir."

"Give me a minute to dictate a note to Fraulein Hassell, and then you can be on your way."

"Yes, Sir."

"Have Loche follow you to your apartment and then take you out to the field," von Lutzenberger ordered. "Then you won't have to leave your car out there."

"That's very kind of you, Sir," Peter said, and left the office, hoping that no one-especially the Big Sausage (as he, too, thought of him)-had sensed his annoyance with the

Ambassador's kindly gesture. The last thing he wanted right now was Gunther Loche breathing down his neck.

Giinther, a muscular, crew-cut-blond twenty-two-year old, was an ethnic German-he had been born in Argentina to German immigrant parents and was an Argentine citizen-who was employed by the German Embassy as driver to the Military Attache.

He-and his parents-saw Adolf Hitler as the greatest man of the twentieth century, and National Socialism as the hope of mankind. From the moment Gunther had first seen von Wachtstein, he knew he had found his idol in life, a

Luftwaffe fighter pilot who had received the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross from the hands of the Fiinrer himself.

Giinther's worship had been bad enough when he been

Griiner's driver, but it was worse now that Griiner had nobly given his life for the Fatherland (which Gunther had never seen) and the Herr Major Freiherr was acting as Military

Attache.

If I let him, Peter thought, he would sleep on the rug outside my bedroom door, like an Alsatian.

Peter had to tell Cletus Frade about the message from

Germany, and having Gunther around was going to compli cate that.

Peter walked down the corridor from von Lutzenberger's office to his own, mentally repeating von Deitzberg Raschner-von Lowzer-Boltitz; von Deitzberg-Raschner-von

Lowzer-Boltitz; von Deitzberg-Raschner-von Lowzer Boltitz, over and over.

Gunther was sitting in a chair in the corridor outside

Griiner's office-now temporarily Peter's. He stood up when he saw Peter, coming almost to attention. "Guten mor gen, Herr Major Freiherr," he said.

Peter smiled and held up his hand to signal him to wait.

He went into his office, sat down at Griiner's desk, and quickly scribbled "von Deitzberg-Raschner-von Lowzer-

Boltitz" on a notepad.

He exhaled audibly in relief that his concentration had not been broken. Then he tore off the sheet of paper, as well as the eight sheets beneath it, folded them, and put them in his pocket.

"Gunther!"

Gunther appeared immediately. "Yes, Sir?"

"In five minutes, I will drive my car to my apartment and pack a small bag," Peter announced. "You will then drive me to

El Palomar."

"Jawohl, Herr Major."

"Tomorrow, you will be at El Palomar at eleven o'clock to meet me when I return."

"Jawohl, Herr Major."

"I may be delayed by unforeseen circumstances. If I am, I will attempt to leave word at the embassy. If I am not at El

Palomar by one o'clock, you will call the embassy and see if there is any word from me. If there is not, you will call the embassy every hour to see if I have called. If I have not, you may leave El Palomar at dark. You understand?"

"Jawohl, Herr Major Freiherr," Gunther said, and waited for further orders.

"Now you may either drive to my apartment now, and wait for me, or follow me there when I'm finished here.

Whichever you prefer."

Gunther looked uncomfortable. "Whichever the Herr

Major would prefer for me to do, Herr Major."

"Then go now. Then we won't have to worry about losing one another in traffic."

"Jawohl, Herr Major," Gunther said. He clicked his heels, raised his hand in salute, and barked, "Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler!" Peter repeated, and returned the salute crisply.

Is there something in the German character that makes us happy to receive orders-the more detailed, the better-and to comply with them precisely and without question? And, on the other hand, makes us uncomfortable when a decision is required?

When Giinther had closed the door behind him, Peter took the sheets of notepaper from his jacket pocket, and then filled in the first names and ranks and titles and associations.

Then he composed his message to Cletus.

2 May 10 am

Bagman, Sausage and I order to Berlin on next Lufthansa flight, probably within 72 hours. Condor will bring here ss oberfuhrer Manfred von Deitzberg in uniform of Army General Staff Generlmajor, Standertenfuhrer Erich Raschner, and Deputy Foreign Minister Georg vonLowzer. Korvettenkapitan Karl Boltitz

Abwehr, will follow letter to be Naval Attache. Hope to see you soon..

Fritz.

He read it carefully to make sure it contained everything, then smiled, wondering what quaintly American code names

Clete would assign to the newcomers.

"Bagman" was von Tresmarck, a reference to his function as the man taking money to ransom Jews from concentration camps; Clete had told him it was American slang for a gangster collecting bribes. Because he had told Cletus that von

Lutzenberger called Gradny-Sawz "Die Grosse Wiener wurst," he was "Sausage." He had signed himself "Fritz," not only because that's what Cletus called him when he was angry, but also because his official code name, "Galahad," made him uncomfortable.

Sir Galahad, an honorable knight, had lived by the code of chivalry. His name seemed inappropriate for an officer who was consciously betraying his oath of allegiance and his country.

Giinther was waiting outside his apartment, standing by the

Embassy Mercedes, obviously relishing the right Corps

Diplomatique license plates gave him to ignore the No Parking signs on Avenida Pueyrredon.

Peter parked his own car in the basement garage, climbed the stairs to the lobby, and motioned through the plate-glass lobby window for Giinther to wait for him, then rode the ele vator to his apartment.

He quickly packed a uniform-he didn't think he would need it, but you never could tell-and a change of linen in a small bag. Then he went into the kitchen and took from a cabinet a small, cheap, patent-leather purse still in its original box. From another cabinet he took a three-inch-wide roll of bright red ribbon with waving rows of sequins glued on it.

He went back to his bedroom, opened the purse, and inserted the sheets of notepaper, then two large open-ended wrenches. He closed the purse, then ripped off a fifteen-foot length from the roll of sequined ribbon, wrapped it firmly around the purse, and tied it. Next he took a flight suit from a hanger in his closet and, not without difficulty, managed to stuff the purse into the pocket on the lower right leg.

He picked up his small satchel, draped the flight suit over his arm, and started to leave the apartment; but then he remembered he had not left a note telling the maid he would be out of town overnight.

To hell with it. I'll have Giinther come back here and tell her. It will give him something to do.

Giinther saw him getting off the elevator and almost ran into the lobby to carry the Herr Major's luggage.

When he reached for the flight suit, Peter told him he would take it himself.

Then he got in the backseat. Giinther closed the door, slid behind the wheel, and started for the airfield.

An hour later, Peter sat in the Feiseler Storch at the threshold of El Palomar's Runway Three Six, now wearing the flight suit over his shirt and trousers. The suit jacket was with the satchel, strapped to the backseat.

He was about to tell El Palomar he was rolling, when he remembered the purse. Getting it out of the pocket in the air would be a bitch.

After another struggle, he managed to tug it loose. He then rolled the red sequined tape into a neat tube and fas tened everything to his lap with the seat belt. He picked up the microphone. "El Palomar, German Embassy One rolling," he called in Spanish. He shoved the throttle for ward, and the Storch began to move. There was no need to worry about the flaps. He had all the runway he needed.

"Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Major von Wachtstein. Have a nice flight," the tower replied in German. In good German.

He picked up the microphone again. "Dankeschon."

Another ethnic German, obviously, is working in the control tower. The German was perfect. A little soft, so probably a

Bavarian, or maybe a Swabian. And another Argentino German who thinks Hitler is a splendid all-around fellow.

An anti-Nazi Argentina-German would not have offered the cordial farewell to a Luftwaffe officer.

He felt life come into the controls, raised the tail wheel, and then let the plane take itself off. He flew to the Rio Plate, then headed south.

Thirty minutes later, he was over Estancia San Pedro y

San Pablo. He dropped to 500 meters, cranked in some flaps, and dropped to 250.

On his first pass over the radio station, he thought he saw someone in the open; but he wasn't sure, and he wanted to be sure. He stood the Storch on its left wing, turned, and made another pass. This time two men were in the open, looking up at him.

He flew level for a moment, while he pushed the upper half of the left-side window upward until it engaged the catches on the lower side of the wing. The slipstream caught the roll of tape in his lap and started to suck it out the win dow, but the seat belt held the purse in place.

He stood the airplane on its wing again and flew back toward the radio station. He pulled the throttle back so he was just above stall speed, and when he came very close to the men on the ground, he freed the purse from the seat belt and threw it out the window.

He applied throttle, dumped the flaps, and turned a final time to fly over the radio station to make sure they had the purse. One of the men on the ground was waving at him to show that they did.

He turned toward Estancia Santo Catalina. "Now comes the tough part," he said aloud.

He remembered reading in a book about the American

Civil War what the Southern general Lee had said before going out to surrender to the United States general, the one who later became president, Grant: "I would rather die a thousand deaths…"

"I know just how you felt, General Lee," he said aloud.

Alicia Carzino-Cormano was waiting for him-out of breath, as if she had run to the airstrip when she heard the sound of his engine.

Even before he climbed out of the airplane, she knew there was bad news; and by the time he shut it down, she had decided what it was. "When do they want you to go to Ger many?" she asked.

"Very soon. In three or four days."

"If you loved me, you would go to Brazil."

"If I went to Brazil, my father would be shot."

"And they're not going to shoot you?"

He managed a smile and a light tone in his voice. "I don't think anytime soon," he said. "I should be back in a month or six weeks. Maybe even sooner."

She looked into his eyes. "You believe that?"

I wish I did. He nodded his head.

"If you believe that, I will believe that," she said. She threw herself into his arms.

"We'll be OK, my precious," he said.

"Can you spend the night?" she asked against his chest.

"I have to leave right now for Montevideo."

"And when will you be back from Montevideo?"

"Tomorrow."

"I'll go to Buenos Aires tonight, or in the morning," she said.

"Your mother may-"

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently, almost violently, indicating that he should know that what her mother thought or wanted was not important. "When you get back, call me at the house."

He nodded, and stroked her hair.

He very much wanted to cry.

And until I met her, I didn't think there was such a thing as love.

[THREE]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near

Pila, Buenos Aires Province 1220 3

May 1943

Cletus Frade, deep in thought, sat at the crest of a gentle rise astride Julius Caesar, a very large, magnificently formed black stallion. His mind jumped from one thought to another.

Next week this time, I'll be a married man. J

Why did I give in to Claudia and that damned Jesuit and%, agree to have that goddamned Juan Domingo Peron at my wedding? A dirty old man who fucks little girls doesn't belong at a goddamn wedding.

By now Ashton 's in Rio de Janeiro. I really hope I was right, and that he 'II be on the next Panagra flight down clutching a diplomatic passport in his hand. I need him.

Jesus, this place isn't only enormous, they haven't touched the potential. All they do with it is raise enough food to feed themselves and let the cattle graze until they're ready to be slaughtered. That takes two years, maybe longer. This is farmland, not grazing land. What I should do is put in some feed crops. I can probably produce marketable beef in fourteen months.

God, I wish Uncle Jim was here. He 'd really know what to do with this place.

There's an airport at Bariloche, and what's supposed to be the best resort hotel in Argentina. There's no reason I can't take Dorotea there in the Lodestar.

It's too far to drive. It would take two days. It's twenty hours or something on the train. I can fly the Lodestar out there in four hours.

And if I go there in the Lodestar and something happens here, 1 can get back in a hurry.

Tragedy in Argentina. On the day after his marriage,

Marine Aviator with Wings of Gold C. Frade flies himself and bride into a rock-filled cloud…

Enrico Rodriguez, astride a sorrel with brilliant eyes, his

Browning shotgun cradled in his arm, was also deep in thought.

Julius Caesar, now docilely munching grass, had been el

Coronel's favorite, and vice versa. Whenever anyone else tried to mount him, he was unruly, often successfully throwing the stranger. He had even tried to throw Senor Cletus the first time he mounted him.

He had not. Senor Cletus was almost as fine a horseman as his father. And Julius Caesar now seemed to understand he had a new master. At the stables, Enrico had stood stock-still while Senor Clete threw the sheepskin saddle and the hornless Recado saddle on the horse, and even when Senor

Cletus had tugged hard at the tack, shortening the stirrups to the length norteamericanos preferred (for reasons Enrico did not understand), Julius Caesar had allowed it.

It usually took two men to get a saddle on Julius Caesar.

Enrico was not surprised that Senor Cletus had come out here to think. El Coronel also often rode slowly out onto the pampas under God's wide blue sky and stopped somewhere just to think. The longer he was around Senor Cletus, the more he saw how much he was like el Coronel.

In the important things.

There was not much of a physical resemblance. In these

Senor Clete favored his mother.

Enrico took pleasure in the thought that el Coronel and

Senor Clete's mother were together again in heaven with the blessed angels, and with Mariana Maria Dolores taking care of them there, as he was now taking care of Senor Clete in this life.

He believed that God always had a purpose, although that purpose had not been clear to him when God let those filthy bastards cut Mariana Maria Dolores's throat in Senor

Guillermo's house by the Hipodrome.

And God's purpose had not been clear, either, when He let those filthy bastards kill el Coronel in the car. And he had had real trouble trying to understand why God had not let him die with el Coronel. Or even instead of him.

Now he knew. God in his infinite wisdom had put a baby in the belly of Senor Clete's blond woman. She wasn't a real

Argentine, but she was half Argentine. As Senor Clete was half Argentine. Their baby would be entirely Argentine.

And that meant that Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo would go on as before, because it was now Senor Clete's home, where he would be married, where his baby would be born; and he would not return to the United States of America, and Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo would not be sold to strangers. Senor Clete would stay here and be el Patron, as his father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him had been el Patron, taking loving care of the people Estancia

San Pedro y San Pablo.

And God had sent Enrico a message. The all-knowing

God knew that Enrico was shamed that he had failed to save the life of el Coronel, and that with Mariana Maria Dolores taken to heaven, too, he was all alone.

God had permitted him to take the vengeance that was His alone. He brought the German Nazi bastards who had ordered the murder of el Coronel and Mariana Maria

Dolores to Samborombon Bay and put them in the glass sight on el CoronePs Mauser (which they had bought together in Berlin), so that he could kill them.

The message was I know that you are unhappy and lonely, my son, and this is both to show you I understand and that you are part of my plan. Killing the German Nazi bastards is your reward on earth, and if you do your duty, when the time comes, there will be greater rewards in heaven.

And Enrico understood what his duty was. He was to protect

Senor Clete and the blond woman and the baby in her belly, and thus Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and the good life it gave all the simple people who depended on it.

And he knew his reward when God finally took him to heaven. He would be with Mariana Maria Dolores and el

Coronel again and could tell them that the Estancia San

Pedro y San Pablo would go on as always.

That had been God's plan all along. He wondered why it had taken him so long to understand.

Enrico was brought back from his thoughts when he detected unusual movement on the pampas. "Senor Cletus," he said softly, and when he had Clete's attention, raised his arm and hand, the index finger extended, and pointed.

One of the Ford Model A pickups was bouncing across the pampas, headed for them.

"Who is that? Rodolfo?"

"I think so, Senor Cletus."

Sargento Rudolpho Gomez, Argentine Cavalry, Retired, pulled up to them three minutes later, got out of the Ford, and approached Clete, taking off his hat as a gesture of respect

(all the while carefully staying away from Julius Caesar).

"Patron, el Jefe asked me to find you," he said.

El Jefe was Chief Radioman Oscar J. Schultz, USN.

Most of the gauchos thought Schultz was very strange, even ludicrous-a man who wore the clothing of a gaucho but never mounted a horse and was visibly afraid of both horses and cattle. Enrico and Rudolpho, however, liked him and would not tolerate disrespect toward him-probably,

Clete thought, because they recognized in him a fellow career serviceman.

Once he'd seen Rudolpho pointing a Cavalry sergeant's finger in the face of a gaucho and telling him the next time he laughed at el Jefe he would cut his balls off and feed them to the pigs.

"Did he say what he wanted?" Clete asked.

"No, Patron. He is at the place."

"Senor Clete, we can take the Ford," Enrico said. "And

Rudolpho can take the horses back."

"How far are we from the station? On horseback?"

"Twenty minutes, Senor Clete. And about as long by

Ford," Enrico said, then added, "It has been some time since

Julius Caesar has had a hard run. Then it would be a little less."

"Where is it from here?" Clete asked. Enrico pointed.

"Let's go for a run, Julius," Clete said, and touched the animal with his heels.

Enrico waited until Clete was out of earshot. "He is very much like el Coronel, may he rest in peace, is he not?"

"Si," Rudolpho said thoughtfully.

"God has given us the duty of protecting him."

"Si," Rudolpho repeated.

Enrico made a thumbs-up gesture to Rudolpho and then put his heels to the sorrel and raced after el Patron.

Julius Caesar was breathing heavily and was spotted white with sweat when Clete rode up to the radio station.

"Beautiful animal, Sir," Lieutenant Madison R. Sawyer ffl said.

"Yes, he is. What's up, Sawyer? Is the chief here?"

Sawyer pointed to the Chief's Ford and waited for Clete to dismount.

Enrico rode up and slipped gracefully off the sorrel.

"Will you walk him for me, Enrico?" Clete asked.

"Si, Senor."

"Galahad dropped a message to us about an hour ago,"

Sawyer said.

Chief Schultz appeared in the door of the house. "That's that vicious sonofabitch who" tried to kick me, isn't it?" he asked.

"Nothing personal, Chief, he just doesn't like sailors."

"Thanks a lot. Just keep him away from me, thank you."

"What's the message?"

"He's been ordered to Germany."

"Oh, shit," Clete said. He walked to the building, and

Sawyer followed him.

The chief handed him von Wachtstein's message. 'Tough luck, huh?" he said when Clete had finished reading it.

"Yeah, that's what it is."

"You think he'll be coming back, skipper?"

"He seems to think there's some chance," Clete said.

"We'll need to get this off right away."

The chief looked at his watch. "Skipper," he said, "if you can write it and I can encrypt it in nineteen minutes, we can get it off on the regular schedule."

"I won't be long," Clete said, and sat down at the table in front of the battered Underwood typewriter ("borrowed" by the chief from the radio room of the destroyer). He laid von

Wachtstein's note down, then rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter and started to type. After a few seconds he stopped and turned his head toward Sawyer, who was looking over his shoulder. "You're a man of imagination and culture,

Madison," he said. "I need some names for the high-level

Krauts who will be coming here."

"Sure."

"One is a deputy foreign minister," Clete said.

Sawyer grunted. "Metternich," he said immediately. "For the diplomat."

Clete chuckled and then typed quickly.

"Who else?" Sawyer asked.

"The SS Brigadier wearing a Wehrmacht uniform," Clete said.

"What's that all about, do you think, skipper?" the chief asked. "He'd rather not have people know he's SS?"

"I suppose," Clete replied.

"Did the wolf in sheep's clothes have a name?" Sawyer asked thoughtfully.

"If he did, 1 don't have a clue," Clete said. The chief shrugged.

"OK," Sawyer went on. "We have a mascarador-a guy in a mask-South America-What's that name? Got it.

Zorro."

"As in 'the mark of?" Clete replied. "I thought he was a good guy."

"I'm open to suggestion, Sir."

"Zorro it is," Clete said. "Now that I think about it, it has a nice ring to it."

He typed quickly.

"And for Zorro's aide? What was the name of Zorro's sidekick?"

That drew a blank.

"Little Zorro?" Chief Schultz suggested.

"How about Big Z and Little Z," Sawyer suggested.

"Better yet," Clete said, and typed again.

"That leaves the sailor," the chief said.

Clete and Sawyer spoke at the same time. "Popeye," they both said.

Clete typed for a few more seconds, then tore the paper from the typewriter and handed it to the chief.

TERNICH. KORVETTENKAPITAN KARL BOLTITZ,

HEREAFTER POPEYE, WILL FOLLOW ETA UNKNOWN

3 BIGZ IS ACTUALLY OBERFUHRER-SS AND HAS

BEEN HIMMLER'S ADJUTANT. LITTLEZ IS HIS

DEPUTY. POPEYE WORKS FOR CANARIS.

TEX

URGENT

TOP SECRET LINDBERGH

DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN

FROM TEX

MSG NO #### TIME TIME GREENWICH 2

MAY 1943

TO ORACLE EYES ONLY AGGIE

1 GALAHAD REPORTS HE, SAUSAGE AND

BAGMAN ORDERED BERLIN PRESUMABLY

REGARDING INQUIRY INTO MARITIME

PROBLEMS. SUSPECT NEXT LUFTHANSA

FLIGHT DUE HERE WITHIN 72 HOURS WITH

DEPARTURE 24 HOURS LATER.

2 FLIGHT FROM BERLIN WILL CARRY GEN ERALMAJOR MANFRED VON DEITZBERG,

HEREAFTER BIGZ, STANDARTENFUHRER

ERICH RASCHNER, HEREAFTER LITTLEZ,

AND DEPUTY FOREIGN MINISTER GEORG

FRIEDRICH VON LOWZER, HEREAFTER MET

The chief read it.

"No problem, skipper," he said. "Give me the code book, and let me have the chair. You want to wait until it's acknowledged? There may be something coming in."

"Yeah," Clete said. "I don't suppose you'd have a cold beer?"

"Dorotea!" the chief called loudly. "Cerveza, por favor."

A moment later, Dorotea, the chief's

"housekeeper," a widow of the estancia, came into the room with two bottles of beer in each hand.

Dorotea doesn't know about Dorotea, Clete thought I wonder how she's going to react when she finds out.

He took two beers from her and went outside to give Enrico one.

There was no traffic from the States for them.

He got another couple of beers from Dorotea, mounted Julius Caesar, and started in a walk back toward the Big House.

[FOUR]

1500 Meters Above the River Plate

Near Montevideo, Uruguay 1540 2

May 1943

The coastline of Uruguay was at first just a blur on the hori zon, but then it began to take form as the small airplane neared the end of its flight over the 125-mile-wide mouth of the River Plate. Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein turned the nose of the Fieseler slightly, to point toward a rise in the coastline that he suspected was the old-fort-on-the-hill overlooking the harbor. A minute or two later, now posi tively identifying the fort, he reached above his head without looking and adjusted the trim tab to put the Storch into a gentle descent, then retarded the throttle a hair.

He looked at the Feiseler's fuel gauges and saw that he had more than an hour's fuel remaining. He glanced at the elapsed-time dials on his wristwatch, a Hamilton chronometer that had once belonged to a B-26 pilot who had gotten unlucky over France, and saw that he had been in the air two hours and fourteen minutes.

In the detailed records of the Luftwaffe, the downing of an

American B-26 aircraft over Cherbourg was Peter's twenty second victory. He had received the Knight's Cross of the

Iron Cross from the Bavarian Corporal himself after his twenty-fifth victory, and his total was now up to thirty-two downed aircraft.

An asshole from the SS had come to the airfield three days after he'd shot down the B-26 and handed him the watch. He had taken it from the pilot of the B-26, he said, and thought Herr Freiherr Wachtstein would like to have it.

Stealing from prisoners of war was a clear violation of the

Rules of Land Warfare; and in a better world, the American pilot would not only have gotten his Hamilton back, with the apologies of the Luftwaffe, but the SS asshole who had stolen it from him would have been brought before a Court of

Honor and stripped of his commission.

But that wasn't going to happen, and Peter knew it. He could have told the SS asshole what he thought of him, and where he could stick the watch, but that would have meant that the SS asshole would have kept it to wear himself. So he had taken it, which at least kept it off the wrist of the SS

Scheisskopf (shithead).

At the time, he had felt a little sorry for the B-26 pilot, who would have to spend the rest of the war in a POW camp.

Now he was jealous. If you were a prisoner of war-and took your officer's honor seriously-all you had to do was try to escape.

Living in a POW camp in Montana or Wyoming or some other place in the United States, with no greater problem than trying to escape, seemed to be a splendid way to spend the rest of the war-especially compared to what he was doing now.

Among other things, POWs were released at the end of a war and could go home to the women waiting for them.

Argentina had interned the German officers from the Graf

Spec in hotels in Villa General Belgrano in Cordoba

Province; and they-on orders from Germany-had given their word as officers and gentlemen that they would not attempt to escape. That meant that they spent their days playing cards or tennis, or watching the grass grow. Some of them had actually taken up polo. Patriotic Argentino Germans, doing their bit for the Fatherland, regularly visited them, bringing them Apfel strudel, Knockwurst, Kassler ripchen, and other little things to remind them of home.

Once a month, an officer from the Germany Embassy went to Villa General Belgrano to settle their hotel bills and give them their pay (Peter had flown Gradny-Sawz there in the Storch ten days before).

He had made the mistake of telling Alicia about the officers in Villa General Belgrano. And she had taken from that the obvious inference: All he had to do was go to Brazil and turn himself in, and he would be out of the war. She imme diately saw herself visiting him on Sunday afternoons in a

Brazilian version of the internment hotels, maybe with a picnic basket full of fruit and fried chicken.

Even putting aside the question of the trouble his deser tion itself would cause for his father, there were serious problems connected with the OSS.

Specifically, there was no way it would not come to their attention. And the OSS maintained an Order of Battle, knew that he was his father's son, and would try to use that, even if they didn't know-or suspect-that his father was part of the small group of German officers who had decided that the only solution to Germany's problems was the assassination of

Adolf Hitler.

Clete knew, of course. But Clete had given his word that he would not tell the OSS. And Peter believed him. So what did that make Clete? At least an officer willfully disobeying an order, and at worst, maybe some sort of traitor himself.

The war had once seemed so simple. When he'd been with the Condor Legion in Spain, it had been easy-and even pleasant-to think of himself as a latter-day Teutonic knight.

By day he brought death, in noble aerial combat, to godless

Communists, and spent his nights half-drunk in the beds of women he now remembered only by the shape of their bodies, having long forgotten most of their names.

It had also been that way in Russia-except that there had been very few women-until he saw what the Einsatzgrup pen were doing, and was shamed as an officer and as a Ger man. (The Einsatzgruppen-literally "Task Forces"-were the SS mobile death squads that followed the German regular army into Poland and Russia and were charged with exterminating undesirables.)

Montevideo was now clearly in sight. On an impulse, he turned slightly away so that he could come in over the ship channel and maybe see the sunken hulk of the GrafSpee.

At first he thought he'd failed, but then he could make out parts of her masts rising from the murky waters where she had been scuttled.

As he turned his nose northward, he wondered why he had bothered. There was something sad about a sunken ship.

And he had seen the hulk of the GrafSpee before.

He had also seen the grave of her captain. Langsdorff had put on a fresh uniform, carefully arranged the GrafSpee's battle flag on the floor, and then stood in a position so that his corpse would fall on the flag after he had blown his brains out.

He wanted to leave the message that he had scuttled his ship to save the lives of his men, rather than because he was personally afraid of dying. The way to prove that was to kill himself.

That was something his father would understand, Peter knew… something Generalleutnant von Wachtstein would, in the same circumstances, do himself.

Major von Wachtstein wasn't sure if the act was heroic or cowardly. Or even worse, stupid. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that it would have taken more balls to stay alive and be accused of cowardice than to put a pistol in your mouth.

He flew over the old fort at the mouth of the harbor, close enough to see its battlements and ramparts and the old muzzle loading cannon still pointing seaward, and then turned north.

The altimeter showed 510 meters. He let it drop to a precise

500, then flew along the Rambla, just far enough out to sea so the black cross on the fuselage and the swastika on the vertical stabilizer couldn't be seen by the people sitting in the sidewalk cafes along the beach.

Both he and the Storch were diplomatically accredited to the governments of both Argentina and Uruguay, and flying between the two countries was perfectly legal, but he knew there was no sense in stirring up the natives.

In five minutes, he could see the hotel and gambling casino at Carrasco, and a minute after that, the runways and hangars of the airport. He turned the nose landward, flew over the villas and small business section of Carrasco, and then to the airport on its outskirts.

As he flew over the airport to have a look at the windsock, he saw a canary-yellow 1941 Chevrolet convertible parked at the terminal building. He knew the car. It belonged to

Sturmbannfiihrer Werner von Tresmarck, who had bought it to keep Frau Ingebord von Tresmarck happy. Peter knew that

Ingebord von Tresmarck, for a number of reasons, was able to get from her husband just about anything she wanted.

He wasn't surprised to see the car. Ambassador von

Lutzenberger had said he would try to let Ambassador

Schulker know he was coming. As the Montevideo embassy's security officer, von Tresmarck would be the officer

Schulker would send to meet an officer whose purpose in coming to Montevideo von Lutzenberger had been unwilling to discuss on the telephone.

As Peter taxied the Storch to the transient-aircraft ramp, two cars followed him-a 1937 Ford Fordor and the yellow convertible Chevrolet. The Ford carried uniformed Uruguayan customs and immigrations officers; in the convertible were von Tresmarck, in civilian clothing, and his wife. Peter had hoped that she wouldn't show up at the airport, but was not surprised that she had.

Peter shut the engine down, made the necessary entries in the flight log-turning his landing at Estancia Santo

Catalina into "precautionary landing at Pinamar re: compass problem"-and then climbed out of the airplane.

He peeled off the flight suit, draped it over the cockpit window, then took his suit jacket and suitcase from the backseat. He had just finished pulling his necktie into place and was shrugging into the jacket when he saw that von

Tresmarck and the others had walked up to the airplane.

"Heil Hitler!" von Tresmarck said. He was in his forties and sported a neatly clipped full-a la Adolf Hitler- mustache. "How good to see you, Peter!"

Peter raised his right hand from the elbow in a sloppy return of the Nazi salute.

"Herr Sturmbannfuhrer," he said, and smiled at the

Uruguayan officials. "Buenas tardes," he said, and handed them his diplomatic passport and his carnet, a small card issued by the Uruguayan government to diplomats. "Frau von Tresmarck," Peter said, smiling at her.

Ingebord von Tresmarck, a tall, slim blonde, perhaps fif teen years younger than her husband, gave him her hand. He bowed his head and clicked his heels.

"It's always a pleasure to see you, Peter," she said.

The taller of the two Uruguayans examined Peter's docu ments perfunctorily, handed them to the other official, and said: "Welcome to Uruguay. May I ask how long you will be staying. Sir?"

"I'll be leaving tomorrow," Peter said.

The second official returned the documents to him, and both saluted and got back in their Ford.

The three Germans walked to the Chevrolet. Peter held open the passenger door for Frau von Tresmarck. After she got in, he then tried to push the seat back forward so he could climb in the back.

"Don't be silly," she said. "There's plenty of room in front."

Von Tresmarck slipped behind the wheel and started the engine. "The Ambassador, Peter," he said, "said only that you were coming." It was a request for information.

"I have a message from Ambassador von Lutzenberger,"

Peter said.

"I thought perhaps it might have something to do with… that unfortunate business last week."

You bet your ass it does; we 're being ordered to Berlin.

"I'm sure the Herr Sturmbannfuhrer understands that I can't discuss the matter," Peter said.

"Of course," von Tresmarck said quickly. "I wasn't trying to pry, Peter."

"Where will I be staying, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer?" Peter asked.

"With us, of course," Frau von Tresmarck said. "We have plenty of room."

Shit!

"That's very gracious of you," Peter said. "But I don't want to impose."

"Nonsense," von Tresmarck said. "You're our good friend, Peter. We wouldn't feel right if you were in a hotel."

"You're very kind," Peter said.

Ambassador Joachim Schulker raised his eyes from the envelope Peter had just handed him. "Are you familiar with the contents, von Wachtstein?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Did you say anything to Sturmbannfuhrer von Tres marck?"

"No, Sir, of course not."

"Well, then, I suppose I had better do so, wouldn't you think?"

How the hell am I supposed to reply to that?

"Yes, Sir."

Schulker picked up a silver bell from his desk and shook it.

His secretary appeared a moment later at the door. "Will you ask Sturmbannfuhrer von Tresmarck to see me, please?"

Schulker asked. Then he looked at Peter. "I almost forgot, von Wachtstein, to congratulate you for your courageous behavior on the beach."

"I tried to do my duty, Excellency."

"There aren't many men who would have your icy courage under fire," Schulker said. "Who would have been so-what shall I say?… visibly unaffected-when two of their com rades died in such an awful fashion, right beside them."

"It was a very unpleasant incident, Excellency."

"Certainly, after both Standartenfuhrer Goltz and Oberst

Griiner were shot in the head, you must have thought you were next. And of course the next shot narrowly missed you, is that not so?" Peter gave an almost imperceptible nod. "Yet you saw to their bodies, carried them to the boat without assistance…"

He's been talking to somebody who knows exactly what happened at Puerto Magdalena, not just that Griiner and

Goltz were killed. Who? I don't think von Lutzenberger, who would have told me if he had spoken to Schulker. That leaves

Gradny-Sawz. Who else knew?

And did I detect a suspicion that it's odd I didn 't have my brains blown out when Griiner and Goltz did? Or am I being paranoid?

There was a discreet knock at the door. Schulker looked up and saw von Tresmarck standing there. "Come in, please,

Werner," Schulker said.

Von Tresmarck walked in and gave a stiff-armed Nazi salute. "Heil Hitler," he said. "You wished to see me, Excel lency?"

Schulker returned the salute casually.

"They want to see you in Berlin, Werner, in connection with the unfortunate recent incident," Schulker said. "Von

Wachtstein will fly you to Buenos Aires in the morning."

Von Tresmarck tried very hard, and almost succeeded, to conceal his reaction to the announcement-terror. "Tomorrow,

Excellency?" he asked.

"There is apparently a Lufthansa Condor flight en route to

Buenos Aires. You will travel aboard it on its return flight."

"I understand, Excellency," von Tresmarck said.

"That doesn't give you much time," Schulker said.

"Excellency, did they say how long I am to be gone?"

"No, they didn't," Schulker said simply. "You will check in with me in the morning, though, before you leave, won't you?"

"Yes, of course, Excellency."

"There might be another message, or something,"

Schulker said, and then sat down, making it clear they had been dismissed.

"I'll have to clear my desk here, you understand," von Tres marck said as they left the ambassador's office, "but there's no reason for you to wait for me. I'll have Inge run you out to the house."

"Wouldn't it be much simpler if I just went to the Casino and got a room?"

"Inge will be glad for your company," von Tresmarck said. "Especially if things don't go as quickly here as I hope they will."

Ingebord von Tresmarck was waiting for them in the foyer of the embassy.

'Take Peter to the house, please, Inge, and make him comfortable," von Tresmarck said. "I may be here awhile, so don't hold dinner for me."

She nodded. "What's going on, Werner?" she asked.

"I don't think it should be discussed in the lobby of the embassy," he said. "Peter will tell you what he can."

"I am not sure, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer, if I am per mitted-"

"She will have to be told something, Peter," von Tres marck said. "Tell her what you think you can, on my authority."

"Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer."

Von Tresmarck turned on his heel and walked out of the lobby.

When they reached the Chevrolet, Inge asked Peter to drive. He got behind the wheel and drove toward Carrasco.

"What don't you think you are permitted to tell me?"

"I didn't want you telling him I told you everything," he said.

"You know there are some things I don't tell him," she said. "I don't want to get off the subject, but I am really glad to see you, darling." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Her right hand moved to his upper leg and squeezed him playfully but almost painfully.

"Hey!" he said in surprise and protest.

"So tell me," she said, squeezing him one more time, then moving away from him.

"We've been ordered to Berlin," he said.

"Oh, my God!"

"I don't think there's anything to be worried about," he said.

"You don't think there's anything to be worried about," she parroted sarcastically.

"Considering what happened, it was to be expected that somebody in Berlin would want to talk to both of us, and since they wouldn't want to come here…"

"Are you going?" she asked.

"Of course I'm going. I think we'll be back within a month."

"You have the airplane. We could be in Brazil in three hours."

"Inge, calm down," he said.

"Calm down?" she snorted sarcastically. "What kind of a fool are you? What kind of a fool do you think I am?"

"Calm down, Inge," he repeated.

She snorted again but didn't say anything more in the car.

The von Tresmarck house was a medium-size, two story, red-tile-roofed building two blocks from the casino. When they reached it, he stopped before the closed steel gate to the driveway.

"Leave it," Inge said. "I'll have someone park it and put your bag in your room. What I need is a drink."

He got from behind the wheel and followed her to the house. The large, ornate, varnished wood door opened as they reached it. A middle-aged maid stood there.

"Take the Major's things to the guest room," Inge ordered in heavily German-accented Spanish.

"Si, Senora. Bienvenido, Senor."

"You're at the end of the corridor to the right," Inge said, gesturing up the stairs.

"Thank you," he said, and extended the Chevrolet keys to her.

She put them in her purse, then pointed to a door.

"In there," she said.

It was the sitting. On a heavy wooden table against one wall was an array of bottles.

"What's your pleasure, Senor?" Inge said in her terrible

Spanish. "We have English-scotch-and German, and 1 native, and even some American. The local brandy's not at all bad."

"Sounds fine," Peter said.

"Then that's what we'll have," she said, and poured stiff drinks into short, squarish glasses. She handed him his drink i and tapped her glass against it. "Prosit, Schatzie," she said.

"Prosit, Inge," he said, and took a swallow.

"Don't look so worried," she said, switching to

German, when she had taken a healthy swallow. "I'm calm. OK?"

"Good," he said.

I "Are you going to tell me what happened on that beach?

I've tried to get Werner to tell me, but he says he doesn't really know. I don't know whether he really doesn't know, or considers it a state secret."

"I have the feeling he knows," Peter said. "Ambassador

Schulker knows, in some detail."

"So tell me. I want to know what he's facing."

"A little later," Peter said. "What I need right now is the toilet, and then a shower."

She looked into his eyes, then nodded. "I was in there this morning," she said. "So I know there's soap and towels."

"Thank you," he said, and drained his glass. She did the same thing, then turned to the table to pour herself another.

When he reached his room, the maid had just finished unpacking his satchel; she then informed him that, with his permission, she would touch up his uniform with an iron.

He thanked her, then waited for her to leave.

He locked the door after her, then undressed and took a shower. When he came out of the bathroom, naked, toweling his hair, to fetch his change of linens, Inge was in the bed room, wearing a blue dressing gown.

"Oh," she said. "Is that what we're going to do? Play 'You show me yours, and I'll show you mine'? I loved playing that when I was a little girl."

She pulled her dressing gown open and then closed it, but not before he saw that she was naked under it.

"This is not smart, Inge," Peter said, quickly wrapping the towel around his waist. "What if he comes home?"

"First he's going to do whatever he has to do at the embassy, and then he's going to go weep on his lover's manly chest," she said. "He won't be home until very late.

Not before ten or eleven, anyway. Maybe he won't come home at all. He knows how to find Brazil, too."

"I can't believe you're serious."

"Whatever Werner is, he's not stupid," she said. "One of his options is to obey his orders and go to Berlin. His problem there is that Goltz is dead, which means he doesn't know who now has his Kripo dossier"-Kriminalpolizei, the

Criminal Police division of the Gestapo-"the one with all those pictures of him cavorting naked with handsome boys. If that's in the wrong hands, he's liable to be arrested the moment he steps off the plane. And that's even before they get around to asking what happened in Argentina. His other option is to empty the 'special' bank account-and the last time I looked, there was almost a quarter of a million

American dollars in it-and put that money somewhere safe, go to Brazil, turn himself in to the Brazilians, or maybe even the Americans, and declare that he is now, after prayerful thought, really opposed to that terrible Adolf Hitler."

Christ, that possibility never entered my mind!

"You think that's possible, Inge?"

"Yes, of course it's possible. You are really terribly naive,

Peter."

"I suppose I am," he said.

"On the other hand, among his other vices, he's both a gambler and greedy."

"I don't understand."

"There's going to be a lot more money in that special account, and he knows it. The more there is, the larger his share. If he went to Brazil, he would have to worry for the rest of his life that the SS would come after him. He may decide to gamble on going to Germany and chancing that his dossier didn't fall into the wrong hands, and that he can credibly deny knowledge of what went wrong in Argentina. Do you think he had anything to do with what happened there?"

"I don't think so."

"The problem with that, of course, is that if he loses, I lose too. On the other hand, I have access to the special account, and can probably make it to Brazil-certainly, if you fly us there in your airplane-and be an even more convincing anti-Nazi than he would."

"I had nothing to do with what happened on the beach-"

Peter said.

"Which brings us back to 'what did happen on the beach?' " she interrupted.

"-and if I took you to Brazil, my father would wind up in

Sachsenhausen. I can't do that, Inge."

"No, of course not," she said sarcastically. "I keep forgetting you are a gentleman of honor."

"Your husband is too valuable to this ransom operation for anyone to decide he has to go, without damned good rea son," Peter said. "And if he doesn't know anything about what happened on the beach, there is no good reason."

"Possibly," she said.

"I think your going to Brazil would be a mistake-at least until you know for certain he's in some sort of trouble."

"How would I know if he was in trouble, with him in

Berlin and me here?"

"If someone tried to take control of the special account, or if you were told to come home."

"Home? I don't have a home, or a family, Peter, thanks to the Eighth United States Air Force," she said.

"You can always go to Brazil later," he said.

"This profound conversation is not what I had in mind when I climbed from my balcony to yours," she said.

"It's not? Well, what was on your mind, Inge?" he asked innocently.

She chuckled deep in her throat and walked to him. "You have no idea?" she asked.

"Not the foggiest."

She put her hand under the towel around his waist. "The hell you don't," she cried triumphantly. "Or are you going to try to tell me it's always in that condition?"

"Of course. I'm a Luftwaffe fighter pilot."

She jerked the towel loose and let it fall to the floor. Then, shrugging out of the blue dressing gown, she dropped to her knees and took him in her mouth.

Peter had a sudden mental image of Alicia, and with a massive effort forced it from his mind.

If Inge even suspected someone like Alicia was in my life, she would already be in Brazil. As far as she's concerned, I am the only friend she has in South America. And I probably am. If she went to Brazil, that would be the end of the only window we have onto this obscene ransoming operation. I have to keep her here.

What that means is that I am betraying two women at the same time.

Oh, you 're really an officer and a gentleman, Major Frei herr Hans-Peter van Wachtstein!

"Ouch!"

Inge looked up at him. "Sorry, darling," she said. "The last thing in the world I want to do is hurt him, at least before he's done his duty."

IX

[ONE]

Restaurant Bernardo

La Rambla Montevideo,

Uruguay 2210 2 May

1943

During the course of their long and exhausting-though pleas urable-afternoon together, Peter had many occasions to wonder, somewhat unkindly, if Inge was one of those insatiable females young men who don't know any better dream of finding.

After actually finding one himself in Spain-or rather, after she had found him-he came to realize the error behind that fantasy. Two weeks into the relationship he actually began to dread her apartment (after two nights he had unwisely moved in, or she had moved him)-knowing that before he could even take a drink, or a cup of coffee, he was expected to prove yet again the legendary virility of Luftwaffe fighter pilots.

Inge was not quite in that league, he had to admit. It was in fact likely that she was simply taking advantage of the opportunity his presence presented. Her husband was totally uninterested in the gentle sex, and Inge had normal female hungers. And it was also possible that her enthusiasm was at least partially feigned and intended to keep him in line. Inge knew all about using sex to get what she wanted from men.

Peter and Inge had first met in Berlin during a five-day leave after service in France and before assuming command of

Jagdstaffel 232, which was stationed outside Berlin. Inge herself had been stationed in the lobby bar in the Hotel am

Zoo, one of those women who seemed to regard taking to bed senior officers or dashing young Luftwaffe fighter pilots as their contribution to the war effort. They were not technically prostitutes, but if there were presents, or "loans," so much the better.

When he saw Inge back then looking at him over the edge of her Champagne glass, he decided that the long-legged blond beauty was going to be God's reward to a very tired fighter pilot who had done his duty for the Fatherland.

Two hours later, they were in a suite overlooking the lake in the Hotel am Wansee. And for two days they left the bed only to eat room-service meals, meet calls of nature, and shower.

Sometime during their licentious bacchanalia, she offered her hard-luck story-her family home destroyed in an air raid, the determination of the authorities to employ her in a war industry-a ghastly plan, yet one she might be forced into, unless she could find an apartment in Berlin, which was a difficult proposition-by which she meant expensive- because she didn't have permission to reside in Berlin, and would have to find a place on the black market.

At the time, Peter was reasonably convinced that he was running out of his allotted time in this world. The day before arriving in Berlin, he'd encountered a P-51 Mustang over the

English Channel whose pilot was just as good as he was. At the time, he was too busy to be afraid, and fortunately, the dogfight ended in a draw: When Peter came out of the cloud where he'd sought a few seconds' refuge, the Mustang was nowhere in sight.

But afterward, in the air, and that night, and on the train to

Berlin, he had been forced to conclude that a number of Allied pilots were just as good as he was, and flying aircraft just as good as his Messerschmitt or the Focke-Wulf he would be flying in his new squadron. It was only a matter of time before he ran into a better pilot, or made a mistake, or was just unlucky, and it would be Sorry, your number came up. You lasted longer than most, but sooner or later, everybody's number comes up. AufWieder-sehen, Ham-Peter van Wachtstein!

Inge's hard-luck story was in fact better than most-there was neither a sick mother nor a crippled little sister involved-and she had certainly been splendid in bed, so he wrote her a check. "A little loan," he said.

"I will repay you as soon as I can," she said.

And when their four days was over, he promptly forgot

Inge, the loan, and even her name, although her incredible legs and the smell of her fresh from a shower remained for some time in his mind.

The next time he saw her was in Uruguay.

Peter had flown SS-Standartenfuhrer Josef Luther Goltz there in the Storch to see his man von Tresmarck in Monte video on behalf of his secret mission to provide an "insur ance" refuge for high-ranking Nazis; and Inge, now Frau

Sturmbannfuhrer von Tresmarck, had been at the airport to meet them.

She was predictably glad to see him, and proved it that same night by coming to his room in the Casino Hotel in

Carrasco. There she told him the story of her recent life since their four days together:

She had married a Waffen-SS Obersturmbannfiihrer named Erich Kolbermann, and was widowed when he was killed at Stalingrad. She had then married von Tresmarck, of the Sicherheitsdienst.

"He needed a wife, and I would have married a gorilla to get out of Berlin," Inge reported matter-of-factly.

"He needed a wife?"

"Didn't Goltz tell you? You mean you couldn't tell the way he looked at you? It was either marry me or pink trian gles and Sachsenhausen. That's how Goltz knows he can trust him."

"I knew there was someone like that here," Peter lied quickly. "But I didn't think he'd be married to you."

Rve minutes later, luge blurted out Goltz's other and far more secret mission in Argentina and Uruguay (under the presurnp tion that Peter was as concerned with self-preservation as she herself was, that he had cleverly managed to get himself out of

Germany, and that because he was now traveling around with

Goltz, he was part of it). For a price, she explained, a stiff price, paid to von Tresmarck in Montevideo, a group of SS officers led by Goltz would arrange the release of Jews from certain concen tration camps, and their safe passage though Spain to Argentina and Uruguay.

Peter reacted to Inge's revelation with shocked disbelief, for it was the first he'd heard about the ransom operation. And this terrified her. At which point she explained-and he believed-that if this came to the attention of the wrong people in Germany, Goltz, her husband, and everyone else in the know

(e.g. Inge herself) would almost surely be shot or sent to a concentration camp.

Under these circumstances, Goltz and von Tresmarck were perfectly willing to kill anyone suspected of threatening the operation, or even of knowing too much about it. That, she pointed out, included him.

He promised her his silence.

Shortly afterward, Cletus Frade told Peter that one of his

OSS agents had been brutally murdered in Montevideo. The man's name was Ettinger, a German Jew. While nosing around the Jewish community in Buenos Aires, he had picked up information about some kind of ransoming operation involving concentration-camp inmates. Though he himself did not give the story much credence, Frade had nevertheless reported it to Washington, where there was immediate, almost excited, interest. Ettinger had then gone to Montevideo to see what else he could find out, and had been murdered there.

When Clete then asked Peter if he knew anything about a ransom operation involving the German Embassy in Monte video, Peter felt no compunction about telling him every thing he'd learned from Inge, as well as everything else he had guessed about the operation. He also agreed to see what more he could find out. There was no question of treason here, no question of honor. Goltz and his ilk had no idea what honor was. And if the OSS had learned of the operation through their own sources, Inge could credibly deny leaking the secret.

He had not, of course, told Inge anything about his relationship with Cletus Frade. That made it entirely possible that her enthusiasm in bed was to insure his keeping his mouth shut.

For all of these reasons, but most of all because he needed a rest, Peter insisted - over Inge's objections - on dinner out. And so there they were at the Restaurant

Bernardo.

"That's a lovely suit," Inge said, pausing while the tail-coated waiter refilled her wineglass. "New, isn't it?

You got it here? In Buenos Aires?"

"Thank you," he said. "Yes, it's new. I found a very nice tai T**' "And nice wool. And no ration coupon, right? They have so much wool here, they practically give it away."

"And the same can be said for the beef," he said, putting his knife to a large, perfectly broiled Bife lomo. "I was thinking a moment ago how much a meal like this costs in Berlin."

"A fortune," she said matter-of-factly. "But that won't bother you, will it? You're rich."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" i "You remember Oscar, the bartender at the am Zoo?" ! He shook his head, "no."

"Tiny little man, with a head as bald as a baby's bottom?"

He vaguely remembered a very small, bald bartender.

"What about him?"

"I asked him about you," she said. "When I first saw you."

"And?"

"He told me who you are," she said. "A von

Wachtstein. More important, the only son of

Generalleutnant Graf von Wachtstein, who will one day be the Graf, and come into the von Wachtstein estates in

Pomerania, including Schloss Wachtstein, one of the nicest castles in Pomerania."

"He knew me?"

"That's his business," she said. "He's a terrible snob."

"And until this moment," Peter said, "I thought it was love at first sight."

"That, too." She giggled. "But it's good for a girl to know who she's meeting before she meets him. You can under stand that."

"And how did you meet your late husband-what was his name?"

"Erich," she said. "Obersturmbannfuhrer der Waffen-SS

Erich Kolbermann. You would have liked him, Peter."

"You met him in the am Zoo? The bartender told you who he was?"

"Actually, it was the Adlon," she said, either not catching the sarcasm or choosing to ignore it. "Heine, the bartender there, told me that poor Erich1-whose family owns a shipyard in Bremen-had arrived from the Eastern front on home leave two days after his wife and children were killed in an air raid."

"The poor bastard!"

"And I thought the least I could do was offer him what solace I could," she said.

"Like marrying him?"

"That was, honestly, darling, his idea."

"And when he proposed, it took you all of ten seconds to make up your mind, right?"

"Closer to fifteen," she said, chuckling. "I didn't want to appear too eager."

"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 Ger many?" Inge asked conversationally.

"They put people who get caught doing that in Sachsen hausen," 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 Standartenfuhrer

Goltz, did you?"

"I didn't even know where we were going, much less what he and Griiner 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

*l! 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 probablv 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 sup posed to very romantic."

"Anyway," Peter went on, "Goltz had bought a boat in El

Tigre, a little one. And with Griiner's driver and his father- they're Germane-Argentines-as my crew, I took the boat down the coast to Samborombdn 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. Griiner was waiting for us. The minute Goltz and I got out of the boat, people started shooting at us. I have no idea who. Griiner 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. Griiner 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?"

Sturmbannfiihrer 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 Sturmbannfuhrer," Peter said.

"Inge, if you will excuse us, I have a little business to dis cuss 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 Sturmbannfuhrer," 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 Sturmbannfuhrer," 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 Tres marck said, almost angrily. "We'll deal with that when the time comes."

"Yes, of course, Herr Sturmbannfiihrer," 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 Sturmbannfuhrer."

"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 Fiihrer!" 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 Sturmbannfuhrer, 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, Hen 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 Sturmbannfuhrer of the Sicherheitsdienst."

"Yes, Sir," Peter said.

"Well?" von Tresmarck asked impatiently.

"Where would you like me to begin, Herr Sturmbann fuhrer?"

"At the beginning," von Tresmarck snapped.

Peter began at the beginning. Though he told von Tres marck 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 Giinther Loche and his father, including their dedication to

National Socialism and their loyalty to Oberst Griiner, to

Ambassador von Lutzenberger, and to Peter himself. He followed this with a detailed description of El Tigre, the river launch Coronet 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 Tres marck 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 Sturmbannfuhrer? 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 Sturmbannfuhrer, 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 fol lowed 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 Martin 404

Carrasco, Uruguay

O805 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 Sturmban nfiihrer 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 sug gested 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 attache."

Peter clicked his heels and nodded his head. "Herr Coun cilor," 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 Wacht stein," he said, "may be compared to peasant women gath ered 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, Hen 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.

"Can you do that?" von Tresmarck's voice came metalli cally over the intercom. "Take your hands off the controls?"

'Tor a few seconds," Peter replied. By then he had both his hands and his feet back on the controls. In that moment, he decided he would not cause the engine to backfire, or initiate maneuvers that would put von Tresmarck's stomach into a tighter knot than it already was in.

He remembered a whipping his father had given him when he was nine or ten. He had been cruelly teasing a retarded boy from the village. His father had seen him, grabbed his arm, and marched him all the way up the hill to the Schloss. There he had taken him into the tack room of the stable, bent him over, and had at his bare bottom with a quirt. Half a dozen lashes, several of which broke the skin, all of which were painful.

And all he said was, "A gentleman, Hansel, does not take advantage of someone who cannot defend himself."

The poor bastard in the backseat is frightened. And with good reason. It might well be decided in Berlin that he was the source of the information that resulted in the deaths of

Gottz and Grtiner. And of the three of us, he is the most expendable, and he must know that. Gradny-Sawz has many highly placed Nazi friends, and no reason to betray Operation

Phoenix. They might in the end decide that I'm expendable, but not before they think long and hard about the cost. It will be difficult-which does not mean impossible-to tell Hitler that the son of Generalleutnant von Wachtstein, an officer around whose neck he had himself hung the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross, was suspected of treason. It would be much easier to lay the blame on an SS officer, who, it had recently been learned, was a deviate.

"Inge likes you." Von Tresmarck's voice came over the intercom. "I can tell."

"And I like Frau von Tresmarck," Peter said. "A charming lady."

"There is a great difference in our ages," von Tresmarck said. "And, frankly, we have our problems. She, of course, misses Berlin and the young people. There aren't very many young people around Montevideo… suitable young people.

She was so pleased when you took her to dinner."

"It was my pleasure," Peter said.

"When we return, I wonder if you would have the time to do it again. Perhaps, if I sent her to Buenos Aires, you could show her around. It's a much more sophisticated city than

Montevideo."

"It would be my pleasure, of course," Peter said.

Freely translated, that means, "Peter, my friend, it's per fectly all right with me if you want to fuck my wife."

The Storch suddenly encountered turbulence, and the air craft rapidly lost altitude, and then as rapidly regained it. It had just about leveled out when the engine suddenly splut tered, gave off clouds of smoke, and almost died. Then there was more turbulence.

In the backseat, Sturmbannfuhrer Werner von Tresmarck became airsick.

Giinther Loche and the Mercedes of the Military Attache were waiting for them at El Palomar. "Herr Sturmbann fuhrer, this is Gtinther Loche," Peter said, "who does very fine work for the Office of the Military Attache."

Giinther popped to attention. "A great honor, Herr Sturm bannfuhrer," he said.

"Oh, yes," von Tresmarck said. "Major von Wachtstein has been telling me about you."

Is Giinther really pissing his pants, or does it just look that way?

"What we're going to do, Giinther, is drop me by the

Embassy, and then, for as long as Sturmbannfiihrer von

Tresmarck is with us, you will be his driver, and otherwise make yourself as useful to him as you can."

"Jawohl, Herr Major."

"But he's your driver, Peter," von Tresmarck protested.

"Rank hath its privileges, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer," Peter said. "Where is the Herr Sturmbannfuhrer going to stay,

Giinther?"

"At the Alvear Palace, Herr Major."

"When I'm in the embassy, I'll tell Gradny-Sawz. I know he wants to see you," Peter said.

"And will we see each other while I'm here, Peter?"

"That, of course, will depend on what Gradny-Sawz has planned for you, but I'm sure we will."

Peter's maid, Sefiora Dora, was a forty-five-year-old

Paraguayan Amazon who outweighed him by at least thirty pounds. As he came through the door of his apart ment, she greeted him with the announcement that Senorita

Carzino-Cormano had called him many times, most recently twenty minutes before, and seemed very anxious that he call her back.

"Make some coffee, please," Peter said.

"Si, Senor."

"And if the senorita calls again while I am in the shower, tell her that you expect me in thirty minutes."

"Si, Senor."

He started for his bedroom, then changed his mind and headed for the laundry room, off the kitchen.

As far as she could remember, Sefiora Dora had never seen the Senor Mayor go into the laundry, so she followed him there.

"Is there something I can do for you, Senor?"

There it is. I knew it would be here. Every laundry room in the world_ has a stiff brush and a bar of mostly acid yellow soap for really dirty jobs.

When she saw what he had in his hands, Senora Dora asked, "Is there something I can wash for you, Senor?"

"No, this is something I have to wash myself, but thank you anyway, Senora Dora."

He went to his bedroom and then into the bath. There he turned on the hot water, stripped off his clothing, and, tak ing the yellow soap and the scrub brush with him, stepped into the shower.

When he came out five minutes later, his skin was bright red and actually felt sunburned.

But he still felt dirty.

Please, God, he prayed, don't ever let Alicia find out.

[THREE]

Bureau of Internal Security

Ministry of Defense

Edificio Libertador

Avenida Paseo Colon

Buenos Aires

1240 4 May 1943

There were three telephones on the desk of Coronel

Bernardo Martin. There was also a fourth in the credenza against the wall behind his desk. The fourth phone's number was known to no more than two dozen people, and it was tested at least once a day to make sure it had not been tapped.

It rang, and he quickly turned around, pulled open the cre denza door, and reached for it. "Hola?"

"Bernardo, this is Milton," his caller announced.

"And how are you, Milton?"

"Very well, thank you. Bernardo, I have just been informed about some really fascinating buys at very good prices at Sant Elmo. Are you at all interested?"

Sant Elmo was a neighborhood not far from El Bocha where a number of dealers in antiques, silver, old books, and things of that nature were located. It was usually crowded with bargain hunters, and was a good place to meet.

"It sounds very interesting, but I'm not sure I can get away from the office."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. You could probably make a very good bargain, and I really think you'd be interested."

"Well, I'll see what I can do. In any event, thank you for thinking of me."

"Don't be silly. What are friends for?"

Forty-five minutes later, Martin spotted Milton Leiber mann, sitting over a cup of coffee, in a cafe on the Plaza de

Sant Elmo.

"What a pleasant surprise," Martin said. "May I join you?"

"Of course," Leibermann said.

Martin pulled up a small chair and, when the waiter appeared, ordered a cafe cortado.

Leibermann slid a three-by-five-inch filing card across the table.

GENERALMAJOR MANFRED VON DEITZBERG

(HIMMLER'S ADJUTANT, ACTUALLY SS~

OBERFUHRER)

DEPUTY FOREIGN MINISTER GEORG VON

LOWZER.

STANDARTENFUHRER ERICH RASCHNER

WILL BE ON NEXT LUFTHANSA FLIGHT,

PROBABLY IN 72 HOURS OR LESS

KORVETTENKAPITAN KARL BOLTITZ, WORKS

FOR CANARIS, WILL FOLLOW, TO BECOME

NAVAL ATTACHE. DON'T KNOW WHEN.

"What's this all about, Milton?" Martin asked, slipping the filing card into his pocket.

"Argentina's a beautiful country. They may be tourists. Or they may be here to eat. I understand there's a growing food shortage where they're coming from."

"How good is this information?"

Leibermann held out his balled fist, thumb extended upward. "You can take it to the bank, Bernardo," he said.

"And if you had to make a guess, why would you say they're coming here?"

"I don't know if this is true or not, but I've heard that the

German Military Attache left for home under somewhat mysterious circumstances."

"I've heard that myself," Martin said, and smiled. "And what can I do for you, Milton?"

"Odd that you should ask, my friend. As you know, I'm very interested in photography. If, wandering around Sant

Elmo, you should happen to come across some photographs of interesting faces…"

"I'll see what I can do, Milton."

"It's always a pleasure doing business with you,

Bernardo."

Martin reached into his pocket for money to pay for the coffee.

Leibermann stopped him. "My pleasure, Bernardo."

"You're very kind. Are we still on for Saturday?"

"Oh, I'm glad you brought that up. No. I have been invited to a wedding."

"In the country?"

Leibermann nodded.

"Well, if it's the same wedding I'm thinking of, perhaps

I'll see you there."

"That would be nice, Bernardo."

On the way back to his office, Bernardo had an unpleasant thought. The Military Attache of the German Embassy, the late Coronel Karl-Heinz Griiner, had as a gesture of friend ship given two Leica I-C cameras, together with a wide assortment of lenses and other accessories, to the Bureau of

Internal Security. It was entirely possible that the former chief of the BIS, el Almirante Francisco de Montoya, had considered at least one of the camera sets as a personal gift and taken it with him when he had been retired.

When he reached the Edificio Libertador, he was greatly relieved to find both camera sets in a locked cabinet.

Within two hours, they had been set up at El Palomar.

[FOUR]

El Palomar Air Field

Buenos Aires, Argentina

1545 5 May 1943

"Mi Coronel," the senior control tower operator said to el

Coronel Bernardo Martin, Chief of the Ethical Standards

Office of the Bureau of Internal Security, "the Lufthansa flight reports they are fifteen minutes from the field."

"Muchas gracias," Martin replied. He was wearing a brown tweed sports jacket, gray flannel trousers, and the necktie of St. George's School, where he had received his secondary education (as had his father). He had been at the

Monthly Old Boys Association Luncheon at Claridge's

Hotel before coming out to El Palomar.

The food, as usual, had been very nice, but it had been otherwise a sad occasion. He had known two (and possibly three) of the four Anglo-Argentine Old Boys who had died for King and Country during the past month.

He looked around the control tower, then out its plate glass window. Everything was in place and ready. In the control tower itself was a Leica I-C 35mm camera, equipped with a telephoto lens and mounted on a tripod. A 1939 Ford panel track was parked on the grass beside the tarmac where

Lufthansa Flight 102 would soon be parked. A crew of workmen were standing by a ditch working on the electrical line that ran to the lights along the runway. Inside the truck, another photographer with another Leica I-C would photo graph everyone coming down the stairs after it rolled up to the aircraft.

Fifteen minutes later, a very long, very slender, very graceful four-engine aircraft dropped out of the sky and lined up with the runway. The Focke-Wulf 200B Condor, first flown in

1937, was a twenty-six-seat passenger airplane, powered by four 870-HP BMW engines, and had been built for

Lufthansa, the German airline. A military modification, the

200C, turned the aircraft into an armed, long-range recon naissance plane/bomber.

To Martin, the Lufthansa Condor looked something like the American Douglas DC-3, particularly in the nose. It was painted black on the top of the fuselage, and off-white on the bottom. On the vertical stabilizer and on the rear of the fuselage were red swastikas, outlined in white.

It touched smoothly down, rolled to the end of the run way, then turned and taxied back to the terminal, where a ground crew waved it into a space near the 1939 Ford panel truck.

As it approached the terminal, a group of people came out of the terminal building. Martin recognized only two of them, First Secretary Anton Gradny-Sawz, and the acting

Military Attache, Major von Wachtstein. "Get those people waiting for the airplane," Martin ordered.

"Si, mi Coronel," the photographer replied.

He hoped the photographer in the truck would have enough sense to also take their pictures.

Movable stairs were rolled up to the airplane, and in a moment the door opened and people began to descend.

At this point, Martin thought, both cameras will suffer mechanical problems. Meaning first that I won't have pic tures of these Nazis to distribute to my men or give to Milton

Leibermann, and then that Milton will be justifiably suspi cious when I tell him, sorry, we didn 't get any pictures.

The first down the stairs was a plump little man in his forties wearing a mussed black suit. He was carrying a leather briefcase.

That has to be Lowzer, the Deputy Foreign Minister.

Next was a tall, slim, well-dressed blond man.

Man/red von Deitzberg, Martin decided. Himmler's adju tant? I wonder how Milton knew that? I also wonder how

Milton knew these people were coming, and even when. Has he got someone in the German Embassy? Or was their arrival announced over RCA, and intercepted by the OSS, and they told him?

And am I going to tell General Obregon that this man is

Himmler's adjutant? He thinks Himmler is a great man.

Not now. Until lean verify that fact, it's unsubstantiated. I can always say I either didn't know or wasn't sure, and therefore did not think I should include it in my report.

A middle-aged woman, followed by a man who was prob ably her husband, came down next.

Who the hell are they?

I'll have the manifest. I can find out.

The next person to appear was a short, stocky man in a tight dark-blue suit. He stopped in the doorway for a moment and looked around before coming down the stairs.

That man is a policeman. He had a careful look around.

Policemen always look around a room as they enter it, and getting off an airplane is like entering a room. That has to be

Sturmbannfuhrer Erich Raschner.

Confirmation came immediately. Once Raschner had reached the foot of the stairway, Gradny-Sawz marched up to the three men and gave the Nazi salute, Von Wachtstein, three steps behind him, repeated the gesture. They all shook hands, and then Gradny-Sawz gestured for them to proceed to the terminal building.

One of the immigration officers, also one of Martin's men, was under instructions to take their passports into a room where a camera was waiting to photograph them, if he could do so without causing any suspicion. There was often useful information on passports besides place and date of birth, and even those were sometimes useful.

Martin walked across the control tower to look out the window that gave a view of the terminal parking lot. Three

Mercedeses with CD plates, two small ones and a larger one-presumably Ambassador Von Lutzenberger's-were parked illegally right in front of the entrance.

It was five minutes before any of the Germans came out of the building and got in the cars. Lowzer and Gradny-Sawz stepped into the larger Mercedes, von Deitzberg and von

Wachtstein got into one of the smaller cars, and Raschner and a chubby forty-year-old, with a mustache like Hitler's, got into the third.

Who's he? He's obviously important enough to be out here to meet Lowzer and von Deitzberg. But he's not with the German Embassy here; I know all their faces, if not their names. Maybe a Germano-Argentine? I thought I knew all of them, at least the Nazis, at least the important Nazis.

Maybe Milton can tell me.

Does who got in which car establish the pecking order?

Lowzer is more important than von Deitzberg, and gets to ride in the big car? But is a deputy foreign minister more important than Himmler's adjutant? I don't think so. A major general is less important than a deputy foreign minister, and for some reason Himmler's adjutant wants people to think he's a major general. Why?

Martin turned away from the window and faced the pho tographer, who was still taking pictures of people around the

Condor. "Stay here another thirty minutes to make sure no one else gets off the airplane," Martm ordered. "Then-you personally-develop that film, and make three sets of large prints."

"Si, mi Coronel."

"Bring them, and the negatives, to my office. I'll probably be there. If I am not, give them to Suboficial Mayor Jose

Cortina."

"Si, mi Coronel."

[ FIVE ]

"I have something for you, von Wachtstein," von Deitzberg said as they drove down Avenida Libertador. He reached into his jacket pocket and came out with an envelope. It bore the embossed crest of the von Wachtstein family. "I was at Wolf sschanze just before we left," von Deitzberg went on, "and stopped by to see your father. He asked me to give you that."

"The Heir General is very kind," Peter said. He put the envelope in his pocket.

"Have you been to Rastenburg?" von Deitzberg asked.

"Yes, Sir, I have."

"Oh, of course. That's where the Ftihrer gave you the

Knight's Cross, right?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Your father is in excellent health, and a valued member of the OKW," von Deitzberg said. "And very proud of you."

"I am very proud my father, Herr General," Peter said.

"And I'm also in excellent health. I'm not so sure how valu able a member of the German Embassy I am."

"You would rather be at home, on active service, so to speak?"

"May I speak honestly, Herr General?"

"Of course."

"I am a soldier, Sir. I can only presume that my superiors have decided I can make a greater contribution to Germany here than in a cockpit. Having said that, there is a good deal to be said for being in Argentina."

"Well put, von Wachtstein," von Deitzberg said. "I appre ciate candor."

"The food is magnificent, and the women spectacular,"

Peter said. "The people remind me of Hungarians. They have a zest for life."

"From what little I've seen," von Deitzberg said, gesturing out the window as they passed the Hipodrome, "I can already see that my prejudgment of this country was in error. This is not how I envisioned South America. This is European."

"In many ways, Herr General, it is. When I was ordered here, I expected it would be like Spain. It's not. It's

Argentina."

"That's right, you served in Spain, didn't you?"

"Yes, Sir. Three tours with the Condor Legion."

"Three?"

"I was given the choice twice, Sir, of returning to Spain, or doing a tour in Germany teaching people how to fly."

"And you preferred active service to teaching?"

"I decided that if it was my destiny to die for the Father land in an airplane, I would prefer to do so in a war, rather than teaching some farmer how to fly."

Von Deitzberg laughed. "And the women in Spain had nothing to do with it, of course?"

"Oberstleutnant Aschenburg, my commanding officer-"

"Dieter von und zu Aschenburg?" von Deitzberg inter rupted.

"Yes, Sir."

"An old acquaintance. He's now flying Condors for

Lufthansa, you know."

"Yes, I do," Peter said. "The Oberstleutnant used to say that in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king; and in

Spain, the land of the black-haired, dark-skinned, dark-eyed male, the blue-eyed, blond-haired, fair-skinned Aryan is king."

"He being a blue-eyed, blond-haired, fair-skinned Pomer anian like you, right, von Wachtstein?"

"I believe he's Prussian, Herr General."

"I believe you're right," von Deitzberg said.

"We're almost there, Herr General. The Alvear Palace is two blocks down, once we reach the crest of the hill."

"Then it's time we get down to business," von Deitzberg said. "I'm going to have to talk to you, you understand, about what happened to Oberst Griiner and Standartenfuhrer Goltz, and about what you can expect when you get to Germany."

"Jawohl, Herr General."

"But that can wait until tomorrow. What I have to do today is talk to Oberst Peron. I understand you're friends?"

"Sir, I am acquainted with Coronel Peron, but I don't pre sume to think we're friends."

"Do you think you could find him for me, present my compliments, and tell him I would consider it a great per sonal favor if he would receive me as soon as possible?

Today?"

"I will do my best, Herr General. Oberst Peron is now the principal assistant to the Minister of War, General Ramfrez. I'll try his office."

"Find him, von Wachtstein," von Deitzberg said, firmly.

"While I'm taking a shower."

"Jawohl, Herr General."

Getting el Coronel Juan Domingo Peron on the telephone was less difficult than Peter thought it would be. The number of the Ministry of War was in the telephone book, and when

Peter dialed the number, gave his name, and asked to speak to Peron, the Minister was on the line thirty seconds later.

"What can I do for you, my young friend?" Peron asked in his melodious voice.

"Mi Coronel, I am calling to pay the compliments of Gen eral major von Deitzberg."

There was a pause, and the warmth was gone from Peron's voice when he asked, "Generalmajor von Deitzberg?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I know an Oberfuhrer von Deitzberg."

"Sir, I believe that Oberfuhrer von Deitzberg has been seconded to the Wehrmacht."

"I see. Are you telling me he's here, in Buenos Aires?"

"Si, mi Coronel. He just got off the airplane. He's at the

Alvear Plaza."

"Well, Mayor, please extend my compliments to General major von Deitzberg and my warmest wishes of welcome to

Argentina."

"Si, Senor. Senor, the general asked me to tell you that he would consider it a personal service if you would receive him at your earliest convenience, preferably today."

There was another long pause.

"There are questions of protocol, Mayor, as I'm sure you will understand. I would be delighted to receive the General socially, as an old friend, but I'm afraid coming here…"

"I believe the General wishes to pay his respects as a friend, mi Coronel."

There was another pause.

"I have yet to find myself a suitable apartment, Mayor.

For the time being, I'm staying at the house of an old friend, at

4730 Avenida Libertador-that's right across from the

Hipodrome."

"Yes, Sir."

That's Cletus Frade's guest house.

"Would you please tell the General I would be pleased to receive him there, as an old friend, at, say, half past seven tonight?"

"It will be my privilege, mi Coronel," Peter said.

"Socially, you understand, Mayor?"

"Si, mi Coronel." The line went dead. Peter hung up and looked at the door to the bath. He could hear the shower running.

He reached in his pocket and opened the letter from his father. It was typewritten.

THE FUHRER'S HEADQUARTERS 30

APRIL 1943 MY DEAR SON,

GENERALMAJOR VON DEITZBERG HAS KINDLY

AGREED TO CARRY THIS TO YOU IN BUENOS

AIRES. IT WILL THUS ARRIVE SOMETIME

BEFORE MY LETTER OF 27 APRIL, WHICH

UNFORTUNATELY DEALS WITH THE SAME

SUBJECT.

I MUST, WITH PROFOUND REGRET, INFORM

YOU THAT OUR FRIEND COLONEL GRAF

CLAUS VON STAUFFENBERG HAS BEEN

SERIOUSLY WOUNDED WHILE SERVING WITH

THE AFRIKA KORPS. AS NEAR AS I CAN

PIECE THE FACTS TOGETHER, HE WAS

TRAVELING IN A CAR WHICH WAS ATTACKED

BY AMERICAN AIRCRAFT.

HE HAS LOST HIS RIGHT HAND, HIS LEFT

EYE, AND THE THIRD AND FOURTH FIN GERS OF HIS LEFT HAND. HE WAS FLOWN

FROM AFRICA TO MUNICH, AND WHEN "GEN ERAL STABBEN AND I VISITED HIM IN

HOSPITAL THERE, HE WAS REFUSING

PAIN-REDUCING MEDICINE IN THE BELIEF

THAT DOING SO WOULD FACILITATE HIS

RETURN TO DUTY.

I GO INTO THESE UNPLEASANT DETAILS

BECAUSE I AM SURE THAT YOU WILL WISH

TO WRITE TO HIM-YOU ALWAYS THOUGHT OF

HIM AS AN OLDER BROTHER-TO EXPRESS

YOUR BEST WISHES, AND I WANTED TO

MAKE SURE YOU SAID NOTHING, IN AN

ATTEMPT TO CHEER HIM UP, THAT WOULD

MAKE HIM FEEL WORSE.

I AM IN GOOD HEALTH, BELIEVE I AM

DOING MY DUTY TO THE FATHERLAND, AND

THINK OF YOU OFTEN.

THE WARMEST WISHES OF YOUR FATHER,

OF COURSE.

"The Colonel will receive you at half past seven tonight, Herr General. At his temporary residence."

"Good man, von Wachtstein!"

"Sir, Oberst Peron took pains to make it clear that he is receiving you as a friend, and not officially. He said there were questions of protocol…"

"I understand completely," von Deitzberg said.

"And my reason to see him is entirely personal. Do you know where this 'temporary residence' is?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good, then you can come with me."

"Jawohl, Herr General."

"How is the beer in this beautiful country, von

Wachtstein?"

"Excellent, Sir. All the brewmasters are German."

"Why don't you get us some while I'm dressing?"

"Jawohl, Herr General."

One hand, one eye, and fingers gone from the other hand.

He's a fucking cripple!

Christ, Claus, I'm sorry!

Sonofabitch!

"Shit," Peter said aloud.

"I confess," von Deitzberg said from the bathroom door,

"that I knew the sad news that letter contained. I decided it would be best if you heard it from your father, if only by letter."

"Thank you, Herr General."

"I think I should also tell you that I did not tell your father that you will shortly have the opportunity to see him. I decided that it would be a nice surprise for him if he didn't know you were coming to Germany."

"I'm sure you're right, Sir."

"Now, about Oberst Peron?"

[ ONE ]

4730 Avenida Libertador

Buenos Aires

1735 5 May 1943

"Have you seen much of Colonel Peron since you've been here, von Wachtstein?" von Deitzberg asked as Giinther

Loche drove them from the hotel.

"No, Sir."

"It might be wise to cultivate him," von Deitzberg said.

"He is a power in Argentina, and I wouldn't be surprised if he becomes more powerful."

"Oberst Griiner told me the same thing, Sir. But he didn't tell me how to do it. Peron's an oberst, a senior oberst, and I am a very junior major."

"But Peron likes you," von Deitzberg said. "Make an effort."

"Jawohl, Herr General."

That sounds as if he expects me to come back from Ger many. Is he doing that to put me at ease, to lower my guard?

'There's a very interesting dossier on him," von Deitzberg said. Peter didn't reply. "The last thing in the world one would expect of a man like that," von Deitzberg went on.

"But there's no question about it: The photographer was very good."

Is he telling me Peron is homosexual? Is that what that

"but Peron likes you " remark meant?

"You're not curious, von Wachtstein?" von Deitzberg asked, smiling at him.

"Herr General, I went to Spain as a corporal. I asked then

Major von und zu Aschenburg a question. I didn't get an answer, but I received advice from him that I have never for gotten. It is probably the most valuable advice anyone has ever given me about being a soldier."

"Which is?"

'"If your superiors think you should know something, they'll tell you. Don't ask questions.'"

Von Deitzberg laughed. "Dieter stood you tall, did he?"

"Very tall, Herr General. And one never forgets a Deiter von und zu Aschenburg dressing-down."

"So you're curious, but too smart to ask me what's in

Peron's dossier?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I think I shall, von Wachtstein, see how good a detective you would make," von Deitzberg said. "After our meeting with Oberst Peron, you tell me what character flaw you sus pect."

"If the Herr General wishes."

"You don't like being tested?"

"Not if I strongly suspect the test will reveal my stupid ity," Peter said, and then leaned forward on his seat. "Giin ther, it's in the next block. The mansion."

"Jawohl, Herr Major," Giinther replied as he slowed the car.

"You've been here before, have you?" von Deitzberg asked.

"Yes, Herr General. I spent my first night in Argentina in that house. It is the Frade family guest house."

"And that's Peron's 'temporary residence'?"

"That's what he said, Herr General."

"God is smiling on our mission, von Wachtstein."

"Sir?"

"I thought you didn't ask questions."

"I beg the Herr General's pardon."

"Did Deiter ever give you the lesson, vis-a-vis the behavior of officers in the presence of their superiors, that I myself have found very valuable?"

"I'm not sure what the Herr General means."

"Mouth shut, eyes and ears open."

"Jawohl, Herr General."

Giinther pulled the Mercedes to the curb, stopped, and then raced around the rear of the car to open the door for von

Deitzberg.

They walked across the sidewalk to the fence-made of what looked like gold-tipped ten-foot spears-and pushed a doorbell mounted in the gate.

"That," von Deitzberg said, pointing to a finely detailed family crest set in the gate, "is presumably the Frade coat of arms?"

"I would suppose so, Herr General."

The lock buzzed and Peter pushed the gate open, allowing von Deitzberg to walk ahead of him for the thirty feet from the gate to the shallow flight of stairs leading to the front door. The Frade crest was also in stained glass on the door of me large, four-story, turn-of-the-century masonry mansion.

The door was opened by a smiling, middle-aged woman in a black dress with crisply starched white collar and cuffs. "El

General von Deitzberg to see el Coronel Peron," Peter said.

"El Coronel will receive you in the library, caballeros," she said, and motioned them across the foyer.

A middle-aged woman, similarly dressed, had greeted

Peter with the same kind of warm smile the last time he had been in the Frade guest house. The killers-for-hire Grtiner had sent to the house to assassinate Cletus Frade had slit her throat in the kitchen before going upstairs to deal with Cletus.

"If the Herr General prefers, I could wait here," Peter said, indicating one of the chairs lining the foyer wall.

"I want you with me," von Deitzberg said. "I don't speak much Spanish, and you can interpret."

"Jawohl, Herr General."

"As well as hone your skills of observation and intuition," von Deitzberg added with a smile.

The housekeeper pushed open the door to the library and stepped inside. Juan Domingo Peron, in a well-cut dark-blue suit, rose from a dark red leather armchair and smiled when they entered the room. "Guten Abend," he said in correct but heavily accented German. "It is a pleasure to see you again,

Manfred."

"Thank you for receiving me, Juan Domingo," von

Deitzberg said in German, bowed, clicked his heels, and then put out his hand.

Peron took it and then looked at Peter.

"A sus ordenes, mi Coronel," Peter said, clicking his heels and bowing his head.

"And it is always a pleasure to see you, my young friend,"

Peron said, stretching out his hand with a warm smile. "And tonight especially, when you are going to be very useful to an Argentine who speaks terrible German, and a German whose Spanish is a little less than perfect."

"It will be a pleasure to be of service, mi Coronel," Peter said. "But your German sounds fine to me."

"First things first," Peron said, smiling, in Spanish.

"Would you please translate 'What may I offer you to drink?' "

Peter did so.

"First, Juan Domingo, let me say what a beautiful house this is," von Deitzberg said in German. "Then I will have a glass, if that would be possible, of your very good Argentine beer."

Peter translated.

Peron nodded and looked at the housekeeper. "Senora

Lopez, would you bring us some beer, and perhaps some cheese and ham and crackers?"

"Si, Sefior."

"And after that, we can take care of ourselves," Peron said.

Except for von Deitzberg, who walked to a wall and com plimented the "exquisite paneling," not another word was said until the housekeeper and a maid had delivered two silver

Champagne coolers, each holding several bottles of beer, and two silver serving trays loaded with hors d'oeuvres. This happened so quickly that it was obvious it had all already been prepared. They then left the room.

"This beautiful building, Manfred-please translate for me, Mayor von Wachtstein-was owned, until his murder, by my lifelong friend el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade."

Peter translated. Von Deitzberg did not reply.

"It is now owned by his son, my godson, Mayor Cletus

Frade. In the kitchen of this house, the housekeeper, whom I knew for many years, was brutally murdered by assassins sent to kill my godson."

Peter translated again, hoping his surprise at what amounted to an accusation was not evident.

"I was not aware of the history of the house, Juan

Domingo," von Deitzberg said, waited for Peter to translate, and then went on: "But I cannot think of a better place for me to tell you what I have been sent from Germany to say."

"And what would that be, Manfred?" Peron said, smiling coldly.

"I will presume to speak as both a friend, Juan Domingo, and as a brother officer." He waited for Peter to translate, and for Peron to nod, and then went on: "I come to you as a

General major of the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, and bring to you their apology for the outrageous and unpardon able actions of an officer of the Sicherheitsdienst who was permitted, for reasons I do not pretend to understand, to wear the uniform of an army colonel. I refer, of course, to the late so-called Oberst Griiner."

"The last time I saw you, Manfred," Peron said, "you were wearing the uniform of the SS."

"I was sent to the SS, against my personal wishes, by the

OKW, because it was believed that an Army officer, the son of an Army officer, the grandson of an Army officer, might be able to instill in the SS some understanding of the code of honor," von Deitzberg said. "This instance particularly-and certainly others-show how I have failed."

My God, von Deitzberg said that with a straight face,

Peter thought in amazement, and Peron seems to be swal lowing it whole.

Maybe because he wants to believe it?

"Translate, if you will, Mayor," Peron said. "I found it dif ficult to believe that Germany would order the murder of el

Coronel Frade. But the facts-"

"No one in the Wehrmacht would do such a thing," von

Deitzberg said. "Griiner disgraced the uniform he should not have been wearing in the first place. Questions of honor aside, it was a stupid thing to do. I'm sure it enraged the

Argentine officer corps…"

"Yes, it did," Peron said.

"And it enraged the German officer corps," von Deitzberg continued. "And if I have to say this, Juan Domingo, it shamed and enraged me."

Peron made a wave of dismissal. "It never entered my mind that you, or any German officer I know, had anything to do with it," he said, and then gestured for Peter to make the translation.

"So far as the German officer corps is concerned, Juan

Domingo," von Deitzberg replied, "the late Oberst Frade was a friend. He earned the respect-and the friendship-of all who knew him when he was at the Kriegsschule. And his nephew died an honorable officer's death while serving with us in our mutual fight against the godless Communists at

Stalingrad."

The poor, stupid bastard, Peter thought unkindly, got himself killed playing soldier. He was supposed to be an observer, a noncombatant, and an observer is not supposed to fly around in a Starch directing artillery fire.

Peron did not reply.

"The assignment of Major von Wachtstein, the distin guished scion of a noble family of German soldiers, to accompany the remains of Captain Duarte to his Fatherland was not accidental, but rather a gesture of the respect in which the officer corps held the late Coronel Frade," von Deitzberg said, and gestured for Peter to make the translation.

"And that was appreciated by the family," Peron said.

"And by myself."

"May I speak indelicately, between soldiers?" von

Deitzberg said, then went on without waiting for Peter to translate. "The question of what to do with the so-called

Colonel Griiner has been solved for us-"

"I don't understand," Peron interrupted without any trans lation from Peter.

Obviously, Peter thought, Peron's German is better than he's willing to admit.

"There is a certain justice in what el Coronel Frade's son did at the beach at Samborombon Bay," von Deitzberg said.

"An eye for an eye, so to speak."

"What was going on at the beach?" Peron asked.

"Admiral Canaris wants the officers from the GrafSpee to escape, as he himself escaped from internment here in the

First World War. To that end, Griiner and Goltz were trying to bring ashore a radio transmitter."

"Then that was an intolerable violation of Argentine sov ereignty," Peron said.

"With all respect, Juan Domingo, if I were in their shoes, I would try to return to active service, and I think you would too."

"Nevertheless, that is unacceptable behavior."

"The question, I respectfully suggest, Juan Domingo, is moot. They did not get the radios ashore."

"You understand, Manfred, that now that you have told me this, I will have to take the appropriate action to ensure that the GrafSpee officers remain interned."

"I knew that when I told you," von Deitzberg said. "The more important question, however, is 'how can we close the door on this unfortunate incident?' "

"I don't think I know what you mean," Peron said.

"Can you express to the Argentine officer corps the pro found apologies of the German officer corps for the actions-however unauthorized-of the so-called Colonel

Griiner? Will you accept my word of honor as an officer that we have taken steps that will prevent anything like this from ever happening again?"

Peron neither looked at Peter for a translation nor imme diately replied. Finally, he said: "The murder of the man who was poised to become President of Argentina cannot be-and should not be-forgotten easily."

"I am well aware of that, Juan Domingo," von Deitzberg said sadly.

"I will have a word with my friends," Peron said. "More important, with my godson. In very many ways, he is like his father, and his father was capable of staying very angry for a very long time."

"In his place, I would feel the same way," von Deitzberg said. "But he has had his revenge, has he not?"

Peron took a long moment to reply.

"I will have to think about this, Manfred," he said. "Would you be willing to offer the apology of the German officer corps to him personally? That might be necessary."

"Privately, you mean?"

"Yes, of course privately."

Von Deitzberg appeared to be thinking that over very carefully. "If you think that would be necessary, Juan

Domingo, of course I would."

Peron grunted.

"I think enough has been said for now," he said. "Let me think about this."

"Of course."

"Personally, Manfred, I very much appreciate your coming to me like this."

"I very much appreciate your receiving me," von

Deitzberg said.

"You'll be at the Alvear Plaza?"

"Yes."

"I'll telephone you there," Peron said, "and let you know…"

"Thank you, Juan Domingo."

"In the old days," Peron said, "that is to say, before my friend was murdered, I would have asked you to stay here, in this house. My friends, so to speak, were his friends. And his friends, my friends. But this house is now the property of

Mayor Frade, and that's quite out of the question."

"I completely understand, Juan Domingo."

"I'll call you at the Alvear," Peron repeated, then looked at

Peter. "I understand, my young friend, that you have been seen at the Alvear yourself, in the roof garden, with a lovely young woman."

The discussion of an apology is now obviously over.

"I plead guilty, mi Coronel."

"You are aware, are you, that the young woman's sister was the next thing to engaged to the late Capitan Duarte?"

"Yes, Sir, I am."

"You could do a lot worse than Alicia Carzino-Cormano,"

Peron said. "And this war won't last forever."

"Mi Coronel," Peter said. "My relationship with Senorita

Carzino-Cormano is not anywhere-"

"The person who saw the way she looked at you in the roof garden is in this room, Mayor von Wachtstein," Peron said, smiling warmly. "But I appreciate your discretion."

"We will not take any more of your time, Juan Domingo," von Deitzberg said.

Peron looked at his wristwatch.

"And I do have a dinner appointment," Peron said, and put out his hand.

"So tell me about your senorita, von Wachtstein," von

Deitzberg said when they were en route to the Alvear Plaza.

"Her mother and Oberst Frade had a relationship," Peter replied. "They have adjacent estancias-enormous estancias,

Herr General, each more than eighty thousand hectares-"

"Eighty thousand hectares?" von Deitzberg interrupted incredulously.

"Yes, Sir. They're unbelievable."

"And you met this young woman in connection with the funeral of Hauptmann Duarte?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Peron was right. You could do a lot worse than a young woman whose family owns eighty thousand hectares. And the war won't last forever."

"Heir General, there is nothing serious between us," Peter said.

"A connection like that could be very valuable to the

Reich," von Deitzberg said, as if thinking aloud. "This is not the time to get into that subject, but let me say that, for a number of reasons, I wish you every romantic success with the young lady with the eighty thousand hectares."

"Thank you, Sir, but I really don't think-"

"So tell me, von Wachtstein, what do you think is Oberst

Peron's little secret? What dark side of his character do you think there is?"

"Herr General, I have no idea."

"What's the first thing that came to your mind when I mentioned his interesting dossier?"

"The Herr General is embarrassing me."

"I don't mean to," von Deitzberg said. "What did you think?"

"I thought you were suggesting that he might be homo sexual, Herr General."

"And do you think that's what his dark side is?"

"I find it hard to accept, Herr General. He is such a…"

"Masculine man?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Rohm* was a masculine man," von Deitzberg said, obvi ously enjoying himself. "A picture of the rough, tough-as steel warrior. And he spent his last night on this earth, indeed, his last moments, in bed with a delicate young man.

I've seen those photographs, too."

"I still don't see Peron as a homosexual, Herr General,"

Peter said.

"Then guess again."

"Herr General, I have no idea."

"He likes young women, von Wachtstein."

"Sir?"

"Very young women. At the first blush of womanhood, so to speak. Nothing, I gather, over fifteen."

Peter looked at him in disbelief.

"There were several incidents while he was in Italy and

Germany. He had diplomatic immunity, of course, and they were all kept quiet. But photographs are available, if they should ever be needed."

"I'm shocked," Peter confessed. "Does he know you know?"

"He knows he was arrested; he's not stupid. He knows there is a record somewhere. I don't think he knows / know.

And I certainly don't intend to play that card unless it's nec essary."

He smiled at Peter. "As I say, von Wachtstein, you should make an effort to cultivate Oberst Peron."

Peter nodded.

"Griiner mentioned nothing of this to you?" von Deitzberg asked.

"No, Sir. This is the first I've heard of it."

* Ernst Rohm was a member of the Nazi party before Hitler. He formed strong-arm squads of thugs, who wore brown shirts as a uniform and had the mission of protecting

Hitler, other senior Nazis, and Nazi party meetings, and of disrupting, usually vio lently, meetings of Socialists and Communists. In 1921 the Brown Shirts officially became the SA (Sturmabteilung), in effect the private army of the Nazi party. As their commander, Rohm became one of the most powerful and feared men in Germany.

Hitler considered him, and the Brown Shirts, a threat to his own power, and in June

1934, on "The Night of the Long Knives," he had Rohm and several hundred other people assassinated by the SS.

"What about Operation Phoenix?" von Deitzberg asked.

"Standartenfiihrer Goltz told me something about that,

Herr General, but not Oberst Griiner."

"And what did Goltz tell you?" von Deitzberg asked.

Peter did not reply. Instead he pointed at Gunther Loche in the front seat.

"Quite right, quite right," von Deitzberg said. "We can get into that later."

"Jawohl, Herr General."

On 6 May 1943, in three separate thrusts, American infantry and armored divisions in Tunisia broke through the German defensive line and attacked toward Bizerta, Ferryville, and

Protville.

Elsewhere in Tunisia, following a massive artillery and air bombardment, the British destroyed what was left of the

German 15th Panzer Division and broke through the German defensive positions to strike toward Tunis.

[TWO]

The Embassy of the German Reich

Avenue Cordoba

Buenos Aires

0915 6 May 1943

Fraulein Ingebord Hassell pushed open the door to the private office of Manfred Alois Graf von Lutzenberger, Ambassador

Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the German Reich to the Republic of Argentina, and very loudly and importantly barked: "Your Excellency! Baron Gradny-Sawz is here with Deputy Foreign Minister von Lowzer and General

Major von Deitzberg!"

You really should have been a man, Inge. You would have been a splendid Stabsfeldwebel. I can just see you on a parade ground, screaming orders at conscripts.

"Ask the gentlemen to come in please, Inge," von Lutzen berger said, and got up from behind his desk.

Deputy Foreign Minister Georg Friedrich von Lowzer came into the office first and rendered the Nazi salute. "Heil

Hitler!" he barked.

Was that preposterous gesture rendered in deference to

Himmler's adjutant? Or has von Lowzer become yet another zealous convert to the New Order?

Von Lowzer was followed into the office by von

Deitzberg, then Gradny-Sawz, Standartenfiihrer Erich

Raschner, and finally, von Wachtstein. They all wore civilian clothing.

"Heil Hitler," von Lutzenberger replied. "How are you,

Friedrich?" Without waiting for a reply, he walked to von

Deitzberg and offered his hand.

"Welcome to Argentina, Herr Generalmajor," he said. "I presume Gradny-Sawz and von Wachtstein have been taking good care of you?"

"Splendid, thank you. Last night von Wachtstein fed me the best steak I have ever had."

"There are some compensations attached to being in this barbarous outpost," von Lutzenberger said. "The food, the women, and the pastry, not necessarily in that order."

Gradny-Sawz chuckled; von Wachtstein smiled. Von

Deitzberg did neither.

Is that an indication I was supposed to cringe at your appearance, von Deitzberg?

"Standartenfiihrer Raschner is my deputy," von Deitzberg said, and von Lutzenberger offered his hand-but said noth ing-to Raschner.

"You understand, Herr Generalmajor, why I was unable to meet you at the airport, or entertain you myself last night?

"Gradny-Sawz said something about a diplomatic recep tion?"

"At the Swedish Embassy," von Lutzenberger said. "My absence would have been conspicuous."

"Why is that?" von Deitzberg asked.

"It was the first reception-the first by a neutral power-since the unfortunate demise of Oberst Frade, the coup d'etat, and the incident at Samborombon Bay. The entire diplomatic corps was waiting-rather shamelessly- to see the interaction between myself and the officials of

General Rawson's-El Presidente Rawson's-new government."

Von Lowzer chuckled. "And that was?" he asked.

"Following a. pro forma handshake between el Presidente and myself, I became invisible to the Argentines."

"Which you think signifies…?" Von Lowzer pursued.

"The Argentines obviously wished to make it clear to me, and everyone in the diplomatic community, that they-el

Presidente Rawson in particular; he and Frade were good friends-don't consider the deaths of Oberst Griiner and

Standartenfuhrer Goltz as payment in full for the assassination of Oberst Frade."

" 'Everyone'? " von Lowzer asked. "Are you suggesting that everyone in the diplomatic community is conversant with the details of both incidents?"

Von Lutzenberger nodded. "No one believes that Oberst

Frade was murdered in the course of a robbery, and everyone knows what happed to Griiner and Goltz."

"What does 'everyone' think happened to Griiner and

Goltz at Samborombon Bay?" Von Deitzberg asked.

"That when they attempted to land equipment-short wave radios, and other items, intended to facilitate the repa triation of the Graf Spec officers-from the Oceano

Pacifico, Frade's son was waiting for them, and revenged the murder of his father."

"How did our intention to repatriate the Graf Spec officers become known?" von Deitzberg asked, surprised.

"I told, in the strictest confidence, my friend the Spanish ambassador-"

"You did what?" von Deitzberg interrupted, incredulously.

"-in absolute confidence that within hours Oberst Martin of the Bureau of Internal Security would hear what we were doing at Samborombon Bay," von Lutzenberger finished, somewhat coldly.

"And who gave you the authority to do this?" von

Deitzberg demanded.

Von Lutzenberger waved his hand at Gradny-Sawz, von

Wachtstein, and Raschner. "If you gentlemen will excuse us," he ordered. "Herr Minister von Lowzer and the Gen eralmajor and I would like a word in private."

Gradny-Sawz-whose face showed his surprise and con cern-and von Wachtstein and Raschner left the office.

Von Lutzenberger looked at von Deitzberg.

"You were about to tell me who gave you the authority to reveal-" von Deitzberg said.

"Pardon me, Herr General major," von Lutzenberger said, holding up his hand to interrupt him.

Von Deitzberg glowered at him.

"Perhaps I can save us all some time," von Lutzenberger said. He turned to von Lowzer. "Friedrich, are you here to tell me that I am being recalled to Berlin for consultation? Or, perhaps, that you are replacing me 'temporarily' until this matter is resolved?"

"No," von Lowzer said, obviously surprised at the ques tion. "Where did you get an idea like that?"

"Perhaps you are bearing orders of that nature for me, Herr

Generalmajor?" von Lutzenberger asked.

"No," von Deitzberg said. "I don't quite understand the question."

"The question is one of authority, Herr Generalmajor," von

Lutzenberger said. "May I presume, then, Friedrich, in the absence of orders to the contrary, that I remain the

Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the Ftihrer of the German Reich to the Republic of Argentina?"

"Of course," von Lowzer said. "There never has been any question of that."

"Then perhaps you would be good enough, Friedrich, to tell the Herr Generalmajor that as the ambassador here, I exercise, in the name of the Fiihrer, German authority in all things."

"I'm sure von Deitzberg understands that," von Lowzer said.

"I come here with the authority of the Foreign Minister,

Herr Ambassador," von Deitzberg challenged.

"What you have, Herr Generalmajor, is the Foreign Minister's authority to conduct an investigation under my authority as the Fuhrer's representative in Argentina. You have no more right to question my authority than you do to question that of the Fiihrer. If there is any question in your mind about that, I suggest we can get clarification from Berlin in twenty-four hours or so."

Von Deitzberg backed down. "I had no intention of ques tioning your authority, Herr Ambassador," he said.

"I did not have that feeling a few moments ago."

"The plan to repatriate the GrafSpee officers is-was-a state secret of the highest order, Manfred," von Lowzer said, obviously pouring oil on the troubled waters. "Certainly, you can understand von Deitzberg's surprise that you felt you had to compromise it."

"I thought perhaps the Herr Generalmajor," Von Lutzen berger said, looking directly at von Deitzberg, "would con sider that until the Argentine Bureau of Internal Security found an answer satisfactory to them for our presence at

Samborombon Bay, they would keep looking. Of 'the three state secrets of the highest order' involved here, the Graf

Spee officer repatriation was, in my judgment, the least important. If compromising that secret satisfied the curiosity of the BIS, then that price simply had to be paid."

"Well, I can certainly agree with your reasoning," von

Lowzer said.

"You didn't inform Berlin of your action," von Deitzberg said.

That's still a challenge, von Lutzenberger thought. But the arrogance factor has been reduced by-what? Say three-quarters?

"I decided that it could wait until you and von Lowzer got here."

"I hope the Herr Ambassador will understand how much of a fish out of water someone like me is in the world of diplomacy," von Deitzberg said.

That's even getting close to an apology.

"As a soldier, you mean?" von Lutzenberger asked.

"Precisely."

You're not a soldier. You're Himmler's adjutant.

"Let me try an analogy," von Lutzenberger said. "I've often thought that an ambassador is something like a just graduated lieutenant taking command of his first platoon in combat. He doesn't know where he is, or what his captain wants him to do with all the authority he's suddenly been given. Yet he has to do something, and can only hope that what he does is the right thing."

"Very well put, I would say," von Deitzberg said.

"And about the first thing he learns is that if he compro mises his authority, he never gets it back," von Lutzenberger added.

"Well, from my own experience, I can certainly agree with that," von Deitzberg said.

"Now, there are some advantages to having authority, either as a young lieutenant, or an ambassador," von Lutzen berger said seriously. "And high among them is being able to meet nature's call without asking for permission. If you gen tlemen will excuse me for a few minutes?"

It took both von Deitzberg and von Lowzer a few seconds to take his meaning. By then, von Lutzenberger was almost out of his office. Then both laughed at von Lutzenberger's sense of humor. Von Deitzberg's laugh sounded a little forced, and von Lowzer's a little relieved.

Von Lutzenberger entered the men's room, made sure it was empty, then locked the door. He went into a stall, care fully raised the seat, bent over it, and vomited. When he stood up he held his hands out in front of him. They were trembling, and it took him some time to will them to be still.

It is always a mistake to underestimate your enemy, but I think I have put that Nazi bastard in his place.

Von Lutzenberger washed his hands, then wiped his face with a cold water-soaked towel. He looked at himself in the mirror for a moment, then walked back to his office.

"Now, where were we?" he asked.

"While you were gone, Manfred," von Lowzer said, "I wondered about the reaction of the diplomatic community to the murders."

"Generally speaking, of course, and vis-a-vis Oberst

Frade, they thought that was a mistake," von Lutzenberger said. "As did I, you will recall, Friedrich. I advised against that action. And vis-a-vis Griiner and Goltz, they feel we should not have been surprised that the Argentine military did not turn the other cheek."

"I was opposed to the elimination of Frade myself," von

Deitzberg said. "And said so. That decision was made at the highest levels."

You really are a stranger to the truth, aren 't you, my dear

Generalmajor?

"Then time has proven you and me right, hasn't it?" von

Lutzenberger said.

"I confess to being a little surprised-if I understand you correctly-that the diplomatic community believes Ger many was involved."

"They take their lead from the Argentine military, and the military never had any doubt who was responsible."

"Late yesterday afternoon, I went to see Oberst Peron," von Deitzberg said. "I conveyed to him the regrets of his many friends in Germany, especially within the officer corps, that an out-of-control SS officer, acting without authority, caused the death of Oberst Frade."

Von Lutzenberger looked at him with interest.

"Before you do anything like that again, Herr Generalmajor, please consult with me," von Lutzenberger said.

"I made it quite plain to Peron, Mr. Ambassador, that my visit was unofficial."

"And you said Goltz was the loose cannon on our deck?"

"No. Griiner," von Deitzberg said.

"Griiner? Do you think he believed you?"

"Yes. I think so. Von Wachtstein was with me. He said he thought Peron believed me."

"Von Wachtstein has become close to the Duarte family.

The mother of Hauptmann Duarte, Frau Duarte, who is mentally unbalanced, is especially fond of him. When von

Wachtstein came to me for guidance in the matter, I encour aged him-on the advice of both Goltz and Gradny Sawz-to cultivate the relationship. Frau Duarte is the late

Oberst Frade's sister, and her husband is the managing director of the Anglo-Argentine Bank. That could very well be quite valuable in connection with Operation Phoenix."

"How much does von Wachtstein know about Operation

Phoenix?"

"Goltz was going to tell him what he thought he should know."

"And how much do you think he did tell him?" "I'm sure he told him about the GrafSpee officers' repatriation. He was going to be involved in that." "And nothing else?"

"I don't know what else he told him, but I wouldn't be surprised if he at least alluded to Operation Phoenix. And I would be very surprised if von Wachtstein-he's a very bright young man-hasn't wondered why we went to all that trouble to smuggle shortwave radios and civilian clothing from a Spanish vessel into Argentina, when one can buy radios and civilian clothing in Buenos Aires." "He's asked questions, has he?"

"Oh, no. He's a soldier, General. He obeys orders and doesn't ask questions."

"Then you would say he's not the source of the information that permitted Oberst Frade's son to be waiting on the beach at Samborombdn Bay?" "For several reasons, I think that's highly unlikely." "Would you tell me why?"

"First of all, I don't think he knew. Secondly, if he knew, I don't think he had a motive to tell anyone-or the opportu nity. But even if he had both, I don't think he would have betrayed his country."

"Because you think he's a reliable young soldier?" "Because he is a bright young man who would understand the consequences to his father."

"Well, if you had to guess, how would you say that Frade knew when and where the special shipment was going to be landed?"

Von Lutzenberger then spelled out the story of the river launch in El Tigre: It had been purchased by Argentine-born ethnic Germans, he explained, who had no idea about the schedule for the landing of the special shipment. Nor did von Wachtstein, who was brought into the picture because he knew how to navigate.

"Given that," he continued, "I strongly suspect that our involvement with the boat came to the attention of the BIS.

As I've said before, Oberst Martin is very good. Why would a

German immigrant sausage maker be buying a riverboat?

More important, where would he get the money? Perhaps from the German Embassy? The word goes out, watch the boat. The boat sets out with the German Assistant Military

Attache for Air as her captain. Not up the river, but down the river, into the River Plate estuary. What's in the River Plate estuary? The Oceano Pacifico, which is suspected of being a

German replenishment vessel. It goes to Puerto Magdalena, where, as the Argentine police watch, her crew goes to the home of Herr Steuben, another ethnic German. The BIS agents watching Goltz report that Goltz gets up in the middle of the night and drives to Puerto Magdalena to the home of

Herr Steuben, and then gets on the river launch and heads out to the Oceano Pacifico. The BIS agents watching Griiner report that he, too, gets up very early in the morning and drives in the same direction.

"Now Oberst Martin has a problem. If Goltz and Griiner are really smuggling, he can't arrest either of them because of their diplomatic status. He can make a report through channels, and at worst I will be chastised by the Foreign

Minister, and he will get in trouble with some of our friends in the Argentine military who will think he should have looked the other way.

"I don't think it strains credulity to suspect that Oberst

Martin told young Frade that Oberst Griiner and Standarten fiihrer Goltz were going to land on the shores of Samborom bon Bay in the next couple of hours-"

"My God!" von Lowzer said.

"-in circumstances that would preclude any diplomatic indignation on my part if something happened to them there."

"And, after the fact, the reaction of the Argentine military was 'Good for young Frade, he revenged his father'?" von

Deitzberg asked.

Von Lutzenberger nodded. "That is all speculation, of course," he said. "I don't know."

"It's the best theory I have heard so far," von Deitzberg said. "But I wondered… Why did von Wachtstein come through unscathed? Why wasn't he shot along with Griiner and Goltz?"

"He was shot at, and they missed. Or so Kapitan de Ban derano-with whom I managed to speak for an hour-told me. Von Wachtstein came under fire while he courageously pulled Griiner and Goltz into the boat from the Oceano Pacifico.

Banderano seemed to feel he acted with great courage."

"Well, he does have the Knight's Cross, doesn't he?" von

Deitzberg said agreeably.

I don't think he accepted that explanation nearly as much as he wants me to think he has. And if he doesn 't believe that, he questions the rest of the story as well.

"In the belief that both you and von Lowzer would like to go through our records, I instructed Untersturmfuhrer

Schneider, who is in charge of surveilling the Embassy's officers, to have his records available for you this morning."

"All the Embassy's officers?"

"Everyone but myself and Gradny-Sawz," von Lutzen berger said.

"I would very much like to see them," von Deitzberg said,

"and to talk to Untersturmfuhrer Schneider."

"He is at your disposal, Herr Generalmajor."

"And there is another thing, of a somewhat indelicate nature," von Deitzberg said with a smile. "How do you feel about giving a diplomatic reception, to afford the diplomatic community, and the more important Argentines, an opportunity to meet von Lowzer? And, of course, myself."

"I think that's a splendid idea. I'll have Fraulein Hassell get started right away."

"You're very kind. This Saturday, perhaps?"

"That could be arranged, but I don't think the important

Argentines will be available this Saturday."

"Why not?"

"Young Frade is getting married on Saturday. Presidente

Rawson will be there, and so will most of the important

Argentines."

"You and I are going to have to have a long talk about young Frade," von Deitzberg said, smiling. "But not now. I know you're busy, and I want to talk to Schneider. And we're having dinner tonight, I understand?"

Von Lutzenberger nodded. "At the Alvear. I think you'll like it."

"I'm sure I will," von Deitzberg said, and stood up and gave the Nazi salute.

"Heil Hitler!" he barked.

[THREE]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

0925 6 May 1943

Martha Howell had heard thunder during the night, and when she looked out of her window when she woke, she saw dark clouds hovering over the pampas. When she went into

Marjorie's room, she wasn't there; and when she went into

Beth's room, Beth said that her sister was flying with Clete.

In this weather?*

She said nothing to Beth. Clete was no fool and a good pilot; he wouldn't fly if it was dangerous. But she was a mother, and after she'd had her breakfast, she walked down to the airstrip with a cup of coffee in her hand.

Enrico Rodriguez was sitting in a chair under the wing of the Lockheed Lodestar. When he saw her coming, he rose to his feet. "Buenos dias, senora," he said politely.

She was not surprised to find him there. "Keep your seat,

Enrico," she said in Spanish, with a smile.

I would have been surprised if he wasn 't here. His devotion to Clete is doglike.

That thought triggered a memory. Of Jim's dog. Oscar. A black Labrador. Although Jim had been dead a year now,

Oscar still spent most of his days lying on the porch of the house at Big Foot Ranch with his head between his paws, waiting for Jim to come home.

James Fitzhugh Howell, her husband, the only man she had ever loved, and whom she missed desperately, had stepped away from the bar at the Petroleum Club in Midland and dropped dead before he got to the men's room.

She saw a lot of Jim in Cletus, some of it genetic, but most of it in his character-although she had to admit, after seeing so many pictures of Clete's father, that in his physical features he favored the Frades more than the Howells. They had been like father and son, and Clete had copied Jim in many ways. He even walked like him.

She forced the memories of her husband and Oscar from her mind and looked at the Lodestar. It was painted a brilliant red-Clete said the color was called "Staggerwing Red" because many Beechcraft Staggerwing aircraft were painted that color.

Clete had been very vague about why this plane was painted that color, or even why President Roosevelt had sent it as a gift, "an expression of friendship and admiration," to the late Colonel Frade to replace the Staggerwing Beechcraft that had been lost in an "accident."

She looked down the runway and thought that the pampas were much like the plains around Midland, except that here there was rich topsoil, five and six feet deep. Around Midland the land was arid and the topsoil shallow. It took ten times as much acreage to sustain a beef on Big Foot Ranch as it did here.

Two minutes later, her ears picked up the peculiar sound of a Piper Cub's engine. A minute later, the plane came into view.

As it made its approach, Martha saw her daughter in the front seat. It touched down, immediately took off again, and repeated this process three times before finally completing its landing roll and taxiing up to the hangar.

She was annoyed but not surprised.

Clete said he was going to give Marjorie some instruction, and that's what he's doing. He's like Jim in that, too. If he says he's going to do something, he does it.

Jim had taught all of them to fly, Martha included. Clete had been flying all over the ranch by himself long before he was old enough to get a license. And he had regularly flown to and from College Station on weekends when he was at

Texas A M. Jim had waited until the girls were sixteen before teaching them how to fly.

"How'd it go?" Martha asked when they had climbed out of the Cub.

"Another two hundred hours of dual," Clete said, "and she'll be ready to taxi it by herself."

"You can go to hell, Clete," Marjorie said.

"Actually, she's not bad," Clete said. "She was trying to find Buenos Aires, and she was actually pointed in the right direction-"

"Go to hell twice," Marjorie said.

"-but I didn't like the weather, so we came back."

They walked back to the big house, with Enrico trailing behind them with his shotgun. As they approached the steps to the wide veranda, one of the maids came out. "Patron, you have a telephone call," she said. "A Captain Ashton."

"He's on the phone?" Clete asked, doubtfully.

"Si, Patron. I heard the airplane coming, and…"

Clete trotted up the stairs, went to the desk in his apart ment, and picked up the telephone. "If this is who I think it is, what a pleasant surprise," he said.

"Captain Ashton, Sir."

"Where are you, Max?"

"At the embassy."

"And you've called to tell me you've found work?"

"Sir, I have been appointed as an assistant military attache."

"When did that happen?"

"We arrived last evening, Sir," Ashton said. "Sir, I need to see you, at your earliest convenience."

What's with this "Sir" business?

"Will it wait until Saturday? Consider yourself invited to my wedding."

"Thank you, Sir. Would it be possible to see you today,

Sir?"

"Sure, come on out."

"Sir, perhaps there's someplace we could meet in Buenos

Aires?"

Whatever this is all about, he's serious.

"The weather's closing in-I can't fly. It'll take me two hours, a little longer, to drive in. How about lunch?"

"Yes, Sir. That would be fine. Where, Sir?"

"You know where the guest house is, on Libertador?"

"Yes, Sir."

"No. That's out. I just remembered somebody's staying there. It'll have to be the museum. Noon OK?"

"The museum, Sir?"

"Seventeen twenty-eight Avenida Coronel Diaz, in

Palermo," Clete said. "I'll call ahead and tell them you're coming, in case you get there before I do."

"Seventeen twenty-eight Avenida Coronel Diaz at twelve hundred," Ashton said. "Yes, Sir. We'll be there, Sir."

The line went dead.

"We'll be there"? He said "we" twice. Who's "we"?

What's this all about?

He put the telephone in its cradle and turned and was not at all surprised to find Enrico standing in the door. "Get the

Horch, Enrico, we're going into Buenos Aires."..

"Senor Cletus, they are working on the polish of the

Horch."

"OK, then get the Buick."

"We will be coming back today?"

"I think so."

[FOUR]

1728 Avenida Coronel Diaz

Palermo, Buenos Aires 1150

6 May 1943

Unnecessarily, for Clete had already noticed it, Enrico touched his arm and then jerked his thumb toward a gray

1939 Dodge sedan parked across the street from the massive mansion. Two men were sitting in it.

"The clowns are here," Enrico said. He held the agents of both the Bureau of Internal Security and of the Policfa Federal in equal contempt; he called both "the clowns."

"They're probably following Ashton," Clete said. "He's here." He pointed to a 1941 Chevrolet sedan with Corps

Diplomatique license tags parked directly in front of the mansion.

Hell, that's almost certainly Milton Leibermanris car. As the "legal attache," he gets CD plates. That's what this is all about. Leibermann wants to see me. He's the "we" Ashton meant.

As he drove the Buick across the sidewalk to the left of the mansion's two twelve-foot-high wrought-iron gates, one of the double doors to the mansion opened and a short, squat maid-who obviously had been watching from behind the curtains for Sefior Frade to arrive-trotted to the gates and pulled them open. Clete pulled into the curved cobblestone drive, stopped in front of the mansion, and got out and started up the stairs.

A dignified, silver-haired man in his sixties, dressed in a gray frock coat, opened the door as Clete reached it. Antonio had been the butler in the Frade family's Coronel Diaz mansion for longer than Clete's lifetime. "Sefior Frade,"

Antonio said. "Your guests are here. I put them in the down stairs sitting."

The downstairs sitting in this place is about as warm and comfortable as the room in a funeral home where they put the casket on display. Maybe less warm and comfortable.

"Thank you, Antonio," Clete said. "How are you?"

"Very well, thank you, Sir."

"Can we feed these people?"

"If I had had more time, Sefior…"

"But we can feed them, right?"

"Of course, Sefior."

As Clete walked across the marble-floored foyer past the curving double stairways leading to the second floor (the steps were marble; the railings were cast bronze), he remem bered his father telling him that his mother had refused to live there (she was the one who'd given it its name, "The

Museum"). His father himself had described it as "my money sewer on Avenida Coronel Diaz."

It was like a museum, both in its dimensions and in the plethora of artwork, huge oil paintings and statuary that cov ered the walls and open spaces. He always had the some what irreverent thought that two subjects seemed to fascinate Argentine artists and sculptors: La Pampa, at dusk, during a rainstorm; and buxom women dressed in what looked like wet sheets that generally left exposed at least one large and well-formed breast.

He was far more comfortable in the guest house on Liber tador; but, as he had told Max on the phone, there was a guest there. He had an unkind thought as he pushed open the door to the downstairs sitting: If I hadn't let that damned

Jesuit con artist sweet-talk me into having Peron at my wed ding, Peron would have been insulted. Maybe then the son ofabitch would move out of my guest house. I am really pissed at the thought of that bastard doing whatever the hell he does with young girls in my house.

The first person he saw was Milton Leibermann, sitting on one of the half-dozen unbelievably uncomfortable straight backed, brocade-upholstered, two-seater couches. They were set so close to the floor that Leibermann's knees were higher than his waist.

Milton looks ridiculous.

There was a tiny porcelain coffee set on a silver tray on a small table in front of the couch, and an identical set on a small table before the matching chair where Captain

Maxwell Ashton sat. He had two more unkind thoughts:

Max is so short, he fits in that chair. And where did he get that awful suit? He looks like a Mexican sharpie in Mata mores. "You want pesos, senor? I give you best deal. Or how about a sixteen-year-old virgin? "

And then he saw a third man in the room.

Well, that explains the "we arrived last night" remark, doesn't it?

Colonel A. J. Graham, USMCR, was standing by the heavily draped windows overlooking Avenida Coronel Diaz.

He was in uniform, complete to ribbons and a thick gold cord hanging from his epaulet that Clete recognized, from his aborted assignment as Naval Attache, as the insignia of an attache.

Be really looks like a Marine colonel. Starchy, and mean as a junkyard dog.

"Well, look who's here!" Clete said. "How long are you going to be here? Can you stay for the wedding?"

Graham was not smiling, and he did not reply for a long moment. "Tell me, Frade," he said finally, "you do under stand, don't you, that you are a serving officer of the United

States Marine Corps?"

"Well, this is hardly Quantico, is it?" Clete replied without thinking. "But sure."

"Come to attention, Major, and stay at attention until I give you further orders," Graham said coldly.

Clete looked at him for a minute before he saw that he was absolutely serious. There was proof of that in the embarrassed looks on the faces of Milton Leibermann and

Maxwell Ashton III. He felt his face flush, as, feeling foolish, he came to attention.

In my own house? What the hell is going on?

"One of the first things I learned as a young lieutenant,

Major, was that in ordinary circumstances, when one is rep rimanding a subordinate, one does so in private, so the offi cer being reprimanded won't be embarrassed or humiliated,"

Graham said matter-of-factly, almost conversationally.

"These are not ordinary circumstances," he went on. "I asked Mr. Leibermann-and ordered Captain Ashton-to be here because I wanted witnesses. If the by-product is that you are embarrassed and humiliated, that's unfortunate."

"Sir, may I ask what's going on?"

"You do not have permission to speak, Major," Graham said. "Don't open your mouth again until I give you permission to do so, not even to say 'Yes, Sir.' "

Clete managed, at the last split second, to overcome his

Pavlovian urge to say "Yes, Sir."

"The reason I wanted witnesses is that, given your demonstrated willingness to disobey orders, I was forced to consider the real possibility that you are entirely capable of deciding-perhaps have already decided-that you no longer have to obey orders.

"So I will begin by explaining to you what will happen the very next time you elect to either disobey orders or take any action on your own which in my judgment violates the spirit of the orders I have given you.

"You will be ordered to return to the United States. You will become a patient at St. Elizabeth's Mental Hospital in

Washington, and you will stay there, your records marked

'National Security Patient,' until this war is over. If you behave while in St. Elizabeth's, you may be allowed, once the war is over, to resign your commission for the good of the service. The other option is a court-martial, on a wide variety of charges, not all of them, frankly, justified.

"Your wife will not be granted a visa to enter the United

States, which is probably a moot question, because you will not be allowed visitors while you are in St. Elizabeth's. Any children born of your marriage will not be considered to have been born to an officer serving outside the United

States, and will not, therefore, be American citizens.

"As you have already almost certainly begun to think,

'Fuck Graham, I'll just stay here,' let me touch on that. If you choose to ignore an order to return to the United States, charges will be brought against you for desertion in time of war. Steps will be taken to have you expelled from

Argentina. I think they will probably be successful, despite your connections here, because we will give the Argentine government reason to believe you are acting against the best interests of this country.

"Even if that fails, you will remain on the rolls as a deserter-at-large. If you should ever return to the United

States, you will be arrested at the port of entry. Law-enforce ment officials in Texas and Louisiana will be regularly con tacted by the FBI to make sure that you haven't managed to enter the country without being arrested. I will personally make sure that your photograph-Deserter Wanted By

FBI-hangs on the bulletin board of every post office and police station in Texas and Louisiana."

He paused and looked at Clete with loathing. "Are you getting the picture, Major Frade? You may speak."

"What orders am I accused of disobeying, Colonel?"

"Oddly enough, I can remember them almost word for word. My last orders to you, Major, when I agreed to keep von Wachtstein's identity secret, were 'If something hap pens to you, Clete, the deal is off. So don't do anything dan gerous-like falling out of your wedding bed-or anything else risky down here. Go on the canape and small-talk cir cuit. Keep your ears open. Say a kind word for our side when you get the chance.' That may not be verbatim, but it's pretty damned close."

Graham looked at Leibermann. "You were there, Milton.

Did I leave anything out?" Leibermann shook his head "no," but didn't speak. "For the record, I just repeated those orders to you, Major Frade. You are advised they are direct orders."

"Yes, Sir," Clete said.

"What the hell were you thinking when you flew Ashton to

Uruguay in the Lockheed? Who do you think you are, goddamn it, Jack Armstrong, All-American Boy? Commander

Don Winslow of the goddamned U.S. Navy?"

"In my judgment, Sir, it was the best way to exfiltrate

Ashton," Clete said.

"Then your judgment is fatally flawed! Goddamn you!

Didn't you consider the risk you were taking?"

Clete didn't reply.

"Let me explain, since your stupidity is of such monumental proportions that you may not even know: First of all, you arrogant pup, you're not qualified to fly that airplane. You're a fighter pilot, not a multiengine transport aircraft pilot."

"Sir, I flew the Lodestar from Braz-"

"Close your mouth!" Graham interrupted furiously. He paused a moment, as if considering what he wanted to say.

"OK. My fault. I should have pulled you up short when that happened. That was a stupid thing for you to do. Really stupid.

A combination, I suppose, of Marine Corps fighter pilot arrogance and this Jack Armstrong complex you have. What you should have done was get word to me you had never been inside a Lodestar. I could have had a qualified pilot there in forty-eight hours. Or you could have asked the

Marine Corps pilot you got to give you-what, four hours instruction?-to fly it. But you got away with it, you got

Ashton and the radar into Argentina, and because I didn't think you would be so stupid as to go on flying the Lockheed without getting fully checked out in it, and certainly not by yourself, without a copilot, I said nothing. Major error in my judgment."

He stopped, and collected his thoughts again.

"Did it even occur to you what would happen if you crashed that airplane? And I'm not speaking of killing Ashton, your fiancee, your uncle, and your sisters-"

"Colonel, if I had thought there was any danger-"

"Goddamn you, shut your mouth until I give you permis sion to open it!"

He paused, visibly getting his temper under control, before going on.

"For one thing, that would have given the Bureau of Security all they needed to come on your estancia and grab the radar and Ashton's team. Two weeks after that, another German freighter would be anchored in Samborombon Bay refueling German submarines.

"For another, it would have meant that I would have had to tell Colonel Donovan who Galahad is. And von Wacht-stein is the only window we have on this obscene concentra tion camp inmate ransoming business. There are thousands of lives at stake there, for God's sake.

"And von Wachtstein-and you're right: If Donovan gets his name, it will be only a matter of time before we do some thing stupid, and the Germans will learn we've turned him-is the only window we have on Operation Phoenix."

He paused and took a breath. "And you were willing to risk all this so that you could play Jack Fucking Armstrong. Now do you know why I'm furious?"

"Sir, I didn't think-"

"You bet your stupid ass you didn't think!"

"I'll find somebody to fly the Lockheed," Clete said.

"And here's another instance of where I find it difficult to believe that you're so incredibly stupid: Ashton tells me that you crossed Juan Domingo Peron's name off the guest list for your wedding. Is that true?"

"He will be at the wedding," Clete said.

"Don't tell me you actually reconsidered one of your stupid acts?"

"Somebody told me I couldn't afford to insult him," Clete said.

"Who somebody?"

"A Jesuit priest. Named Welner. He and my father were friends."

"I'll tell you what you're going to do with Peron. You're going to get so close to him you'll think you're a fucking

Band-Aid. You're going to be the son that sonofabitch never had." He paused and looked at Clete. "I sent you down here in the first place because I thought you could get close to the powers that be. When the Germans killed your father, you should have known, for Christ's sake, that the next-best thing to your father is your goddamned godfather. I think that sonofabitch is going to end up running this country. You want to tell me why you didn't want him at your wedding?"

"He's a pervert, for one thing," Clete said, and the moment he heard the words come out of his mouth, he real ized how inane his answer sounded.

"Pervert?" Graham asked with obvious interest. "Peron's queer?"

"He likes little girls. Fourteen-year-olds."

"You're sure about that?"

"He brought one to the house on Libertador. I saw him with her."

"ft could have been a niece or something."

"I asked Enrico about it, and he told me."

'Til be damned," Graham said. "That's interesting. And that's what I meant when I ordered you to keep your eyes and ears open. You didn't think we would be interested in hearing about that?"

"It never occurred to me, Sir," Clete said.

"Start thinking, for God's sake!" Graham snapped. He turned to Leibermann. "You hear anything about Peron,

Milton?"

Leibermann shook his head. "You're sure about that,

Tex?" he asked.

"I told you what I know," Clete said.

"I agree, that's interesting," Leibermann said.

"You said, 'for one thing,' " Graham said.

"Sir?"

"You said you didn't want him at your wedding for one thing because he's a pervert. What else?"

"Well, in the face of the facts, he refuses to admit the Ger mans killed my father."

"Milton, are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Graham said.

"Clete, it could be because the Germans know about his sexual appetites," Leibermann said. "In a society like this,

Peron would do or say whatever they want him to to keep that from coining out."

"That may be very useful information, for use somewhere down the pike," Graham said.

"I would hold that card a long time before playing it,"

Leibermann said.

"Of course," Graham said. "As far as you're concerned,

Frade, aside from keeping your eyes and ears open to confirm this little-girl business, you say and do nothing. You got thatT'

"Yes, Sir."

"I think that concludes our conversation," Graham said.

"We understand each other, right, Frade?"

"Yes, Sir. Sir, I'm sorry-"

"Save your breath. In our business, sorry doesn't count."

Leibermann grunted as he raised himself out of the too low couch.

"One more thing," Graham said. "Mr. Leibermann and I accept your kind invitation to your wedding."

"Yes, Sir," Clete said, and then thought of something else, decided to hell with it, it was his business, but in the end decided it probably was Graham's business-or Graham would think it was. "Sir, I plan to get married in my uni form," he blurted.

Graham looked at him and took fifteen seconds to think it over. "Fine," he said finally, then started to walk out of the room.

XI

CONE]

1728 Avenida Coronel Diaz

Palermo, Buenos Aires 2245

6 May 1943

Clete had wasted the evening at a not entirely pleasant dinner at the home of his fiancee. Rather than spending time with

Dorotea, he had had to "get to know" Dorotea's paternal grandmother and some of her father's brothers and sisters, none of whom he had previously met.

The grandmother in particular, as well as most of the uncles and aunts, had-through a haze of icy courtesy- managed to make it clear what they thought of norteamericanos and Protestants in general, and of a Protes tant norteamericano who had despoiled the family virgin in particular.

At the time, he had resisted the temptation to drink, but as he walked through the door to the Museum, he told Antonio to bring American whiskey to his sitting.

He was halfway through his third Jack Daniel's, and lis tening to the news from the British Broadcasting Corpora tion's Foreign Service, when Antonio reappeared.

"Are you at home, Senor?" Antonio asked. "There is a

Sefior Freets on the telephone."

"I'll take it," Clete said, and quickly got out of the chair, where-in addition to listening to the news-he had also been wincing mentally at the (richly deserved, he was forced to admit, hook, line, and sinker) tongue-lashing he'd gotten from

Colonel Graham, and wondering how many Mallin family genes the baby would inherit.

He crossed the room to the telephone, then had to wait until Antonio said, "One moment, please, Senor Freets," before he handed it to him.

"Fritz? What's up?" Clete asked.

"I'm going to Germany tomorrow. I'm about to go to dinner in the Alvear with von Deitzberg, the Ambassador, and

Gradny-Sawz. I'd like to see you for a few minutes. I can't get away from here for more than twenty minutes. Any ideas?"

Clete had no ideas at all. It would take more than twenty minutes for Peter to travel back and forth from the Alvear

Palace Hotel to the Museum; and if he himself went to the hotel, they would be seen together.

"Call me back when you get to the Alvear," Clete said.

"I'll think of something."

"Right," Peter said, and the line went dead.

Clete looked around for Enrico and found him asleep in an armchair in the small foyer of the master suite. He touched his shoulder.

"Senor Clete?" Enrico asked, suddenly wide awake.

"Mayor von Wachtstein is going to be at the Alvear in maybe fifteen minutes. He can't get free long enough- twenty minutes, no more-to come here. He wants to see me. Obviously, it's important. Any ideas? Is there someplace near the Alvear where we could meet without being seen?"

"You have an apartment in the Alvear," Enrico said.

"I do?" Clete asked. It was the first he'd heard about that.

Enrico reached into his pocket, came out with an enor mous bunch of keys, found the one he was looking for, and held it up triumphantly.

"Why do I have an apartment in the Alvear?" Clete asked.

"El Coronel used it for entertaining," Enrico said. ''When discretion was necessary."

"What does that mean? And I thought that's what the house on Libertador is for? A guest house."

"The house on Libertador is used to house guests," Enrico said, smiling. "Normally, men who come to Buenos Aires from the country with their families."

"That's what I thought."

"Some men, Senor Clete, if their wives do not accompany them to Buenos Aires, and sometimes even if they do, grow very lonely at night. And even sometimes in the afternoon."

"What are you saying, Enrico? That my father kept an apartment in the Alvear so that his friends could-"

"El Coronel, Senor Clete, was famous for his hospitality."

"I'll be damned," Clete said. "But I still don't see why an apartment. Why not in the house on Libertador?"

"Senora Pellano, my beloved sister, Mariana Maria

Delores Rodriguez de Pellano, Senor Clete, may she be resting in peace now for all eternity with all the saints in heaven, was a good Christian woman. El Coronel would never insult her by asking her to house inappropriate women in a house she thought of as her own."

"Inappropriate women meaning whores, right?"

"No, Senor Clete. Your father would not insult his friends, his guests, by asking them to associate with whores."

"Then with what?"

"A whore, Senor Clete-is this not true in the Estados

Unidos as well?-will go to bed with any man who pays her-"

"That's a prostitute, Enrico," Clete interrupted. "A whore just likes men, all men."

"She will sleep, a whore, with just about any man?"

"That sums it up neatly, Enrico. I guess you could say that

Sefiora Pellano would regard both whores and prostitutes as inappropriate women. As would Senora Howell. And, of course, Senora Carzino-Corrnano."

"You understand, Senor Clete," Enrico said approvingly.

"And did Senora Carzino-Cormano know about the apart ment in the Alvear?"

"She did not want to know about the apartment, and there fore she did not know. You understand, Senor Clete?"

"Maybe," Clete said. "What I don't understand is who did my father get to entertain his friends who got lonely at night and sometimes in the afternoon, who we now understand were inappropriate women but neither whores nor prosti tutes?"

"You are making fun of me, Senor Clete?"

"Absolutely not, Enrico," Clete said. "I am asking you, as a friend, to explain these matters to me, so I will not do or say anything inappropriate. In case I should happen to bump into one of these inappropriate women, or if I should have to entertain some lonely friends of my father."

"You are making fun of me, and I will say no more,"

Enrico said, at once sad and indignant.

"Goddamn it, Enrico, I am not making fun of you. You're my best friend in Argentina."

Enrico met his eyes. "Except perhaps for the good Father

Welner, I am," he said.

"You're my best friend, Enrico," Clete said flatly.

Enrico considered that for a moment. "You have decided,

Senor Clete, to use the Alvear apartment to meet el Mayor von Wachtstein?"

"If that makes sense to you," Clete said.

"Then I will have to explain the inappropriate women to you," Enrico said. "If you don't understand, you are likely to say something inappropriate. I say that with all respect, as your friend."

'Please do."

"There are young women in Buenos Aires, whose families are poor, or who have no family, or whose family is in the country, and who in any event do not make enough money to support themselves as well as they would like to live. You understand?"

Yeah, I understand. Like Tony Pelosi's Maria-Teresa. Who provided my father-in-law-to-be with a little afternoon bed room gymnastics because he slipped her money and held the mortgage on her father's restaurant.

And then when she met Tony, and told him no more, was going to call the goddamn mortgage.

And that hypocritical sonofabitch sat there tonight, wal lowing in the sympathy he was getting from his family because I made Dorotea pregnant.

My God, did my father have a Maria-Teresa stashed away someplace? In this apartment in the Alvear?

"Go on, Enrico."

"They meet people," Enrico went on. "There is an under standing that there will be a gift-"

"Money, you mean?"

"Money, or jewelry-that can easily be sold back to the jeweler-something like that. If they meet the same man regularly, sometimes there is an apartment. Or an account at

Harrod's. You understand?"

"But they do go to bed with the man, right?"

"Sometimes yes, and sometimes no, it depends on whether they like the man."

"Or the size of the present?"

"It is not like that, Senor Clete. You will make a gift to the

Minas tonight-"

"Whoa! What tonight?"

"These girls are called Minas. You will give them a gift-"

"I don't want any women tonight, for Christ's sake. Jesus,

I'm getting married on Saturday! What the hell is the matter with you?"

"You will be so kind as to permit me to finish, Senor?"

Enrico asked, his tone eloquently indicating how deeply his feelings had been hurt.

"Go ahead," Clete said, managing to restrain a smile.

"The Mina is an accepted custom in Argentina for people of your position, Senor. If you and el Mayor von Wacntstein spend fifteen or twenty minutes in the apartment with two

Minas, the staff of the hotel will see nothing unusual. If, however, you and el Mayor spend time in the apartment alone…"

He put one hand on his hip, and with the other pretended to moisten his eyebrow.

"You're kidding," Clete said.

"You cannot afford to draw attention to el Mayor and yourself, Senor Clete. And the staff of the Alvear is worse than women when they think they have seen something scandalous. It would be all over Buenos Aires within hours."

"OK," Clete said.

"You understand, Senor?"

"I understand, Enrico. There will be Minas in the apart ment."