Secret Honor

"And you will give them a gift, even though nothing will pass between you."

"How much?"

"A man in your position, Senor Clete, is expected to be generous. El Coronel was. I think there are probably some emerald earrings in the safe. I will see. If not…"

"My father kept a stock of earrings on hand?"

"Of course. A gift of earrings is more delicate than money."

"Of course," Clete said.

Enrico opened the wall safe. There were no earrings. There was a.32-caliber Colt automatic pistol, two gold watches, and a stack of currency. Enrico held the currency in his hand for a moment and, after some thought, peeled off six bills.

He folded three of them very carefully twice, handed them to

Clete, then folded the other three and handed them to Clete.

"What you will say, Senor Clete, is, 'Since you were so kind as to accept my invitation, please permit me to take care of the taxi for you.' "

"That's enough money to take a taxi from here to Estancia

San Pedro y San Pablo," Clete said. "And back."

"It is an appropriate gift for someone of your station,

Senor," Enrico said.

"What do I do now, wait for von Wachtstein to call and give him the room number?"

"I suggest, Senor, that we go to the Alvear now-"

"Wachtstein's going to call here," Clete interrupted.

"-and then when Mayor von Wachtstein calls here, Antonio will tell him that you will contact him at the Alvear."

"How am I going to do that?"

"Jorge, the concierge, will send a bellman to el Mayor and tell him that he has a telephone call. When he goes to the telephone, the bellman will give him a key to the room, or take him there."

Clete thought a moment, and then said, "That'll work.

Have the bellman tell him Senorita Carzino-Cormano is calling."

"Yes," Enrico agreed. "Are we agreed, Senor Clete?"

"We are agreed, Enrico. Thank you, my friend."

Enrico nodded and picked up the telephone and dialed a number from memory. "I need to speak to Jorge," he said.

There was a pause and then Jorge-the-concierge came on the line. Enrico inquired into the state of his health, that of his family, assured him that he himself was in fine health, and then said that Senor Frade wished to have a little cocktail party in his apartment, starting immediately, and would be grateful if two suitable young women could be enticed to accept his invitation.

Apparently they could, because Enrico told Jorge he would see him in a few minutes.

Enrico hung up the telephone. "It is arranged, Senor

Clete," he said. "I will have a word with Antonio, and then we will go."

"But you said 'suitable young women,' " Clete said. "I thought we had agreed on not suitable young women?"

"Suitable for the Alvear apartment, not for the house…

You are making fun of me again, Senor Clete!"

"I wouldn't do that to you, Enrico," Clete said.

"You would and you are, Senor Clete," Enrico said very sadly.

"I don't know if I should tell you this or not. I'm afraid it will hurt your feelings," Clete said to Enrico as they turned onto Avenida Alvear in the Buick convertible. "Tell me what,

Senor?" "You forgot your shotgun." "Reach under the seat and see for yourself, Senor Clete."

Clete put his hand under the seat and encountered the barrel of a shotgun.

"There is more than one shotgun," Enrico said. "I leave one there, and another in the Horch. And I always have a pistol."

"I apologize profusely, Enrico."

"You are very much like your father, Senor Clete. He was always making fun of me too."

Clete didn't reply.

"When I was a very young soldier, and away from

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo for the first time-we were stationed in Entre Rios province with the 2nd Cavalry-it was very painful for me. When I told Mariana Maria

Delores-may she be resting in peace with all the angels- who was then your grandmother's-may she be resting in peace-personal maid, she told me that if your father didn't love me, he would not tease me."

"I'm sure that was true."

"And is that why you make fun of me?"

"Yes, it is," Clete said.

"I have come to love you as I loved your father, Senor

Clete. It is good that you love me too."

"I am honored to have your love, Enrico."

"We will say no more," Enrico said.

Clete pulled the Buick off Avenida Alvear into the small, curving driveway under the first floor of the hotel and stopped. He left the engine running, because he knew that a bellman would come quickly to take the car to the garage; there was space for only three cars in the drive.

Enrico reached over and snatched the keys from the ignition.

"How are they going to park the car if you have the keys?"

Clete asked.

"We do not allow them to park our cars, Seiior Clete,"

Enrico said. "I will park it myself shortly." He gestured toward the revolving door, where a silk-hatted doorman was prepared to turn it for them.

Jorge-the-concierge, who was fiftyish and bald, came from behind his desk as they entered the lobby. The symbol of his office, a large gold key on a gold chain, hung from around his neck and rested on his ample stomach. He offered his hand to Clete. "How nice to see you again, Seiior

Frade," he said.

Clete, who could not remember ever seeing the man before, said: "And it's nice to see you, Jorge."

"We will go to the apartment, Jorge," Enrico announced.

"Of course," Jorge said. He snapped his fingers-it sounded like a pistol shot-and when he had the instant attention of one of the bellmen standing against the wall, motioned for him to take his position at the concierge's desk. Then he bowed Clete ahead of him toward the bank of elevators.

They rode to the fifth floor.

"To the right, Senor Clete," Enrico said softly, and then, a moment after Clete had started walking down the corridor, added: "There, Senor Clete."

A waiter was rolling a cart out of an open door. "Buenas noches, Senor Frade," the waiter said as Clete waited for him to clear the door.

"Buenas noches," Clete said, and went through the door.

Inside was a comfortably furnished sitting overlooking

Avenida Alvear. Two enormous silver wine coolers had been set up, each holding two bottles of Champagne. A coffee table held an array of dishes covered with silver domes, and a table against one wall held an array of whiskey bottles.

"The German Ambassador is having dinner-" Enrico began.

"In the main dining room," Jorge interrupted. "With him is a young German caballero, el Mayor von Wachtstein,"

Enrico went on. "A tall blond gentleman," Jorge said. "Would it be possible to have a bellman tell him-loudly enough for the others to hear-that Senorita Carzino-Cormano wishes to speak to him on the telephone, and bring him here?"

"It will be done," Jorge said.

"Do it, Jorge, please," Enrico said, and shook his hand.

This last was done in such a manner that Clete had no doubt that Jorge was suddenly much better off financially than when he entered the room.

"Your guests, Senor Frade," Jorge said, "will be here momentarily. And if there is anything else you require…"

He pointed at the telephone. "Thank you very much, Jorge,"

Clete said. "I will now park our car," Enrico announced. "And then I will be in the room off that room until you need me."

He pointed to one of the three doors opening off the sitting.

"Thank you, Enrico." Enrico followed Jorge out of the room.

Clete looked around the room, and then went to the door

Enrico had pointed out. It was a bedroom with a double bed. It, too, had two doors opening off it. Behind the first door was a bathroom, and behind the second was a smaller room equipped with a small, single bed, an armchair, and a small table. An ashtray and a copy of La Prensa were on the table.

I wonder how often Enrico has waited there before? And who was with my father when he did?

Clete explored the other rooms-another bedroom and a small kitchen, complete with refrigerator. It held at least a case of wine and Champagne.

Then he went back into the sitting and looked out the window onto Avenida Alvear. The off-the-street drive to the hotel was concealed from his view, and thus he couldn't tell if

Enrico had moved the Buick, but on Avenida Alvear a backed-up line of six cars was waiting to enter the hotel drive.

There was a gentle knock at the door. Clete walked to it and pulled it open.

Two young women were standing in the corridor, a red head and a blonde. They were well-dressed and good looking.

They don't look like whores or prostitutes. But, then, what does a whore or a prostitute, by any name, look like?

"Won't you please come in?" Clete said, pulling the door all the way open.

The women walked to the center of the sitting and turned to look at him.

"My name is Frade," Clete said.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Senor," the redhead said, and offered her hand. "My name is Estela Medina, and this is

Eva Duarte."

Duarte, like Humberto? A distant cousin from the country, maybe?

"I'm very pleased to meet you both," Clete said.

"May I express my most sincere condolences on your loss of your distinguished father, Senor Frade?" the blonde asked. "And be permitted to offer my best felicitations on your upcoming marriage?"

Well, at least she gets the message I won't be playing around.

Unless she thinks-everybody thinks, starting with Jorge-the concierge-that this is my farewell-to-bachelorhood party.

Cigarettes, and whiskey, and wild, wild women. "You are very kind, Senorita… Duarte, you said?"

"Yes. I believe I am distantly related to the family of your uncle."

"Is that so?" Clete replied politely. "May I offer you a glass of Champagne, ladies? And there are some hors d' ouveres…"

"That would be delightful," the blonde said. "I so love

Champagne." "Then let me get you some," Clete said.

She talks funny, he thought, and then, as he unwound the wire on a bottle of Champagne, understanding came: She is trying to sound like an Argentine aristocrat by using big words. She's trying to sound like Dorotea or my Aunt Beatrice.

Or as she thinks they talk.

It doesn 't work. She sounds like someone from the country, who had to look up condolences and felicitations in the dictionary. There's something sad about that.

He poured Champagne into crystal glasses, wondering idly if they belonged to the hotel or whether, like the apart ment, they were his.

He handed glasses to the women. "Thank you for accepting my invitation on such short notice," he said.

Neither replied, but the redhead, Estela, asked if he wasn't having any Champagne.

"Of course I am," he said, and poured himself a glass.

"This is such an exquisite apartment," the blonde, Eva, said. "It has such eUan."

Does she think people swallow that phony elegance?

Christ, 1 speak Tex-Mex Spanish, and even I can tell the dif ference.

"Thank you very much, Senorita Duarte," Clete said, and raised his glass. "To your very good health, ladies," he said.

They tapped glasses.

"You are both from Buenos Aires, I take it?" Clete asked.

I'm not good at this trying-to-be-charming business. I feel like a character in a bad high-school play.

"I'm from Cordoba, the city of Alta Gracia. Do you know it?"

They call a city "High Grace "?

"I'm afraid not," he said.

"It was founded by the Jesuits in 1588," she said proudly.

"I didn't know that," he said. "May I inquire as to your profession, Senorita-"

What the hell is your last name?

"-Medina?"

"I am in the administration division of the Banco

Roberts," she said.

In other words, you 're a clerk.

"How interesting," Clete said. "And you, Senorita Eva?"

"I am an actress," she said.

You're an actress like I'm a bullfighter. Neither one of us has the talent.

"On the stage? In the movies?"

"Right now I'm a radio actress. On Radio Belgrano," Eva said.

Radio Belgrano? That rings a bell. My father had money in a radio station. Was it Radio Belgrano? Maybe I own

Radio Belgrano; every time I turn around, I bump into something else that belonged to el Coronel, Incorporated.

That would sure explain how she knew who I am and that

I'm getting married.

There was a knock at the door. When Clete opened it,

Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein was standing there. "Oh, Sefior Gonzales," Clete said. "Please come in."

Peter walked in, took a quick look at the redhead and the blonde, and then looked at Clete.

"Ladies, may I present Sefior Pedro Gonzales, of Madrid?"

Clete said. "Pedro, the ladies are Senorita Medina and Senorita

Duarte."

Peter went to each of them and told them he was enchanted. And both of them seemed delighted that Sefior

Gonzales was not forty-five, bald, and overweight.

"Can I offer you a glass of Champagne, Pedro?" Clete asked.

"I'd like nothing better, but I'm a little pressed for time."

"We can talk in there," Clete said, nodding to one of the bedrooms. "But take a glass of Champagne with you." Clete poured a glass of Champagne, handed it to Peter, and then motioned him ahead of him into the bedroom. "Will you please excuse us, ladies?" he said. "We won't be long."

He didn't close the door. Peter looked at him as if he thought Clete was either drunk or had lost his mind, and went to the door and started to close it.

"Leave it open," Clete said.

"You want to tell me what's going on here?" Peter asked.

"If we close the door, the girls will think we're faggots, and it will be all over Buenos Aires by morning."

"You're kidding."

"Trust me. Enrico set it up. Leave the door open."

"Jesus Christ!" Peter said, but then the humor got to him.

"What the hell, close the door. Give them something to talk about."

"Fuck you, Fritz!"

"How did you set this up so quickly?"

"I didn't know about it, but the apartment is mine. Enrico got the concierge to get the girls-"

"Prostitutes?"

"No. Not quite. But with them here, no one will talk about us. Got the picture?"

"OK," Peter said.

He took Clete's arm and led him into the bathroom, leaving that door open.

"You told me one time you felt in my debt," he said.

"What I said was you have a blank check," Clete said.

"Excuse me? Blank check?"

"If I've got it, it's yours," Clete said. "Except, of course, for Dorotea and my toothbrush."

Judging by his face, Clete sensed that Major Freiherr

Hans-Peter von Wachtstein did not understand the humor.

"What do you need, my friend?" Clete asked seriously.

"I'm going to Germany in the morning," Peter said. "I think I will be coming back. I don't think I'm really under suspicion of telling you about the Oceano Pacifico. They don't think I knew beforehand, in other words."

"That's good news."

"It may be whistling in the dark. I may not come back."

"You'll be back," Clete said. "They also need you for

Phoenix."

"I may not come back," Peter insisted. "That possibility is real and has to be considered."

"Peter," Clete said thoughtfully, "why do you think they don't think you knew beforehand where that boat was going to come ashore?"

"When Goltz was showing de Banderano-"

"Who?"

"The captain of the Oceano Pacifico."

"OK."

"-where he was to land the boat, he made a point of giving me that information, saying something like 'it's time for you to know.' De Banderano picked up on that. He told the

Ambassador and Gradny-Sawz,"

"And the guy who gave you the information? What about him?"

"I got it from the father of an embassy driver, a man named Loche. And he didn't know what he was giving me."

"I don't understand. Why did Loche have it? And he didn't know what it was?"

"He didn't know about the landing. All he knew was that he had been ordered to have a truck at a certain spot. I knew why the truck was supposed to be there; he didn't."

Peter looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged. "OK," he said. "That makes sense. So what do you need from me?"

"Alicia thinks she is in love with me."

"I've noticed," Clete said.

"If I don't come back, she will want to wait for me."

"OK."

"If I don't come back in two months, I will not be coming back," Peter said.

"You don't know that."

"I don't want her to wait for something that's not going to happen."

"How am I supposed to stop her?"

"I don't know. Maybe Dorotea could help."

"This is all noble as hell of you, Fritz, but I think you'll be back."

"I am now asking you, Cletus, for repayment of the debt you say you feel you owe me," Peter said, very seriously.

"You have my word, my word of honor," Clete said, just as seriously.

"Thank you," Peter said, and put out his hand.

"You're welcome," Clete said. "What else?"

"What else?"

"What else do you want?"

"You gave me what I wanted when you gave me your word of honor," Peter said.

We went through this whole absurd routine just so you could tell me to tell your girlfriend to forget you?

And it isn't only absurd, it's dangerous.

And you're no fool, you knew that it was dangerous when you called me.

Which means (a) you 're really in love with Alicia; (b) you think there's a very good chance you're not coming back; and (c) you really think I'm your friend and can be trusted.

Which means I am a prick for mocking you.

Particularly since you are about to go In Harm's Way and, as of about 1300 hours this date, Major Cletus H. Frade of the Marine Corps has been under a direct order to get and stay out of the fucking line of fire.

"I will take care of Alicia for you, my friend," Clete said, and meant it.

Peter grasped Clete's arms at the shoulders.

"Watch it," Clete said. "You don't want the ladies to see us like that!"

"Fuck you, Cletus!" Peter said, and smiled.

"Now what?" Clete asked.

"Now I go back to the dinner," Peter said. "And in the morning, to Germany."

"Without seeing Alicia again?"

"How can I see her again?"

"Would she come here if you called her?" Clete said.

"You mean here?"

Clete nodded. "You could get another telephone call, and this time when you came here, she'd be here."

"Von Deitzberg would be suspicious," Peter said.

"So he follows you up here, and what does he find? A fighter pilot doing what fighter pilots do."

"It is not like that between us," Peter said indignantly.

"Alicia is pure."

"Is or was? This is me you're talking to, Fritz."

"Oh, God, I want to see her before I go."

"You got her number? There's the phone."

After Peter had given the hotel operator the number, Clete took the phone from his hand. "This is Cletus Frade. Put

Sefiorita Alicia on the line," he said. "And don't go through that Til see if she's at home' routine." There was a minute's wait. "Alicia, Clete. A friend of yours wants to see you. Be standing on the curb in front of your house in fifteen min utes. I'll pick you up in the Buick. Just do it." He hung up.

"She'll do it? Just like that?"

"Actually no, she told me to go fuck myself. Of course she'll do it. She trusts me. Now say good-bye to the girls and go back to your dinner. I'll have Alicia here in thirty minutes."

"And now I owe you, my friend," Peter said.

"Pay me when you get back."

Peter touched Clete's shoulder and then left the bedroom.

He nodded at the blonde and the redhead, said it had been a pleasure to meet them, and quickly left the apartment.

The blonde and the redhead looked at Clete.

Fuck it. When all else fails, tell the truth.

"Ladies," he began, somewhat awkwardly, "the truth of the matter is, something has come up, and the party's just about over."

"Did I in some manner offend?" Eva Duarte asked.

"Absolutely not, my dear lady," Clete said. "It is I who owe you both an apology." He reached into his pocket and found two small wads of money Enrico had given him.

"Please allow me to take care of your taxis," he said, and gave them the money.

The redhead took it, tucked it into her brassiere, and left.

The blonde seemed reluctant to leave.

"If you will excuse me, Sefiorita?" Clete said, and passed through the other bedroom into the room where Enrico waited. "How long will it take you to get the car? I told Alicia

Carzino-Cormano I'd pick her up in fifteen minutes."

"Sefiorita Alicia?" Enrico asked, obviously confused.

"Von Wachtstein is going to meet her here. I just paid off the girls."

"You made a little gift to your guests," Enrico corrected him.

"Have it your way. The car?"

"Wait here ten minutes. I will have a word with Jorge, and then I will be in the drive."

"OK."

He left the small room by a door to the corridor. Now he had a short-barreled Browning auto-loading shotgun in his hand.

I wonder what people in the corridor are going to think about that?

Clete looked at his watch so that he would know when to go down to the drive, then went into the sitting room and helped himself to a straight shot of Jack Daniel's.

And then he saw the blonde, Eva, standing in the door to the bedroom. He smiled at her uneasily.

"I thought you would not mind if I finished this exquisite

Champagne," she said.

"Absolutely not," he said. "But I have to leave, myself, in just a minute."

"Oh, what a pity," she said. "I would really hate to think that you do not find me attractive."

"I think you are very attractive, Sefiorita."

She walked up to him. "And I find you very attractive,

Seftor," she said, and after brushing her fingers over his lapel, let them drop below his belt.

He felt them lightly, but unmistakably, travel the length of his organ. Then she stepped away.

"Do you really have to leave in the next few minutes?" she asked.

"I really do," he said, and walked to the door to the corridor and opened it.

"And if you said 'another time, Sefiorita,' could I believe you?"

"Yes, you could."

"But you're not going to say it?"

"Another time, Sefiorita," Clete said.

She smiled at him, then drained her Champagne glass.

She walked to the door, paused just long enough to touch him again, said, "Another time, Senor," and left.

He closed the door, walked back to the display of whiskey bottles, and had another straight shot of Jack Daniel's.

[TWO]

1728 Avenida Coronel Diaz

Palermo, Buenos Aires 0820

7 May 1943

Cletus Frade was eating breakfast at a small table at the win dow overlooking the formal gardens in the sitting of the master suite when Antonio entered to inquire if he was at home to Padre Welner, who was on the telephone.

What the hell does he want this time of morning?

"I am as much at home as you can get in a museum, Anto nio," Clete said. "Put him on."

His breakfast-a small bife de chorizo, two fried eggs, a large glass of grapefruit juice, a glass of milk, and coffee made half as strong as the Argentine variety-had struck both the cook (when he had gone to the kitchen to order it) and the maid (who had delivered it) as another manifestation of the oddity of norteamericanos. An Argentine breakfast usually consisted of a cup of coffee and a couple of very sweet croissants.

The look in the maid's eyes when she laid the breakfast before him made him wonder what the boys at Fighter One on Guadalcanal were having for breakfast-if they were lucky, some rehydrated dried eggs-and how they had dressed for the occasion.

He was wearing a red silk dressing gown that had more or less been his father's. He had found it, still in it's Sulka's

Rue de Castiglione Paris box, apparently forgotten since his father had returned from his last European trip in 1940.

Antonio headed for the telephone, which was on a table against a wall.

Clete stood up and waited for Antonio to announce that

Senor Frade was at home, then took the telephone from him.

"And how is my favorite devious Jesuit this fine morn ing?"

"I am involved in my pastoral duties, Cletus, and the odd thought just struck me that you might he able to help."

"Exactly what did you have in mind?"

"You wouldn't happen to know where Alicia Carzino Cormano is, would you, Cletus?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Why do I think I have just struck the bull's-eye? Where is she, Cletus? Claudia is nearly out of her mind."

"Why?"

"Is she there with you?"

"Why is Claudia nearly out of her mind?"

"Alicia went out of the house last night a little before eleven. Without telling anyone. And she hasn't come home."

"Oh, shit."

"You do know where she is?" Welner asked, but it was a statement rather than a question.

"I've got an idea," Clete said.

"Where?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm in Recoleta, in my apartment. Where is she, Cletus?"

"There's nothing really to worry about," Clete said. "I think I know where she is. Let me see if I can find out for sure. Why don't you come over here?"

"Why should I do that?"

"By the time you get here, I should be able to tell you where she is," Clete said, and added, "And she's probably going to need your pastoral services."

Father Welner hung up without saying another word.

Clete went into the bedroom off the master suite and woke

Enrico up. "Get on the phone and discreetly inquire if Alicia

Carzino-Cormano is still in the apartment," he ordered.

"She didn't go home?"

Clete shook his head, "no."

"The Germans would do nothing bad to her, Senor Clete."

"I hadn't even thought about that," Clete thought aloud, then added, "I'm more worried about Senora Carzino Cormano. Get on the phone, Enrico."

It took ten minutes to learn that while one of the beds in the apartment in the Alvear Plaza showed signs of use, no one was in the apartment now, and-the shifts having changed-none of the staff was available to be questioned about when the persons in the apartment had left. Bellmen would be sent to the homes of the night-floor waiter and ele vator operator to ask what they knew.

"She's either at von Wachtstein's apartment," Clete said,

"or maybe she went to the airport to see him off. Or maybe she jumped in the River Plate."

"You really think she would do that, Senor Clete? That is a mortal sin."

"Christ, I'm just kidding," Clete said. "Bad joke, sorry."

On the other hand, who knows? Her world has just flown off. Women in love have been known to do stupid things. See

Anna Karina, or whatever the hell her name was, the Russian who jumped under the train.

Jesus Christ, what did I do?

Antonio appeared to inquire if Senor Frade was at home to Padre Welner, who was in the foyer.

"Of course," Clete said.

The Reverend Kurt Welner, S. J., who had decided that under the circumstances he did not wish to wait in the foyer, came into the room.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

"Right now, I don't know," Clete said. "Enrico, is there anyway we can call El Palomar and find out if the Lufthansa flight has left?"

Enrico thought the question over. "I can send Rudolpho out in a car to see, Senor Clete."

"It's a big, four-engine airplane with a swastika on the tail," Clete said. "If it's still there, he can't miss it. Send him."

"Alicia is with her German?" Welner asked.

"She was. His plane was scheduled to leave very early this morning. She may have gone out there to see him leave, or she may still be in his apartment. I've got the number in my wallet. You can call."

Well, if he didn 't know that Peter and I are more than ene mies being polite to each other in a neutral country, he does now. Damn!

Welner followed Clete into his bedroom, waited until

Clete found Peter's apartment telephone number, and then called it.

The maid answered, and said that el Mayor von Wacht stein was out of town and she didn't know when he would return.

"Now I have absolutely no idea where she could be,"

Clete confessed.

Unless, of course, she did take a jump into the river.

"I think you had better tell me what has been happening,"

Welner said.

Clete had just started when another visitor arrived who had decided that under the circumstances it was not necessary to wait in the foyer while Antonio determined if the master of the house was at home.

Claudia stood just inside the door, her hands on her hips, her eyes flashing.

What we have here is an outraged mother.

"Good morning, Claudia. What a pleasant surprise! Can I offer you a little breakfast?"

"You sonofabitch," she repeated, and marched toward him.

"Have you heard from Alicia?" Father Welner asked.

"She came in just after you called," Claudia said. "She's in her room, crying her heart out, and she won't unlock the door."

Clete had a sudden, very clear memory of Marjorie pulling hysterical young female / hate you I locked the door crap on Martha, whose response had been a well-placed kick to open the door, followed by a rush into the room, a slapped

Marjorie, and the announcement that the slap was nothing like what she was going to get the next time she locked the door.

That wouldn't work in the Carzino-Cormano house, a slightly smaller version of the Museum, whose doors are like bank vaults. Claudia would have needed four men on a bat tering ram to do what Martha did with her boot.

"But she's all right?" Welner asked.

"That depends on how you define 'all right,' " Claudia said. She stood beside Clete and glowered down at him.

Then she pulled up a chair and sat down.

Clete had another mental image, an unpleasant one, of

Claudia, genuinely concerned, rather than angry, in the cor ridor outside Alicia's closed door, being refused entrance.

He picked up the silver coffeepot and filled a cup.

"One lump or two?" he asked as he picked up the sugar tongs.

"Black, thank you," she said, adding, "Goddamn you, you're just like your father."

"Why doesn't that sound like a compliment?"

"It wasn't intended as one. What in the world were you thinking of last night, Cletus? When you got her out of the house?"

"You heard about that, huh?"

"When the butler came in about the same time she did. If I had known that last night, I would have come here and-"

"Actually, she wasn't here," Clete said.

"Then where was she?"

"Peter's going to Germany this morning," Clete said. "He wanted to see her again before he left. He was having dinner at the Alvear with the ambassador and the SS guy, and couldn't get away for more than a few minutes. So I picked her up and took her to the apartment in the Alvear."

"What SS guy?" Welner asked.

Clete looked at him. "His name is von Deitzberg. They sent him from Germany to find out who was responsible for what happened on the beach on Samborombon Bay."

"And what happened on the beach?"

"Enrico and Rudolpho shot the German military attache and another SS guy who ordered the murder of my father.

They were trying to smuggle something into Argentina."

"You ordered this?" Welner asked.

"No. But I'm not sorry they shot those bastards, and don't give me any of that 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord' crap."

"Watch your mouth, Cletus, you're talking to a priest,"

Claudia said.

He didn't reply.

"He wanted to see her for a few minutes?" Claudia went on. "She spent the night with him! And in the apartment in the Alvear!"

Well, that answers whether or not she knew about the apartment, doesn't it?

"They're in love, Claudia. He really loves her."

She met his eyes. Hers were really sad. "And what if he put her in the family way? Did you think about that?"

"What I thought was they deserved some time together.

He thinks he may not come back. I had no idea they were going to spend the night together. I would have tried to talk them out of that."

"And what does that mean?" Welner asked. '"He thinks he may not come back'?"

"The Germans need somebody to blame for what hap pened on the beach. Peter thinks they may blame him."

"Oh, God!" Claudia said, and then had a second thought:

"Then why did he go?"

"If he didn't go, it would be all the proof they needed that he was involved with what happened. They would have killed his father."

"Oh, my God," she said. "Oh, poor Peter."

"As a general rule of thumb, Claudia, the Nazis are not very nice people."

"How was Peter involved?" Welner asked.

"You don't really expect me to answer that, do you?"

Clete snapped.

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Cletus, speaking to

Father Welner in that way. He's a friend. My friend, your friend, and he was your father's best friend."

"It's all right, Claudia," Welner said. "I understand Cle tus's concerns."

She looked between them for a moment, then asked,

"Would they really have killed Peter's father if he hadn't gone?"

"Innocence doesn't count as far as the Nazis are con cerned, Claudia. They kill anybody who gets in their way.

They killed my father, they killed one of my men, they killed

Enrico's sister, and they would have killed Peter's father."

"I'm afraid Cletus is right, Claudia," Welner said.

Clete's mouth ran away with him. "Why don't you tell that to my godfather? El Coronel Peron thinks the Nazis are the salvation of the Christian world."

"I don't understand that," Welner confessed.

"I've got a couple of theories I may tell you sometime,"

Clete said. "But not in mixed company."

"That's enough about Juan Domingo, Cletus," Claudia said.

"OK. Subject closed."

"He'll be at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo for the wed ding," she said. "You are going to behave, right?"

"I will be so good, Claudia, as to be unbelievable."

"I don't like the sound of that," she said. "My God, you're like your father! I even know when you mean something else than what you say."

"That sounded like a compliment, in which case, thank you. You're no longer mad at me, I take it?"

"If she's pregnant, I'll kill you."

"Changing the subject, do I own a radio station?"

"Three of them. Specifically, your father and I-you and

I-own one in Cordoba, and another in Santa Fe together, and you own another here."

"Radio Belgrano?"

"Yes, Radio Belgrano. Why do you ask?"

"Just taking inventory."

"You mean you're not going to tell why you asked?"

"You don't want to know why I asked."

"What am I going to do about Alicia?" she asked.

"I will speak with her, of course, Claudia," Welner said.

"She'll come out of her room when she feels like it, and she will tell you whatever she feels like telling you," Clete said. "Moral indignation will get you nowhere. She did nothing she's ashamed of, nothing she should be ashamed of."

"What makes you think you're an expert on women? Or on questions of morality?"

"I'm my father's son, of course," he said, and before she could protest, added, "I have two sisters, Claudia. Well, two cousins, who act like sisters."

"And if one of your sisters was involved with someone like Peter, would you have done the same for her? Arrange for her to go to spend the night with him in the Alvear apart ment?" she challenged.

He met her eyes. "Yeah, I would," he said. "Under these circumstances, I would. You ever hear 'it's better to have loved and lost, et cetera'?"

"Oh, come on, Cletus," Welner protested. "That's poetry, bad poetry, not life."

"And did you ever hear, Father, that those that can, do, and those that can't, teach?"

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Welner asked.

"I find it hard to pay a lot of attention to advice about love-sex-from someone who's not supposed to know anything about it firsthand," Clete said.

"Cletus!" Claudia protested, but she could not restrain a smile.

"Touche, Cletus," the priest said. "Your father often said much the same thing to me."

"Father!" Claudia said, shocked, and then laughed. Then she went on: "Since this indelicate subject has come up, can I ask a personal question, to satisfy my feminine curiosity?"

"You can ask," Clete said, smiling.

"What did your aunt Martha and your sisters say to you when they found out about Dorotea?"

"Don't you really mean, 'when they found out DoroteVs pregnant'?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," she said, and smiled.

"Beth was delighted, according to Mom, and Marge and

Mom-before they met Dorotea-were afraid I'd been seduced by some hot-blooded Argentine tango dancer."

"They weren't!"

"Yes, they were. Their sighs of relief when they saw her for the first time sounded like someone let the air out of a truck tire."

Claudia laughed. "I'd like a little cognac for my coffee," she said. "And don't tell me it's too early. After last night-thanks to you-I deserve it."

"There's a button around here someplace to call a maid,"

Clete said.

"No need," she said. "Or at least I don't think so."

She got up, walked into the bedroom, and returned a moment later clutching a bottle of Remy Martin in one hand and three brandy snifters in the other.

"Your father always kept a bottle in the bedside table," she said. "Against the chill."

"You mean, when you were mad at him?" Clete asked innocently.

Claudia's not at all embarrassed to display her intimate knowledge of my father's bedroom before Welner. Good for her!

She didn't answer. She poured brandy in the glasses, then emptied hers into her coffee cup.

"I think your father would like it that you and Dorotea will be in there," she said, indicating the bedroom. "Damn, I miss him."

"Me, too," Clete said.

"And I," Welner said. "A little more every day."

She raised her coffee cup. Clete picked up the snifter, raised it to her, and took a sip.

"You know, this is why we can't lose the war," Clete said.

"The cognac?" Welner asked, confused.

"It's the first thing they hand Winston Churchill when he wakes up," Clete said. "Before his coffee."

"How do you know that?" Claudia challenged,

"I don't know. I must have read it someplace."

She shook her head and had another sip of coffee.

Antonio came through the door from the corridor. "Senor, are you at home to el Coronel Per6n?"

"Hell, no…," Clete responded immediately, and then changed his mind. "Of course I am," he said, oozing syn thetic enthusiasm. "What a wonderful way to begin the day."

He looked at Claudia. "What is this, Claudia? Speak of the devil?" he asked, and then got up.

"I don't know what's going on, but you behave!" she ordered.

"Senor Frade, mi Coronel," Antonio said, and handed

Clete the telephone.

"Good morning, mi Coronel," Clete said.

The others could hear only his side of the conversation:

"No, Senor. It's always a pleasure to hear from you."

"Well, actually, Senor, I am sitting here over coffee dis cussing current events with Senora Carzino-Cormano and the good Father Welner."

"Damn you, Cletus," Claudia hissed.

"Yes, Senor. He is standing right beside me."

"Of course, Senor. One moment, please."

Clete extended the telephone to Welner. "Father," he said, loud enough for his voice to carry over the telephone, "el

Coronel Peron asks to speak to you."

Welner took the telephone.

Now Clete and Claudia could hear only the priest's side of the conversation:

"How are you, Juan Domingo?"

"I'm very well, thank you."

"Is that so?"

"I am sure that I can convince the good lady to do that,

Juan Domingo. But you are a busy man. Couldn't it be done on the telephone?"

"I understand."

"We will expect you shortly, then, Juan Domingo," Welner finished, and hung up the telephone.

"Don't tell me the bast… good Coronel's coming here?"

Clete asked.

"You can convince me to do what?" Claudia asked suspi ciously.

"Juan Domingo says he has something quite important to say to Cletus, and he wants us to be here when he tells him."

"What the hell is that all about?" Cletus asked.

Welner shrugged. "Whatever it is, he thinks it's impor tant," Welner said.

"And he's coming here now?" Claudia asked. "He said he will leave the Edificio Libertador immediately," Welner said.

El Coronel Juan Domingo Peron, Special Assistant to General

Pedro Ramfrez, Minister of Defense of the Republic of

Argentina, arrived twenty minutes later.

Antonio, Clete noticed, had not asked Peron to wait in the foyer while he inquired if Senor Frade was at home.

He was my father's best friend. Family, so to speak. Like

Claudia; she wasn 't told to wait either. Then why did Antonio at least try to make Father Welner wait? Were there occasions when my father didn't want to see Welner?

Peron was in uniform, with glistening boots and a Sam

Browne belt, the brown tunic festooned with an array of decorations.

The Marine in Clete was forced to recognize that-with the exception of the leather-brimmed, gold-braid-decorated cap, with its ridiculous huge, high crown-he looked like a soldier, a senior officer.

Peron saluted, crisply touching the brim of the outsized hat. "Buenos dias," he said. "Thank you for receiving me on such short notice."

"My house is your house, mi Coronel," Clete said, hoping he sounded far more sincere than he felt.

Peron went to Claudia and kissed her cheek. "Claudia, thank you for being here," he said. He turned to Welner. "It is always a pleasure to see you, Padre."

"And for me to see you, Juan Domingo," Welner said.

Peron did not try to kiss Welner, although kisses of greeting between men were standard procedure.

You don't kiss priests? Or aren't they close enough for that?

Peron nodded at Enrico, who came to attention and said,

"Mi Coronel."

Then Peron walked to Clete and grasped him by both shoulders. "Cletus," he said emotionally.

"Mi Coronel," Clete said.

"We're having coffee, Juan Domingo. Mine with brandy,"

Claudia said. "Would you like either?"

"A coffee, please," he said., Claudia poured a cup and handed it to him.

He took it, sat it down, took off his cap, and then picked up the coffee again. "What I have to say to you must never leave this room," he said solemnly. "Agreed?"

That depends on what you have to say, Colonel.

He looked at them one at a time.

"Si, Senor," Enrico said.

"Certainly, Juan Domingo," Claudia said.

Welner nodded.

Peron looked at Clete, who nodded.

"First, let me say, Cletus that I owe you an apology." He turned to Claudia and Welner. "When Cletus told me he held the Germans responsible for the murder of our beloved

Jorge-may he now be resting in peace for all eternity united again with his beloved Elizabeth-Ann…"

And where's that going to leave Claudia, you pious fraud? She loved my father too, and spent a hell of a lot more time with him, taking care of him, than my mother did.

What is Claudia supposed to do, for all eternity, ride around on a cloud by herself, strumming on a harp?

"… I found the suggestion so monstrous that I was unable to believe it, and told him so…"

Who else could have done it, had any reason to do it, you stupid bastard?

"… which caused bad feelings between us, which, as his godfather, caused me much pain."

Not as much pain as a load of double-ought buckshot in my father's face caused. What the fuck are you up to?"

Peron turned back to Clete. "I now tell you, Cletus, that I was wrong, and can only hope you can find it in your heart to forgive your godfather, who looks upon you as the son

God never saw fit to give him."

Maybe you can knock up one of your little girls and have one of your own.

"I'm not sure what you're saying, mi Coronel," Clete said.

"A distinguished German officer recently arrived from

Berlin, Cletus," Peron began, then turned and looked at

Claudia and Father Welner. "This is, of course, what must go no further than this room." He turned back to Cletus. "This distinguished German officer, like yourself, Cletus, an hon orable officer, the son and grandson of general officers-"

Clete was horrified to hear himself ask, not very politely,

"Has this distinguished German officer got a name?"

Watch it, stupid! Keep your goddamned mouth shut! Hear the bastard out!

Peron obviously didn't like the question. "Given your word of honor as an officer and a gentleman that it will go no further than this room?"

"You have my word," Clete said. Why am I uncomfortable giving him my word when I don't mean it? "But if giving me the name is awkward for you, don't-"

"Generalmajor Freiherr Manfred von Deitzberg," Peron said. "Of the General Staff of the Oberkommando der

Wehrmacht. You have a right to know. Do you know what this is, the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht?"

"Yes, Sir."

And I also know, mi Coronet, that von Deitzberg is no more a Wehrmacht officer than I am. The sonofabitch is not only SS, he's Heinrich Himmler's adjutant.

"General von Deitzberg was sent to Argentina to offer the assurances of the Wehrmacht that the German officer corps had absolutely nothing to do with murder of our beloved

Jorge."

"If the Germans didn't kill him, Juan Domingo," Father

Welner asked in an innocence Clete suspected was as phony as a three-dollar bill, "who did? I don't understand."

"There was an officer-a man at least wearing the uni form of a German officer; actually he was in the SS. Do you know what the SS is, Father?"

Welner shook his head.

"It is the German secret police."

"I see," Welner said. "And?"

"Acting without any authority at all, he ordered Jorge's assassination."

"Do you think this man also ordered the attempt on my life?" Clete asked, and was immediately sorry.

There goes your goddamned runaway mouth again!

Peron considered the question. "I don't know, but it cer tainly seems likely, doesn't it?"

Jesus! Either he's the greatest actor since John Barry more, or he actually believes this bullshit!

"And where is this officer now?" Welner asked.

"I hope he is burning in hell," Enrico said. "I shot him, and Rudolpho shot the other SS bastard."

"Oh, my God!" Claudia exclaimed.

"None of us heard that," Peron announced. "And you,

Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez, will never say that again to anyone. You understand that is an order?"

"Si, mi Coronel."

"And you will go to Sargento Gomez, Suboficial Mayor, as soon as you can, and tell him that is my order to him as well.

You understand?"

"Si, mi Coronel."

"We must now do what I know our Jorge would have wanted us to do," Peron announced. "We must put aside our personal feelings and think of the good of our beloved homeland. What has happened has happened, and nothing will bring our Jorge back to us."

"I don't think I know what you mean, mi Coronel," Clete said.

"Discreetly, of course, under the circumstances, I am car rying to the Argentine officer corps the profound apologies of the German officer corps, as well as their assurance that nothing of this sort will ever happen again."

At least until somebody else gets in their way.

"It is their hope, and mine, that this unfortunate business can be put behind us."

Maybe you and the Argentine officer corps are going to kiss and make up with the Germans, but if it's all the same to you, I think I'll pass. Griiner didn't order my father's murder.

The order came from Germany, and I wouldn 't be a damned bit surprised if it came personally from your honorable officer pal, von Deitzberg.

Peron looked at Clete. "Can you find it in your heart to forgive your godfather, Cletus?"

"Of course, mi Coronel" Clete said after a moment.

"Can you find it in your heart to think of me, rather than as el Coronel, as Tio Juan?"

Oh, shit!

"That is very kind, Tfo Juan," Clete said.

"I am your father in God, and while I never could take your father's place, with God's help I can be a good uncle to you."

"Thank you very much."

"And now I must return to my duties," Peron announced.

"And I feel duty-bound to repeat that what has just been said in this room must go no further."

"We understand, Juan Domingo," Father Welner said.

"Thank you for telling us what you have."

Peron and Welner shook hands.

Peron put on his uniform cap, then kissed Claudia.

"You have my orders, Suboficial Mayor."

"Si, mi Coronel."

He turned to Clete and grasped his shoulders. "Be strong, my son," he said, and kissed him on the cheek.

The feel of Peron's beard against his made him uncom fortable. "I will try, Tio Juan," Clete said.

Peron saluted him, did an about-face, and marched out of the room.

Clete watched him, and as soon as he had left the room, picked up the cognac bottle. "Jesus!" he said, and poured an inch.and a half into the snifter.

"I would love to know what you're thinking," Welner said.

"The one thing I never expected from that sonofabitch was stupidity. He actually believes that line of horseshit he just laid on us."

"Clete!" Claudia protested.

"If el Coronel had not had his geography examination taken for him, he never would have been promoted teniente coronel," Enrico said.

"Really?" Welner asked, amused.

"I am glad I told him I killed his Germans," Enrico said.

"I'm not sure that was smart," Clete said.

"I'll tell you something else I think he believes," Welner said. "I think he does look on you as 'the son God never saw fit to give him.' "

"Jesus!" Clete said.

"What would really not be smart," Welner said, "would be to underestimate your tio Juan, much less get on the wrong side of him."

Jesus, judging from that sarcastic tone, Welner doesn 't like him any more than 1 do.

"Meaning what?" Clete challenged.

"Meaning-also not to go any further than these walls-a reliable story is going around-encouraged by Tio Juan- that General Ramirez is going to try to take General

Rawson's place as president."

"Really?" Clete asked, surprised.

"And who knows what your Tfo Juan wants after that for himself?" Welner said. "Tfo Juan may be very valuable to you, Cletus."

"I can't believe that," Claudia said.

"That he would be valuable?" Welner asked.

"You're not suggesting he wants to be president?" Claudia asked.

"Of course he would like to be president," Welner said.

"He saw himself as vice president under Jorge. That's why he came home from Europe. Now Jorge is gone."

"I'll be damned," Clete said, and took a thoughtful sip of the cognac.

[THREE]

El Capilla Nuestra Senora de los Milagros

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1134 8 May 1943

"You may kiss your bride, Cletus," the Very Reverend

Matthew Cashley-Price said softly in English, earning him a dirty look from the Right Reverend Manuel de Parto, bishop of the Diocese of Pila, who didn't speak English, and who was already more than a little annoyed that he had been ordered to allow the Anglican clergyman to participate in the wedding.

"Huh?" the groom asked, startled, and then added, "Right.

Sorry."

He was in dress blues, complete to medals-not just the ribbons-and Marine officer's sword.

He had been looking at the bride, who was wearing a bridal gown that had been her grandmother's and, for the last minute or so, a wedding ring. It had just struck the groom, like a baseball bat in the back of the head, that he was now a married man, that the incredibly beautiful woman looking up at him had just sworn, until death did them part, to share his life, and as undeniable proof of that was carrying their baby under all that lace and silk.

With great tenderness-as though if he did it wrong, she would break, like an eggshell-he pushed her veil up over her head and bent and kissed her.

A murmur of approval came from the spectators in the chapel.

"Now we take communion," Dorotea whispered. "Kneel down."

"Right," he said, looking down at two prie-dieux placed in front of them. He somewhat awkwardly got on his knees, knocking his uniform cap off his prie-dieu as he did so.

As they hurried to put the cap back where it belonged,

First Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, Corps of Engineers,

Army of the United States, who was in his Class A uniform, complete to medals, glistening Corcoran jump boots, and the thick golden rope that identified him as a military attache, bumped into Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodriguez, Retired, who was in the incredibly ornate dress uniform of the

Husares de Pueyrreddn-the design of which had obviously been strongly influenced by the uniforms of King and

Emperor Franz Josef's Hungarian cavalry. Suboficial Mayor

Rodriguez won the race and put the cap where it belonged with a gesture of triumph.

"Now get up," Mrs. Cletus H. Frade ordered when they had received the wafer representing the body of Christ. "And don't forget your hat."

The groom rose to his feet, tucked his uniform cap under his arm, performed an about-face, and, when his bride had taken his arm, marched with her down the aisle of the chapel.

On the groom's side of the church, sitting in one of the rows of upholstered chairs, Mrs. Martha Howell was blowing her nose. Mr. Cletus Marcus Howell nodded his head, apparently in approval. Sitting beside him was Senora Clau dia Carzino-Cormano, who was also wiping her nose.

Beside her was Senora Beatrice Frade de Duarte, who was wearing a dazzling smile and waving at the bridal couple, while her husband dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief.

In the first wooden pew on the groom's side of the aisle were the Misses Howell, who each gave a thumbs-up to the newly weds; Sefiorita Isabela Carzino-Cormano (her sister

Alicia had been the bride's only attendant, and, with her arm in

Lieutenant Pelosi's, was now following the couple down the aisle); Coronel Juan Domingo Perdn, who was wearing his dress uniform; and Sefiorita Maria-Teresa Alberghoni, who had been introduced as Lieutenant Pelosi's fiancee, and whom

Coronel Peron obviously found charming.

The second pew held General Arturo Rawson, President of the Republic of Argentina; Senora Rawson; Capitan Roberta

Lauffer, General Rawson's aide-de-camp; and Coronel

Bernardo Martin. Capitan Lauffer and Coronel Martin were in uniform; General Rawson wore a business suit.

In the third pew were Colonel A. F. Graham, USMC, and

Captain Maxwell Ashton III, AUS, both in uniform and wearing the silver aguillettes of military attaches; Sargento

Rudolpho Gomez, Argentine Cavalry, Retired, who had sold his uniforms on retirement and was in a blue serge suit that looked to be two sizes too small; and Mr. Milton Leiber mann, Legal Attache of the American Embassy. The four pews behind held members of the upper hierarchy of

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and their wives.

On the bride's side, the row of upholstered chairs held

Senora Pamela Mallin, who was wiping her eyes; her hus band Enrico; his mother; and Little Enrico Mallfn. Sefior

Mallfn, the father of the bride, looked very unhappy, and had looked unhappy since he had entered the church and noticed

Senorita Alberghoni sitting across the aisle with el Coronel

Juan Domingo Peron.

The pews behind them held Mrs. Cashley-Price, various.' members of the Mallin family, and more members of the senior staff of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo and their wives.

Immediately outside the chapel, the newlyweds passed between and under the raised sabers of eight officers of the '

Husares de Pueyrredon in full dress uniform. This was el

Coronel Peron's surprise contribution to the wedding. The

Special Assistant to the Minister of Defense had called the regiment's colonel commanding and suggested this might be | an appropriate honor to render to the son of the former! colonel commanding, who happened to be a distinguished soldier himself.

The path from the chapel to the main house was lined by [ the workers of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. The men i removed their hats and bobbed their heads as the couple passed by, and the women curtseyed. Some of both sexes crossed themselves. Halfway to the house, when he caught the groom's eye, one of the gauchos popped to attention, saluted crisply, mouthed the words "Beautiful bride, skipper, good luck!" and then resumed the arrogant posture of a gaucho.

The staff of the main house was lined up on the steps and « on the veranda.

The bride and groom entered the house and passed down the corridor to the master suite.

The groom closed and locked the door, turned to his bride, and tried to kiss her.

"Wait a moment," she said, startling him.

Then she startled him even more by reaching behind her, i unbuttoning something, shrugging out of the top of the! dress, and then stepping out of the skirt and its petticoats, j

She then stood before him wearing nothing but a very frag- i, ile brassiere and matching pants. i

"Now," she said. "God, that dress is uncomfortable!" i

The groom kissed the bride.

When the kiss became passionate, she freed herself from his arms.

"Take that off," she ordered. "The medals and the buttons hurt."

"Sorry," he said, and complied with the order.

"You may now kiss your bride, Cletus," Dorotea said, mimicking the Reverend Cashley-Price. "Where in the world were you when he said that?"

"I had just realized we were married," he said.

"That hit me outside the church," she said. "I thought, 'My

God, I now live here. This is where I'm going to raise my baby.' "

"I love you, Dorotea," Clete said.

"I saw that in your eyes while the Bishop was going through that Latin rigmarole," she said.

"I said you could kiss me," she repeated.

He hesitated.

"Is something wrong?" Dorotea asked.

"Sweetheart, by now the house is getting full of people.

They'll expect us to come out. If I start now, I may not be able to stop."

"To hell with them," she said. "They can wait. The whole world can wait. I want my husband to make love to me. Now."

XII

[ONE]

Aboard Lufthansa Flight 742

Over Portugal

1320 8 May 1943

It had been a very long and dangerous flight. They had to travel 2,700 miles from Buenos Aires to Cayenne in French

Guiana in the northeast of the South American continent, and then 2,500 miles across the Atlantic Ocean from Cayenne to

Dakar, on the west coast of Africa, and then 1,800 miles from

Dakar to Lisbon. These great distances posed enormous problems of a purely aeronautical nature.

For starters, communication between the points of departure and the en route destinations was unreliable, if it worked at all. And even if there was communication, the weather reported at Cayenne might change completely by the time the

Condor-which cruised at 215 knots-arrived there after a thirteen-hour flight from Buenos Aires, and the weather in

Dakar might have changed drastically also after another twelve-hour flight.

And then they had to take off on each leg with the expec tation that the aircraft would not encounter unusually strong headwinds (which would exhaust the fuel supply) or a storm that could not be flown around with the available fuel.

The weight of the fuel severely limited the Condor's pas senger and cargo weight allowances. Thus, on this flight the twenty-six-passenger aircraft carried only eight passengers in addition to First Secretary Anton Gradny-Sawz, Sturmbann fiihrer Werner von Tresmarck, and Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein. Five of them were diplomats-two from

Argentina, two from Chile, and one from Paraguay. The other three were Germane-Argentine businessmen.

Peter suspected the Germane-Argentines had been more or less ordered to take the Condor, and he thought the diplomats were fools. Either they didn't comprehend the risk or they were flying despite it, for reasons of prestige or Latin machismo.

Brazil was at war with Germany, and under the rules of warfare the Condor was fair game. Because it could not fly over Brazil, it had to fly at least a hundred miles off the coast, in hopes that it would not be spotted by the American-supplied

B-24 aircraft that patrolled the South Atlantic Ocean off Brazil and Uruguay looking for German submarines.

Cletus Frade had told Peter about the B-24s in Brazil.

While they weren't as heavily armed as the B-24s bombing

Germany-since there were no German fighters operating in the area, they could dispense with the weight of the machine guns and ammunition they would normally have carried- they still carried enough Browning.50-caliber machine guns to shoot down a Condor.

Clete did not, in fact, think there was a great chance that the

Condor would run into a patrolling B-24, and even if a B-24 pilot saw the Condor, he probably wouldn't attack. Shooting down an unarmed transport, almost certainly carrying civilians, wasn't the sort of thing a pilot would want to do.

"You might find yourself offered the choice between landing in Brazil, though, or getting shot down," Clete said, "but what you really have to worry about is the Dakar-Lisbon leg."

There was an active war in North Africa, with German bombers patrolling to interdict Allied shipping, and American fighters based in Morocco patrolling to interdict German bombers. Any aircraft with a swastika on its tail would be fair game.

With the exception of the steward, the Condor crew had just about ignored the passengers until they reached Dakar. Peter thought that was understandable. Von Tresmarck was in his

SS uniform, and no one with the brains to find his ass with both hands wanted to get any closer to anyone in the SS than necessary. Peter himself had boarded the plane in civilian clothing, and on his diplomatic passport, and the crew naturally assumed he was a diplomat-like Gradny-Sawz, who had lost no time informing the pilot he was First Secretary of the German Embassy.

When they had refueled in Dakar, however, Peter had changed into his uniform, partly because his civilian clothes showed the signs of all that time in the air, and partly because he decided that he'd rather be in uniform if he was going to get shot down by some American P-51 Mustang pilot operating out of Morocco-which, come to think of it, would probably be a better way to check out than what's liable to happen to me in Germany; my father wouldn't be involved, andAlicia could get on with the sort of life she deserves.

That changed things, as far as the Condor pilot was con cerned. The blond young man he had mistaken for a diplomat was not only a fellow pilot but the recipient of the

Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross. They were still climbing out of Dakar when the steward came to him and told him the pilot wanted to see him in the cockpit.

He had the chart laid out on his lap, with their intended course marked on the celluloid with a grease pencil.

Out to sea, then a turn right, and up the North Atlantic 250 miles off the Moroccan coast, then another right turn straight into Lisbon. An X about halfway on the grease pencil line indicated the Point of No Return, beyond which they would be closer to Lisbon than to Dakar.

"The Americans sometimes come this far offshore-but not often," the pilot explained, "but they're looking for surface shipping and submarines, which means they seldom fly higher than twenty-five hundred or three thousand meters, and usually lower. And they're usually in something we can outrun-B-24s, B-17s, sometimes B-26s, and sometimes a twin-engine Navy amphibian.

"But they have radios, and if they spot us, they just get on the radio and give our position. There's Amis, and even some

English, all over the area around the mouth of the Mediter ranean. So the trick is not to get spotted. The way to do that is to fly high-not so high as to make contrails, but higher than they usually fly. They're generally looking down, for subs and shipping, and for our boys, who're doing the same thing.

"The nightmare is that we get spotted by a Mustang patrol. They've got droppable auxiliary tanks and can range pretty far. And we can't outrun a Mustang."

"There's not much that can," Peter agreed.

"I'll keep you posted," the pilot said, and Peter knew his invitation to visit the cockpit had expired.

The steward came down the aisle to Peter, who was dozing, spread out over two seats. He had made a bed, or sorts, from the cushions of the empty seats.

"The Captain has sent for you, Herr Major."

We changed course ninety degrees thirty minutes ago.

Which either means we are within Portuguese airspace, and have made it, or there are a couple of Mustangs chasing us.

"Thank you," Peter said, got up, and walked with diffi culty-his right leg was painfully asleep-to the cockpit.

The pilot handed him the celluloid-covered chart and pointed to a spot, their location, off a town called Faro, on the coast of Portugal, right above the Spanish border. It was not on the grease-pencil course marked on the chart.

"I don't like to fly the same course every time. Or, for that matter, twice in a row. So I took a chance the Amis would be working off the Morocco coast. I guessed right. No Amis.

We should be on the ground in forty-five minutes. It'll be a short stop, just for fuel, and then on to Madrid, where we'll spend the night."

Portuguese immigration officials and a representative of

Lufthansa came aboard the Condor as soon as it had parked in front of the terminal.

The man from Lufthansa, a tall, muscular blond who looked healthy enough to be wearing a uniform (which made Peter wonder if he might also be the local Gestapo representative), informed them that after their passports had been examined, they would be taken to the transient lounge while the Condor was being serviced. This would probably take no more than an hour.

As they descended the portable stairway, Peter saw Por tuguese policemen lining their path to the terminal building.

An In Transit lounge had been set up in the terminal to take care of international passengers who were only passing through Portugal and thus would have no reason to require customs and immigration.

Inside, just after he had spotted and started toward the men's room, Peter saw two well-dressed men in the lounge.

Neither of them-they were both blond and fair-skinned- looked Portuguese.

[TWO]

1610 8 May 1943

When Korvettenkapitan Karl Boltitz had been introduced to

SS-Obersturmbannfiihrer Karl Cranz in Berlin, Boltitz had not been at all surprised that he was outranked by the SS officer who would accompany him to Spain, but he had been surprised by Cranz the man.

For one thing, he was affable, even charming. Boltitz's experience with the Gestapo-at all levels-had taught him that they were usually surly and suspicious; and as their rank rose, so did their arrogance.

Cranz, a tall, slender blond-haired man of maybe thirty five, had taken him from Himmler's office to the Hotel

Adlon, then had suggested that since they were about to spend so much time together, they might as well be on an informal, first-name basis.

As they talked, though Cranz had looked with obvious approval at the young women at the bar, he identified himself as the last faithful husband in Berlin, and showed

Boltitz, with obvious pride, photographs of his wife and three children.

Their dinner together was quite pleasant-and Cranz grabbed the check. During the meal, he expressed appar ently genuine admiration for those who'd served in U-boats, and he confessed relief that at least one of them spoke Spanish fluently enough to talk easily to Kapitan de Banderano in

Cadiz.

Boltitz was of course aware that the charm and affability were almost surely part of Cranz's professional technique

(to put the enemy, so to speak, at ease), and reminded himself to be careful. But he was nevertheless relieved that he would not have to spend the next two or three weeks with a typical

Gestapo asshole.

During most of their train trip across Germany, France, and Spain, Cranz kept himself occupied by burying his nose in a book; then, in Madrid, he quickly got rid of the resident

Gestapo agent and took Boltitz on a two-hour shopping trip for clothing and toys for his family.

They traveled from Madrid to Cadiz, accompanied by a consular officer from the embassy, to make the arrange ments to transfer the bodies of Oberst Griiner and Stan dartenfiihrer Goltz from the Oceano Pacifico to the hands of a local undertaker. After the bodies had been placed in sealed caskets, arrangements would be made to transport the caskets out of Spain, through France, and finally to

Berlin.

Once that was accomplished, Cranz took Boltitz on another shopping expedition, and then they returned to

Madrid. That night, over dinner in a first-class restaurant, and well into their second bottle of wine, Cranz asked for the first time, conversationally, what Boltitz thought "went wrong" in Argentina.

Boltitz replied, quite honestly, that he really had no idea… only questions.

"One of the theories, you know," Cranz said, "is that it had absolutely nothing to do with Operation Phoenix; that it was simply the Argentine officer corps' expression of disap proval over the elimination of Oberst Frade."

"How would the Argentines have known when and where the landing from the Oceano Pacifico would be made?"

"You think, then, do you, that treason is involved?"

"It's not unlikely that the Argentines have someone in the embassy. That makes it espionage, or, if you like, counteres pionage, on the part of the Argentines, rather than treason on the part of a German."

"Interesting," Cranz said.

"The problem with that theory-and it's only a theory-is that if the Argentines do have somebody in the embassy who had access to the when-and-where information, they might also have access to the what information."

"If they had known the what-the nature of the special shipment-wouldn't they have tried to seize it?"

"That would have made it pretty obvious that they have someone in the embassy, wouldn't you think?"

"There's a man in their Bureau of Internal Security, an

Oberstleutnant named Martin-"

"Who is supposed to be very clever," Boltitz interrupted,

"and who, incidentally, has been promoted Oberst."

Cranz had looked at him thoughtfully. "I hadn't heard about the promotion," he said, and then: "In other words, you're suggesting that if he had to give up something-the special shipment or his man in the embassy-Oberst Martin decided to give up the special shipment?"

"It's a possibility," Boltitz said. "But I repeat, I really have no idea what I'm talking about."

"Neither of us does, I'm afraid," Cranz said, and then, making it sound as if the thought had just occurred to him, asked, "What do you think about going to Lisbon to meet the Condor from Buenos Aires?"

"That's a very good idea," Boltitz replied honestly.

Cranz smiled and nodded. "And since Portugal is not involved in this war," he said, "I wouldn't be a bit surprised if I found some really nice things in Lisbon for the wife and kids."

In Lisbon, Boltitz was once again taken on shopping expeditions, during the course of which Cranz found it nec essary to buy a huge suitcase to carry all the nice things he'd found for the wife and kids.

That night at dinner, Cranz threw another idea on the table, again making it sound as if it had just occurred to him.

"What if we take our people off the airplane?" he asked.

"They're certain to be tired after their flight. We could take them out to dinner…"

"In vino veritas?" Boltitz asked.

Cranz nodded. "We could put them on the Swiss Airways flight to Zurich tomorrow," he said. "I really would like more than an hour or two with them."

And you didn 't think about that until just now, right?

"And if we did that, and went with them, there would be another advantage," Cranz went on with a conspiratorial smile. "We wouldn't have to spend hours typing up a report."

"And then we'd fly back to Cadiz?"

"Why not?"

"What about tickets and visas for them to enter Portugal?"

Boltitz asked.

Cranz tapped the breast of his suit jacket and winked, making it clear that he had considered that some time before.

Boltitz and Cranz rode to the airport in a Mercedes sedan assigned to the Naval Attache of the German Embassy, with a second car, an embassy Opel Kapitan, following them.

Boltitz had known the attache from their cadet days at the

Naval Academy.

At the airport, they found that the people they wanted to see were effectively sealed off in the Transit Lounge since, dejure, the In Transit passengers had not been admitted into

Portugal. That meant that Boltitz and Cranz had more than a little difficulty getting in.

However, a combination of diplomatic indignation (they were carrying diplomatic passports and carnets issued by the

Portuguese Foreign Ministry identifying them as diplomats attached to the German Embassy), Cranz's charm, and a small gift of cash got them through the locked doors fifteen minutes before the Condor landed.

Though the lounge was small and sparsely furnished, there were comfortable leather armchairs. There was also a counter that offered sandwiches and coffee, and, of course, there were rest rooms. On a small table between the doors to the rest rooms someone had erected a neat triangle of rolls of toilet tissue.

"I suppose," Cranz said with a smile, "that the first thing most arriving passengers will want to do is answer the call of nature."

When a waitress came into the room, she offered them coffee and very sweet biscuits.

"When the plane lands, I'll have a word with the crew about unloading their luggage," Cranz said. "And you explain to them that their travel plans have been changed."

Boltitz nodded, at the last second restraining his impulse to acknowledge the order by saying, "Jawohl, Herr Ober sturmbannfiihrer."

If Cranz wants to think that he has convinced me we 're pals, fine.

As soon as the ground handlers had rolled the stairway up to the Condor, Cranz left the terminal and walked toward the airplane without speaking to any of the arriving passengers as they came off the airplane.

And he knows who they are as well as I do. There are pho tographs in all their dossiers.

The first man off the plane was First Secretary Gradny Sawz. Boltitz followed Cranz's example and let him pass into the transient room without giving him any sign of recognition.

Sturmbannfuhrer Werner von Tresmarck, in uniform, followed him. As he passed, he looked at Boltitz carefully, obviously suspecting he was German and wondering why he was there.

Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein came in next.

Although Boltitz knew from his dossier that von Wacht stein had won the Knight's Cross-indeed, had gotten it from the hands of Adolf Hitler himself-it was a little strange to see the man in person. The Knight's Cross was one of the few decorations that still meant something. It was awarded only in cases of really unusual valor in the face of the enemy, not as a reward for long and faithful service to the Nazi party.

"Major von Wachtstein?"

Von Wachtstein looked at him carefully. One eyebrow rose just perceptibly before he nodded.

"I'm Karl Boltitz of the embassy," Boltitz said.

Von Wachtstein waited expressionless for him to go on.

"Actually, Major, I'm Korvettenkapitan Boltitz."

"Oh, the new naval attache," von Wachtstein said, and offered his hand. "How do you do?"

Von Wachtstein's grip, not surprising Boltitz, was firm.

"What are you doing here?" von Wachtstein asked.

"The opportunity came up, and I thought it might be valuable to have a word with you before I went to Buenos Aires."

Von Wachtstein's eyes showed his disbelief.

If he's involved, he's doomed. You can read his face like a newspaper.

"Actually, I'm here-"

"Will this wait, Boltitz, until I take a piss?"

Well, he's obviously not afraid of me. Is that an indication of innocence? Or ignorance?

"Absolutely," Boltitz said with a smile.

The first of the three to come out of the men's room was

Sturmbannfuhrer von Tresmarck. He marched purposefully to

Boltitz. "I understand you're from the embassy?"

"That's right," Boltitz said. "And you're…?"

"Sturmbannfuhrer von Tresmarck," he replied, and then went on: "I… uh… had rather expected someone from the

SS would meet us."

"Obersturmbannfiihrer Cranz is here," Boltitz said with a nod toward the window and the Condor outside, "arranging to have your luggage removed from the airplane."

"What did you say?" von Tresmarck asked quickly.

This one's afraid.

"We're going to spend the night here," Boltitz said, "and then fly on to Berlin via Zurich on Swiss Airways."

"What's that all about?"

"I'm sure Cranz will explain everything," Boltitz said.

That scared him even more. What's he got to hide? Was he turned by the Argentines? By what's-his-name? Colonel

Martin? Or is it something else?

Gradny-Sawz came out of the men's room and walked up to them. "Baron von Wachtstein tells me you're from the embassy," he said. "I'm Gradny-Sawz, the First Secretary of our embassy in Buenos Aires."

"Yes, I know, Herr Baron," Boltitz said.

"What is your exact function at the embassy? What did you say your name is?"

"I'm Korvettenkapitan Boltitz, Herr Baron. Actually, I'm with the Abwehr."

Boltitz looked quickly between the two men.

Van Tresmarck looks even more uncomfortable. Possibly because I said "Abwehr"? The Austrian doesn't look worried at all.

"They're taking our luggage off, Anton," von Tresmarck said. "We're going from here to Berlin via Zurich tomorrow on Swiss Airways."

"Thank God! I need a night in a good bed."

Von Tresmarck laughed dutifully.

Cranz came through the door a moment later, and was the picture of charm and affability as he introduced himself and explained the change in plans. "Boltitz thought it would be a good idea if we had a word with you before we both go to

Cadiz to chat with Kapitan de Banderano. And before he goes on to Buenos Aires. And we didn't think we'd have the time to do that while the airplane was being refueled, so we arranged for us all to travel on Swiss Airways tomorrow."

"But Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop expects me in

Berlin as soon as possible," Gradny-Sawz said.

Did he say that because he doesn't want to talk to us?

Because he wants to get to Berlin for some other reason as quickly as he can? Or to impress Cranz and me with his importance?

"Herr von Ribbentrop was kind enough to tell me the

Sicherheitsdienst had wide discretion in this matter," Cranz said, just coldly enough to put Gradny-Sawz in his place.

Then he turned on the charm again. "And really, Hen Baron, after that long flight-which must have been gruel ing-I rather thought a good dinner and a night in a com fortable bed would be appealing."

"Obersturmbannfiihrer Cranz," Boltitz said as von Wacht stein walked up to them. "This is Major Freiherr von

Wachtstein."

"It's always an honor to meet a holder of the Knight's

Cross, Herr Baron," Cranz said.

Von Wachtstein clicked his heels and bowed.

"We're apparently going to spend the night here, Hans,"

Gradny-Sawz said. "Before flying on to Berlin tomorrow on

Swiss Airways."

"You don't seem very pleased, Herr Baron," Cranz said.

"To the contrary, Herr Obersturmbannfiihrer," von Wacht stein said, smiling. "I'm always delighted to fly in an air plane I know the Amis are not going to try to shoot down."

[THREE]

1810 8 May 1943

Five minutes after Boltitz left Cranz in the bar of the Grand

Palace Hotel to go to his room for a shave and shower before dinner-just long enough to be standing naked next to the bathtub, waiting for the water to heat up-there was an imperious knock at his door.

It was Cranz, as always smiling and affable, but also all business. "Sorry to burst in on you like this, Karl."

"What's up?"

"Before dinner, I want your first reaction to our three friends."

"I don't know if I have one," Boltitz said.

"We all have first reactions," Cranz said. "My first reac tion to you in Himmler's office was that you looked like a submarine officer, not an Abwehr officer."

Boltitz smiled.

"And you certainly had one of me," Cranz said.

"I thought you didn't look very menacing for someone in your line of work."

Cranz laughed. "That's what I want now, about these three, the first thoughts that came to your mind."

"Von Tresmarck is nervous, as if he has something to hide. The Austrian is a typical aristocratic bureaucrat. Von

Wachtstein is a soldier."

"And which of the three is the guilty party?"

"None of them may be."

"But if you had to guess, which one would it be?"

"I don't like to guess about something like that."

"Which one, Boltitz?"

"Especially when the man who comes to mind wears the same uniform as the man asking the question."

"Because von Tresmarck's nervous?"

Boltitz nodded.

Cranz met his eyes for a long moment. "I agree that von

Tresmarck's hiding something. A man may have many rea sons for looking nervous, many skeletons in his closet. But none of them may be treason."

"That's why I don't like to guess about this sort of thing."

"The traitors most difficult to detect, Karl, are those who believe their treason is holy. If I had to guess, it would be the pilot."

"Why not the Austrian? He's already demonstrated his willingness to betray an oath."

"Interesting point," Cranz said. "That, for the moment, slipped my mind."

Why do I think that very little ever slips your mind- especially something like Gradny-Sawz's change of sides?

"And he's a diplomat; diplomats are taught to lie," Boltitz said, tempering it with a smile.

Cranz returned the smile. "After we've had our dinner, why don't you take von Wachtstein out and get him laid?"

"You're serious?"

"Absolutely. It would establish a camaraderie. People tell their friends things they ordinarily wouldn't talk about."

"Says the friendly Obersturmbannfuhrer."

Cranz laughed.

"But I really like you, and I'm not sure about von Wacht stein. I have a feeling…"

And if you have a feeling about von Wachtstein, you prob ably have one about me.

"I would have no idea where to look for women in Lis bon."

"But you're resourceful, Karl. I know that."

[FOUR]

2305 8 May 1943

Over dinner the wine and Champagne flowed freely. When they'd finished, Cranz announced he knew about a nightclub famous for its floor show they all might want to see.

"I'm not much for floor shows," Boltitz announced. "I thought I'd take Hans on a tour of Lisbon's other cultural attractions."

Obviously, Peter decided, our separation has been pre arranged. Cranz is going to find out what he can from Die

Grosse Wienerwurst and von Tresmarck, and Boltitz will do the same with me.

"I'm going to have a nightcap in the bar and go to bed,"

Peter announced.

"We'll start in the bar and see where that leads us."

"I think the senorita likes you, Hans," Boltitz said after the bartender had delivered a second cognac. He nodded toward two young women sitting in a banquette.

"Do me a favor, Karl," Peter said. "Don't call me 'Hans.' "

"OK. Why not?"

"When I was a kid, they called me 'Hansel,' as in 'Hansel and Gretel.' "

Boltitz laughed. "I think the senorita likes you, Peter.

OK?"

"Why shouldn't she like me? Not only am I handsome beyond her wildest dreams, but I look as if I can probably afford her."

"You think they're whores?"

"I would say there is a very strong probability that two young women sitting in a hotel bar smiling at two obvious foreigners are business girls."

"But such attractive business girls-"

"If you want to get your ashes hauled, Karl, go ahead."

"I could put both of them on my expense voucher as

'research expenses.' "

" 'In connection with investigating what happened on the beach of Samborombon Bay'?"

"Well, that's why I'm here."

"Why don't you just ask me, and save the Reich some money?"

"Is there anything wrong with mixing business with pleasure?"

"Look… you don't have to. Just ask me what you want to know."

"You have a girl," Boltitz challenged. "You're being faith full Will wonders never cease? A Luftwaffe fighter pilot turning down some hanky-panky!"

"With all possible respect, Herr Korvettenkapitan Boltitz, whether I have a girl or not is none of your goddamn busi ness. But I will tell you this: Despite the damage it might do to the reputation of Luftwaffe fighter pilots as the world's greatest swordsmen, I am uncomfortable with the notion of this one hopping into bed with the first available prostitute who spreads her legs, even at the expense of the SS."

"I'm not SS, I'm Abwehr," Boltitz blurted.

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes, Herr Major von Wachtstein, there is."

Peter didn't reply, but his face clearly showed that he didn't believe this at all.

And, of course, neither do I, Boltitz had to admit to himself.

So what does this mean?

He does have a lady friend. Where? Is she German, and he doesn 't want to go to her bed in Berlin fresh from a whore's bed here? Or is she Argentinian? Why do I suspect that? And if she's Argentinian, it's entirely possible that she works for our friend Oberst Martin of their Bureau of Internal

Security. Von Wachtstein is a fighter pilot, not an intelligence officer. He would probably find it difficult to believe that the love of his life is an agent.

And if she is, there's the leak from the embassy.

If, of course, von Wachtstein knew where they were going to land the special cargo from the Oceano Pacifico.

"I've been told the women in Argentina are beautiful,"

Boltitz said.

"And they are, and can we change the subject?"

"One more question: Am I going to meet this lady when I'm in Buenos Aires?"

Von Wachtstein met his eyes. "I was just thinking about that," he said. "I don't see how I can keep that from happening.

Yeah, you'll meet her. But let me tell you beforehand that she's nineteen years old, doesn't work for the BIS, and doesn't even know anything happened at Samborombon Bay."

"I had to ask, Peter," Boltitz said.

"Yeah, I guess you did," Peter said.

"What if we take the bottle with us, go to your room, and you tell me what happened at Samborombon Bay?"

"Why do I feel that I don't have any choice?"

"Probably because you know you don't," Boltitz said.

The bartender came to them.

"We'll take the bottle," Peter said. "My friend from the

Abwehr will pay."

"Sefior?"

Boltitz put down some money, grabbed the bottle, and fol lowed Peter out of the bar.

[FIVE]

The Office of Strategic Services

National Institutes of Health Building

Washington, D.C.

0825 9 May 1943

Colonel A. (Alejandro) F. (Federico) Graham, USMCR, the

Deputy Director for Western Hemisphere Operations of the

Office of Strategic Services, was already in a bad mood when the door to his office opened and OSS Director

William J. Donovan walked in and almost immediately made things worse.

Almost exactly twenty-four hours before, Graham had been eating breakfast in his hotel room in Mexico City when the Mexico City Station Chief unexpectedly appeared and wordlessly handed him a message.

URGENT

TOP SECRET

DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN

FROM DIRECTOR

MSG NO 2072 1310 GREENWICH 8 MAY 1943

TO STATION CHIEF MEXICO CITY

FOR DIRECTOR WHO

YOUR PRESENCE REQUIRED HERE NOT

LATER THAN 0800 TOMORROW.

STACHIEF MEXICO CITY DIRECTED TO

PROVIDE FASTEST AVAILABLE TRANS PORTATION TO SAN ANTONIO WHERE AIR

CORPS WILL PROVIDE FURTHER TRANS PORTATION TO WASHINGTON.

ACKNOWLEDGE RECEIPT AND ETA SAN

ANTONIO.

DONOVAN

Graham had tried to telephone Donovan to ask if whatever was so important couldn't wait twenty-four hours while he finished his business in Mexico City, but all he could get was

"the Director is not available and won't be until sometime after six tonight." By six, he thought, he could be in San

Antonio, so he really had no choice but to break his dinner date with a Mexican attorney with close ties to the Mexican president and head for San Antonio.

He could not, of course, explain to the Mexican lawyer that he had been suddenly ordered to Washington, which rubbed the lawyer the wrong way. And then he didn't get to

San Antonio until after seven. And then the B-26 that was flying him to Washington had been forced to make a "pre cautionary landing" in northern Alabama.

He had arrived in Washington with barely time to stop at his apartment for a quick shave, shower, and change of clothes, before reporting at the proper place and the proper time.

At two minutes before eight, he had arrived at OSS Head quarters, in what had once been the National Institutes of

Health Building. There Donovan's secretary told him she had no idea when the Director would be coming in, "but probably a little after nine."

"Well, you made it," Donovan greeted him. "Good." "I thought the hour was 0800," Graham said. Donovan ignored him.

"I was supposed to have dinner last night with a guy who probably could have been paid to let our people into the tele phone company," Graham said. " 'Could have been paid'?"

Donovan parroted. "Right. Past tense. He was miffed when I had to break our dinner date. Latins tend to be miffed when people are late for important meetings."

"And you're Latin, right?" Donovan said, and immediately regretted it. "Yes, I am."

"Raise the ante," Donovan said. "That's important." "I thought it was important," Graham said. "I'd rather that we intercept

German communications than have the Brits do it for us and then send us a 'You Owe Us' bill every month for the next fifty years."

"I want to talk to you about Galahad," Donovan said, sailing on.

"Jesus Christ, Bill!" Graham said incredulously, contemp tuously, "You brought me back to talk about Galahad?"

Donovan nodded.

"We've been over that before," Graham said, coldly furi ous, and added: "You're as bad as the goddamn Mexicans!

You never know when to quit!"

'"The goddamn Mexicans'?" Donovan quoted mockingly.

"Why, Alejandro Federico, I didn't expect to hear something like that from someone like you."

That pushed Graham over the edge. "Goddamn you!" he exploded. "I'm an American, not a goddamn Mexican!

When your ancestors were rooting for potatoes in some

Irish bog, my ancestors were fighting this country's wars, starting at the Alamo! When my great-grandfather was marching on Mexico City with General Winfield Scott, your goddamn ancestors, the goddamn San Patricio Brigade, deserted to the Mexicans!" The San Patricio Brigade had been made up of Catholic Irish-Americans who'd deserted to the Catholic Mexicans. After the war, they were caught and executed.

Donovan smiled but said nothing for almost a full minute.

"Got it out of your system enough to listen to me, A. K?" he said finally.

Graham glowered at him for a moment, then smiled. "If you're waiting for an apology, gringo, don't hold your breath."

"I wasn't asking for an apology," Donovan said.

"Then let me save you some time. No, I won't tell you who Galahad is. Do you want my resignation?"

Donovan ignored the question. "The Navy and the Brits know about him," he said. "Or at least that we have someone in the German Embassy in Buenos Aires."

"The Navy and the English?" Graham asked.

"I don't know who told the other," Donovan said. "But from what you tell me, the Argentine Navy brass is close to the Brits, so that seems likely."

"Our naval attache down there is ONI," Graham said, thoughtfully, referring to the Office of Naval Intelligence.

"It's possible he has some kind of arrangement with the

English."

Donovan nodded but said nothing.

"Or the reverse," Graham said. "The English found out first, and told the ONI. How do we know the English know?"

"Because Churchill wants Roosevelt-Hands Across the

Sea, of course-to give him Galahad's name."

"Do they have 'Galahad'?" Graham asked quickly. "The code name, I mean?"

"No. Or at least it didn't come up."

"What happened on the beach at Samborombon Bay has to be common knowledge to the Argentine brass," Graham said.

"Army and Navy. And they are not stupid. They know there's no way Cletus Frade could have known when and where the Oceano Pacifico was going to try to put that stuff ashore unless he had someone in the German Embassy. And they would like to know who he is. And use him. El Coronel Martin of the BIS is as good as they come-"

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

"If they know, or suspect, anything, they didn't get it from

Frade."

"Do you think they have somebody in the German

Embassy?"

"I'd be very surprised if they didn't. I told you, Bill, this guy Martin is good. But-presuming they do have some body there-I don't think that he, or she, knew anything about the Oceano Pacifico. Frade said Galahad himself didn't know the details until shortly before they made the landing. If he didn't know-"

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

"I have no idea," Graham said.

"And Lindbergh?"

"I don't think they know about that," Graham said firmly.

"The President told me he wants Galahad's name," Donovan said.

"And what did you tell the President?"

"I told him you wouldn't give it to me."

"And?"

"He asked me how I thought you would react if he per sonally ordered you to identify Galahad."

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

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

"And?"

"He said, 'Well, if Colonel Graham feels that strongly about it…' Or words to that effect."

Their eyes met.

"Why don't I like that?" Graham asked finally.

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

"And he caved in?" Graham said, quietly sarcastic.

"You have to understand, A. F., that FDR really does not want to tell Winston Churchill that his intelligence people are reluctant to share their knowledge with their brothers in

London. It might suggest we don't trust them. And that's what he'd have to do, unless he wanted to tell Churchill

Galahad's identity is none of his business."

"In other words, he didn't really cave in?"

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

"Huh," Graham grunted.

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

Galahad at the head of their lists of Things To Do."

Graham granted again.

Donovan smiled, then asked: "The FBI's guy in Buenos

Aires-what's his name? Leibermann? He knows who

Galahad is, right?"

Graham met Donovan's eyes again but said nothing.

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

Graham chuckled. "I'm very fond of Milton Leibermann,

Bill."

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

"That is correct, Mr. Director," Graham said, smiling.

"Then I won't offer that argument."

Graham grunted again. "Bill, you didn't have to tell me this," he said.

"Yeah, I know."

"Thank you."

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

"Is that what they call 'blarney'?"

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

"I'll do that," Graham said. "Thank you again, Bill."

Donovan smiled broadly. "Vaya con Dios, mi amigo," he said, and walked out of Graham's office.

[SIX]

The Office of the Reichsfiihrer-SS

Berlin

1545 10 May 1943

SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Karl Cranz took one step inside the office of Reichsprotektor Heinrich Himmler, came to attention, and with a click of his heels rendered a stiff-armed

Nazi salute. "Heil Hitler!" he barked.

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

"I'm afraid I might be wasting the Herr Reichsprotektor's valuable time-"

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

"I met the Condor from Buenos Aires-"

"You met?" Himmler interrupted again.

"Boltitz and I, Herr Reichsprotektor."

"To properly set the stage, don't you think you should tell me about Korvettenkapitan Boltitz?"

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

"I didn't think Canaris would send a man who wasn't,"

Himmler said.

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

"Fully qualified to take Griiner's place in Buenos Aires?"

"Yes, Herr Reichsprotektor."

"Perhaps I should have said 'reliable enough to take

Griiner's place'?"

"Based on what little I have seen of him, yes, Herr Reich sprotektor."

"I don't like qualified answers, Cranz."

"I beg the Herr Reichsprotektor's pardon. My judgment is that he will unquestioningly obey his orders."

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

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

"And which of the three do you suspect?"

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

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

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

"He's a diplomat," Himmler argued. "He has been trained to conceal what he's thinking, and to lie."

"With respect, Herr Reichsprotektor, I considered that."

"And our man?"

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

"Refresh my memory about that."

"There are Sicherheitspolizei files-"

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

"Herr Reichsprotektor, may I respectfully suggest that if the traitor does turn out to be von Tresmarck, the situation can be dealt with without von Tresmarck's sexual predilec tions coming to the Fiihrer's attention?"

Himmler looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment.

"And apparently neither you nor Boltitz thinks von Wacht stein is the traitor?"

"Herr Reichsprotektor, a shot-or shots-were fired at von Wachtstein, yet I think it odd that he wasn't killed when

Griiner and Goltz were shot in the head."

"So do I," Himmler agreed.

"And I hope to get the true story of that when I speak to the master of the Oceano Pacifico, Kapitan de Banderano."

"When will the ship be in Spain?"

"On the sixteenth or seventeenth, Herr Reichsprotektor."

"And what do we do with our three friends until then? Or until we hear something from von Deitzberg in Buenos

Aires that will clear this up?"

"I was going to suggest, Herr Reichsprotektor, that after they give us their statements-"

"You haven't taken their statements yet?"

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

We'll explain this to the three, and then that you will almost certainly want to talk to them personally after all that has taken place."

"Give them something to think about while they're on leave?"

"That is my suggestion, Herr Reichsprotektor. If you approve, I will see that the commanding officer of the Leib standarte Adolf Hitler-I sent von Tresmarck to their bar racks-authorizes him leave within Berlin. If the Herr

Reichsprotektor could suggest to the Foreign Minister that

Gradny-Sawz be given a few days to visit his beloved

Vienna…"

"Keep them separated, right? And under surveillance?"

"That is my suggestion, Herr Reichsprotektor."

"And the pilot?"

"I'm sure von Wachtstein would like to visit his father."

"At Wolfsschanze?"

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

"I'll have a word with Keitel," Himmler said. "I'm sure he'll understand the situation."

He looked at Cranz for a moment, as if making up his mind, then went on: "Putting down the insurrection in the

Warsaw ghetto has proved to be a greater problem than anyone imagined."

"Oh, really?" Cranz asked, genuinely surprised.

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

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

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

"I see."

"And as you yourself know, Cranz, our Fuhrer-"

"Is sometimes an impatient man, Herr Reichsprotektor?"

Himmler's lips curved in a very tight smile, and he nodded.

"Keitel and I, and Canaris and Bormann, have decided that it is not necessary to burden the Fuhrer with Operation Phoenix problems until we have that situation under control."

"I understand, Herr Reichsprotektor."

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

"I understand, Herr Reichsprotektor."

"Where is young von Wachtstein now?"

"At the Hotel am Zoo, Herr Reichsprotektor."

"Why don't you keep him there until I have a word with the Generalfeldmarschall about giving Generalleutnant von

Wachtstein a few days off?" "Jawohl,

Herr Reichsprotektor."

[SEVEN]

Office of the Director, Abwehr Intelligence

Berlin

1605 10 May 1943

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

Von und zu Waching did not offer an apology for disturbing the Admiral. He knew the Admiral was aware that he regretted wasting his valuable time, and that an apology would do nothing but waste more time. "Boltitz just called,

Herr Admiral," von und zu Waching said. "He's at the Hotel am Zoo with Major von Wachtstein."

A flicker of surprise crossed Canaris's face. "Did you know he was coming to Berlin?"

Von und zu Waching shook his head.

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

"At what hour, Herr Admiral?"

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

"Jawohl, Herr Admiral."

Having just concluded that the glass of Berliner Kindl beer he was drinking in the bar of the Hotel am Zoo, while vastly superior to the beer in Portugal, really had nothing to recom mend it over the Quilmes cerveza of Buenos Aires, Major

Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein turned on his stool as

Korvettenkapitan Karl Boltitz slid onto the stool beside him.

"From the look on your face-" Peter said, smiling at him.

"What look?" Karl interrupted.

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

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

"Mein Gott! What's that all about?"

"I think a good guess would be that the Admiral wants a personal look at the dashing Luftwaffe pilot. Fregat tenkapitan von und zu Waching will be with him. And

Peter…"

"What?"

"They should be here directly."

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

"Who is Whatsisname?"

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

And I shouldn 't have even said that.

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

The waiter looked at him dubiously. "That may be diffi cult, Mein Herr."

"Arrange for it," Karl ordered coldly.

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

Von Wachtstein laughed.

"What's funny?"

"He wanted you to give him money."

"To hell with him."

"If you had given him money, he would have scorned you.

Now he respects you. He understands that you are speaking for the senior officer, not sucking up to him."

"Is that what happened?"

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

"I suppose you're right."

Is that what it is? Is that why I like van Wachtstein?

Because we are both children of senior officers?

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

Canaris impatiently waved the two young officers back into their seats after they'd popped to attention. "My name is

Canaris, Major von Wachtstein," he said, offering his hand.

"I am honored to make your acquaintance, Herr Admiral,"

Peter said.

"Fregattenkapitan von und zu Waching," Canaris said, pointing to him.

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

"Good evening, Sir," Boltitz said.

"We'll have whatever these gentlemen were drinking,"

Canaris said to the waiter.

"Immediately, Herr Admiral," the waiter said.

"I understand you had a difficult time at Samborombon

Bay, Major," Canaris said, "the details of which I am sure will be in Boltitz's report. I wanted to talk to you about the

GrafSpee internees."

Gott! Boltitz thought, chagrined. / didn't ask von Wacht stein one question about the internees!

"I'm afraid I don't know much about them, Herr Admiral,"

Peter said.

Canaris ignored him. "For one thing, despite repeated requests, the late Oberst Griiner was until very recently unable to provide aerial photographs of the place of their internment. And they weren't very good photographs."

"Villa General Belgrano was overcast, and it was raining the day they were taken, Sir," Peter said, adding, "and with a

Leica, not an aerial camera."

Canaris looked closely at him. "You were about to add,

Major?"

"That it's a bit difficult, Herr Admiral, to shoot pictures with a Leica while taking off in a small aircraft from a dirt strip."

"You couldn't just…?" Canaris asked, describing a circle with his hands.

I'll be damned, Boltitz thought. Peter took the aerial pho tographs I used. Why didn 't that occur to me before?

"Not under the circumstances, Herr Admiral."

"Which were?"

Peter looked uncomfortable. "Herr Admiral, the Argen tines forbid aerial photography. My orders were to do the best I could without giving the Argentines cause to revoke our privilege to fly to Villa General Belgrano."

"Your orders from whom?"

"Ambassador von Lutzenberger, Herr Admiral."

"Don't you-didn't you-normally get your orders from

Oberst Griiner?"

Peter's answer had to wait until the waiter, with a flourish, served four glasses of Berliner Kindl. When he had gone,

Canaris looked at Peter, waiting for him to go on.

"Herr Admiral, in this case," Peter said, "there was some question whether the photographs should have been taken at all. First Secretary Gradny-Sawz was concerned that the

Argentines would revoke our privilege to fly to Villa General

Belgrano and brought the matter to the Ambassador for a decision."

"And why do you think Gradny-Sawz was so concerned about losing the privilege?"

Peter hesitated.

"The first thing that came to your mind, Major!" Canaris said sharply.

"Herr Admiral, Villa General Belgrano is a two-day trip by rail and car from Buenos Aires. Four days round-trip-"

"I know the Luftwaffe doesn't think much of the Navy,

Major," Canaris interrupted almost rudely. "But most of us really can multiply by two."

"I beg the Herr Admiral's pardon."

"Go on."

"In the Storch, you can fly there and back in one day."

"So you're suggesting that Gradny-Sawz believed his convenience was more important than my request for aerial photographs?"

"Herr Admiral-" Peter began uncomfortably.

Canaris chuckled, and stilled Peter with a raised hand.

"Those of us in the services tend to have difficulty finding diplomatic ways to say something awkward, don't we,

Major von Wachtstein?"

"Yes, Sir," Peter said.

Why is Admiral Canaris so interested in these aerial pho tographs? Boltitz wondered. And then he remembered what his father had said about listening to what Canaris was not saying. Canaris doesn 't really give a damn about those aerial photographs. So what is he doing? Seeing how von

Wachtstein behaves under pressure?

Canaris looked at Boltitz, then back at von Wachtstein.

"Did you ever wonder, when you got to Buenos Aires, von

Wachtstein, why they had an airplane there and-until you got there-no one to fly it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"The airplane was Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop's idea," Canaris explained. "It was his idea that when the opportunity presented itself, Ambassador von Lutzenberger would make a gift of it to the Argentine Army as a gesture of friendship."

He looked between Peter and Karl again. "So the airplane was sent to Buenos Aires and parked in a hangar at El Palo mar to await the propitious moment to manifest our great respect for the Ejercito Argentine," Canaris went on. "And then I had a thought, which I shared with Oberst Griiner. Did he think, and more importantly, would Ambassador von

Lutzenberger think, that perhaps the aircraft might be more useful to Germany than as a public relations gesture?"

The translation of that, Karl decided, what Canaris was not saying, was that he had somehow talked von Ribbentrop into making a gift of an airplane to Argentina and all along intended that it be used by Griiner.

And is he saying, by not saying that, he has Ambassador von Lutzenberger in his pocket?

"Apparently, von Lutzenberger has not yet found the pro pitious moment to make the gift," Canaris said. "And in the meantime, the airplane has proven useful, has it not?"

"Yes, Sir," Peter said. "It's been very useful."

"And if you accommodate Gradny-Sawz again, sparing him a two-times-two-day-how much is that, four?-trip by train and auto, perhaps the next time the weather will be such that we'll have some better photographs."

"I'll try, Herr Admiral," Peter said. "And I now know the buildings where the officers are being housed."

"What is your assessment of their morale? Are they to a man anxious to return to active service?"

Peter opened his mouth to reply. But before he could speak, Canaris held up his hand to silence him.

"When I ask you a question, von Wachtstein," Canaris said, "I want to hear the first thing that comes to your mind, rather than what you think you should say."

"Jawohl, Herr Admiral," Peter said. "I would suggest that most of them are like me. While we recognize our duty as serving officers, living in Argentina doesn't offer much to complain about."

"That's what I want," Canaris said. "The truth."

He looked at Karl and then back at Peter. "The investigation of the Samborombon Bay incident can't be concluded until

Boltitz and Cranz speak with Kapitan de Banderano,"

Canaris went on. "And, of course, until we hear from von

Deitzberg in Buenos Aires. Which means you will have a few days on your hands here. What are your plans?"

"I'd hoped to see my father, Sir."

"Well, perhaps that can be worked out," Canaris said. He turned to Boltitz. "I'd like a few minutes with you, Boltitz."

"Of course," Karl said.

Canaris stood up.

Peter and Karl immediately rose.

Canaris put out his hand to Peter. "It is always a privilege to meet a holder of the Knight's Cross," he said.

"It has been my privilege, Herr Admiral," Peter said, and clicked his heels as he curtly bowed his head.

"If you do see your father, please give him my compli ments; I get to see very little of him these days."

"Of course, Herr Admiral," Peter said.

Canaris nodded at Peter, then marched out of the bar, fol lowed by Boltitz and von und zu Waching-who neither spoke nor offered his hand.

The Admiral's Horch was parked in front of the hotel.

There was the sound of solemn organ music-funeral music, Karl thought-from the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial

Church a few yards away. Canaris motioned for Boltitz to get in front beside the driver. Von und zu Waching sat in the back, followed by Canaris.

"I don't want him going to Wolfsschanze," Canaris said.

"Jawohl, Admiral," von und zu Waching said.

"Interesting young man, Boltitz," Canaris said. "An honest one, I think. Possibly because of his heritage. I would be very distressed to learn that he has been lining his pockets by taking thirty gold coins from the enemy."

He means more than he said. What didn 't he say?

"Herr Admiral, I have the feeling that he is honest."

"I'm disappointed to hear you say that, Boltitz," Canaris said. "In our business, we can afford to trust no one. Or prac tically no one."

Then he made an impatient gesture with his hand, a signal that he had said all he was going to say.

"Until further notice," von und zu Waching said, "stay as close to him as you can, and call every few hours."

"Jawohl, Herr Fregattenkapitan," Karl said, and left the car.

XIII

[ONE]

The Lobby Bar

The Hotel am Zoo

Kurfiirstendamm, Berlin

1720 10 May 1943

Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein watched Admiral

Canaris, von und zu Waching, and Boltitz walk out of the bar and then sat down at the banquette.

What the hell was that all about?

Canaris didn't touch his beer; the other guy drained his.

Obviously, Canaris wanted to see me personally.

But why here?

Did I let anything slip?

A short, muscular, blond Luftwaffe officer in his early twenties slid onto the banquette seat beside him. "If the Hen Major doesn't mind, I will have the Admiral's beer," he said, and reached for Canaris's untouched beer.

"Willi! Jesus Christ!" Peter said.

"He's not coming back, is he? I mean, when I was coming back from the pisser, I saw him head for the door."

"He's not coming back," Peter said. "Help yourself."

"Waste not, want not, I always say," Hauptmann Wilhelm

Johannes Griiner said, and took a deep swallow from the glass.

Peter and Willi Griiner had flown in France together. His father was-had been-Oberst Karl-Heinz Griiner, late Mil itary Attache of the German Embassy in Buenos Aires.

Maybe he's drunk. He doesn't act like a man whose father was murdered less than a month ago. Or even particularly surprised to see me in Berlin.

"How's it going, Willi?" Peter asked.

"Can't complain," Willi said. "And how are things in far off Argentina? My old man been riding your ass?"

My God, he doesn 't know!

"What have they got you doing these days?" Peter asked.

"I have-had-your old squadron."

"Had?"

"New assignment."

"Doing what?"

"I can't tell you, as much as I would like to. State secret."

Korvettenkapitan Karl Boltitz walked up to the banquette and looked down at them.

"Willi, say hello to Karl Boltitz. Karl, this is my old friend

Willi Griiner. Wilhelm Johannes Griiner, known throughout the Luftwaffe as 'Griiner the Great.' "

"And justifiably so," Willi said. "Aside from Peter, here, of course, I am both the greatest fighter pilot and the greatest swordsman in the Luftwaffe."

Boltitz chuckled and put out his hand. "Hello, Willi," he said.

I said "Griiner" three goddamned times, and he didn't pick up on it!

Maybe he doesn't want to?

"U-boat man, are you?" Willi asked.

Karl nodded.

"You guys have more balls than I do," Willi said. "More than Peter and I do combined. Can I buy you a beer?

"I haven't finished this one yet," Karl said, and picked his up.

"Griiner's been telling me he now has, or had, my old squadron," Peter said.

" 'Had'?" Karl parroted.

"And Hansel here was about to tell me how badly my father has been riding his ass," Willi said, almost visibly wanting to change the subject.

Karl looked at Peter and met his eyes. "And your father is?" Karl asked.

"He's the Military Attache in Buenos Aires," Willi said.

"Where Hansel here has been sitting out the war." He turned to Peter. "Not that I blame you, Hansel."

When Peter didn't reply, Willi grew serious. "You used to erupt when I called you Hansel, Hansel. So what's wrong?

What's going on here that when I sat down made me think I was the last guy in the world you wanted to see?"

"Jesus!" Peter said, and looked at Karl.

"Obviously, Hauptmann Griiner," Karl said, "there has been some sort of administrative slipup, some breakdown in communications-"

"Whatever you're trying to say, say it," Willi interrupted rather unpleasantly.

"Not here," Karl said. "I think we should step outside."

"What's wrong with here?" Willi asked. "What the hell is going on?"

"Please come with me, Hauptmann Griiner," Boltitz said formally, making it unmistakably an order. "And you, too, von Wachtstein."

He stood up, and Peter followed his example. Willi Griiner looked up at them for a moment, then shrugged and got to his feet and followed them out of the bar, through the lobby, and onto the Kurfiirstendamm.

[TWO]

Fiihrerbunker #3

Wolfsschanze

Near Rastenburg, East Prussia

1720 10 May 1943

Generalleutnant Graf Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein-slight, nearly bald, and fifty-four years old-had been in his small, windowless, two-room suite only ten minutes, just long enough for a quick shower and shave, when he heard a barely audible knock on the steel door. He was reasonably sure that his caller was either his aide de-camp or, more likely, his batman; he had left his boots in the corridor outside his room so his batman could have them polished by the dinner hour.

Von Wachtstein was barefoot and bare-chested, and he was wearing only his riding breeches, with the broad red stripe of a general down the seams, which were held up by normally out-of-sight-and almost shabby-dark blue braces. His tunic was on the bed, where he had tossed it when he entered his quarters.

A good deal had been done, of course, to make the quarters of the senior officers assigned to the Fiihrer's Wolfsschanze headquarters as comfortable as possible. But Fuhrerbunker

#3 was a reinforced-concrete bunker, designed to withstand direct hits from heavy artillery and even the largest aircraft bombs. Despite the genius of German engineering, its con struction gave it two temperatures-too hot and too cold.

Today was a too-hot day, and von Wachtstein had been reluctant, after his shower, to climb into his uniform again.

He had instead made a pot of coffee on a small electric burner. He didn't like coffee, and this was bad coffee, but he was drinking it for the caffeine. He knew that he would have trouble staying awake at dinner-the Fiihrer liked to speak, often at length, after dinner. Since coffee was not served at the Fiihrer's table, staying awake was sometimes difficult.

"Come!" von Wachtstein called loudly, so his voice could he heard through the door.

Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel, head of the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, entered the room. More than a little embar rassed, Generalleutnant von Wachtstein jumped to his feet. "I hope the Generalfeldmarschall will excuse my appearance-"

Von Wachtstein was really surprised to see Keitel. When

Keitel had something to say to him, one of his aides would be dispatched to summon him either to the Fiihrer's personal bunker or to the bunker he shared with Admiral Wilhelm

Canaris and Generaloberst Alfred Jodl, the chief of the

Armed Forces Operations Staff.

Wolfsschanze was about four hundred miles from Berlin and about four miles from Rastenburg. It was a large com pound-an oblong approximately 1.5 by.9 miles-which was entirely surrounded by two rings of barbed wire, machine-gun towers, machine-gun positions on the ground, and an extensive minefield.

Just inside the outer wire perimeter-separated as far as possible from each other to reduce interference-were some of the radio shacks and antennas over which instant commu nication with the most remote outposts of the Thousand Year Reich was maintained.

Inside the compound itself were two compounds, both ringed with barbed wire and machine-gun positions.

One of them was the Fiihrer's compound, which con tained thirteen bunkers, including the largest of all, the

Fiihrer's bunker, which stood apart from the others.

Across a narrow street were two bunkers that housed

Hitler's personal aides and doctors, Wehrmacht aides, the

Army personnel office, the signal officer, and Hitler's secre taries.

To the east, Reichsmarschall Hermann Goring had both an office building and his own personal bunker. Between these and the Fuhrerbunker was a VIP mess called the "Tea

House."

Next closest in distance from the Fiihrer's bunker were the offices and bunker assigned to Keitel, Jodl, and Canaris. It was a five- or six-minute walk from that bunker to the

Fuhrerbunker, and when the Fiihrer wished to speak to someone, he was usually annoyed if it took that long for that individual to make an appearance.

Keitel never wanted to be far away when the Fiihrer sum moned him.

The bunker where Generalleutnant von Wachtstein and a dozen other general officers had their quarters was an addi tional four- or five-minute walk.

Von Wachtstein could not remember Keitel ever coming to his quarters.

Keitel held up his hand to silence von Wachtstein's apol ogy, and what could have been a small smile crossed his aristocratic face. He closed the door behind him, then turned back to von Wachtstein. "Karl," he said. "How would you like a few days off?"

"I don't think I understand, Herr Generalfeldmarschall."

"A day, perhaps two, in Berlin, and then perhaps another few days in Pomerania?"

"I have not requested leave, Herr Generalfeldmarschall."

"That wasn't the question, Karl," Keitel said, smiling.

"The question was if you would like a few days'-say a week's-leave?"

"It's been quite a while since I had some time off, Herr

Generalfeldmarschall," von Wachtstein said.

"Yes, I know," Keitel said. "And what is it the English say,

'all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy'?'

"I've heard that, Herr Generalfeldmarschall."

"When you're in Berlin, you might want to stop at the

Hotel am Zoo."

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Herr Generalfeldmarschall."

"Just a suggestion, Karl. I thought that since you were on leave, perhaps you might want to spend a little time with your son. He's staying at the am Zoo. Canaris just tele phoned. Apparently, the admiral brought him back from

Argentina for some sort of conference."

"That was very kind of the Admiral," von Wachtstein said.

"And the leave is very kind of you, Sir."

"You and Canaris are close friends, are you not?" Keitel asked.

"I cannot claim that privilege," von Wachtstein said. "I have the privilege of the Admiral's acquaintance, of course."

"Odd. I somehow had the feeling you were close."

"No, Sir."

"I wouldn't mention this at dinner, Karl," Keitel said.

"Just go out to the airfield in the morning and catch the

Dornier courier. With a little bit of luck, perhaps no one will even notice you're gone."

"Jawohl, Herr Generalfeldmarschall."

"Give my best regards to your son, Karl."

"Thank you, Herr Generalfeldmarschall."

[THREE]

The Hotel am Zoo

The Kurfurstendamm, Berlin

1720 10 May 1943

Boltitz walked across the narrow lane to the tree-lined island that separated the main traffic on the Kurfurstendamm from the rows of hotels, restaurants, and expensive shops.

"Where are we going?"

Boltitz pointed to the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church and started walking in that direction.

"You don't think the SS has gotten around to putting microphones in there? Don't be too sure," Willi said.

"Watch your mouth, Herr Hauptmann," Karl snapped.

"Yes, Sir, Herr Korvettenkapitan, Sir," Willi said, and saluted Boltitz contemptuously.

"Willi!" Peter protested.

They entered the foyer of the church. There was no longer the sound of organ funeral music, but a dozen or more peo ple-obviously mourners-filed past them.

Boltitz waited for the last of them to leave before speak ing. "Hauptmann Griiner," he began finally. "I'm afraid there's very bad news."

"About my father, obviously," Willi replied. "What?"

"You should have been notified, Herr Hauptmann-"

Karl said.

"Let's have it, for God's sake!" Willi interrupted.

"Von Wachtstein," Boltitz said.

"Willi, your dad is dead," Peter said. "I'm really sorry I had to be the one to tell you."

Willi looked at Peter, then, after a moment, nodded and asked, his voice low but under control: "How did it happen?"

"I'm afraid I don't have the authority to provide details,"

Boltitz said.

"Obviously, I'm an English spy, right?"

"For God's sake, Karl!" Peter protested.

Boltitz met his eyes but said nothing.

"We were on an intelligence operation that went wrong,"

Peter said.

" 'We were on'?" Willi asked. "You were there?"

Peter nodded. "I was there."

"What happened?" Willi asked. "What kind of an intelli gence operation?"

"That, I'm sorry to have to say, is a state secret," Karl said.

"Fuck you and your state secrets, U-boat," Willi said.

"We were trying to get the officers from the GrafSpee out of

Argentina-" Peter said.

"That's quite enough, Major von Wachtstein," Boltitz snapped.

"-and when we landed, they were waiting for us," Peter said. "Your father was shot. He died instantly, Willi."

"And they missed you, right?"

Peter nodded.

"You always were a lucky bastard, Hansel," Willi said.

He shrugged and then looked at Peter again. "Who is they, as in 'they were waiting' for you?"

"Maybe the Argentines, maybe the Americans," Peter said. "I don't really know."

"I strongly advise you, Major von Wachtstein, to heed my order that you have already said more than you should have," Boltitz said.

"Or you'll turn me in, Heir Korvettenkapitan? Do what your duty requires you to do."

"Don't get your ass in a crack, Hansel," Willi said, and turned to Boltitz. "One more question, Herr Korvet tenkapitan. If it's not another of your fucking state secrets, that is. Where is my father buried?"

"Goddamn it, Karl, he's entitled to know that," Peter said.

"If you won't tell him, I will."

"The remains of your father, Herr Hauptmann," Boltitz said, "are being returned to Germany for interment. With full military honors, of course."

"When? Now? Or after the Gottverdamnte war?"

"They are en route to Germany now," Boltitz said. "I'm sure you will be given further details when they are avail able."

Willi considered that for a moment, then looked at Peter.

"Stick around a minute, Hansel," he said. "I won't be long."

Peter nodded.

Willi went into the nave of the church and walked up the aisle to the third row of chairs. He stopped there, with his hands behind his back, and looked toward the altar.

"You didn't expect to see him, did you?" Boltitz asked.

Peter looked at him but didn't answer.

Willi stood motionless for a full minute, then suddenly came to attention and saluted the cross crisply-a military, stiff-fingers-to-the-brim-of-his-uniform-cap salute, rather than the Nazi salute-then did a crisp about-face movement and walked back to Peter and Karl.

"I'm going back to the am Zoo," he announced. "If U-boat will let you come with me, Hansel, I'll buy you a drink." He turned to Karl. "Come with us or not, U-boat, I don't really give a shit."

"Karl's all right, Willi," Peter said. "He's just doing his duty."

"I don't want to intrude," Boltitz said.

Willi walked out of the church foyer.

"I have the feeling I should come with you, von Wacht stein," Karl said. "To make sure you don't run off at the mouth."

"Do what you think you have to do," Peter said, and walked quickly to catch up with Willi.

After a moment, Boltitz trotted after them.

The table where they had been sitting was, surprisingly, still available. As soon as they had taken seats, the waiter reap peared.

"A bottle of your finest schnapps, Herr Ober," Willi ordered. "Actually, a bottle of your best cognac would be better."

"Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann."

"The old man hated schnapps," Willi said. "But he did like his cognac."

Peter and Karl didn't reply.

"Did you know him, U-boat?" Willi asked.

"I did not have that privilege, Herr Hauptmann," Karl said.

"I thought maybe you did," Willi said. "Since you both work for Canaris. And if you're going to keep calling me

'Herr Hauptmann,' take a walk."

"Are you going to stop calling me 'U-boat'?" Karl asked.

Willi considered the question for a moment. "Probably not," he said with a smile. "I have a tendency to name people, don't I, Hansel? And U-boat seems to fit you, U-boat."

Willi reached in his trousers pocket and came out with a stuffed and well-worn wallet. He searched through it, came out with a photograph, and handed it to Boltitz.

"The late Oberst Karl-Heinz Griiner," Willi said.

Karl looked at it for a long moment, then handed it back.

"When did it happen?" Willi asked.

"Nineteen April," Peter said, "about quarter to ten in the morning."

He looked at Karl defiantly, but Karl said nothing.

The waiter delivered a bottle of Martel cognac and three brandy snifters, and began to pour as Willi returned his father's photograph to his wallet.

"I'll be damned," Willi said. "Here's another moment in time captured on film."

He took another photograph from his wallet and laid it on the table.

It showed Leutnant Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein and Leutnant Wilhelm Johannes Griiner, both wearing black leather flight jackets, onto which were pinned second lieu tenant's insignia and Iron Crosses. They were standing under the engine nacelle of a Messerschmitt ME-109, holding between them the bull's-eye fuselage insignia torn from a shot-down Spitfire.

"A momentous occasion, Hansel," he said. "The day before we were enlisted swine, and here we are as commis sioned officers."

"I remember," Peter said. "France. Calais, I think. Or maybe Cherbourg. Nineteen-forty."

Did 1 shoot that Spit down? Peter wondered. Or did Willi?

Or was that piece of fuselage fabric just one of the half dozen around the officers' mess and we picked it up to have the photo taken?

"The Old Man was more pleased to see that goddamn offi cer's pin on my epaulet than he was with the Iron Cross."

"Mine, too," Peter said. "It really bothered him when he had to say, 'my son, the sergeant.' "

Willi chuckled. "You're an academy man, right, U-boat?"

Willi challenged. "You never served as an enlisted swine?" "I was never an enlisted man," Karl said, and picked up his glass. "Gentlemen, the late Oberst Griiner."

Willi looked at him for a moment before touching his glass to his. "Papa," he said. "Oberst Griiner," Peter said.

They drained their glasses. Willi immediately picked up the bottle and refilled them. "That was taken just before I was shot down," he said. "During which process Hansel here saved my ass." "Excuse me?" Karl said.

"A Spitfire got me," Willi said. "Sonofabitch came right out of the sun and did a real job on me. Took off the whole left stabilizer. And my engine, of course, was gloriously on fire. I didn't think I was going to get out of the airplane." "And you said Peter-"

"Hansel got the Englishman, and then circled around me until he saw me safe on the ground." "I don't understand,"

Karl said.

Willi looked at him for a moment before speaking.

"Some asshole who never flew anything but a desk got the idea that it would be a good idea-to keep parachuting Eng landers from getting back into another airplane, you see-to make targets of them after they bailed out. And some of our guys were stupid enough to listen to him. The natural result of that-which apparently never occurred to our asshole- was that the English started shooting at us when we had to bail out."

Karl looked as if he was about to say something but then changed his mind.

"You were a POW?"

"Oh, yeah. For four happy months."

"You escaped?"

"The Old Man somehow arranged for me to be the escort officer when we exchanged seriously wounded," Willi said.

"And what are you doing now?" Karl asked.

"I was hoping you'd ask, U-boat. Sorry, I can't tell you.

State secret."

"You're not flying anymore?"

"I didn't say that," Willi said, then turned to Peter.

"So tell me, Hansel, are you back for good, or are you going back to Argentina?"

"I'm going back to Argentina," Peter said.

"And how is Argentina? And don't tell me about the beef; the Old Man already did. You getting any?"

"Beef, you mean?"

Willi laughed. "You know what I mean, Hansel."

"There are some very good-looking women in Argentina,"

Peter said.

"The question was 'Are you getting any?' "

"A gentleman never discusses his sex life," Peter said.

"You're not a gentleman, you're a fighter pilot," Willi said. "Or were." He turned to Karl. "You ever been to

Argentina, U-boat?"

"I'm going to Argentina very soon," Karl said.

"To do what?"

"Where I will fly him around in my Feiseler Storch,"

Peter said.

"Is that what they have you doing, flying a StorchT

Peter nodded.

"And you can look yourself in the mirror in the morning?"

"Absolutely," Peter said.

Willi shook his head.

"Speaking of sex," he said.

"Who was speaking of sex?" Peter asked.

"I'm going to have to get a room, since I think I am going to be too shitfaced to take one of the girls home." He inclined his head toward the bar, where half a dozen young women were sipping cocktails and looking their way.

"I've got a room here," Peter said.

"My apartment isn't far," Karl said. "You're welcome to stay with me."

"U-boat, don't tell me you're a faggot," Willi said.

Boltitz's face whitened. "You have a dangerous mouth,

Griiner," he said.

"Jesus Christ, Willi!" Peter protested.

Boltitz stood up.

"Oh, for God's sake, U-boat! Can't you take a joke?"

"I'm going to the pisser," Boltitz said. He walked toward the men's room in the lobby.

"So what's with you and U-boat, Hansel?" Willi asked.

"He's investigating… what happened in Argentina."

"What's that got to do with you?"

"Somebody had to tell the Americans, or the Argentines, that we were coming."

"And you're one of the suspects?" Willi asked incredu lously.

"They brought three of us back to make reports," Peter said.

"Four eight six six one," the man who answered the tele phone said.

"Korvettenkapitan Boltitz for Fregattenkapitan von und zu

Waching."

"What's up, Boltitz?" Von und zu Waching asked.

"Sorry, Sir, I didn't recognize your voice."

Von und zu Waching said nothing, and it took Karl a moment to recall Canaris's habit-now obviously adopted by von und zu Waching-not to waste time with unnecessary words, such as accepting an apology.

"Oberst Griiner's son-he's a Luftwaffe Hauptmann- was in the bar when you and the Admiral were here. He's now with von Wachtstein."

There was another long silence.

"It was necessary to tell him that Oberst Griiner is dead."

"And in what detail?"

"Von Wachtstein told him that it was in connection with the GrafSpee officers."

"Hold on," von und zu Waching said.

A long moment later, Admiral Canaris's voice came over the telephone: "Before I see you tomorrow," he began without any introduction, "I want you to think about von Wacht-stein's reaction to Griiner."

"Jawohl, Herr Admiral."

"What are they doing now?"

"Drinking. They're old friends. Von Wachtstein saved

Gruner's life-"

"Stay with them," Canaris interrupted. "In vino veritas."

"Jawohl, Herr-"

"I have just been informed von Wachtstein's father will be on the first flight tomorrow," Canaris interrupted again. "Von und zu Waching will telephone von Wachtstein there in a few minutes to tell him."

"Yes, Sir."

The telephone went dead.

"I will require two rooms," Karl said to the desk clerk.

"I'm very, very sorry, Herr Korvettenkapitan, but there are simply no rooms."

Karl took his credentials from his coat and showed them to the clerk.

"This is official Abwehr business," he said. "If you can't provide the rooms, get the manager."

The desk clerk turned from Karl and made some sort of signal with his hand, which confused Karl until a man in his middle thirties, wearing a well-cut suit, got out of an arm chair and walked to the reception desk.

"Papers, please," he said to Karl.

"Who are you?"

The man said nothing, but produced a Gestapo identity disk. This was a serially numbered, elliptical piece of cast aluminum embossed with the Seal of State. It gave the bearer immunity from arrest, authority to arrest anyone without specifying the charge, and superior police powers over all other law-enforcement agencies. Illegal possession of a Gestapo identity disk was punishable by death, and loss of his disk by a member of the Gestapo was punishable by immediate dismissal.

Karl showed him his Abwehr credentials.

"The gentleman," the desk clerk said helpfully, "has requested two rooms for official business."

"It had better be official business," the Gestapo agent said.

"I beg your pardon?" Karl said.

"I saw you with those two Luftwaffe officers in the bar.

This is official business?"

"As I understand the arrangement, Abwehr officers don't question the Gestapo, and the Gestapo doesn't question us,"

Karl said coldly. "I presume the rooms are equipped for sur veillance?"

"Of course," the Gestapo agent said.

"Good," Karl said. "Please have the still photography film processed immediately, two copies. One should be sent to

Obersturmbannfiihrer Karl Cranz-"

"Obersturmbannfiihrer Cranz? I don't seem to know the name."

"That's surprising," Karl said. "He's on the personal staff of the Reichsprotektor."

The Gestapo agent stared intently into Boltitz's eyes for a moment, then took out his notebook. "That's C-R-A-"

"A second set of prints should be sent to Fregattenkapitan von und zu Waching at the Abwehr," Boltitz interrupted. "Is there any reason why this can't be done by eight in the morning?"

"No, I can't think of any."

The desk clerk now had two room keys in his hand.

Boltitz put his hand out for them. The desk clerk looked to the Gestapo agent for directions. The Gestapo agent nodded, and the desk clerk dropped the keys into Boltitz's hand.

"Good," Boltitz said. He looked at the Gestapo agent.

"Fregattenkapitan von und zu Waching and Obersturmbann fiihrer Cranz will be expecting those photographs at eight in the morning."

"I understand," the Gestapo agent said.

"Thank you for your cooperation," Boltitz said.

The Gestapo agent nodded but didn't speak.

Boltitz walked back to the lobby bar with irreverent thoughts running through his head: What Cranz and van und zu Waching-for that matter, Himmler and Canaris-are liable to see in the photographs are two heroic Luftwaffe pilots sleeping off a drunk. Alone.

Well, at least they'll have proof that I've been doing my job.

What a despicable way to earn your living, hanging around a hotel lobby, waiting for the opportunity to photo graph officers in bed with some slut!

Where do they recruit Gestapo agents? In a sewer?

Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein and Haupt mann Wilhelm Johannes Griiner were no longer at the table where Boltitz had left them.

They were now at the bar, with the young women who had been smiling at them before and a Wehrmacht General Staff

Oberstleutnant and an SS-Hauptsturmfiihrer.

To the visible annoyance of the Army and the SS men, the young women seemed far more fascinated with the two fighter pilots (one of whom had the Knight's Cross of the

Iron Cross hanging around his neck) than with them.

If one is a nice German girl, one does not go to bed with a young man one has met thirty minutes before in a bar.

Unless, of course, he is a hero, in which case one is not a slut but a patriotic. German woman making her contribution to the Final Victory.

Griiner saw him. "U-boat!" he cried. "You're back! We thought you'd submerged!"

Boltitz dangled the hotel keys in front of him.

"How the hell did you get those?" Willi asked. "They told me there wasn't a room in the house."

"Never underestimate the submarine service, Willi,"

Boltitz said.

"Ladies, may I present Korvettenkapitan Boltitz?" Willi said.

The young women all offered their hands. One of them, a tall, buxom woman with dark red hair who looked Hungarian, held on to Boltitz's hand far longer than the circum stances demanded. "And does the Korvettenkapitan of the

Submarine Service have a first name?" she asked.

"He does," Boltitz said. "It's Karl, and Karl suggests that it might be very pleasant to go upstairs and sip Champagne while we watch the people walk up and down the Kurfurs tendamm."

"That would be very nice," the red-haired woman said.

"My name is Charlotte."

She gave him her hand again.

The waiter appeared. "Major Freiherr von Wachtstein?"

Peter nodded.

"You're a baron?" one of the women, a brunette with a short haircut and a low bodice, asked.

"Only on odd Thursdays," Peter said.

"There is a telephone call for you, Herr Baron," the waiter said. "The house phone is in the lobby, to the right."

"Who the hell can that be?" Peter asked.

"It's probably the loving mother of your four precious children," Willi said.

"You're married?" the brunette asked, disappointed.

"Only his wife is married," Boltitz said.

The joke won more laughter than it deserved.

Peter turned and walked toward the lobby door.

"And while he's lying to his wife about how he plans to spend the evening," Willi said, "I think I'll jettison some fuel.

Can I trust you, U-boat, not to lose the girls while I'm gone?"

"I'll do my best," Karl said.

Charlotte swung on her stool so that her calf pressed against Boltitz's leg.

Von Wachtstein returned to the bar first.

"Was that your wife, Herr Baron?" the brunette asked.

"He doesn't have a wife," Boltitz said.

Peter flashed him a quick, dirty look.

"Actually, it was a sailor," he said. "A friend of the Herr

Korvettenkapitan."

"Von und zu Waching?" Boltitz asked. "Or the other sailor?"

"Von und zu Waching," Peter said. "My father's going to be here in the morning."

"Your father's coming?" the brunette asked.

"Generalleutnant Graf von Wachtstein," Boltitz offered helpfully.

The brunette's face showed how pleased she was to have snared a Luftwaffe fighter pilot with the Knight's Cross, whose father was a both a nobleman and a senior officer.

The question, then, is whether Peter will nail her or remain faithful to the nineteen-year-old Argentine he told me about.

And if he does nail the brunette, does that mean he's not really in love with the Argentine, or simply that he's a healthy young male who is not about to kick something like the brunette out of bed?

[FOUR]

The Hotel Provincial Mar del Plata, Argentina 0830 11

May 1943

"What are you doing out of bed?" Senora Dorotea Mallfn de

Frade inquired of her husband as she entered the sitting of the hotel suite where they had spent the second and third nights of their marriage.

The question was in the nature of an indignant challenge.

The General Belgrano Suite was in the center of the top- fifth-floor of the hotel. It consisted of a bedroom, a sitting, a dining, and a maid's room (where Enrico Rodriguez had insisted on sleeping). It was furnished with what Clete con sidered typical Argentine furniture: large, heavy, dark, and uncomfortable-particularly the bed.

Its windows overlooked the promenade, a wide concrete walk that separated the curved-front hotel from the beach and the South Atlantic Ocean.

Cletus Frade, who was wearing the red silk bathrobe he had found in his father's closet still in its Sulka Rue de

Castiglione Paris wrappings, turned from the window to look at his wife. She was wearing a white lace negligee that did virtually nothing to conceal the details of her anatomy.

"I tried very hard not to wake you, baby," he said, gen uinely contrite. "I couldn't sleep."

"And what have you been doing?"

"I've been looking out the window," he said, indicating the window.

"And what did you see?"

"The waves are still going up and down," he said. "Aside from that, not much is happening out there."

That wasn't exactly true.

Leaning against the wall of the promenade was a man in a snap-brim hat and a business suit, looking up from his news paper from time to time toward the General Belgrano Suite.

Clete was sure he was in the service of the Bureau of Internal

Security.

Enrico Rodriguez was leaning on the same wall, ten feet from the BIS agent, keeping him under surveillance. His broad smile indicated that he found the very idea of keeping a man on his honeymoon under surveillance ludicrous.

Dorotea walked to the window, pushed the curtain aside, and looked for herself.

"Who's the man in the suit? One of Coronel Martin's men?"

"Probably," Clete said.

"That's ridiculous," Dorotea said. "Is that going to happen all the time?"

"I don't know," Clete said. "Probably."

"They obviously think you're up to something," she said.

"I'm not," Clete said.

"I know," she said. "You promised to tell me if you were, and I trust you."

"My orders, baby, are not to fall out of the marriage bed," he said. "And to keep my eyes and ears open. That's all."

"So you told me," she said. "And I trust you."

"Just so I understand, you trust me, right?"

"Are you getting a little bored, my precious?"

"I may not be very bright," Clete said, "but I am smart enough to know that the wise bridegroom on his honeymoon does not tell his bride he's bored."

"That, of course, means you are, my precious," Dorotea said. "I rather hoped you would be."

"Excuse me?"

"Why don't we get out of here? We could be in Buenos

Aires in time for a late lunch. I could do what I have to do this afternoon. We could have a nice dinner-maybe at the

Yacht Club-and then we could drive home in the morning."

Clete was surprised at the emotion he felt when Dorotea referred to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo as "home." He put his arms around and hugged her. "Why go to Buenos

Aires? Why don't we just go home, baby?"

"There are some things at Mother's I want to take home," she said. "And then I have to see my obstetrician."

She did it again. Not "things at my house," but "things at

Mother's." And whatever it is, she wants to take it "home."

Clete hugged her a little more tightly.

Obstetrician? What the hell is that all about?

"You want to see your obstetrician? Honey, is everything all right?"

"As far as I know."

"Then why do you have to see your obstetrician?"

"I've never seen him."

"You told me you'd been to the doctor."

"I went to Dr. Schimmer, our family doctor," Dorotea explained. "And he said I should go to see Dr. Sarrario- he's the obstetrician; he delivered me and Little Henry-as soon as I could."

"Why haven't you been to see him before now?"

"Before now, I didn't have this," she said, holding up her left hand, now adorned with a wedding band. "I couldn't go to

Dr. Sarrario in the family way without being married."

"And you don't think he'll be able to guess that you got pregnant a couple of months ago?"

"Of course he will, but now that I'm married, he won't say anything."

He laughed. "And with a little bit of luck, he will spread the word that for a premature child, our baby was born remarkably large and healthy?"

"Of course he will. That's understood," Dorotea said. "I like it when you say 'our baby.' "

"Yeah, me too."

She gave him what she intended to be-and Clete initially accepted as-a very tender kiss and nothing more. But some how things got out of control, and it was twenty minutes later when Clete opened the window, put his fingers in his mouth, and summoned Enrico with a shrill and piercing whistle.

He smiled when he saw the whistle had startled the people walking along the promenade, including Coronel Martin's

BIS agent, who immediately looked up at the hotel in some thing close to alarm, saw Clete, and then pushed himself off the railing and turned around and began to study the waves lapping at the beach.

[FIVE]

The Hotel am Zoo

The Kurfurstendamm, Berlin

1230 11 May 1943

When Generalleutnant Graf Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein caught sight of his youngest son coming down the stairway into the lobby of the hotel, his first thought was that-to judge from his pallor and bloodshot eyes-Hansel had spent the previous evening in the arms of Bacchus, and probably in those of one of the young women who frequented the hotel's bar.

His second thought was that he was a fine-looking young officer. And his third thought was that Major Freiherr Hans Peter von Wachtstein was his only remaining son and thus the last of the von Wachtstein line.

Peter spotted his father and walked quickly up to him. He gave the Nazi salute, muttered "Heil Hitler!", and then gave his father the military salute.

The Graf raised his right arm from the elbow in a sloppy

Nazi salute.

"Poppa!" Peter said.

"It's good to see you, Hansel," the Graf said, putting out his hand.

They shook hands.

The Graf turned to the officer standing beside him, an erect, tall, dark-haired Hauptmann. "I don't believe you know my aide, do you?" the Graf asked. "Hauptmann Sig mund von und zu Happner."

"A very great honor, Herr Baron," von und zu Happner said, popping to attention, clicking his heels, and nodding his head in a bow.

Peter gave him his hand. "Hello," he said.

"The ever-efficient Ziggie has found a compartment for us on the three-oh-five to Wachtstein… from here, right, Zig gie?" The Graf made a vague wave in the general direction of the am Zoo railroad station.

"Yes, Herr Generalleutnant."

"And once you go to the station and get the tickets, Ziggie, you are also on leave," the Graf said.

"The Herr Generalleutnant is very kind, but I am perfectly willing to stay with you, Sir."

"Hansel and I are going home, where we are going to drink beer and eat sausages and do nothing that will require your services. Go see your family, Ziggie. I'll meet you here a week from today, or get other word to you."

"If the Herr Generalleutnant-"

"Go get our tickets, Ziggie," the Graf interrupted.

"Jawohl, Herr Generalleutnant."

Von und zu Happner came to attention again, clicked his heels, and walked away from them.

"Very efficient young man," the Graf said. "And a devout

National Socialist. He was recommended to be my aide by

Generaloberst Jodl. His mother is Jodl's cousin."

Their eyes met.

Peter wondered if Jodl had simply been seeking a posting for his cousin's son far from the sound of guns, or whether

Jodl wanted someone he could trust watching Generalleutnant von Wachtstein. Or perhaps both.

This is not the time or the place to ask.

"I thought perhaps we would spend a couple of days at

Wachtstein, and then perhaps go to Munich. Claus von

Stauffenberg is in a hospital there."

"How is he?" Peter asked.

"His recovery has been slow, I'm afraid," the Graf said.

"The question before us now is how do we pass the time until our train leaves? Would you like a glass of beer?"

"There are two people I would like you to meet," Peter said.

"Here?"

"One of them is Korvettenkapitan Boltitz. He works for

Admiral Canaris. The other is an old comrade, Hauptmann

Willi Griiner. I had the unfortunate duty yesterday of having to inform Willi that his father has given his life for the

Fatherland. There was some communications problem."

The Graf asked only, "Where are these officers?"

"I thought we could have lunch together. They should be here any minute."

The Graf nodded. "Would you like a glass of beer?" he asked. "Whenever I fly, I seem to dehydrate."

Peter waved his father ahead of him toward the lobby bar.

They found an empty banquette, and a waiter quickly appeared.

"Two Berliner Kindl, please, Herr Ober," the Graf ordered.

"Jawohl, Herr Generalleutnant."

Willi Griiner came into the bar first, moments before Karl

Boltitz.

"I have your photograph in my office, Hauptmann," the

Graf said. "It was taken, I believe, the day after you and

Hansel were commissioned."

"Yes, Sir," Willi said.

The Graf waved him into the banquette.

"Please accept my condolences on the loss of your father," the Graf said. "Hansel just informed me."

"That's very kind of you, Sir. Thank you."

"Korvettenkapitan Boltitz, Herr Generalleutnant," Karl said, rendering a bent-elbow Nazi salute.

"I believe I have the privilege of your father's acquain tance," the Graf said, returning the salute. "Vizeadmiral

Boltitz?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I'm always happy to meet a friend of my son who is the son of one of my friends," the Graf said.

"Thank you, Sir."

Unfortunately, Karl thought, / am not his friend. I am an intelligence officer who has been forced to conclude that your son may well be a traitor.

"Hansel tells me that you work for Admiral Canaris," the

Graf said. "I knew him years ago, but unfortunately, even at

Wolfsschanze, I hardly ever get to see him."

"The Admiral is a very busy man, Herr Generalleutnant."

The waiter appeared with two large glasses of beer.

"What will you gentleman have?" the Graf asked.

"The same," Willi and Karl said on top of each other.

"Are you stationed in Berlin, Hauptmann Griiner?"

"I am-or was-outside Berlin. I had Hansel's old squadron, Sir, but I've been transferred."

"Oh? And where are you going now?"

"With all respect, Sir, I'm not allowed to say."

So he does have something to do with a state secret, Karl thought. Last night, I thought he was just being clever about that. I'll have to find out what that is.

Hauptmann von und zu Happner came into the bar and found them. Introductions were made.

"Will you have a beer, Ziggie, before you go home?" the

Graf asked.

"If the Generalleutnant is sure that-"

"We've been over that, Ziggie," the Graf interrupted.

"Then I will decline with thanks, Herr Generalleutnant.

There's a train to Dresden in about twenty minutes."

"Have a nice time, Ziggie. Please present my regards to

Frau von und zu Happner."

"Thank you, Sir," von und zu Happner said, clicked his heels, gave the Nazi salute, and walked out of the bar.

"Hauptmann," the Graf said. "Hansel and I are on the three-oh-five to Wachtstein. There's not much to do there but drink beer and eat sausages, but if you don't have better plans, we both would be pleased to have you join us."

"That's very kind of you, Sir," Willi said, "but I'm on the five-fifteen to Augsburg."

"Pity," the Graf said.

I wonder, Boltitz thought, what the state secret in Augs burg is?

"And I have to leave you, too, Peter," Boltitz said. "Fre gattenkapitan von und zu Waching telephoned me a few moments ago to tell me I have been charged with organizing

Oberst Griiner's funeral. He wants to talk to me about it now."

Willi looked at him but said nothing.

"Willi, I'll want to talk to you about that, obviously,"

Boltitz said. "Where can I get in touch with you?"

"That may pose a problem," Willi said. "I am under very specific orders to tell no one where I'm going."

"I'm sure the Luftwaffe will know," Boltitz said. "And be able to tell me."

"Good luck," Willi said wryly. "They couldn't find me to tell me my father had… died, could they?"

"I'm sure that can be straightened out," Boltitz said.

He stood up. "It was a very great pleasure to meet you,

Herr Generalleutnant Graf," he said, clicking his heels and bobbing his head in a curt bow.

"It was my pleasure," the Graf said.

"Have a pleasant leave, Peter," Boltitz said, putting out his hand to him.

"I'll try," Peter said.

Boltitz came to attention again, gave a stiff-armed Nazi salute, then walked out of the bar.

The Graf, Peter, and Willi watched him walk out, but none of them said anything.

[SIX]

The Admiral's Mess

Office of the Director, Abwehr Intelligence

Berlin

1305 11 May 1943

Korvettenkapitan Karl Boltitz stepped into the small, darkly paneled private dining room of the Director of Abwehr Intel ligence, came to attention, rendered the Nazi salute, and barked, "Heil Hitler!"

Canaris's reply was to point to a chair.

"Good afternoon, Herr Admiral, Herr Fregattenkapitan,"

Boltitz said, and sat down.

A steward in a stiffly starched short white jacket immedi ately began to ladle soup onto their plates.

"If we are to judge from the excellent photography so kindly provided to us by the SS," Canaris said, his fingers grazing over a large brown envelope, "von Wachtstein was not at all interested in the recreation available to him at the am Zoo-"

"Certainly less interested than Hauptmann Griiner," von und zu Waching said, "and yourself."

My God, that Gestapo swine photographed me and the

Hungarian redhead!

Canaris looked at Boltitz.

What the hell am I supposed to say?

"It has been my experience, Boltitz," Canaris said after a long moment, "that when one has nothing to say, one should say nothing."

"You might consider it a learning experience," von und zu

Waching said. "The SS is second to no one in their zeal."

What could have been a smile crossed Canaris's face.

Then he picked up the brown envelope and held it out to the steward.

"Have this burned," he said.

"Jawohl, Herr Admiral."

"Do you see some significance in von Wachtstein's chastity?" Canaris asked.

"Herr Admiral, he is involved with a woman in Argentina. I believe he thinks he's in love."

"You would say, then," Canaris said, "that he is not a can didate for a pink triangle?"

"No, Sir. I saw nothing that would suggest that at all."

"And his reaction to his unexpected encounter with

Hauptmann Griiner?" Canaris asked.

It was the question Canaris had told Boltitz to expect, and he had given a good deal of thought to it. Providing an answer posed ethical problems for him.

There was no question in his mind that there was an ele ment of guilt, perhaps even shame, in von Wachtstein's reaction to Willi Griiner. The question was, however, what the guilt or shame meant.

Von Wachtstein's version of what had happened at Sam borombon Bay-related in his hotel room in Lisbon, when he had been drinking but not drunk-was straightforward.

He and Goltz had just stepped ashore from the Oceano Paci fico's ship's boat, and were greeting Griiner, when they were suddenly fired upon, before they had even begun to unload the special shipment from the boat.

Von Wachtstein claimed there were at least three shots.

The first two killed Griiner and Goltz. The third-but per haps there'd been more-had been aimed at him as he was bending over Griiner's body.

According to von Wachtstein, the sailors from the Oceano

Pacifico had been "terrified and useless," and he had had to drag both bodies from where they had fallen to the ship's boat. They had then returned to the Oceano Pacifico.

The only people who could verify-or disprove-von

Wachtstein's story were the sailors from the Oceano Paci fico, including Kapitan de Banderano, and Boltitz couldn't interrogate them until the ship tied up in Cadiz. In a week or more.

In the meantime, he had to consider that it was entirely possible that von Wachtstein had not been harmed because the riflemen did not want to kill him. If they were good enough snipers to kill two men with two shots to the head, why had they missed a third?

The most logical reason for their "miss" was that they regarded von Wachtstein as a friend, or if not a friend, as someone who had been useful to them.

That line of reasoning presumed von Wachtstein was a traitor. Boltitz was not willing to make that accusation. Not yet, not without further proof.

It was possible, of course, that the shame and guilt that showed on his face when he saw Willi Griiner could simply be the reaction of an officer who felt doubly guilty, doubly shamed, because he had not been able to carry out his orders, and was still alive when Oberst Griiner-who was both his commanding officer and the father of his comrade-in-arms- was dead.

Boltitz was aware that he would like to believe that von

Wachtstein had simply been lucky. That the Argentine-or

American-sharpshooters had shot at him and missed. He had to admit it was significant that none of the six Oceano

Pacifico crewmen had been shot, either.

That could suggest that the snipers had fired three-or more-carefully aimed shots as quickly as they could, then immediately left the area to avoid detection.

Boltitz was aware that he liked von Wachtstein and that

Generalleutnant von Wachtstein reminded him of his father, and that this might tend to color his reasoning. Yet he knew his duty was to find the truth, whether or not he liked it.

And his duty was to report to Canaris the truth, not his suspicions. An officer like Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von

Wachtstein, who practiced, as Boltitz himself did, adherence to the officer's code of honor was entitled to the benefit of the doubt.

"Herr Admiral," Karl Boltitz said carefully, "von Wachtstein and Hauptmann Griiner served together. Griiner believes that when he was forced to parachute from his aircraft over

England, von Wachtstein saved his life-at considerable risk to his own-by protecting him until he landed."

"I didn't know that," Canaris said,

"And, Sir, I learned that before France, they served together in Spain, and were commissioned from the ranks on the same day. They are good friends."

"And what was von Wachtstein's reaction to seeing his old friend?"

"He was very uncomfortable, Sir."

"And you have an opinion about that?"

"Hauptmann Griiner had not been informed that his father had been killed, Sir. Von Wachtstein had to tell him. I would have been uncomfortable in that circumstance. And, in my opinion, I felt that von Wachtstein was made more uncom fortable because he wasn't injured or killed at Samborom-bon and Oberst Griiner was."

Canaris nodded but said nothing.

"Herr Admiral, Hauptmann Griiner told us both-and

Generalleutnant von Wachtstein-that he is under orders not to reveal his present assignment to anyone. He let slip that he's going to Augsburg."

Canaris looked at von und zu Waching and nodded his head.

"Messerschmitt has developed a new fighter for the Luft waffe," von und zu Waching said. "They call it the ME-262. It is propellerless, and supposedly capable of speeds approaching nine hundred kilometers per hour. When it is operational, the Fiihrer expects it will remove the Allied bomber fleet from our skies. Adolf Galland has been charged with its final testing and making it operational. Hauptmann

Griiner has been selected by Galland as one of his pilots."*

"The Messerschmitt ME-262, developed in great secrecy, was first flown on 18 July

1942. It was powered by two Junkers Jumo turbojet engines, each producing about

2,000 pounds of thrust, which gave it a maximum level speed of approximately 540 mph. It was armed with four 30mm MK108 cannon and had a range of approximately

650 miles. Adolf Galland, one of the Luftwaffe's most successful fighter pilots, and a national hero, became Germany's youngest general officer when he was promoted in

1942 at age thirty. Shot down flying an ME-262 in the last days of the war, he was captured by the English.

"In Augsburg?" Boltitz asked, then asked the question that had sprang to his mind, "Nine hundred kilometers per hour?"

"Sounds incredible, doesn't it?" Canaris said. "One should never underestimate German engineering genius. Or the genius of Reichsmarschall Goring."

He looked at Boltitz for a moment, then went on:

"Galland is a friend of mine," he said. "Despite the press of his duties, I am sure that he will feel Griiner can be spared long enough to participate in the funeral of his father.

And I'm sure that von Wachtstein would like to be there, to pay his last respects to Oberst Griiner. Perhaps it might be wise for you to plan to leave for Argentina immediately afterward. It might be possible for you and von Wachtstein to travel together."

"Jawohl, Herr Admiral."

"What are the von Wachtsteins' plans?"

"They are going to Pomerania, Herr Admiral. Gener alleutnant von Wachtstein mentioned something about going to see a friend of theirs, an Oberstleutnant von Stauffenberg, who is in a hospital in Munich."

"The families are old friends," Canaris said. "Von Stauf fenberg was severely wounded in Africa."

"What would the Herr Admiral have me do?" Boltitz asked.

"Just what you are doing now, Boltitz," Canaris said.

"Jawohl, Herr Admiral."

What I'm really going to have to do, Karl Boltitz thought, is remember this conversation as carefully as I can, and then hope I can guess what he really means by what he has not said.

[ ONE ]

4730 Avenida Libertador

Buenos Aires

1215 11 May 1943

El Coronel Juan Domingo Peron, fresh from a shower and wearing a blue silk robe, was sitting on the bed in the top floor master bedroom of the mansion across from the

Hipodrome Argentine. There he consulted a small leather bound address book and found the number he was looking for.

He dialed all the digits but one, laid the address book on the bedside table, adjusted the pillows of the bed against the headboard, and, swinging his legs up onto the bed, arranged himself comfortably against the pillows.

He dialed the last number. It was answered on the second ring.

"Coronel Martin."

"Juan Domingo Peron. Buenas tardes, Alejandro."

"Buenas tardes, mi Coronel. How may I help you?"

Peron chuckled. "You're going to have to remember, Ale jandro, that you are now a coronel yourself, and that protocol permits coronels to address one another by their Christian names."

"That's very gracious of you, Juan Domingo," Martin replied. "But may I suggest, with all possible respect, that there is a vast difference between a coronel so junior that the shellac is still on his insignia, and a very senior coronel who is also the Special Assistant to the Minister for War?"

"That of course, would have to be taken into account, Ale jandro, by a wise officer-such as yourself-who under stands the value of discretion," Peron said charmingly. "But I really wish you would call me Juan Domingo."

"I will be honored, Juan Domingo. Thank you."

"Juan Domingo is calling, Alejandro, not the Special

Assistant to the Minister for War."

"And how may I help you, Juan Domingo?"

"I have a small problem that you might possibly help me with."

"Whatever I can do, Juan Domingo."

"I can't imagine that the BIS would have Sefior Cletus

Frade under surveillance, Alejandro, but I really have to get in touch with him, and I thought perhaps that-perhaps you heard something over a cup of coffee-you might have an idea where he is."

"Oddly enough, Juan Domingo, just a few minutes ago, while I was having a cup of coffee, I did hear something about Sefior Frade. He and Sefiora Frade were seen on the highway from Mar del Plata not more than an hour ago."

"If you had to guess, Alejandro, were they headed for

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo?"

"No, Sir, it was this side of Estancia San Pedro y San

Pablo. If I had to guess, I would guess that Sefior and Sefiora

Frade are coming to the city."

"I tried both the estancia and Llao Llao," Peron said- referring to a luxury hotel in San Carlos de Bariloche.

"I believe the story that the Frades were going to Llao

Llao on their wedding trip was a diversionary maneuver,

Juan Domingo."

"I can understand that. A man is entitled to be left alone on his honeymoon."

"My mother-in-law couldn't seem to understand that,

Juan Domingo."

Peron laughed appreciatively.

"I would say, Juan Domingo-just a guess, you under stand-that you could probably reach Sefior Frade in about an hour at his home on Coronel Diaz, or at the home of

Sefior Mallfn."

"Not at the Frade guest house?" Peron asked.

"I think they would go to either Senora Mallm de Frade's family home, or to the house on Coronel Diaz."

"I have the Coronel Diaz number. You wouldn't happen to have the Mallm number?"

"I think I've got it here somewhere, Juan Domingo," Martin said, and a moment later furnished it. Peron carefully added it to the correct page in his address book.

"You have been very obliging, Alejandro," Peron said.

"It has been my pleasure to be of some small service."

"I'll call one day next week, and if you can find the time, we'll have lunch."

"That would be delightful."

"Thank you again, Alejandro," Peron said, and hung up.

He swung his legs out of bed and telephoned both numbers, leaving the same message at each: He would be grateful if

Sefior and Sefiora Frade would take dinner with him tonight, that he would call back in an hour to confirm the details.

He hung up, and sat thoughtfully for a moment. He was pleased that he had finally thought of calling Martin. He should have thought of that before wasting time calling the estancia and Llao Llao.

He consulted his address book again and dialed a number.

"Generalmajor von Deitzberg, por favor. Coronel Peron of the

Ministry for War is calling."

Von Deitzberg came on the line a moment later. "Buenas tardes, Juan Domingo. It's always a pleasure to hear from you."

"Likewise, Manfred," Peron said. "About tonight…"

"Unfortunately, he's more interested in his bride than in sipping Champagne with a group of diplomats?"

"Actually, the problem was finding him. I have finally done so."

"Then he'll be at the hotel… the Plaza… tonight?"

"I think under the circumstances that it would be nice if an invitation was waiting for him at the door."

"He's coming alone?" von Deitzberg asked.

"An invitation for both Frade and his wife," Peron said.

"And unless something happens, we will arrive together."

"There will be invitations at the door, Juan Domingo," von Deitzberg said. "And I look forward to seeing you. Inci dentally, Senor and Senora Duarte have accepted."

"Splendid. I think this personal meeting is important,

Manfred."

"And I quite agree, Juan Domingo."

"The… unfortunate… business has to be put behind us."

"I agree."

"I'll see you tonight, then, Manfred," Peron said, and hung up.

It isn't enough, Peron thought, that I arrange for Cletus to attend the reception for von Deitzberg and- von Ldwzer, He is so like his father, unpredictable, unwilling to forgive. I have to make sure that he accepts the apology of the German officer corps for the death ofJorge. And that he understands the importance of doing so.

Which means I will have to have a word with him-in pri vate; not with his bride listening-before we go to the Plaza tonight.

"Tio Juan," Maria-Teresa said, "are you about finished?

I'm hungry."

Peron turned to look at her, and then smiled. She was in the bed beside him in a pink bathrobe. "You are hungry, my precious?" he asked, and crawled onto the bed on his knees and looked down at her.

She was tall and thin, with long, rich dark-brown hair, which she wore parted in the middle.

"Yes, I am," she said, pouting.

"Would you like to go somewhere for a pastry? Some ice cream? Or are you really hungry?" He reached down and gentry tugged at the bow of the cord holding the bathrobe together.

"Where?" she asked.

"Well, we could drive downtown," he said. The belt came loose and he unfastened it completely, then very slowly opened the bathrobe. Her breasts were small and firm, and the light brown tuft of hair between her legs was adorable.

I don't care how beautiful a woman is otherwise, disgusting pendulous breasts overwhelm any other physical charms. And if her pubic hair looks like a pampas swamp that could conceal a herd of feral pigs, she has absolutely no appeal to me.

"Are we going to be naughty?" Maria-Teresa asked.

"Well, I don't know. Would you like to be naughty?"

"Oh, I don't know. Sometimes I like it and sometimes I don't."

He leaned down and kissed one of her nipples.

"That's naughty, Tio Juan!" Maria-Teresa said. It was more a comment than a protest.

"Not as naughty as I would like to be," he said.

"I think I would rather walk across the street and have a strawberry cake in the Jockey Club."

"You would, would you?"

"Can we do that?"

"If I do that for you, what are you going to do for me?"

"You mean 'what am I going to do naughty to youT " she said.

He bent over her and kissed her other nipple. "Well?"

Maria-Teresa slipped her hand inside his dressing gown.

"Is this naughty enough for you?"

"It's a beginning," he said.

"If I'm really naughty, will you take me to Harrod's and buy me a dress?"

"Yes, but not today. Today Tio Juan has things to do. Per haps tomorrow."

"Oh," she said. "You really want to be naughty, don't you?

You're ready right now."

"You are so beautiful!" he said.

[TWO]

1728 Avenida Coronel Diaz

Palermo, Buenos Aires 1305

11 May 1943

The mansion's twelve-foot-high cast-iron gates were already open when Clete turned off Avenida Coronel Diaz, and he drove to the front door without stopping. He was still in the process of leaving the car when the door opened and a parade of servants, led by Antonio the butler, marched out of the house. Antonio and the house keeper walked to the car's passenger side. The maids and cooks-the females-formed a line to the left on the stairs, and the gardeners, the handyman, and the other males formed a line on the right.

At the last moment, Sargento Rudolpho Gomez, Argentine

Cavalry, Retired, stepped out of the house, took a quick glance around, and took up a position next to the men.

Clete smiled.

This is not the first parade you 've been a little late for, is it,

Rudolpho? I know the feeling.

That's a new suit. The one you had on at the wedding looked like something you borrowed.

You thought you were the picture of civilian sartorial splendor, but obviously Antonio did not.

Antonio opened Dorotea's door. "Welcome to your home,

Sefiora," he said. "It is a great pleasure for all of us to have you here."

"Thank you very much, Antonio," Dorotea said. She shook the housekeeper's hand, then followed Antonio to the stairs. There she was introduced to the men. After shaking hands and saying a word or two to each, she crossed the stairs to the women, who curtsied as Antonio gave their names.

She knows the drill, Clete thought admiringly. She handled that like a pro. Did her mother include how to do things like that in their little "what every bride should know " chats?

Antonio bowed Dorotea into the foyer, and Clete trotted up the stairs after them.

"Nice suit, Rudolpho," he said as he passed him, and was not at all surprised to hear Rudolpho call after him,

"Antonio got it for me, Senor Clete. Three of them. He said it was your wish."

Just inside the massive doors, a Winchester Model 12 riot gun was leaning against the wall, and a leather bandolier filled with brass 12-gauge 00-buckshot shells for it hung from the back of a chair.

And somewhere under his new suit there's a.45.

He caught up with Antonio and Dorotea, who were standing in the center of the foyer.

"And when would Sefiora like luncheon?" Antonio asked.

"As soon as it's convenient," Dorotea said.

"Would broiled chicken be satisfactory, Sefiora?"

"Broiled chicken would be fine," Dorotea said. "I'll need a few minutes to freshen up. Anytime after that."

"Si, Sefiora. Sefiora, Padre Welner is in the downstairs sit ting. Is it your desire that he join you for lunch?"

What the hell does he want? Clete wondered. Then: How did he know we were going to be here?

Dorotea paused just perceptibly before replying. "Please tell Father Welner that Senor Frade and I would be delighted if he was free to join us for luncheon."

"Si, Sefiora," Antonio said, and added: "Sefior Clete, el

Coronel Peron telephoned. He said that he hopes you and the Sefiora are free this evening, and that he would telephone again at one-twenty to explain."

Sonofabitch! The last thing I want to do tonight is have dinner with that sonofabitch! What the hell's going on? Is that damned Jesuit involved?

"How interesting," Dorotea said. She looked at Clete, and he shrugged to indicate he had no idea what Peron wanted.

She turned to Antonio. "We'll be down directly," she said.

"I'm all right, baby," Clete said. "Maybe Welner knows what's going on. I'll ask him."

"Don't you think you'd better freshen up?" she asked.

The translation of that is I either go upstairs with you or I will be sorry.

Oh, Jesus! Is that what she's thinking? A little quickie before lunch? It must be at least five hours since we have shared the now-sanctioned joys of connubial bliss.

"Your wish, my dear, is my command," Clete said, a la

Clark Gable.

She started walking up the wide staircase. He followed, which gave him reason-again-to think that her rear end was one of the wonders of the modern world. But when they were inside the master suite with the door closed behind them, he quickly learned that she did not have anything carnal in mind.

"Not now!" she said, holding him at arm's length.

"Sorry."

"What are we doing here?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"I thought we were going to the house on Libertador."

"Tio Juan is in the house on Libertador," he said.

"I'd forgotten," she said. "How long is that going to go on?"

"You want me to tell him to move out?"

"I don't suppose you could really do that, could you?" she asked, and then, without giving him a chance to reply, asked:

"And Rudolpho?"

"Rudolpho comes with your wedding present," Clete said a little awkwardly. "He was here making sure it glistens."

"Whatever are you talking about?"

"You've always liked the Buick," he said. "So, happy mar riage, Dorotea, the Buick is yours."

She didn't reply.

"I thought you'd like it," he said. "If you'd rather, you can have the Horch."

"Don't be absurd," she said. "If I started to drive your beloved Horch, you would have a fit."

"Then what's wrong?"

"I'm trying to get used to the idea that Rudolpho is going to follow me around with a shotgun, the way Enrico follows you."

He didn't say anything.

"You really think it's necessary?" she asked.

"My uncle Jim used to say that you never need a gun unless you need one badly. I suppose the same thing could be said about a-"

"A bodyguard?" she interrupted.

He shrugged, then nodded.

"Do you think he would mind if I got him one of those little caps, so he would look like a chauffeur?"

Clete thought about that briefly, then replied, "Yes, I do. I think he would mind."

"Well, then, I'll'guess I will have to get used to Rudolpho the bodyguard, won't I?"

"Baby, I wouldn't want to live if anything happened to you," Clete blurted.

"Odd," she said. "That was precisely what I told myself when I realized that Enrico was going with us on our wedding trip." She looked at him a minute, then touched his cheek with her hand and changed the subject. "Why don't you ask

Father Welner how we can get Peron out of the guest house? I really hate the prospect of calling this museum home."

"OK," he said.

"I'll be down in about fifteen minutes," she said. "I want to take a good bath before I go-Rudolpho and I go-to see Dr.

Sarrario."

"OK," he said.

"Cletus, thank you very much for the Buick," she said. "I really like that auto."

"With all my worldly goods, baby, you are now endowed.

Weren't you listening?"

"I must have missed that part," she said. "Anyway, if you have convinced me that you have been a good boy while I was off to the baby doctor, I may have a little present for you myself."

"What kind of a present?"

"What kind of a present can a wife give a man who has everything?" she asked.

Then, looking into his eyes and smiling sweetly, she placed her hand firmly on the symbol of his gender.

"Think about it, husband of mine," Dorotea said, and walked into the bedroom.

The telephone in the downstairs sitting began to ring as Cletus walked through the door.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite Jesuit," he said.

Father Welner, a Champagne glass in his hand, rose grace fully to his feet from a red leather couch and, smiling, walked to Clete with his hand extended. "The value of the compliment would depend, of course, on how many mem bers of the Society of Jesus you know."

"Counting you?" Clete chuckled, and began to count by folding down the fingers of his left hand. When he stopped, two fingers remained extended.

"That many?" Welner chuckled. They shook hands. "And how do you find married life?" he asked.

The door opened, and Antonio announced, "Senor Clete, el

Coronel Peron is on the line."

Clete could see no reaction on the priest's face. He walked to a telephone and picked it up. Just in time, he stopped him self from saying "mi Coronel." "Tfo Juan," Clete said.

"What a pleasant surprise."

If I sound as insincere as I feel, he's going to know just how pleased I really am.

"So you two didn't go to Bariloche, to Llao Llao, as you announced you would," Peron said. "That was very naughty of you, Cletus, but under the circumstances probably a very wise thing to do."

"How did you find out about that?" Clete asked.

"I called out there," Peron said. "I really had to talk to you."

"How'd you know I was here?"

"I took a chance, and Antonio told me you were expected within the hour."

That'll be the last time you'll tell this bastard anything about me, Antonio.

"Well, I'm glad you tried here. What's up?"

"Ambassador von Lutzenberger is giving a reception tonight-eight o'clock at the Plaza Hotel-in honor of

Deputy Foreign Minister von Lowzer and Generalmajor von

Deitzberg."

"Oh, really?"

Something touched his arm, and he looked. Welner was offering him a glass of Champagne.

"And I really think you-and, of course, Dorotea-should attend."

"If I may speak frankly, Tfo Juan," Clete said. "I have two problems with that…"

Welner jabbed him painfully in the ribs with his index finger.

Clete glowered at him.

"Which are, Cletus?" Peron asked.

"First, I'm on my honeymoon; and second, we haven't been invited, so far as I know."

"There will be invitations at the door," Peron said. "I thought the three of us could go together."

Welner jabbed Clete again, not quite so hard as the first time, and when Clete looked at him, nodded his head "yes."

"That would be very nice, if it's convenient for you,"

Clete said.

Welner nodded approvingly.

"And I would like to have a few words with you pri vately," Peron said. "Before we go to the Plaza."

"You mean this afternoon?"

"What are your plans for this afternoon?"

"Dorotea's going to the doctor…"

"Nothing wrong, I hope?" Peron asked.

There was something in his voice that caused Clete to think, I'll be damned. The bastard sounds genuinely con cerned.

"Just checking in with her obstetrician," Clete said.

"Good," Peron said. "A young woman, a delicate young woman like Dorotea, cannot be too careful during her first pregnancy."

And that sounded sincere, too. Damn!

"You're right, of course."

"Then Dorotea will not be at Coronel Dfaz this after noon?"

"She's going right after lunch," Clete said.

"Do you suppose I could come there then?" Peron asked.

"Better yet, Tfo Juan," Clete heard himself saying. "Why don't you come over here right now, if that would be con venient, and have lunch with us? Father Welner is already here."