Secret Honor

As I suspect you damned well know. Welner's presence here is not a coincidence.

"You sure I wouldn't be intruding? It is important that we have a word-"

"Don't be silly, Tio Juan," Clete said.

"Then I shall leave directly," Peron said. "I'm at the Lib ertador house."

"Fine, then we'll see you in just a few minutes."

Clete put the telephone it its cradle, looked at the Cham pagne glass in his hand, raised it to his mouth, and drained it.

"You're supposed to sip Champagne," Welner said.

Clete extended his right hand, the fist balled, except for the center finger, which pointed upward.

"You don't have an invitation to where?" Welner asked, smiling.

"To a reception at the Plaza. A German Embassy recep tion. You didn't know?"

Welner shook his head.

"You being here is just one of those coincidences, right?"

"Claudia was sure you wouldn't be here."

"Excuse me?"

"She wants to remove some personal things," Welner said.

"She wanted to do that when she was sure you wouldn't be here, and she asked me to be here when she did it."

"Where is she?" Clete asked.

"She should be here any minute," Welner said.

Clete pulled a bell cord hanging next to the door. Antonio appeared a moment later. "Senora Carzino-Cormano and probably one or both of her daughters will be here shortly.

And so will el Coronel Peron. Is feeding them going to be a problem?"

"None whatever, Senor Clete."

"In the future, Antonio, I don't want you telling any one-in particular el Coronel Peron-where I am, or where my wife is."

"I never have, Senor Clete, and I never would."

"Then how did he know we were going to be here?"

"I have no idea, Senor Clete."

"Then I owe you an apology," Clete said. "I should have known better. Sorry, Antonio."

Antonio inclined his head, accepting the apology. "Will there be anything else, Senor?"

"No, thank you."

When Antonio had left the sitting, Clete looked at the priest. "In English, we call that 'el footo in el moutho,' " he said. "I'm very good at it, as you just saw."

Welner chuckled. "So was your father," he said. "Why do you think Peron wants you to go to the German's reception?"

The door opened before Clete could reply, and Senora

Claudia Carzino-Cormano walked into the sitting. She was alone. She went to Welner and gave him her cheek. Then she turned to Clete. "You weren't supposed to be here," she said as she gave him her cheek.

"I didn't know I was going to be," he said. "Dorotea has to go to the obstetrician."

"Everything's all right?"

"So far as I know. We got a little bored in Mar del Plata,"

Clete said. "And she hasn't been to the obstetrician yet.

Name of Sarrario. You know him? Is he any good?"

"The best," Wrelner said.

"He delivered both Isabela and Alicia," Claudia said.

"Why hasn't she seen him before?"

"Because she didn't have a wedding ring before," Clete said.

"He is something of a prude." Claudia chuckled. "Did

Father Kurt tell you what we're doing here?"

"He said you were going to burgle the place, and wanted him here for an alibi. Claudia, you don't ever have to sneak in here. And take whatever you want."

"There are some personal things…"

"You wouldn't be interested in buying the place, would you?" Clete said.

"No, I wouldn't."

"You can't be thinking of selling the place, Cletus," Welner said.

"Why can't I be?"

"Because it's the Frade mansion."

"The Frade museum is more like it. I don't like it, Dorotea hates it, and, for that matter, my father referred to it as 'my money sewer on Coronel Di'az.' "

"Yes, he did." Claudia laughed.

"But it never entered his mind to sell it," Welner argued.

"Why not? Do you know how many people are working here? In this almost-always-empty marble barn? The only reason we're here today is because Peron is in the guest house, and I can't think of a way to get him out."

"It is the Frade mansion," Welner repeated. "If you sold it, people would talk."

"Not that I give a damn, but what would they say? 'Gee, it took him a long time to figure out he was pouring money into that museum of his for no good reason, and to decide to get rid of it'?"

"It would suggest you are having financial difficulty…,"

Welner said.

"Yes, it would, Cletus," Claudia agreed. "Try to think of it as an advertising expense."

"… and had to move into the guest house. That would almost certainly cause you business problems, Cletus."

"He's right, Cletus," Claudia said.

And you really don't want Juan Domingo Peron out of there, either."

"The hell I don't."

"And I was right on the verge of saying, 'You're learning,

Cletus' when I heard you talking so nicely to Tfo Juan on the phone just now."

"What did Juan Domingo want?" Claudia asked.

"He wants Clete to go to the German reception tonight,"

Welner said. "Are you going?"

"I don't think I'm up to that," Claudia said.

"And he's coming here for lunch," Welner said.

"Are you going, Cletus?" Claudia asked.

He nodded.

Their eyes met for a moment, and she looked as if she was going to say something but decided against it.

"There is something of yours I would be willing to buy,"

Claudia said. It was an obvious change of subject.

"Really?"

"Your radio station. Radio Eelgrano."

"Why would you want to buy that?"

"Because I think there is a lot of money to be made in broadcasting."

"If that's so, why should I sell it? I mean, I have all these advertising expenses, you know."

"I'm serious about this, Cletus," she said. "If you want to sell it, I'd like to buy it."

"If you want it, it's yours," he said.

"I don't want it that way," she said. "Don't toss me a bone,

Cletus!"

"Excuse me?"

"Have it appraised. Find out what it's worth, then make an offer," she said. "Your father and I did a lot of business together, but that's what it was, business. I don't want you doing me any favors."

"Claudia…" Welner came to his defense. "There's no reason to take offense."

"OK, Claudia," Clete said. "To hell with you. It's not for sale. I've never even seen it. Or, for that matter, heard it."

"God," she said. "He's as hard to deal with as his father."

"I accept that as a compliment," Clete said.

"Poor Dorotea's going to have her hands full with you!"

Clete had an immediate mental recall of Dorotea's hand, full, which had nothing to do with what Claudia was saying.

This caused him to smile.

"You think it's funny, do you?" Claudia snapped. "You're just going to have to get along with people."

Antonio came into the sitting. "Senora," he said. "Your things have been packaged and put in your car."

"Thank you, Antonio," she said.

"Perhaps Senora would care to take a look around, to make sure I found everything."

"That won't be necessary, Antonio. Thank you."

"Have another look yourself, Antonio," Clete ordered. "If you have any question about anything, decide in favor of

Senora Carzino-Cormano."

"Si, Senor."

"Damn you, Cletus, now I'll have to go with him," Clau dia said.

Clete waited until she had followed Antonio out of the room, then went to the Champagne cooler and refilled his glass. He held the bottle up to Father Welner.

"Of course," Welner said.

"What the hell did I say that made her so mad?"

"She has a lot of memories of this house," Welner said.

"And of your father. Taking her things is painful for her. And then you were condescending to her… just as your father often was."

"I didn't mean to be."

Welner shrugged.

The door began to open.

"That didn't take long," Clete said softly.

"Senora de Mallin and I arrived at exactly the same moment!" el Coronel Juan Domingo Peron announced.

He walked to Welner and shook his hand, and then walked to Cletus. "My boy!" he said, clasping Clete's shoulder.

"Tio Juan," Clete said. "It's always a pleasure to see you."

Like watching a dog get run over.

Pamela Holworth-Talley de Mallm, grandmother-to-be, walked to Clete and offered her cheek.

Good-looking woman, Clete thought, remembering what his uncle Jim had once told him: "When you really get serious about some female, Clete, take a good look at her mother. That's what your beloved will look like in twenty, thirty years."

Looking at Pamela, the prospect is not at all frightening.

"Is this the day you start calling me 'Mother Mallin'?"

Pamela asked.

"I don't think so," Clete said firmly. "But I must admit the prospect of watching my father-in-law squirm when I call him 'Father Mallm' has a certain appeal."

"You're terrible, Cletus," Pamela said, laughing.

"Would you like a little Champagne?" Clete asked.

"It's early, and I shouldn't, but of course I will."

Clete went to the cooler and poured her a glass of Cham pagne. "Ol' Whatsername's upstairs having a shower," he said as he handed it to her.

"I know," Pamela replied, giggling. "She called me, and asked me to go to Dr. Sarrario's consulting with her. She said you didn't want to go."

"If there was a subtle tone of accusation in that, the ques tion never came up. I wasn't invited."

"But you didn't want to go, did you?" Pamela challenged.

"Wives have a way of knowing what their husbands want and do not want."

"Listen to Mother, darling," Dorotea said, coming into the room.

When Clete saw her, his heart jumped.

Goddamn it, she's beautiful!

She came to him and kissed him on the cheek. He could smell her shampoo.

Clete tugged the bell cord again, and the housekeeper appeared.

"We need a little more Champagne in here, please," Clete ordered. "And we can have lunch as soon as Antonio and

Senora Carzino-Cormano finish their tour of the museum."

Luncheon was served in the upstairs dining, whose bay win dows overlooked the formal gardens in the rear of the man sion, and whose table could comfortably accommodate fourteen people. As master and mistress of the household,

Clete and Dorotea were seated at the head and foot of the table. El Coronel Juan Domingo Peron sat next to Clete, with Senora de Mallin across from him, and Father Welner was next to Dorotea, with Senora Carzino-Cormano across from him.

At least four feet of highly polished wood separated the lace place mats of the diners. Antonio circled the table, filling wine and Champagne glasses as the housekeeper and one of the maids offered a choice of beef or Roquefort-and-ham empanadas as the appetizer.

I wonder, the master of the house thought, what the boys are having for an appetizer on the wooden-plank tables of the Fighter One officers' mess on the 'Canal?

Maybe, if the mess sergeant is in a good mood, Spam chunks on toothpicks. Most likely, the Spam will be the entree.

And I wonder what Claudia thinks, seeing Dorotea sitting there, Mistress of the Mansion, on the day she's removing the last of her personal possessions from a house that by all rights should be hers?

Father Welner rose to his feet and invoked, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, the blessings of the

Deity upon those about to partake of His bounty. After he sat down, both he and Clete reached for their glasses of Merlot.

El Coronel Juan Domingo Peron rose to his feet.

Now what? Clete wondered as he took his hand away from the glass.

"If I may," Peron began. "As I looked around this table, I could not help but think that our beloved Jorge may well be looking down on us from Heaven at this moment. And if he is,

I like to think he's smiling." He paused to let that sink in, then went on. "The time came to Jorge to leave this world for a better one…"

With a load of buckshot in his head, Clete thought.

"… as it will come to all of us," Peron went on.

Clete saw that Claudia was looking at Peron incredulously.

"And all of us, myself included, thought his going on to a better place was the end," Peron said.

Clete glanced down the long table at Dorotea. She was looking at him with a look he recognized as a wifely imper ative signal: NO!!!!!

She thought 1 was going to say something I shouldn 't.

I wasn't.

Or was I? My mouth sometimes shifts into high gear all on its own.

He flashed Dorotea a small, reassuring smile.

"But it was not the end, I submit, my dear friends, my dear family," Peron continued solemnly.

Family? What the hell do you mean, family? That "Tio

Juan" crap again? What the hell is that all really about, anyway? Are you playing with a full deck, "Tio Juan"?

"It was instead a change of the guard," Peron intoned. "A beginning. God sent our beloved Jorge's beloved son Cletus back to the land of his birth…"

If that's so, then God is an OSS Tex-Mex full-bull Marine colonel named Alejandro Federico Graham.

"… so that Cletus could step, so to speak, into his father's boots and assume the responsibility for the land and the people of the land, as Jorge had assumed it from his father.

"And, at the risk of indelicacy, my dear Dorotea, God in his wisdom and generosity has seen fit to put a new life in your womb…"

That wasn't God, Tio Juan, it was a Good Ol'Midland,

Texas Boy named Clete who done that.

"… to carry on the family, someone who, when the time comes, will take the burden of responsibility from your and

Cletus's shoulders and take it on his own."

Does he believe this shit? He sounds like a West Texas

Baptist preacher at the end of a four-day Come-to-Jesus-in-a Tent revival.

Clete looked at Claudia. Her face was expressionless. He looked at Pamela. She looked as if she was about to cry. He looked at Dorotea. Tears were running down both cheeks, and Clete saw her chest jump as she sobbed.

"So I think…" Peron went on, raising his eyes to the fourteen-foot ceiling of the upstairs dining, "… I believe with all my heart… that our beloved Jorge is looking down at this table and smiling. The guard has changed. What is past is past. This is the beginning!" He raised his glass.

"Salud, mi amigo!" Peron said.

I'll be damned, Clete thought as he realized he was on his feet with his glass raised toward the fourteen-foot ceiling.

And I'll be twice damned-so is Father Welner.

Peron sat down.

Dorotea came running down the side of the table, knelt beside Peron, threw her arms around him, and kissed his cheek.

I guess that makes me a cynical prick.

He glanced around the table again. Pamela de Mallin was dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. Claudia Carzino-Cormano, her face expressionless, met his eyes. And a moment later, so did the intelligent blue eyes of Father Kurt Welner.

What is that? Two cynical pricks and a cynical lady?

Dorotea got to her feet and walked back to the foot of the table.

Claudia waited until Dorotea was sitting down. "While

Dorotea and Pamela are at the doctor's, Juan Domingo," she said. "I'm going to take Cletus to Radio Belgrano."

Is that what they call changing the subject, Claudia?

"Oh, really?"

To judge by the look on his face and the tone of his voice, that's what Tio Juan thinks it is.

"I know how busy you are these days, but I thought you might like to come with us."

"As a matter fact, Claudia…"

Thank you very much, but no thanks?

"… I've never seen it, and I'd like to. And I need a few minutes alone with Cletus. We could have our little chat as we drove over."

Claudia couldn't quite manage to conceal her surprise.

"I'm trying to get Cletus to sell it me," she said.

"Is that so?"

[THREE] Radio Belgrano

1606 Arribenos Belgrano,

Buenos Aires 1535 II May

1943

They had driven from the museum in Palermo to Radio Bel grano in three cars. Claudia's 1940 Buick Roadmaster, car rying her and Father Welner, led the way. Clete followed in the Horch, with Juan Domingo Peron beside him and Enrico in the backseat. Peron's official Ministry of War car, a 1941

Chevrolet driven by a sergeant, brought up the rear.

The owner of Radio Belgrano was not very impressed with his property the first time he saw it, although he was enormously relieved to get there. From the moment Peron had slid onto the seat beside Clete, he'd delivered a nonstop sales pitch about how happy he was that Clete was going to hear for himself how deeply Generalmajor Manfred von

Deitzberg-speaking, of course, for the entire German officer corps-regretted losing control of an SS officer in

Wehrmacht uniform, which had resulted in the death of

Clete's beloved father and his own beloved friend.

And how important it was that Clete-for his own per sonal peace, for the good of Argentina, indeed for the good of the new generation of the Frade family-be willing to put the tragic incident behind him.

Clete had managed to keep his mouth shut, but it had not been easy.

Radio Belgrano occupied a small, old, and run-down two story masonry house. The house's trim needed a paint job, and a not-very-impressive antenna rose from the faded tile roof. To Clete it looked as if it had been welded together of thin iron rods on the spot-far less substantial than the windmill water pumps that dotted the fields of Estancia San

Pedro y San Pablo. What had been the lawn of the house was now a muddy gravel parking lot. Two somewhat battered automobiles, a Ford and a Citroen, were parked facing the house, leaving room for only two more.

Claudia's driver pulled into one of the slots, and Clete drove in beside it. That left no room for the Army Chevrolet, and the sergeant simply stopped in the street, holding up traffic, until Peron ordered him to circle the block and find a place to park.

Claudia was by then at the door of the building, which was at the same moment pulled open by a mustachioed man in a business suit whose thinning hair was plastered against his skull. He kissed Claudia's cheek, then smiled broadly at Clete as he and Peron walked up to the door.

"How nice to see you again, Senor Frade," he said, enthu siastically pumping Clete's hand, and confusing Clete-"see me again "?-until Clete realized that the man had probably been one of the long line of managers and other executives of

El Coronel, Incorporated, who had shown up at Estancia San

Pedro y San Pablo for his father's memorial service.

"It's good to see you, too, Sefior," Clete said. "Do you know Coronel Peron?"

"Only by reputation," the man said, and began to pump

Peron's hand. "It is a great privilege to have the Special

Assistant to the Minister of War visit our little radio station, mi Coronel."

Peron smiled at him.

The man bowed them into the building, where there was a variation of the King Comes Home ceremony they had gone through when Clete and Dorotea had arrived at the museum.

The employees of Radio Belgrano were lined up in the inside foyer, waiting to be introduced to El Patron. Among these was Eva Duarte, the blonde from the Alvear Palace

Hotel.

They worked their way down the line, with Claudia in the lead, shaking everyone's hand.

"And this, Sefior Frade," the plump little man said, "is

Senorita Evita Duarte, one of our dramatic artists."

"I have the privilege of Don Frade's acquaintance," the blonde said. "How nice to see you again, Senor."

"You know each other?" Peron asked, obviously surprised.

"We met at a social event at the Alvear… It was the

Alvear, wasn't it, Don Frade?"

"I think so, yes," Clete said.

"I am Juan Domingo Peron," Peron said, taking her hand.

"Oh, I know who you are, mi Coronel," the blonde gushed. "Everyone in Argentina knows who you are. I con sider it a great privilege to make your acquaintance."

"The privilege is mine, my dear young woman," Peron said, beaming at her.

She's a little old for you, isn't she, Tio Juan? I'll bet she's the far side of twenty.

The procession moved into the manager's office-it had obviously previously been the house's dining-where a brass sign on his desk identified him as Manuel de la Paz,

General Manager.

Clete was surprised that the blonde was one of the privi leged few permitted to share a tiny cup of coffee with the visiting brass, and about as surprised to see that Tio Juan was charming the hell out of her.

That was followed by a tour of the station's facilities:

Administrative offices were on the first floor, and three stu dios, a record library, and a control room-once obviously bedrooms-were on the second. These were covered with squares of sound-deadening material, some of which were in the process of falling off the wall.

And then the procession moved downstairs and out into the parking lot.

If Claudia wants to buy this, she can have it.

Hands were shaken, Manuel de la Paz announced that he hoped to see more of Don Frade, and he informed Peron that his visit had been a great honor.

Peron and the blonde beamed at each other.

"Where are you headed, Claudia?" Clete asked.

"To Estancia Santo Catalina," she said.

"I can't convince you to come to the Ambassador's recep tion for Generalmajor von Deitzberg?" Peron asked her.

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

Peron looked at his watch. "And I really must return to my duties," he said. "I'll come by Coronel Dfaz for you and

Dorotea about seven, Cletus?"

"I'll see you there, Tio Juan," Clete said.

Peron set off to find his car.

"Come by the museum a minute," Clete said to Claudia when Peron was out of earshot.

"All right," she said.

"Curiosity is a female prerogative," Claudia said, helping herself to a snifter of cognac in the downstairs sitting. "Was that 'social event' where you met the blonde in your apart ment at the Alvear?"

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

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

"If you want to buy that place, come up with a price,"

Clete said.

"Don't do me any favors, Cletus."

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

"Such as?"

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

"Such as?"

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

"You mean that, don't you?"

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

Claudia chuckled. "Your father used to talk about feed lots," she said. "He apparently saw them in the United

States. Which may be why he never got around to doing any thing about it."

"I'm one of the good gringos, Claudia."

"Your father would be pleased to know that you're taking an interest in the estancias."

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

She met his eyes. "I'll get some estimates," she said. "Top peso and bottom peso, and we'll split it down the middle.

Fair enough?"

"Fair enough."

"You behave yourself tonight with those Nazis."

"I will."

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

[FOUR]

Wachtstein Bahnhof Kreis

Wachtstein, Pomerania 2105

11 May 1943

The train was an hour late, having been sidetracked three

I times by military trains headed for Russia, which of course had higher priority. One had been a troop train-two second class coaches for the officers and a long line of third class i coaches for the enlisted men. The other two had been freight trains, loaded with military equipment and vehicles.

Each of the three had two special flatcars, one immediately behind the locomotive, the other about halfway down the

I line of cars.

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

Russia.

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

Though there was opportunity for talk in their compartment, Peter's father showed no inclination to do so, and Peter knew his father well enough not to press him.

There would be ample opportunity for that once they reached, Wachtstein and the Schloss.

They were the only passengers to leave the train at

Wachtstein, and at first glance the station seemed deserted.

But just as they were about to enter the small station building, a man in a leather overcoat stepped out of the shadows, showed them his Gestapo identity disk, and demanded their papers.

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

"I didn't know what to do with it," the Graf said, "after you went to Argentina."

"I meant, why at the gasthaus?"

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

They walked down the cobblestone street to the gasthaus and pushed open the door. Though it smelled of beer, just as

Peter remembered it, it was now also somehow more drab, less happy, than before.

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

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

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

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

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

Herr Stollner came close to the Graf.

"Do you think we will be able to start the Horch?" the

Graf asked.

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

"I knew I could rely on you."

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

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

"I'm sorry to put you to so much trouble, Kurt."

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

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

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

The Horch was covered with dust from the hay it had been buried under, and the Graf read Peter's mind: "It will blow off long before we reach the Schloss." The Graf sig naled for Peter to get behind the wheel, then climbed in beside him.

Peter got the car moving.

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

"In the Schloss?"

"We will have to be discreet in the Schloss," the Graf said.

"We're going to drive to Munich to see von Stauffenberg in hospital. That should give us the time we need."

"He is going to live?"

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

"Damn," Peter said.

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

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

"What are you thinking, Hansel?" the Graf asked.

Peter didn't want to tell his father what he was thinking.

"A friend of mine in Argentina has a car like this. Almost identical, I think."

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

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

"And?"

"On orders from Berlin, my friend's father was murdered while riding in his Horch."

"His father was?"

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

"And the son and you are friends?"

"Yes," Peter said. "We are friends."

"He's not just using you?"

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

"Please."

Peter told his father the whole story of his relationship with Cletus, up to Operation Phoenix and a plan for a refuge in

South America if the war was lost.

"Apparently, starting with the Fiihrer," Peter concluded,

"there is less absolute confidence in the Final Victory than they would have us believe."

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

"A final message?"

The Graf stilled him with a quick wave. "According to von

Arnim, his troops have done all they could. But he is out of ammunition, has many casualties, the situation is hopeless, and to preserve the lives of his men, he has sent emissaries to the Americans. He believes there will be a cease-fire as of

0700 tomorrow."

"So we have lost Africa," Peter said.

The Graf waved his hand again. "Von Arnim concluded his message 'God Save Germany!' " He went on. "It fell to me to take the message to the Fiihrer."

"Why you?"

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

"And what happened?"

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

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

"Mein Gott!"

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

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

"And now tell me why you are here."

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

"Do they suspect Ambassador von Lutzenberger?" the

Graf asked when Peter had finished, and then answered his own question. "Of course they do. My God, what a mess!"

"The possibility exists, of course, that they will, in the absence of some proof to the contrary-"

"These people don't need proof, Hansel," the Graf inter rupted. "There is no presumption of innocence."

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

"That sounds like wishful thinking," the Graf said.

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

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

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

Staff appearing at their guard post.

Peter cranked down the window.

"Generalleutnant Graf von Wachtstein," he said rather arrogantly.

One of the Stabsgefreiters rushed to raise the barrier pole.

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

Recuperation Hospital No. 15

[ONE]

Schloss Wachtstein

Kreis Wachtstein, Pomerania

2150 11 May 1943

An elderly Oberstleutnant Arzt was commandant of Recu peration Hospital No. 15. He appeared in the main hall of the castle as the Graf and Peter were climbing the stairs to the second floor, where the family apartments were located.

"Heil Hitler!" he said, giving the Nazi salute. "Oberstleutnant

Reiner at your service, Herr Generalleutnant Graf."

The Graf returned the salute casually.

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

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

"Your staff was informed of your coming, Herr Gener alleutnant Graf, and I believe they have prepared a dinner for you."

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

Peter saluted the old man and shook his hand.

"If there is any way I may be of service while you're here,

Herr Generalleutnant Graf…"

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

He started up the stairs, and Peter followed him.

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

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

"Good evening," the Graf said.

"Herr Graf," they both said, and bobbed their heads.

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

The old man called him "Herr Major."

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

"It smells marvelous," the Graf said. "We have missed your cooking, Frau Briiner, haven't we, Hansel?"

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

Frau Briiner smiled.

"When will it be ready?" the Graf asked.

"Whenever Herr Graf is ready."

"I'm ready now," the Graf said. "Is there any beer?"

"Of course, Herr Graf."

Peter followed his father into the dining room. Two places had been set at one end of the large table. Herr

Briiner came in with gray pottery mugs of beer as soon as they sat down.

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

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

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

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

That triggered a memory of Alicia. He wondered how she would look sitting at this table; what she would think of the

Schloss, of the estate. For Pomerania, the von Wachtstein estate was very large. But compared to Estancia Santo

Catalina, it was tiny.

"What's in your mind, Hansel?" the Graf asked. "You seem far away."

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

"I was thinking of your mother," the Graf said. "And your brothers."

Peter didn't reply. Is he implying that I should have been thinking of them too?

"Eighty thousand hectares?" the Graf asked incredu lously, and went on before Peter could reply. "Your American friend, you mean?"

"No," Peter said. "His is even larger, and he has three or four of them. I was thinking of the estancia of a young lady I know."

"How well?"

"Sir?"

"How well do you know the young lady?"

"Very well, Poppa. I want to marry her."

The Graf raised an eyebrow in surprise but said nothing.

Frau Briiner came in with a large china tureen and ladled onto their plates thick pea soup with chunks of ham floating in it.

"My favorite, Frau Briiner," the Graf said. He put a spoon to his plate, tasted the soup, and nodded his approval.

Frau Briiner beamed.

"Eat your soup, Hansel," the Graf ordered.

Frau Briiner waited for Peter's reaction, then left the room.

"Have you actually proposed marriage to this young woman?" the Graf asked.

"Not formally. But it is understood between us."

"Was that the honorable thing to do?"

"This is the girl for me, Poppa."

"That's not what I asked. Does she understand your prospects? Have you considered that?"

"She knows everything," Peter said.

"You told her?"

His tone made it very clear the Graf was surprised and disappointed.

"It's like… I don't quite know how to explain this,

Poppa… it's like one enormous family down there. Alicia's mother-"

"Alicia? That's a very pretty name."

"Alicia's mother, Senora Carzino-Cormano-"

"The family is Italian?" The Graf's tone suggested he didn't like that either.

"Not the way you suggest. They're like Americans down there. They immigrated from all over Europe, they intermar ried. They don't think of themselves as Germans, or Italians, or

English, or whatever, but as Argentinians."

"But they speak Spanish?"

"Yes, but they're not like the Spaniards. They're Argen tine."

"Interesting. What about her mother?"

"Senora Carzino-Cormano had a very close relationship with Oberst Frade…"

"Indeed? With the approval of their respective mates?

That sounds Italian."

"Both mates, Poppa, were dead."

"But they didn't marry?"

"They had their reasons, one of which has to do with

Argentine inheritance laws."

"She was, in other words, his mistress?"

"Are you determined to disapprove of these people,

Poppa?"

"I would like to know about the family of a girl my son wishes to marry."

'There are two Carzino-Cormano daughters. One of them had an understanding with Hauptmann Duarte, who was killed at Stalingrad. That's how I came to meet Alicia."

"I see."

"When I went to Oberst Frade for help, I presume he con fided in Senora Carzino-Cormano."

"Everything?"

"I suppose everything. They were like husband and wife."

"Except they weren't married."

"It would have been impossible for Oberst Frade to help me-help us-Poppa, without her knowing. They're helping me because they know that I could not honorably permit

Cletus Frade to be murdered."

"The more people who know a secret, Hansel, the less chance there is to keep it a secret."

"I trust these people with my life, Poppa."

"You don't have much choice, do you?"

Peter met his father's eyes for a long moment. "You would like Alicia, Poppa. You would like all of them."

"If you say so," the Graf said. "What was-what is-the reaction of your Alicia to what you're doing?"

"She's frightened."

"She should be."

"She wants me to go to Brazil and turn myself in as a pris oner of war."

"That may be the wise thing to do. That's possible?"

"And what would happen to you?"

"What will probably happen to me anyway."

"Alicia understands why I can't go to Brazil," Peter said.

"My feeling, Hansel, presuming you find yourself back in

Argentina, is to tell you to go to Brazil. That way, you will survive. The von Wachtstein family would survive. And so would our money. After the war, you could deal with the problems of our people here."

"I can't do that, Poppa."

"If things go wrong, unless you go to Brazil, it will be the end of the von Wachtsteins. It is a question of obligation,

Hansel."

"I can't do that, Poppa."

"Our assets would be safe with your friends?"

"Of course."

"And if neither of us is around when this is over, then what?"

"Alicia knows how I feel about the estate, and our people.

And so does Cletus. They would-"

"It would be better if you went to Brazil," the Graf inter rupted.

"If I went to Brazil, you would go to Sachsenhausen or

Dachau," Peter said. "How could you help deal with the problem of our Fiihrer from a concentration camp?"

The Graf met his eyes for a moment. "That, of course, is a consideration," he said, finally.

Frau Briiner came into the dining room with another china tureen, this one full of pork and sauerkraut.

"We will talk more on the way to Munich," the Graf announced. "This is the time for us to think and pray over our possible courses of action."

"I am not going to Brazil, Poppa," Peter said.

The Graf looked at his son, and after a moment nodded.

"There are a number of problems here that I will have to deal with tomorrow," he said. "And there will be time to think."

After spending most of the next day dealing with the prob lems of the estate, the Graf, in the late afternoon, announced that he was "going to visit with the men in the hospital."

"You don't have to join me, Hansel," the Graf said. "You weren't responsible for sending them to war."

"Neither were you, Poppa," Peter protested. "You were simply doing your duty."

"The whole point of this, Hansel, is that I forgot my duty is to God first, and then to Germany. Like the others, I put my duty to the state-to Hitler-first, ignoring that it contradicted the laws of God and was bad for Germany." He met Peter's eyes. "The men in here, Peter, did their duty to Germany as they saw it. I didn't. I can't tell these men I'm sorry, obviously, but perhaps if I visit them, they will at least think that a

German officer appreciates what they have done and that they are not forgotten."

"I'll go with you, Poppa."

"Where is your Knight's Cross?"

"In my luggage."

"Wear it, please."

Peter nodded.

The wards were as depressing as Peter thought they would be.

The three, enormous, high-ceilinged rooms on the lower floor of the Schloss had at other times been party rooms. Not something out of a Franz Lehar operetta, with elegantly uni formed Hussars and elegantly gowned and bejeweled women waltzing to The Blue Danube, but parties for the people in the village.

There they had celebrated "the-harvest-is-in," the birth days of his father and mother, the weddings of villagers, birthday parties for octogenarians, and sometimes, in the case of village elders who had been close to the von Wacht steins, there had been a little bite to eat and a glass of beer after their funerals.

The people of the village had come to the Schloss in their

Sunday best to dance to a five-piece band-piano, accor dion, tuba, trumpet, and drum-gorge themselves on food laid out on ancient plank tables, and drink beer from a row of beer kegs on another table.

Somebody always got drank and caused trouble. Fathers went looking for their nubile daughters who'd sought pri vacy with their young men in dark and distant parts of the

Schloss. There was usually at least one fistfight. And always there was a good deal of singing.

The three stone-floored rooms branching off the entrance lobby were now lined with white metal hospital beds, one row against each wall, another row in the middle. Each bed was separated from its neighbor by a wall locker and a small table.

Peter quickly saw that most of the men in the long lines of beds had been injured beyond any hope of recuperation.

They had lost limbs, or their sight, or been badly burned, sometimes in a horrible combination of mutilations.

They should call this place War Cripples Warehouse No.

15, Peter thought, not Recuperation Hospital No. 15.

The Graf stopped at each and every bed and said a variation of the same words to each man: "I hope you're feeling better."… "Are they treating you all right?"… "Is there anything you need?"

Peter walked two steps behind his father and-with an effort-smiled and gave to each what he hoped was a crisp nod.

Peter thought: Some of them wouldn't know if their visitor was the Fiihrer himself.

But some actually tried to come to attention in their beds, as a soldier is supposed to do when spoken to by an officer.

The tour went on and on, but finally it was over and they went back up the stairs to the family apartments. Peter went directly to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a stiff drink of cognac.

"I'll have ope of those, too, I think, please," the Graf said.

Peter poured a drink for his father, and then another for himself. They touched glasses without comment.

"Oberstleutnant Reiner and some members of his staff will be dining with us," the Graf announced.

Peter nodded.

What the hell is that all about? Because he feels it's expected of him? Or because he doesn't want to be alone with me again at dinner, as we were last night, with the ghosts of the family looking over our shoulders?

Dinner was very good, roast wild boar with roasted potatoes and an assortment of preserved vegetables, everything from the estate. Peter wondered what the patients of Recuperation

Hospital No. 15 were having, then wondered who was asking. Flight Corporal Peter Wachtstein (for he had not used the aristocratic 'von' until he was commissioned)? It had been Pilot Cadet Wachtstein and Flight Corporal Wachtstein and even Flight Sergeant Wachtstein, winner of the Iron

Cross First Class. As far as he knew, he had been the first von Wachtstein ever to serve in the ranks (much to his father's embarrassment).

Or was it Major von Wachtstein asking? He had learned as an enlisted man that a good way to judge an officer was by how deeply he was concerned with the men in the ranks, and had tried to remember that, and practice it, when he had become an officer.

Or was it Baron Hans-Peter von Wachtstein, the Graf-to- i

be?

Their guests at dinner were four doctors in addition to

Oberstleutnant Reiner, as well as the two senior nurses and \ two administrative officers, all of whom seemed very | impressed with the privilege of dining with the Herr Gener- ' alleutnant Graf von Wachtstein and the heir apparent.

The Graf made polite small talk, and took nothing to drink but a sip of wine. A glare from him when Peter reached yet again for a wine bottle was enough to make it Peter's last, glass of wine.

That night, Peter had a little trouble getting to sleep. His mind was full of Alicia, and memories of his mother and brother, and the uncomfortable feeling that this might be the last night that anyone named von Wachtstein would ever sleep in Schloss

Wachtstein.

They left early the next morning. Frau Briiner packed a large wicker basket with ham and cheese sandwiches, cold chicken, and a bottle of wine and two of beer. They drove as far as

Frankfurt an der Oder the first day. There were virtually no private automobiles on the highway, and they passed through

Feldgendarmerie checkpoints every twenty-five kilometers or so.

They spent the night with an old friend of his father's,

Generalleutnant Kurt von und zu Bratsteiner, who was in the process of reconstituting an infantry division that had suffered heavy losses in the East. They had dinner in the officer's mess, and Peter noticed that his father and his old friend carefully avoided talking about what was happening in Russia, what had happened to von Arnim in Tunisia, or what was likely going to happen in the future.

In the morning, very early, they set out again, the gas tank of the Horch full, and with four gasoline cans in the trunk.

To Peter's surprise, his father had very little to say between Wachtstein and Frankfurt an der Oder.

And about all he said between Frankfurt an der Oder and

Munich was that General von und zu Bratsteiner had learned unofficially that the Wehrmacht had not yet contained the rebellion of the Jews in the Warsaw ghetto. "Putting the rebellion down will apparently take more troops than was originally anticipated," the Graf said without emphasis. "It is apparently also going to be necessary to bring in tanks and more artillery. The issue is not in doubt, of course. It's just going to be more expensive than anyone would have believed."

"What's going to happen to the Jews when it is over?"

"Well, inasmuch as they are not entitled to treatment as prisoners of war, I would suppose that Reichsprotektor

Himmler will order the survivors transported to the concen tration camps in the area. There are six, if memory serves:

Auschwitz, Birkenau, Belzec, Chemlno, Maidanek, and

Sobibor."

"And what will happen to them there?"

"They will be exterminated," the Graf said. "Men, women, and children."

"My God!"

"On arrival at the camps," the Graf went on unemotion ally, "a medical doctor-sometimes an SS medical officer, but as often as not an Army doctor-will make a cursory examination to determine which prisoners are fit for labor.

They are segregated from the others. Since there is no point in feeding anyone who cannot contribute his or her labor to the

State, the unfit prisoners and the children are immediately exterminated."

"The children too?" Peter asked softly.

The Graf ignored him and went on: "At one time- and today in the East-extermination was accomplished by having the prisoners dig a mass grave. Then they were- are-forced to kneel at its edge. When they received a pistol shot to the back of the head, their bodies fell into the grave.

"But German science has been applied to the problem.

German efficiency. In the Dachau and Auschwitz camps, extermination has been modernized. Those to be extermi nated are stripped of their clothing and herded into rooms marked 'Shower Baths.' The doors are then locked and a poison gas-it's called Zyklon-B-is introduced by way of the showerheads. As many as a hundred and fifty people can be exterminated in fifteen minutes.

"The gas is then evacuated, and other prisoners are sent in to remove gold teeth fillings from the mouths of the corpses, and to shear the women's hair. This is used primarily to stuff mattresses, but sometimes to make wigs."

"Oh, my God!" Peter said.

"And then the corpses are taken to furnaces specially designed for the purpose and incinerated."

"Poppa, you're sure of this?"

"Of course I'm sure. And it cannot be argued that the blood is only on the hands of the Nazis, Hansel. It is on the hands of the army. We put the Austrian Corporal in power."

"But how could you have known?"

"We didn't want to know, Hansel. That's our guilt."

He looked at his son. "Whenever I waver in what I now know is my duty, Hansel, I think of children being led to the slaughter."

[ TWO ]

Recuperation Hospital No. 3!

Munich, Germany i 1015 16

May 1943

Starting at breakfast in the Hotel Vier Jahrseitzen, where they had spent the night, and continuing in the Horch as they,' drove to the Munich suburb of Griinwald, Generalleutnant I

Karl Friedrich Graf von Wachtstein delivered to Major Frei-! herr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein a detailed briefing concerning what he could expect to find at Recuperation Hospital No. 3.

The briefing contained as many details as an operations ' order for a regimental assault on an enemy fortress, and was i very much in character for Peter's father, a reflection of his many years as a planning and operations officer of the Gen-I eral Staff Corps. Minute details are the stock-in-trade of a planning and operations officer; nothing that can possibly be included in an operations order is ever omitted. Peter had a hard time restraining a smile. The Graf began with a description of the terrain, inform-| ing Peter-quite unnecessarily; he had been to Griinwald before-that

Griinwald was an upper-class suburb of Munich, much as Zehlendorf was of Berlin. "It contains a large num- her of substantial villas," the Graf pronounced, "most of them built before the First World War by successful busi- nessmen and merchants of Munich, and a number built in the late 1930s for actors, writers, producers, and the like-people connected with the motion picture studios, which were built at the same time."

Peter knew that, too. There was a small hotel on Ober- hachingerstrasse in Griinwald, called "The Owl," where young women connected with the movie business could be found. Many of them were as fascinated with Luftwaffe I fighter pilots as were the girls in the bars of the Hotels Adlon and am Zoo in Berlin, and as willing to hop into their beds,

Peter had not infrequently arranged to be "forced to land for necessary repairs" at Munich late enough in the day that the

"repairs" to his aircraft would require a night in Munich.

"When recuperation hospitals became necessary to care ' for officers whose condition did not require all the facilities i of a general hospital," the Graf went on, "private homes with I adequate space were requisitioned-those that were not needed to house other military facilities, and were located where the patients would not be visible to the public…"

Nobody wants to look at mutilated cripples, right?

There's nothing very glamorous about those kinds of heroes, right?

"… Schloss Wachtstein and similar large houses on estates met those criteria, and so did the some of the larger villas of Griinwald."

There were at least three hundred "recuperating" patients at Schloss Wachtstein-all of them enlisted men, and most of them horribly mutilated and disfigured.

What does that mean? Is that another manifestation of

"rank hath its privileges "? Crippled enlisted men are sent to spartan accommodations in an old castle in the country, and officers to requisitioned villas in Griinwald?

Or is it just that there are so many more torn-up enlisted men than officers?

"How many officers are in… where Claus is?" Peter asked.

"There are facilities for approximately one hundred," the

Graf replied. "The hospital consists of three villas. Claus has been given a pleasant private room on the second floor of the largest of them. It was the home of a Munich businessman who accumulated a large fortune making candy for children."

"A private room? Because he's senior? Or because he's so badly shot up?"

"I don't know," the Graf replied, his tone making it clear he did not like either the question or the interruption. "Obviously, both factors were considered." He paused and went on, more gently. "You are going to have to be ready to face Claus's injuries, Hansel," he said. "And when I saw him last, he had lost a good deal of weight."

"I have seen wounded men before, Poppa."

"The last thing Claus wants is your pity," the Graf said, paused, and then went on: "There are, as I said, three villas, each on what I suppose is about a hectare of land. They were originally walled off from the street and each other-three meter-high steel-mesh fences, concealed by shrubbery. A portion of the interior fencing has been removed, so now there is what amounts to a single compound."

"I understand," Peter said.

"The building where Claus is quartered holds officers who have been blinded, or who have lost a leg," the Graf went on,

"probably because the stairways are wider and shallower than those in the other villas-thus more easily negotiable by someone on crutches, or learning to navigate with the aid of a cane."

"And the others?" Peter asked softly.

"The building next to his-it belongs to Max Stammt, the motion picture producer-houses officers who have lost both legs, or both arms, or who suffer from mental distress, and consequently require greater attention. And the third building was once owned by Peter Ohr."

Peter nodded his understanding. Peter Ohr, a well-known actor, was a Jew who had had the good sense-and/or the good luck-to abandon the movie studios of Griinwald for those of Hollywood while there was still time.

"That is utilized to care for officers considered unlikely to recover."

In other words, those waiting to die. "Slow down a little,

Hansel," the Graf said. "It's the second turn to the right after the Strassenbahn stop ahead." Peter made the turn.

"On the right, in the second block," the Graf said. As he approached the entrance to the compound, Peter could see little of the villas behind the fence but their roofs. At the entrance itself, there was a helmeted soldier with a rifle slung over his shoulder. He turned off the cobblestone street and stopped. The soldier approached the car, saw that

Peter was a major, and saluted. Then he saw the Graf, and popped to rigid attention. Like the guards at Schloss

Wachtstein, the soldier was in his forties and didn't look fit for active service. Peter rolled the window down. "Generalleutnant

Graf von Wachtstein," he said. That announcement had quickly gotten him past the guards at Schloss Wachtstein.

It didn't work here.

"Heil Hitler!" the guard said, adding, "May I have your authorization, please, Herr Major?" "What authorization? We are here to visit a patient." "I regret, Herr Major, that you must have an authorization to visit the hospital."

"Summon your officer," Peter said. He looked at his father, who shrugged.

Three minutes later, the gate opened and a Wehrmacht doctor-a major in his late fifties-emerged. He gave the

Nazi salute the moment he saw the Graf's collar tabs, then gave it again as he walked to the passenger side of the car.

"Heil Hitler! How may I be of service to the Herr Gener alleutnant?"

"We're here to see one of your patients, Oberstleutnant von Stauffenberg," the Graf said.

"I regret, Herr Generalleutnant, that we were unaware of your coming." "Is there some sort of a problem?" the Graf asked.

"The hospital has been closed to visitors, Herr Gener alleutnant."

"Certainly not to a general officer of the OKW," the Graf said impatiently.

"I'm sure an exception can be made in your case, Herr

Generalleutnant, but I will have to ask you to come with me while I speak with the Munich Area Medical Commandant's office for permission."

"Let's get on with it, then," the Graf said.

The doctor signaled the soldier to open the gate, and then got onto the running board of the Horch.

Peter drove through the gate, which belonged to the middle of the three villas. The doctor signaled him to drive to the right, toward the villa where Claus had his room. The Major stepped off the running board when Peter stopped the car.

"If you will come with me, gentlemen," he said, then turned to the Graf. "I regret the inconvenience, Herr Gener alleutnant."

The Graf didn't reply, but.the moment they were inside the foyer of the villa, he looked at the Major. "Is Graf von

Stauffenberg still in the room at the left corner of the second floor?" he asked, gesturing toward the wide staircase.

"Yes, Herr Generalleutnant, he is. Has the Herr Gener alleutnant been here before?"

"You go up, Peter, while I deal with the Munich Area

Medical Commandant. I'll see you in a moment."

The Major was visibly uncomfortable with that announce ment, but in the German Army, as in any other, majors do not challenge general officers.

Peter went up the stairs and started down the wide corridor to the left. A doctor in a white smock and a nurse were in the corridor, about to enter one of the rooms. The doctor looked at him curiously but said nothing.

Peter continued down the corridor to the door that was almost certainly the one he wanted and knocked. When there was no answer, he knocked again, and harder. The door was obviously thick, and would mute the rap of his knuckles.

When again there was no answer, he tried the handle, then pushed the door open.

When Oberstleutnant Graf Claus von Stauffenberg heard the first faint knock, he was sitting in an upholstered chair, facing the door opening to his balcony. He ignored the knock. He was occupied, and preferred not to be disturbed. He was buttoning his shirt. This simple task was now possible, but very time-consuming.

His equipment for accomplishing that task was a three pronged claw-the thumb and the first and second fingers of his left hand.

The stump where his right hand had been was for all prac tical purposes useless. Moreover, it was taking an unusually long time to heal. The suppuration had only started to diminish in the last few days, but the bandage still had to be changed at least twice a day. Thus, even trying to use it was painful.

It was difficult to force the button through the buttonhole with the claw, but he was getting much better at it, probably because he had been able to bring the three remaining fingers back to some measure of flexibility by faithfully exercising them.

The surgeons had done a splendid job with his now-empty left eye socket. One of the doctors believed an artificial eye might be fitted after another operation or two. But the eye-or, properly, the lost eye-didn't bother him at all except when he washed his face and the empty socket stared at him from the mirror. There was no pain, and he didn't have as much trouble with lost depth perception as he had feared. The ugliness could of course be concealed beneath his eye patch, which was in any case necessary to keep the still-raw socket from becoming infected.

There was a second, louder knock, and a moment later

Claus von Stauffenberg heard the door quietly creak open.

He did not turn to see who it was, primarily because he didn't care.

Nina, his wife, the Grafin von Stauffenberg, would not be able to visit until the following Friday. A personal appeal to the Munich Area Medical Commandant-he was a friend of a friend-had gotten her a waiver to the No Visitors Rule, but for only four hours every other Friday.

The silver lining to the black cloud of No Visitors was that he was no longer subjected to almost daily visits from ado lescent girls of the Bund Deutscher Madel, the League of

German Girls, who felt it was their patriotic duty to come to

Recuperation Hospital No. 15 to stare with pity at the mutilated heroes of the Third Reich.

That meant that whoever was entering the room was staff, which term included everyone from the surgeon-in-charge to a cleaning woman.

"Don't tell me," a somehow familiar voice said, "he said

'shut up' and you thought he said 'stand up.' "

He turned in curiosity.

"How are you, Claus?" Peter asked.

Von Stauffenberg held up his claw and stump and pointed at his eye patch. "How do I look, Hansel?"

"Goddamn you, don't call me that!"

"If you promise to try not to blaspheme, I'll try not to call you Hansel, Hansel."

Von Stauffenberg lifted himself out of his chair. After a moment's hesitation, they embraced. It seemed to embarrass them both. After a moment they stepped apart. "How did you get in?" von Stauffenberg asked.

"My father's downstairs," Peter said.

"You're supposed to be in Argentina," von Stauffenberg said.

"They brought me back," Peter said. "I think temporarily."

Von Stauffenberg pointed at the corners of the room, then at the light fixture.

My God, he's warning me they have surveillance micro phones in here!

Peter nodded his understanding.

"You look well fed," von Stauffenberg said.

"The food is magnificent!"

"And the ladies?"

"Even tastier," Peter said.

"Anyone in particular?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"Tell me."

"How's Nina?"

"Tell me, Peter."

"Her name is Alicia," Peter said. "A really nice girl

Claus."

"That's a change."

"How's Nina?"

"Fine. Every other Friday, she is permitted to visit."

"And the kids?"

"Growing amazingly."

"You get to see them?"

"Before they instituted the No Visitors Rule, I did," von

Stauffenberg said. "I hope to be given a leave." He held up the stump. "As soon as this thing stops leaking."

"What happened?"

"I was driving across the desert when an American P-51 strafed me. I woke up in a field hospital, and then I woke up again here in Munich, at the General Hospital." He paused, and added: "At first-my eyes were covered with bandages-I was afraid I was blind."

"You look like a pirate," Peter said. "One-Eyed Claus, the scourge of the Spanish Main. All you need is a hook for your right arm."

"I knew I could count on a comforting word from you, old friend."

"Well, at least you're not in an American POW camp.

You-"

Von Stauffenberg pointed at the ceiling again.

Peter stopped himself, just in time, from saying, "You heard about von Arnim?" and instead finished, "… and you're obviously well on the road to recovery."

"I'm anxious to get back to active duty," von Stauffen berg said.

"I'm sure it won't be long."

"You were telling me about Argentina," von Stauffenberg said.

Somewhat uncomfortably (imagining a listener hoping to hear disloyal or defeatist remarks), Peter delivered what was becoming a stock speech about the good food in Argentina, the incredible size of the farms, and the beauty of the women.

The door opened, and the Graf appeared.

"Heil Hitler!" von Stauffenberg said. "How good to see you again, Herr Generalleutnant."

"Heil Hitler," the Graf said. "It's good to see you looking so well, Claus."

Neither saluted. An eavesdropping microphone was possible, but it was unlikely that anyone was watching them.

"I've spoken both to the Munich Area Medical Comman dant and to Generaloberst Jodl," the Graf announced. "The bad news is that our leave is over. My presence is required at

Wolfsschanze immediately."

Peter looked at his father curiously, but said nothing.

"I will fly to Berlin at 1530," the Graf went on. "And you,

Peter, have been designated to represent the OKW at the interment of Oberst Griiner. Korvettenkapitan Boltitz is on his way to Augsburg to arrange things with Hauptmann

Griiner. You are to meet him there today."

"And the good news?" Peter asked.

"The medical commandant has given us his permission to take Claus to luncheon."

Curiosity got the best of von Stauffenberg. "Oberst

Griiner?" he asked. "Who's he?"

"A very fine officer who made the supreme sacrifice for the Fatherland, Claus," Peter said. "In circumstances I'm not at liberty to divulge."

"The prospect of a good lunch is pleasing," von Stauffen berg said. "I have always loved the venison sauerbraten at the

Vier Jahreseitzen."

In the car on the way back into Munich, Peter turned to von

Stauffenberg in the backseat and asked: "Is there really a microphone in your room, Claus?"

"I don't know. I do know I have to be careful. And so should you, Peter."

"I have been trying to impress that on him, Claus," the

Graf said, and then asked: "Claus, have you ever heard of

Operation Phoenix?"

"No," von Stauffenberg said simply. "Should I have?" "It's apparently a closely guarded state secret," the Graf said.

"One I think you should know about."

"With all possible respect, Uncle Friedrich, should Peter hear this?"

"I heard it from Hansel, Claus. It is a state secret to which I have not been made privy. Tell him about it, Hansel, while we show our Claus the tourist sights of Munich."

As they made a sedate motor tour of Munich, Peter related all he knew about Operation Phoenix, including the deaths of

Oberst Griiner and Standartenfuhrer Goltz while they were attempting to smuggle the Operation Phoenix funds ashore, but he did not discuss his role in informing Cletus

Frade of the landing.

"And that's not all, that's not even the worst, Claus," the

Graf said. "Tell Claus about the ransoming operation,

Hansel."

"I'm surprised, but not really surprised." von Stauffenberg said when Peter had finished. "There are some really criminal types around our Fiihrer, especially in the SS. Their uniforms have not changed their basic character." Then he had another thought. "Do the Allies know about the ransoming operation?"

Peter looked at his father for permission to answer. After a moment, the Graf nodded. "The Americans do," Peter said. "I told them."

"Was that wise, Peter?" von Stauffenberg asked. "They were about to find out themselves." "So you decided to tell them?

Why?" "Peter has… an arrangement… with an agent of the American OSS," the Graf said. "It has proven useful. It may prove even more useful in the future."

"The risks of that are enormous," von Stauffenberg said, obviously thinking out loud. "That's treason on its face." "And what are we doing, Claus?" the Graf asked.

"How much have you told Peter about that, Uncle

Friedrich?" von Stauffenberg asked.

"As little as possible," the Graf said. "But it should be self-evident that our Little Hansel isn't so little anymore. I'm sure he's concluded that you're with us. I don't think he should know any more than that, and that may be too much. He is one of those suspected of being implicated in the deaths of

Oberst Griiner and the SS man."

"Were you, Peter?" von Stauffenberg said. But before

Peter could reply, he had a second thought: "I don't want to know the answer to that question."

"But you already know, Claus, don't you?" the Graf said.

"What is that English cliche about, 'Oh, what a tangled web we weave'?"

" 'When first we practice to deceive,' " von Stauffenberg finished.

"I think that's everything," the Graf announced, and looked at his watch. "Take us to the Vier Jahrseitzen, please,

Hansel. We can have a nice leisurely luncheon, and then you can take me to the airport, and Claus back to the hospital."

"What do I do with the car?" Peter asked.

"I'd say leave it with Claus, but I don't think they'd let him use it. But what about leaving it with your friend Haupt mann Griiner at Augsburg? Perhaps Nina-"

"Hauptmann Griiner?" von Stauffenberg asked.

"The son of Oberst Griiner," the Graf explained. "He and

Hansel are comrades in arms."

Von Stauffenberg shook his head but said nothing.

"I was about to suggest, Claus, that if Hansel left the car with his friend, Nina could pick it up."

"If she drove, there would be questions," von Stauffenberg said.

"Would there be a place for it at your home?" the Graf asked. "I don't see how we could get it back to Wachtstein, and

I am determined to keep it out of the hands of some Nazi swine."

"She could say that she was taking it to our place for you."

"I will prepare a note to that effect," the Graf interrupted.

"And once it was there, that would be the end of the prob lem," von Stauffenberg said. "Done, Uncle Friedrich."

The venison sauerbraten at the Vier Jahrseitzen was as deli cious as von Stauffenberg had predicted.

As they were having their coffee, the Graf called for a sheet of paper, wrote a few words, and handed it to von

Stauffenberg.

Der Hotel Vier Jahrseitzen

Miinchen

"That should do it," von Stauffenberg said after he'd read it.

Then, with some difficulty, he unbuttoned a breast pocket on his tunic, inserted the note, and, with as much difficulty, buttoned the pocket again. He smiled with satisfaction.

"Nina should be here this coming Friday," he said. "Con sider it done, Uncle Friedrich."

"I'm grateful," the Graf said.

At the airport, a Heinkel bomber was parked in front of the terminal. The pilot-a Luftwaffe Hauptmann-and a crew man were waiting for them. The crewman took the Graf's luggage from the car and put it aboard the airplane.

The Graf gave his hand to his son. "Perhaps we will have another chance to be together before you return to Argentina,

Hansel," the Graf said. "It was very good to see you."

"It was very good to see you, Poppa," Peter replied.

The Graf put out his hand to von Stauffenberg, who shook it as well as he could with his claw. "And it's always a pleasure to see you, Claus. I'm delighted that you are well on the way to recovery."

"The pleasure is, as always, mine, Herr Generalleutnant

Graf," von Stauffenberg said.

The Graf nodded at both of them, then raised his hand in the Nazi salute. "Heil Hitler!" he barked.

Peter and von Stauffenberg returned the salute. "Heil

Hitler!" they said, almost in unison.

The Graf turned and marched out to the airplane, where the pilot and the crewman gave the Graf the Nazi salute.

He climbed aboard, and the pilot and crewman climbed in after him. Peter could not see his father inside the airplane as it taxied to the runway. In his mind he saw his father rendering the Nazi salute he hated. He wondered if that would be his last memory of his father.

Claus von Stauffenberg was silent most of the way back to

Griinwald, but as they turned off the main road, he said,

"Peter, keep in mind that we are doing the right thing in the eyes of God, and that, in the final analysis, is all that matters."

Peter nodded but didn't reply.

Their farewell inside the Recuperation Hospital No. 15 compound was brief. "I'll give your regards to Nina," von

Stauffenberg said. "And you give ours to… what did you say her name was, Alicia?"

"I will."

"And I thank you for a delightful lunch, Hansel, even if your father paid for it." He raised his left hand, gave the Nazi salute, and marched inside the villa built by the man who had made a lot of money making candy for children.

Peter, his eyes watering, wondered if his last memory of

Claus von Stauffenberg would be of him giving the Nazi salute with his horribly maimed left hand.

He got the car moving, and wondered if he remembered where to find the road to Augsburg.

[THREE]

Pier 3

The Port of Montevideo, Uruguay

0830 16 May 1943

When the motor vessel MV Colonia tied up, without assis tance, at the pier after an overnight voyage from Buenos

Aires, three automobiles from the German Embassy were lined up on the pier. One of the.three was Ambassador

Joachim Schulker's Mercedes.

Two days before, the diplomatic courier from Buenos

Aires had carried a letter from Ambassador von Lutzen berger announcing that Generalmajor Manfred von Deitzberg wished to make an unofficial personal visit to Uruguay, accompanied by Herr Erich Raschner of his staff. During his visit, the Herr Generalmajor would require suitable separate accommodations, preferably at the Casino de Carrasco, for himself and Herr Raschner, and the use of two automobiles, with trustworthy drivers. Since Herr Raschner had important matters to discuss with Herr Konrad Forster, the Commercial

Attache, every effort should be made to make Councilor

Forster available from the time Herr Raschner and General major von Deitzberg arrived in Montevideo at 0830 16

May 1943.

Forster's Opel Kadet was the third car in line, behind the small, black embassy Mercedes assigned to Fraiilein Gertrud

Lerner. Ambassador Schulker had intended for one of the

Embassy's junior officers to drive the Mercedes, but when he spoke to Fraulein Lerner, her normally blank face had mirrored her heartbreak at being denied what she considered her right to render service to the distinguished visitors, so she was at the wheel of the car.

His own car was driven by Manuel Ortiz, a Uruguayan who had worked for the German Embassy for nearly twenty years. Schulker had decided that if Manuel did not meet von

Deitzberg's criteria for a reliable driver, he would call the embassy and have Ludwig Dolmer, the administrative officer, meet them at the Casino de Carrasco to chauffeur von

Deitzberg around.

On the deck of the MV Colonia, Generalmajor Manfred von Deitzberg stood with his hands on the rail, watching the docking process. Erich Raschner stood beside him. Von

Deitzberg had risen early, shaved, and dressed very care fully in a new double-breasted faintly striped dark-blue woolen suit. It was cut in the English manner-the tailor had tactfully said "Spanish," but von Deitzberg knew an

English-cut suit when he saw one. It was one of three suits the tailor had run up for him in a remarkable nine days as a service to Ambassador Manfred Alois Graf von Lutzen berger.

The suits were remarkably inexpensive considering the quality of the cloth and the workmanship-about the equiv alent of one hundred American dollars each. Not that cash was a problem. Before leaving Berlin, von Deitzberg had drawn for his personal expenses the equivalent of five thou sand American dollars from the SS's confidential special fund. He had already ordered three more suits on a rush basis, and had strongly suggested to Raschner that he have some suits made for himself. Someone in his position really should not look like a policeman. With fine clothing avail able inexpensively and without the clothing coupons neces sary in Berlin, there was no reason he had to.

Von Deitzberg had also bought three pairs of high-quality shoes at amazingly low prices. As he put on a pair of new black wing tips this morning, it occurred to him that custom made shoes would almost certainly be available in Buenos

Aires; he would look into that when he returned to the city.

"It would seem, Erich, that we are expected," von

Deitzberg said, taking his hand from the rail to point vaguely at the cars lined up on the wharf.

Raschner grunted.

"And I did make the point, I hope, that I don't want…

What's his name? Forster? The Gestapo man?"

"Hauptsturmfuhrer Forster, Konrad," Raschner furnished.

"… to get the idea that we are any more interested in Frau von Tresmarck than we are in anyone else."

"I understand," Raschner said. "It won't be a problem. I'll ask him for a roster of embassy personnel, and get that to you immediately. Her address and telephone number should be on that."

"My primary interest in Forster, really, is to see how much he knows about Operation Phoenix. And, even more important, if he knows anything, or even suspects anything-has even heard rumors-about our arrangement with von Tresmarck."

"I understand," Raschner repeated, just a trifle impa tiently. He had heard all this the night before, standing on the stern of the Colonia after dinner.

"The trouble with the Gestapo, Erich, is that they are accustomed to looking into whatever they want to look into, and I don't want Forster looking into von Tresmarck's oper ation."

Raschner had heard this the night before too. "My feeling is that the man with the most to gain and the least to lose by

'cooperating' with the Argentines is Gradny-Sawz," he said.

"And we already know that his loyalty is to whichever side he thinks will win."

"So you said," von Deitzberg said. "And you may well be right; you usually are."

"I'll find out what Forster knows," Raschner said.

"Ah, they are about to put the gangplank in place," von

Deitzberg said. "Shall we go?"

[FOUR]

The San Martin Suite The

Casino de Carrasco

Montevideo, Uruguay 1015

16 May 1943

Manfred von Deitzberg was sitting on the balcony of the suite when he heard the somewhat tinny doorbell sound. The suite, on the top floor of the right wing of the five-story building, looked out over the Rambla and the beach.

The Rambla was a wide, attractive, four-lane avenue. A graceful promenade of colored blocks separated it from the beach. The beach was nice, not spectacular, but at least as wide and clean as a North Sea beach, and far superior to the touted-for reasons von Deitzberg could not under stand-beaches of the French Riviera. The water was disap pointing. Rather than blue, it looked muddy, even dirty. Von

Deitzberg, curious, had asked the room-service waiter about it when he brought his coffee and sweet rolls.

The water out there, the waiter explained, was not, as von

Deitzberg thought, the South Atlantic Ocean, but rather the

River Plate. It was, in fact, still the river's mouth-an incredible 230 kilometers wide. The blue waters of the

South Atlantic, the waiter told him, finally overwhelmed the silted waters of the river at Puente del Este, some 100-odd kilometers north of Montevideo.

When the bell sounded, von Deitzberg was in his shirt sleeves, with his feet up on a small table. He was smoking a cigarette and had almost finished the really nice sweet rolls.

He went into the sitting room of the four-room suite- according to Schulker, it was the best in the Casino-and retrieved the jacket to his new suit and put it on.

"Just a moment," he called toward the door, and went quickly into the bedroom to check his appearance in a full length mirror on the door.

Very pleased with his appearance, he went to the door and pulled it open.

Raschner stood there with a slight man in his thirties wearing a too-tight suit and wire-framed glasses. He bore more than a slight resemblance to Heinrich Himmler.

"Councilor Forster," Raschner said.

Von Deitzberg motioned the two of them into the sitting room and closed the door.

Forster came to attention, and his right arm shot out in the

Nazi salute. "Heil Hitler!" he nearly shouted. "Hauptsturm fiihrer Forster at your orders, Herr Oberfuhrer!"

Von Deitzberg did not return the salute. "Do not use my

SS rank again," he said coldly, and added, "Wait here." He took Raschner's arm and led him out onto the balcony.

"I now understand why he's in the dark about von Tres marck," Raschner said. "If we are to believe him, he is the only loyal man in the embassy."

Von Deitzberg chuckled. "Maybe he is," he said.

"He's an idiot," Raschner said. "They must have sent him here to get rid of him. Or does he have highly placed friends we don't know about?"

"Not as far as I know, and I think I would," von Deitzberg said.

"He told me he has strong suspicions that von Tresmarck is queer."

"Only suspicions?" von Deitzberg said, unable to restrain a smile.

"His investigation is continuing," Raschner said sarcasti cally.

"Does he have names?"

"He has a dossier," Raschner said, holding his hands three inches apart to indicate the thickness of the dossier. "He can't wait to show it to me."

"You better have a look at it, Erich," von Deitzberg said.

"You have the embassy roster for me?" Raschner took an envelope from his suit pocket and handed it to him. "What do you think he knows about Operation Phoenix?" von

Deitzberg asked.

"He further suspects that von Tresmarck has been investing in the local economy; in fact, that the local real estate man is one of his good friends. He even has a price on a farm that he thinks von Tresmarck has bought."

"So he's not entirely stupid, eh?"

"And he suspects von Tresmarck has bank accounts he hasn't listed with the embassy."

"They say there is nothing more dangerous than a zealous stupid man," von Deitzberg said, as much to himself as to

Raschner. And then he added, "Does he have any idea where von Tresmarck is getting the money?"

"I've only been with him an hour," Raschner said. "But if you're really asking, does he know about the concentration camp connection, I don't think so."

"Or he can have decided he knows something he doesn't think you should."

"That's possible."

"Spend as much time with him as you think necessary," von Deitzberg ordered. "The priorities-in this order-are who knows about the special business; Operation Phoenix; and-in connection with number two-who here in Uruguay knew about the details-for that matter, the operation itself-of landing the stuff from the Oceano Pacifico."

Raschner nodded.

Von Deitzberg went on: "Going further on that, find out what he knows about what happened on the beach at Sam borombon Bay, and, as important, where he got that infor mation." Raschner nodded again. Von Deitzberg waved him back into the suite.

Hauptsturmfiihrer Konrad Forster was standing where they had left him, in the center of the sitting room. When he saw them, he came to attention.

"We have a somewhat delicate situation here, Haupt sturmfiihrer," von Deitzberg said. "Herr Raschner and myself have been sent by Reichsprotektor Himmler himself to look into certain matters here and in Buenos Aires. These matters concern a state secret of great importance. That state secret is none of your concern. Or that of Ambassador

Schulker."

"Jawohl, Herr Oberfu… Generalmajor."

"The very next time you use either my or Herr Raschner's

SS rank, Hauptsturmfiihrer Forster, I will see that you are relieved of your duties here and assigned to the East," von

Deitzberg said matter-of-factly.

"It will not happen again, Herr Generalmajor," Forster said.

"Herr Raschner and I believe that you, quite innocently, may possess certain information of value to our inquiry, acquired during the course of your normal duties. As Ambas sador Schulker may also. Consequently, Raschner will inter view you at length, and I will interview the Ambassador and some others. The questions we put to you may not seem to make much sense, but you will not only answer them as fully as possible, but volunteer any other information you have that may have a bearing. Do you understand me?"

"I understand you, Herr Generalmajor."

"To avoid drawing attention to these interviews, I would rather not conduct them in the embassy. Have you a secure room in your quarters?"

"I have a small office in my home, Herr Generalmajor."

"And it is secure?"

"Yes, Herr Generalmajor."

"And where is your home?"

"Not far from here, Herr Generalmajor."

"Very well," von Deitzberg said. "Go with the Haupt sturmfuhrer now, Herr Raschner. Take as much time as required. Telephone me here when you have something to say."

"Jawohl, Herr Generalmajor," Raschner said.

He made a gesture with his hand toward the door.

"Heil Hitler!" Forster said, giving the Nazi salute.

Von Deitzberg returned the salute with a casual movement of his right arm, but said nothing.

He waited until the door had closed, and then took the envelope Raschner had given him, found the number he wanted, and walked to the telephone. He dialed the number but got nothing more than a series of clicks and a dial tone.

He dialed "O" and the hotel operator came on. She explained that it was not possible to dial directly from a telephone in the suite. Von Deitzberg wondered why they bothered to install telephones with dialing mechanisms if they didn't work, but politely gave her the number he wanted.

A soft-speaking woman answered.

"Senora von Tresmarck, por favor."

She came on the line a moment later.

"This is Generalmajor von Deitzberg, Frau von Tresmarck.

How nice to hear your voice again."

"What a pleasant surprise, Herr Generalmajor. Ambassador

Schulker told me you would be visiting. Will I see you while you're here?"

"That's actually why I'm calling, Frau von Tresmarck," he said. "I have a little time to spare. I was rather hoping you could give me a little tour of Montevideo, and afterward we could have luncheon."

"It would be my pleasure," Inge said. "You're at the

Casino?"

"In the General San Martin suite," he said.

"How appropriate, Herr Generalmajor," Inge said. "I can be there in half an hour. Would that be convenient?"

"That would be perfect," he said. "How kind of you! I'll be waiting for you outside."

He broke the connection with his finger, held the button down for a moment, and then released it. He waited for the hotel operator to come back on the line, but she didn't. After a moment, he dialed "O," and she came on.

If you can dial "O," why can't you dial an entire number?

"Would you be good enough to send the waiter to my room, Senorita?" he asked politely.

When the waiter appeared, von Deitzberg told him, man to man, that he intended to entertain a lady at luncheon, and that while he wished to make it a very nice luncheon-"I think it would be best to chill at least two bottles of Cham pagne"-he didn't want it interrupted by anyone after it had begun.

Under those circumstances, the waiter suggested a cold luncheon would perhaps be best. A selection of cheeses and meats and sausages, with a side of smoked salmon for the entree, and for the postre, a selection of petits fours and other sweets.

"That's what we're after," von Deitzberg said, and took a wad of money from his pocket and peeled off a very generous tip.

[ FIVE ]

When von Deitzberg went down to the entrance of the

Casino twenty minutes later, Ingebord von Tresmarck was already waiting for him at the wheel of a yellow Chevrolet convertible. The top was down.

She really is an attractive female.

She waved cheerfully at him, and he smiled and walked down to the car, bent over, and kissed her on the cheek.

"You are quite as lovely as I remembered, my dear Frau von Tresmarck," he said, then walked around to the passenger side of the car and stepped in.

Inge turned on the seat and smiled at him. "Heir General major, is there anything in particular you'd like to see?" she asked.

Was there a double entendre in her question? And why do I suspect that her skirt is not accidentally hiked so far up?

"Why don't we start by you showing me your house?" von Deitzberg said.

"If you like," she said. "It's just two squares away."

He smiled at her, and she put the car in gear and drove off.

When she raised her hand and pointed to the house, von

Deitzberg smiled at her and said, "As long as we're here,

Frau von Tresmarck, why don't you run in and get Sturm bannfiihrer von Tresmarck's bank records? The special ones."

"Excuse me, Herr Generalmajor?"

"Stop the car, please," von Deitzberg ordered.

Inge pulled the car to the curb in front of the house and looked at him.

"The special bank records?" she asked, confused.

"And the rest of the records, as well."

"I'm not sure I understand," Inge said.

"By the rest of the records," von Deitzberg explained patiently, "I mean the books, Frau von Tresmarck, and the deed to the estancia, unless there is more than one deed by now, and the records of the Sturmbannfuhrer's expenses. I want to take a look at everything."

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

He didn't reply for a moment. "Go get the records, Frau von Tresmarck," he said, still patiently. "I know they are here, and I know there is no one else in whose care your hus band would have dared to place them when he went to

Berlin."

"I think I may know what you want," Inge said.

"Frau von Tresmarck, your husband would not have left his records with you without explaining their importance," he said, as if admonishing a stubborn child. "You know what records I want. Now please go get them."

"Herr von Deitzberg, my husband said I was to give the records to no one."

"As well he should have. But obviously, I'm not 'no one,' am I, Frau von Tresmarck?"

"No. Of course not. I meant no disrespect, Herr von

Deitzberg."

"Go get the records," he said. "All of them. And then we can have our tour of Montevideo and our lunch."

She smiled somewhat uneasily at him and opened the car's door. "I won't be a moment," she said.

He smiled at her.

Three minutes later, she came quickly out of the house carrying a soft black leather briefcase.

"Oh, what a lovely suite," Frau von Tresmarck exclaimed as she walked into the sitting room. She turned and looked at von Deitzberg, smiled, and walked around, inspecting both the bedroom and the dining room, and then the balcony.

She walked close to him and smiled. "It really is very nice," she said. "And lunch is ready, I see."

He nodded. "A cold lunch," he said. "I thought you wouldn't mind."

"Not at all," she replied, and then added, a little naughtily,

"And I saw that someone has turned the bed down."

"Take off your clothing, please," von Deitzberg said.

She looked at him in surprise, then smiled naughtily. "I'm to be the hors d'oeuvres? Why, Herr von Deitzberg!"

Von Deitzberg struck her in the face with his fist. The blow came without warning, and was forceful enough to knock her backward onto the floor.

She looked at him with terror in her eyes, put her hand to her face, and then looked at her fingers, which now had blood on them.

"I'm not going to tell you again, Frau von Tresmarck," von Deitzberg said.

She looked into his eyes and saw something that quickly made her avert her eyes. She put her fingers to the buttons of her blouse, saw the blood on them, and licked them clean.

Then she began to unbutton the blouse.

Von Deitzberg walked to the desk, placed the black brief case on it, and sat down.

Inge shrugged out of the blouse and laid it on the carpet beside her. She looked at him. He was carefully removing large envelopes from the briefcase. She lifted herself to her feet, unbuttoned the skirt, and stepped out of it. She glanced quickly at him again, then pulled her slip over her head. She was afraid to look at him, but somehow she sensed that he wasn't even watching her. She unfastened her stockings from the garter belt and removed them. As she did so, she tasted blood on her lip, proved this by putting her fingers to her mouth, and then bent over, took a handkerchief from her purse, and wiped her nose, mouth, and fingers with it.

She looked at him once again. Now he had one of the files open on the desk and was flipping through it. She put the bloody handkerchief in her purse. "May I go to the rest room and clean my face?" she asked after a moment.

He raised his eyes from the file. "No," he said, and dropped his eyes back to the file.

She stepped out of the garter belt, looked at him again, exhaled audibly, and reached behind to the clasp of the brassiere. She took that off and dropped it onto the skirt.

Then she slid her underpants off and stepped out of them. She put her left arm across her breasts and covered her pubic area with her right hand.

Von Deitzberg looked at her. "Put your hands to the side," he ordered matter-of-factly, and then demonstrated by extending both his arms from his body so that they were midway between vertical and horizontal.

She complied. Tears ran down her cheeks.

He returned his attention to the documents on the desk.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked, plaintively, a long moment later.

He raised his eyes, looked at her from forehead to toes, and then returned his attention to the documents without speaking.

Five minutes later, he closed one of the file folders and looked at her again from head to feet. "Feel a little humiliated, do you, Inge?" he asked.

"What is it you want?" she asked.

"That's the whole idea," von Deitzberg said conversationally.

"To humiliate the person being interrogated, to deprive him-or her-of his-or her-dignity."

He let that sink in.

"You're a more than ordinarily attractive female, Inge. One might even say beautiful. That was my reaction to you when I saw you in your car, when you gave me a look at your legs. You were then in charge, so to speak. Or at least thought you were."

She didn't reply.

"Right now you are a naked female, and frankly, your body isn't nearly as attractive as I expected. Your breasts are starting to sag, and there is too much flesh between your legs."

Her lips quivered.

"More important, I think you're getting the idea just how vulnerable you are, how completely you are at my mercy."

"What is it you want from me?"

'That standard line from any film about a court trial, 'the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.' "

"I would have answered anything you asked me," she said. "You didn't have to do this."

"I think I did. Otherwise I wouldn't have done it," he said matter-of-factly. "Please turn around, Inge. Turn completely around."

She looked at him for a moment, then complied.

When she had completed the turn, he let her stand there for a long moment. Then he said, "Your buttocks are begin ning to sag, Inge. You are losing the charms of youth."

Inge could not entirely restrain a sob.

"You might actually have trouble picking up officers in the Adlon Hotel Bar if I sent you back to Berlin, Inge. Moot question. If I send you back to Germany, you won't get any where near the Adlon Bar."

"I'll tell you anything you want to know," Inge said. "You don't have to do this."

"First question. How much do you know about the special operation your husband has been conducting?"

"He's been conducting two special operations," Inge said.

"Very good, Inge. That suggests you are willing to tell me the whole truth. What are the two operations?"

"One is Operation Phoenix."

"Which is?"

"He has opened bank accounts and bought an estancia-a farm."

"I know what an estancia is. To what end?"

"To provide a refuge for our leaders if the war doesn't go as well as they think it will."

"And the second operation Werner is involved in?"

"Jews give him money to get people out of concentration camps in Germany."

"And how is that done?"

"I don't know. I really don't know. I just know that it hap pens, and that the money goes into accounts at the Banco de

Rio Plate and the Banco Ramfrez. Different accounts than the money used for Operation Phoenix. I know which ones-"

"So do I," von Deitzberg cut her off. "Who besides

Werner has access to those accounts, the special accounts?"

"Just me."

"You're sure of that?"

"I'm sure."

"Tell me about Werner's friends," von Deitzberg said. "Is there anyone in particular?"

"I don't know," she said.

"Stimulate your memory," he ordered. "Jog your brain.

Jump up and down."

"What?"

"Jump up and down," he said. "Until I tell you to stop."

"He is closer to the imobilerio, the real estate-"

"I really hoped that I would not have to strike you again," von Deitzberg said, and rose from behind the desk.

Inge began to jump, awkwardly, up and down.

He kept her at it until her face was flushed with the exer tion, then waved his hand to signal her to stop. "When you do that, your breasts flop up and down," he observed. "It's not attractive."

She looked at him and shook her head, but said nothing.

"You were telling me about the imobilerio," he said.

"Whose name is?"

"Nunzio. Alfredo Nunzio."

"And would you say, Inge, that Senor Alfredo Nunzio and your husband are lovers?"

"I think so," she said.

"Do you think that, as lovers are wont to do, Werner may have shared secrets with his beloved Alfredo?"

"I don't think so," Inge said.

"Why not?"

"Werner is too smart for that," Inge said.

"Because he is aware of the consequences?"

"Yes."

"Inge, what I'm wondering now is what you thought when

Werner was ordered to Berlin."

"I was frightened," she said.

"For yourself? For your husband?"

"For myself," Inge said.

"Good girl, Inge! I'm actually starting to think that you understand the importance of telling me the truth, not what you think I want to hear."

"I am."

"Now tell me about your friends," von Deitzberg said.

"Anyone special?"

"No."

"You said that so quickly, I'm tempted not to believe you."

"There is no one special," she said. "I understand the necessity for discretion."

"This is not Berlin, Inge. There is no Hotel Adlon, no

Hotel am Zoo. So where do you find your lovers?"

"I… sometimes meet people at social events, diplomatic receptions, that sort of thing."

"And where do you go with these people you meet?"

"Usually here," she said. "They take a room here in the

Casino."

"These people include diplomats?"

"Two or three times."

"Is that discreet? For the wife of a senior German offi cial?"

"I'm very careful."

"Have you become friendly with any German officer?"

There was a just-perceptible hesitation. "Just once."

"And who was he?"

"He wasn't from here. He's assigned to the embassy in

Buenos Aires."

"And his name?"

"Major von Wachtstein."

"Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein," von Deitz berg said.

"I knew him in Berlin," she said.

"One of the handsome dashing aviators at the Hotel am

Zoo?"

She nodded.

"And the circumstances of your touching reunion with an old lover from Berlin?"

"He came here with Standartenfuhrer Goltz."

"You know that Standartenfuhrer Goltz is dead?"

She nodded.

"Von Wachtstein came here with Goltz?"

She nodded again.

"And the two of you jumped into bed? Was that discreet on either your part or his?"

"He knew what Werner is, of course."

"How did he know that?"

"I presume Standartenfuhrer Goltz told him."

"Why should he do that?"

"They were close."

"Would you say that von Wachtstein knew about Operation

Phoenix?"

"I'm sure he does."

"And the special operation?"

"I don't know about that. I don't know how much Stan dartenfuhrer Goltz told him."

"Did you discuss anything about it with him?"

"Of course not. Or about Operation Phoenix. I just had the feeling von Wachtstein knows about Operation Phoenix. I don't know if he knows about the other thing."

"Would you be surprised if he did?"

"I wouldn't be surprised one way or the other."

"How often were you together with von Wachtstein?"

"Twice. The first time he came to Montevideo with Stan dartenfuhrer Goltz, and then when he came here to take

Werner to Buenos Aires-after whatever happened to

Goltz."

"What do you know about what happened to Goltz?"

"The gossip is he was murdered."

"Under what circumstances?"

"I don't know."

"Your husband didn't talk to you about this?"

She shook her head.

"Did he tell you that what happened to Standartenfuhrer

Goltz was one of the reasons he was recalled to Berlin?"

"No. But I knew that's what it had to be."

"You're a very bright girl, Inge. You are also skilled in the art of self-preservation. You see things as they are."

"I try to," she said.

"Your nipples are standing up," von Deitzberg said. "Does that mean you are sexually aroused? Or that you're feeling a little chill?"

Inge sucked in a breath but didn't answer.

Von Deitzberg rose from behind the desk, walked around it, and leaned back against it. "That raises a question, Inge," von

Deitzberg said. "Given these facts. You understood that your husband was under suspicion-of what doesn't matter-and was being called to Berlin. You surely had to consider the possibility that he had done something wrong and would not be coming back here. You also understood that you possess information that is dangerous for you to possess. And that you would be suspected of complicity in whatever your husband had done wrong-"

"I have done nothing wrong!" Inge said.

"And you had access to all the money in the special accounts in the Banco de Rio Plate and the Banco Ramirez," von Deitzberg went on. "Frankly, Inge, were I in your shoes, I would have at least considered taking the money from those accounts and disappearing."

"I did," Inge said.

"Thank you for your honesty," von Deitzberg said. "But you didn't, when there was time to do so. Why not?"

"Because I knew there was nowhere I could go that the SS couldn't find me," Inge said.

"That was a wise decision, Inge," von Deitzberg said.

"There is no place in the world where you could hide from us."

"I know."

"It almost certainly saved your life," von Deitzberg said.

"I hope you appreciate that."

"I do."

"No matter what the investigation of your husband's role in the Goltz matter reveals, perhaps you could still be useful to me here."

"I'm sure I could," Inge said.

"In that circumstance, it would be important for me to believe that you would do whatever I told you to do without question."

"Of course."

"Get on your knees, Inge, please."

She dropped to her knees.

"Now walk to me on your knees," von Deitzberg ordered softly. "The truth is, despite the unkind things I said before, I really do find you sexually attractive."

By the time she reached him, he had freed his erect organ from the fly of his new suit.

XVI

[ONE]

Luftwaffe Flughafen No. 103B

Augsburg, Germany

1755 16 May 1943

When Peter von Wachtstein returned Claus von Stauffen berg to the hospital, it was half past four. At that time, he had thought the trip to Augsburg would take him less than an hour; Augsburg was only eighty kilometers or so from

Munich. He had not counted on having to pass through three road checkpoints. They were apparently intended to keep rationed foodstuffs from being moved illegally. He had no difficulty passing through them-no rural Bavarian policeman was about to subject a Horch driven by a Luftwaffe major to an intense search for a couple of chickens or three kilos of sausage-but at each one, he had to wait his turn in line until he reached the inspection point.

When he finally reached the gate to the Augsburg airfield, a

Luftwaffe enlisted man, who was wearing a too-large uniform and looked as if he should be in high school, waved him to a stop. "Your identification please, Herr Major."

Peter produced it.

"Herr Gefrieter," the young man called, and a Luftwaffe corporal, who looked old enough to be the kid's grandfather, stuck his head out of the guard shack. "We have Major von

Wachtstein, Herr Gefrieter," the kid said.

The ancient corporal came out of the guard shack slinging his Mauser rifle over his shoulder. He gave the Nazi salute.

"Guten Abend, Herr Major," he said with a smile. "With the

Herr Major's permission, I will stand on the running board and direct the Herr Major to Hangar IV-A."

"Thank you," Peter said.

Hangar IV-A was across the field from the main section of the airfield. They had to drive slowly around the end of the north-south runway to reach it; Peter was afraid the old cor poral might fall off the running board. When they got close to the hangar, Peter saw that it was of heavy concrete con struction and built for some depth into the ground.

You can't just push aircraft in and out of that hangar, he thought. At least not easily. I wonder if anyone ever thought of that when they designed this thing.

He tried to get a better look, but the hangar's windowless steel doors were closed.

The corporal showed him where to park the car.

"How will you get back to the gate, Gefrieter?" Peter asked. "Or are you going to wait for me?"

"I will walk, Herr Major," the old man said, as if the question surprised him. "There is the entrance, Herr Major. They expect you."

"Let me see if I can get you a ride," Peter said.

The corporal looked as if he didn't believe what he was hearing.

"Wait here," Peter said.

"Jawohl, Herr Major."

Peter pushed open the door to the hangar.

Inside, behind a desk, was an Oberfeldwebel (staff ser geant), a lithe man in his mid-twenties. On the desk lay a

Schmeisser submachine gun. He rose to his feet when he saw Peter.

"Major von Wachtstein?"

"Right. Sergeant, I don't want the corporal who brought me here to die of old age or exhaustion hiking back to the gate. Can you get him a ride?"

"Yes, Sir," the sergeant said with a smile.

"Thank you," Peter said. "I guess you expected me?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Well? What's this all about? Who am I supposed to see?"

"Through the door, Sir. There's an officer inside who wants to see you."

Peter pushed open the door, went down a flight of stairs, and then pushed open another door.

The hangar was larger than he had imagined. And it held four aircraft of a type he had never seen before. Peter walked toward the closest one, oblivious to everything else in the hangar.

It looks like something from the future!

It has to be a fighter! It's larger than a Focke-Wulf or a

Messerschmitt, but it's too small to be a bomber!

And it's sleek! My God, is it sleek!

There were four heavy barrels protruding from the nose of the machine.

Those aren 't machine guns, they 're machine cannons!

Twenty-millimeter machine cannons.

No! Thirty-millimeter cannons!

Where the hell is the engine, the propeller?

He looked around the hangar at the other three aircraft. He could see one of them more clearly than the others. It was bathed in the glare of work lights, as mechanics crawled over it. A man wearing a sheepskin high-altitude flight jacket and trousers-obviously a pilot-was standing with his hands on hips talking to a mechanic standing on a wing.

There's no engine or propeller on that, either!

What is this, a pusher? He knew that experimental air craft, called "pushers," because their propellers were mounted at the rear, had been tested without much success by all the belligerent powers. The idea was to lessen aerody namic drag at the nose.

He walked to the side of the aircraft and looked toward the rear. And for the first time took a closer look at what he had assumed were droppable fuel tanks suspended beneath the wing.

Those aren 'tfuel tanks!

What the hell are they?

Peter bent and looked into the forward opening of what ever the hell this thing that looked like a fuel tank was. He had no idea what he was looking at. He walked around the wing tip and looked in the rear opening of whatever the hell this tubular-shaped object was. There was a pointed, round object projecting three inches or so out of the opening. It disappeared inside the body of the object.

"Major von Wachtstein," a pleasant voice inquired courte ously. "Do you suppose you could spare me a moment or two of your valuable time?"

Peter stood up and looked over the wing at the pilot he had seen a moment before. He knew the neatly mustachioed, smiling face beneath the pilot's cap perched irreverently- fighter pilot's style-atop his head.

A Pavlovian reflex took over. He popped to attention. His heels clicked as he snapped his hand crisply to the brim of his uniform cap.

"I beg the Herr General's pardon," he said. "I did not see the Herr General."

"Hansel," Generalmajor Adolf Galland, the youngest general officer in the military service of Germany, said, returning the salute with a casual gesture in the general direction of his brimmed cap, "you were always a lousy soldier. Not too bad a pilot, but a lousy officer."

And then Galland held his arms wide. This exposed at

Galland's neck the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross with

Swords and Diamonds, Germany's highest award for valor.

Peter understood that he was now expected to approach the General, who had every obvious intention of embracing him.

He did so.

"It's good to see you, Hansel," Galland said, and then put his arms around him.

"It's very good to see you, Sir," Peter said.

"Normally, when I send for someone, they come on the run," Galland said. "Not stopping to take in the sights."

"I beg the Herr General's pardon," Peter said. "I had no idea-"

Galland punched him in the arm. "Ach, Hansel!" he said fondly, smiling. "Aren't you going to ask me what it is?"

"What is it, Sir?"

"It just may be the airplane that wins this war for us. Offi cially, it's the Messerschmitt ME-262A1."

"Those are the engines?" Peter asked, pointing.

"Those are the engines," Galland confirmed. "Turbojet engines. Junkers Jumo 004B-4s."

"There're no propellers?" It was both a statement and a question.

"No. Not conventional propellers. There's a kind of a pro peller inside the engine. It-they-force air out the rear with tremendous force."

"It's amazing! How many of them do we have?"

"Not nearly enough yet."

"How fast will it go?"

"Almost nine hundred K."

"Nine hundred kilometers?" Peter asked incredulously.

"In level flight?"

"Almost," Galland said, and then abruptly changed the subject: "What brings you here, Hansel? I tried to find you.

The word was that you were in Argentina."

"Yes, Sir, I was."

"And then, today, I get word from Berlin that you will be meeting someone from Canaris's bureau here. A Korvet tenkapitan Boltitz?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You're involved in that slimy business, Hansel? How did that happen?"

"I didn't volunteer, Sir."

"No, I didn't think you would volunteer for something like that," Galland said. "I'll get you out of it, Hansel. I need you here."

Peter didn't reply.

"You haven't forgotten how to fly?"

"I've been flying a Feiseler Storch," Peter said.

"Karlsberg!" Galland called, raising his voice.

A Luftwaffe captain, also wearing high-altitude sheep skins, appeared. He was wearing both pilot's wings and the insignia of an aide-de-camp to a general officer, and he held another set of bulky high-altitude sheepskins under his left arm.

"You remember Hansel, Johann?"

"Yes, Sir, but I never thought / would be saluting Hansel"

Hauptmann Karlsberg said, touching the brim of his uniform cap.

"The Herr General can call me 'Hansel,' Herr Haupt mann," Peter said. "You can't." He smiled, returned the salute, and put out his hand. "Hello, Johann, how are you?"

"Sometimes I wish we were back in Spain," Karlsberg said. "You know who else is here, Peter? Willi Griiner."

"He knows," Galland said. "Put on the gear, Hansel. The bird over there is a two-seater. We'll take a hop."

"Jawohl, Herr General," Peter said happily.

Peter stuffed his legs through the heavy sheepskin trousers, and then Galland held the jacket for him.

"The higher these things fly, the more efficient they are,"

Galland said. "Fuel consumption is lousy near the ground.

So the cold-weather gear-and oxygen-are necessary most of the time."

Peter nodded his understanding.

"Have them roll out Two One Seven, Johann," Galland ordered.

"Jawohl, Herr General. Just Two One Seven, Herr Gen eral?"

"You'd like to come along, would you?"

"Whatever the Herr General desires."

"OK, Johann," Galland said with a smile, and turned to

Peter and winked. "Come on, Hansel, I'll show you around the cockpit."

When they reached the two-seater, Galland waved Peter up the ladder against its side. It was immediately apparent that the two-seater arrangement was a jury rig. Only the front of the two in-line seats had a full instrument panel. The rear seat had a stick and rudder pedals, a second oxygen mask, a microphone/earphones facemask, and little else.

Galland motioned Peter into the front seat. There was barely room to get in.

Galland seemed to read Peter's mind. "We put the backseat in here," he said. "The factory said it would take three months to do it 'properly.' "

The instrument panel looked familiar, not very different from the ME-109F's. The airspeed indicator was larger, and was red-lined at 1,200 kilometers per hour; the red line on the ME-109 had been at 850. And there were controls and indicators completely new to Peter.

He heard large electric motors, and the hangar doors began to slide open. A tow truck appeared, and a moment later there was a slight jolt as it connected to the plane's single front wheel.

Galland's explanation of the controls and their functions was not nearly as detailed as Peter would have liked, but he told himself it didn't matter; once they were in the air, their purpose would quickly become apparent.

The plane began to move. The hangar floor was below the surface of the tarmac, and it was an effort for the small tow truck to pull the plane up the ramp. They were towed to the end of the runway, where two trucks awaited them.

"It's not supposed to," Galland's voice came metallically over the earphones, "but more often than not, it takes auxiliary power to get the engines going. You can't jump in one of these, throw the Master Buss, crack the throttle, and hit

ENGINE START."

Ground crewmen from the trucks plugged a thick cable into the fuselage. Peter saw that Karlsberg, in a second ME-262, was on the threshold ten meters to the left behind him.

"Wind it up, Peter," Galland said. "Brakes locked. Check for control freedom after you've got it running." He pointed out the applicable controls in the order they would be used.

On orders, Peter depressed the LEFT ENGINE START lever. There was a whining noise, slow at first, then increasing in intensity to a roar.

"Throttle back," Galland ordered. "Let it warm slowly.

Start the right."

"Two One Seven and Two Two Three ready for takeoff,"

Galland's voice came over the earphones.

"You are cleared for takeoff from Two Eight at your dis cretion. The winds are negligible. There is no traffic in the area. Air Warning Status, Blue."

"To your right, Hansel, under a protective cover, is the rocket firing switch. Get your engines to takeoff power-it's marked on the gauges-release the brakes, then fire the rockets. It steers surprisingly well, but watch it when you break ground. Sometimes it veers to one side or the other."

"Jawohl, Herr General."

"Don't lift off until I tell you," Galland said. "If you don't have sufficient velocity, it'll mush."

"Jawohl, Herr General."

"Controls all right?" Galland asked.

Peter felt the stick move through its range, and the rudder pedals moving, as Galland checked the rear seat controls, then tested his own. "Controls free," he reported.

"Ready, Johann?" Galland called over the radio.

"Ready, Herr General," Karlsberg replied.

"Two One Seven rolling," Galland said. "OK, Hansel, let's see if you can still fly."

The runway lights came on.

Oh, that's nice. That means it will be totally dark in an hour, and I will have to make my first landing in this thing in the dark.

What the hell, you're a Luftwaffe fighter pilot, aren't you?

You can fly anything with wings, anywhere, anytime.

Peter advanced both throttles until their indicator needles touched the green line on the dials. He released the brakes, felt the plane just barely start to move, then pushed the pro tective cover over the rocket fire button out of the way and pushed the red button.

There was a cloud of billowing white smoke as both of the rockets ignited. Peter expected the plane would immediately accelerate rapidly. It did not. But a moment later, as he lined up the nose of the accelerating aircraft on the centerline of the runway, he became aware that he was being pushed slowly, but with great force, back against his seat.

He saw the airspeed indicator jump to life at about 70 kilometers, and then the needle continued to move upward very quickly. He felt life come into the controls.

A moment later, Galland ordered: "Lift it off."

Peter dropped his eyes to the airspeed indicator. It was indicating more than 120 kilometers. He edged back on the stick. The rumble of the landing gear ceased almost immedi ately, and he felt that he was flying.

"Gear up," Galland ordered.

The gear came up very quickly.

There was a tendency for the aircraft to turn to the right.

Peter made the necessary corrections without thinking about it.

"Drop the rockets," Galland ordered.

Peter pressed that button. He glanced out the window. The ground was dropping away quickly, and as he watched, the runway lights died.

Runway lights were turned on only when aircraft were taking off or landing. Otherwise, they served as lovely target markers for B-17 bombardiers.

This sometimes caused problems for fighter pilots trying to find their fields after radios or antennae had taken one or more.50-caliber Browning bullets, or were not functioning for some other reason.

He saw Karlsberg's ME-262 slightly behind and just a little above him. And then there was backward pressure on the stick. He fought it at first, then realized it was coming from

Galland, pulling backward on the backseat's stick. He gave in to it.

The nose rose at an impossible angle.

Christ! What's he trying to do, put it in a stall?

There was no stall. With the nose approaching straight-up, the ME-262 continued not only to climb, but at an ever increasing velocity.

Peter looked over his shoulder. Galland was smiling at him. "Put on the mask, Hansel," he said. "We'll be going through three thousand meters very soon."

Peter pulled the clammy rubber mask over his mouth, twisted the valve, and felt the oxygen on his face. He looked at the altimeter. The needle seemed to be almost spinning around the dial, and as he watched, it indicated 3,000 meters. "This is fantastic!" he said.

"It's not a bad little airplane, Peter," Galland said, and with an exaggerated gesture-holding up both hands at the level of his shoulders-signaled that he had let go of the stick.

The airspeed settled down at about 600 knots, but the altimeter continued to wind rapidly.

"Level off at six thousand," Galland said. "And then you can play with it a little."

"Are we going to find any Amis or Brits up here tonight?"

Peter asked.

"I don't think so," Galland said. "You heard the tower.

The aircraft warning status is blue. The Amis are usually long gone by this time of day-they like to land in the day light. And the Brits usually time their night raids so they arrive home just after first light. Which is why we're flying at this hour. The longer we can keep them from learning about the ME-262, until we get enough of them to really do some damage, the better."

"Understand," Peter said.

"If we do see a Lancaster, Peter, or anything, we will not engage. Not engage. Understand?"

"Jawohl, Herr General."

"If you see something, do a one-eighty and get the hell out of there."

"Jawohl, Herr General."

The airplane was as agile in the sky as anything Peter had ever flown. He engaged in a brief mock dogfight with Karls berg and lost sight of him in a turn. And then Karlsberg flashed past him.

"All things considered, I'd say you're dead," Galland said.

"But that's not too bad for your first fifteen minutes."

Peter went looking for Karlsberg, spotted him, and put the

ME-262 into a sharp diving turn to the left.

What seemed like two or three minutes later, Galland spoke again: "If you don't plan to make a dead stick land ing-and these birds drop like a stone, I think I should tell you-I think you should try to find the field."

Peter found the fuel gauges. The needles were close to empty. He looked down at the ground. Darkness was already concealing the details of the terrain.

Where the hell is Augsburg?

He looked at the Radio Direction Finder, then banked the

ME-262 toward the Augsburg transmitter.

"With a little reserve, you have about fifty minutes at alti tude," Galland said. "You aren't going to be able to strafe the

King in Buckingham Palace in one of these. We just don't have the range. But once we get these airplanes operational, I think my friend Spaatz is going to get far fewer B-17s back to

England than he sends here." General Carl Spaatz,

USAAC, directed the bombing of Germany by the Eighth

U.S. Air Force.

"With those thirty-millimeters," Peter thought out loud,

"you don't have to come in range of the guns on a B-17."

"And if you're quick," Galland said, "you can come out of the sun at them at a thousand K, and get two, maybe even three of them, and still be out of the range of their guns."

"Jesus!" Peter said.

"I think I should warn you, Hansel, that the standard pun ishment for my pilots who bend one of these on landing is castration with a very dull knife."

"Yes, Sir."

"Two other things: One, you have to land hot. They don't handle well at low speeds, which means you should put the wheels down as close to the threshold of the runway as you can."

"Yes, Sir."

"Two, you don't get instant throttle response from a tur bojet engine. It's five to seven seconds before you get any usable power."

"Yes, Sir."

"You want me to shoot a touch-and-go so you can see how it's done?"

"Why don't you let me try it, and take it away from me if I start to lose it?"

"If I start to take it away from you, don't fight me."

"Yes, Sir."

"Jaegerhaven," Galland called over the radio. "Two One

Seven and Two Two Three for approach and landing."

The control tower responded with landing instructions, and all of a sudden, two parallel lines of lights showed him the runway.

"Sometimes, if a dull knife isn't immediately available, I use a dull saw," Galland said.

Peter lined up with the field, turned on final, and touched down hot but smoothly on the yellow and black stripes that marked the end of the runway. The runway lights went off before he had finished the landing roll. Tow trucks were waiting for both fighters on the taxiway, and had hooked up before the whine of the turboprops had stopped. When they reached the hangar, the doors were opening, and the moment the airplanes were inside, they began to close again. The hangar lights did not come on until the doors were fully closed.

Ground crew appeared and put a ladder up to the cockpit.

Galland got out first, and then Peter climbed down after him.

Karlsberg appeared. He had removed his sheepskin trousers but was still wearing his now unbuttoned high-altitude jacket. Galland unbuttoned his jacket and somewhat awk wardly pulled off the trousers. He waited until Peter had done the same thing.

"Karlsberg, you may say something appropriate to Major von Wachtstein for having successfully passed the appropriate flight tests qualifying him in ME-262 Series aircraft."

Karlsberg smiled and gave Peter a thumbs-up. Peter sus pected that Galland was serious about his passing a check ride.

And again Galland seemed to be reading his mind. "Don't let it go to your head, Hansel," he said. "You'll get a good deal of further instruction before I let you go on your own.

But when I go to Unser Hermann to get you transferred here, I want to tell him that you're already qualified in these birds." Reichsmarschall Hermann Goring-Unser Hermann,

Our Hermann-was the head of the Luftwaffe.

"Yes, Sir."

There was something in Galland's tone of voice when he referred to "Unser Hermann" that gave Peter pause.

In a moment, he knew what it was. In the early days, when Peter had flown with the Condor Legion in Spain, and in

Poland, and in the defeat of France, "Unser Hermann" had been spoken of with affection and respect. Unser Hermann was one of them; he was everybody's fond uncle; he worried about them; by taking care of the Luftwaffe, he took care of them.

But as British and American bombers began to strike at

German cities, which Goring had sworn would never happen, and as stories of his drug addiction, his erratic behavior, his homosexual advances to decorated fighter pilots invited to his

Karin Hall estate, and more important, his unwillingness to stand up for the Luftwaffe, were whispered about in

Luftwaffe ready rooms and officers' clubs, "Unser Her mann" had become a more derisive appellation.

But by captains and majors, not general officers.

Did I really hear a sarcastic tone in Galland's voice? Or was it just my imagination?

A Luftwaffe Oberstleutnant marched across the hangar, the heels of his glistening boots ringing on the concrete. He came to attention in front of Galland and rendered a crisp

Nazi salute. "Heil Hitler!"

Galland and Karlsberg returned the salute, and a moment later, Peter did too.

That's the first time I've seen Galland do that.

"Herr General, there has been an urgent teletype from

Berlin about Major Wachtstein."

"Saying what?"

"Herr General, the message states that Korvettenkapitan

Boltitz has been delayed approximately twelve hours. He will arrive at approximately 1000 hours tomorrow morning.

We are directed to ensure that Wachtstein is available to him at that time."

"It's van Wachtstein, Colonel," Galland corrected him.

"Colonel Deitzer, may I present Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein?"

Peter came to attention and clicked his heels.

Colonel Deitzer offered his hand and a weak smile.

"Major," he said.

"Major von Wachtstein has just taken, and passed, his flight examination for ME-262 aircraft," Galland said.

"Make sure that Luftwaffe Central Records is promptly made aware of that."

"Jawohl, Herr General."

"I don't want any administrative problems with that,"

Galland said. "Make sure you have a record of their acknowledgment."

"Jawohl, Herr General. Herr General, Berlin requests an acknowledgment of their order regarding the major."

"Then telex them that I personally guarantee Major von

Wachtstein will be available to the Korvettenkapitan when he arrives."

"Jawohl, Herr General," he said, and turned to Peter.

"If there's nothing else, Colonel, I'll be in my quarters,"

Galland said.

"Jawohl, Herr General," Deitzer said, then raised his arm in the Nazi salute and barked, "Heil Hitler!"

The three pilots returned the Nazi salute, and Oberstleut nant Deitzer turned on his heel and marched away.

Galland waved his hand toward the stairway of the hangar, and the three started walking to it. "Napoleon said,

'An army marches on its stomach,' " he said. "I have learned he was wrong. An army marches-in our case, flies-on the backs of people like Deitzer. We may not like them, and God knows they're not warriors, but we need them. I have to keep reminding myself of that."

Neither Karlsberg nor Peter could think of a reply.

When they had climbed the stairway and left the hangar,

Galland pointed to the Horch. "Hello! What's that?"

"It's my father's car, sir," Peter said.

"I was afraid for a moment we were having another important visitor," Galland said. "And I'm not in the mood to entertain important visitors."

"Grafin von Stauffenberg… Herr General-do you know

Oberstleutnant von Stauffenberg?"

Galland nodded. "I heard he really caught it bad in Africa.

Blinded, wasn't he?"

"He has the sight of one eye, Herr General. I just saw him in hospital in Munich. His wife is going to come here and take the car to their place. I hope that's all right."

"Of course it is," Galland said. "Just give Deitzer the details. That's my point. Those paper pushers are really useful."

A young sergeant was standing at attention beside a gray military Volkswagen.

"Otto," Galland called to him. "We're going to ride in style with Major von Wachtstein. Follow us to my quarters."

"Jawohl, Herr General."

[TWO]

Quarters of the General Officer Commanding

Luftwaffe Flughafen No. 103B

Augsburg, Germany

2035 16 May 1943

Hauptmann Willi Griiner was leaning against a pillar of the fence in front of the two-story masonry house provided as quarters to General Galland. He pushed himself off the wall when he saw the Horch and the Volkswagen approach. He saluted-the military, stiff-hand-to-the-brim-of-his-cap salute, not the Nazi-when he saw General Galland.

"Why are you standing on the street, Willi?" Galland called as he got out of the car. "You should have gone in."

He punched Griiner affectionately on the arm, then led him through the gate in the fence and toward the house with his arm around his shoulder. Karlsberg and Peter followed.

The door was opened by a young Luftwaffe soldier in a short, crisply starched white jacket. Galland led them all into a sitting room, and to a bar set against one wall. "Any body hungry?" Galland asked.

No one was.

Galland went behind the bar, came up with beer and glasses, and handed them around. When they had all poured beer, he raised his. "Prosit!" he called.

They repeated the toast and sipped at their beer.

"I didn't expect to see you here," Willi Griiner said.

"I'm the Luftwaffe representative for your father's funeral," Peter said. "I was ordered to meet Boltitz here.'7

"Boltitz? U-boat?" Willi asked.

Peter remembered that was what Willi had christened

Boltitz in the bar in Berlin. He nodded.

"I don't know what to think about U-boat," Willi said, then went on before giving Peter a chance to reply: "Have you seen what they're flying here?"

"I just flew one," Peter said. "As a matter of fact, Galland made it a check ride."

"And you passed it?" Willi asked in mock surprise.

"Go fuck yourself, Willi," Peter said.

The room was decorated with photographs and paintings, all with a Luftwaffe connection. Peter wandered around the room, looking at them. He found one of special interest. It was a photograph of then Oberst Galland standing in front of the wing of an ME-109 with three young pilots, one of whom was Flight Sergeant Peter Wachtstein. It had been taken, he recalled, on a Polish military airfield outside Warsaw.

Peter remembered the tall, thin Swabian standing beside him. He couldn't remember his name, but he remembered that he had gone down into the English Channel, and that they had never been notified that he had been taken prisoner.

The other guy, too-what the hell was his name?-had also caught it, later, in France.

Peter examined a rather good oil painting of a Focke-Wulf

Fw-190 taking off, accurate to the point that the left gear was nearly in its well, and the right still dangling down, making the sleek fighter look like a one-legged bird.

One of the first things a new Fw-190 pilot was told was that when you went to GEAR up, you should be prepared for the bird to veer to the right, because the gear went up unevenly.

That triggered memories of the Fw-109 squadron he had commanded before being sent to Argentina, and he went from that to wonder somewhat bitterly how many of his men had caught it since he'd left them.

He turned from the painting and looked around the room.

There was something about it that made it seem more like an officer's mess than a living room in a home. There was no evidence of a feminine touch, although he knew there was a

Frau Generalmajor Galland and a family; he had met them-a nice lady, and nice kids-once in Paris, right after

Paris had fallen, and another time in Berlin.

I wonder where she is?

Galland again seemed to read his mind. "For some reason,

Hansel-never try to understand female reasoning-Liesel doesn't like it here. She says she never sees me but an hour or two a day. Why she thinks that's not better than seeing me for a day only once every other week at home, I don't pre tend to understand."

"And the kids?" Peter asked.

"Whenever it can be arranged, the oldest boy spends a couple of days with me here."

That relationship doesn't seem to upset him very much.

Maybe he has trouble with his wife?

It's none of your business.

Three other officers joined them, one at a time, during the next fifteen minutes. Two were young captains (Peter remembered one vaguely from Poland), and an old-rela tively speaking; he was probably not yet thirty-Oberstleut nant who had been one of his instructors at flight school.

Peter saw that Oberstleutnant Henderver also wore the

Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross around his neck. At roughly the same moment, Henderver saw Peter's and headed for him.

"Your face is familiar, Major."

"Von Wachtstein, Sir," Peter said. "You taught me to fly the Stosser, Herr Oberstleutnant."

The Focke-Wulf Fw-56 "Stosser," first flown in 1933, was a single-engine 240-hp, low-wing monoplane designed as a fighter, which after 1937 was used as an advanced flying and gunnery trainer.

"And you're still alive? Amazing!" Henderver said.

"Lucky, Sir, I'd say."

"You'd better hope it holds," Henderver said. "The 262 is a dangerous little bitch."

"I flew it this afternoon, Sir."

"Under the circumstances, you and the Herr General may address me by my Christian name," Henderver said. "Of course, the Herr General may anyway. But somebody that I long ago taught to fly the Stosser and is still alive is obvi ously a special person."

He's drunk, Peter realized.

"Thank you, Sir," Peter said. "I think it was probably the quality of your instruction."

"And you're an ass-kisser, too… What was your Christian name?"

"Peter."

"I like to have my ass kissed, Peter," Henderver said, "but only by members of the other sex." He raised his voice:

"Herr General, were you aware that I taught this splendid officer to fly the Stosser?"

"And he's still alive? Amazing!" Galland replied.

"My point exactly, Herr General," Henderver said. He turned to Peter and smiled. "Let's have a drink."

Peter held up his beer glass.

"That's a beer" Henderver said. "I said a drink." He dragged Peter to the bar and reached under it and came up with a bottle of Dewar's scotch whiskey.

Scotch? Here in Germany? I wonder where that came from?

Henderver poured stiff drinks in glasses and then raised his to Peter.

"To those of us who have survived," Henderver said. "For as long as it lasts."

Peter touched his glass to Henderver's.

He hadn't finished the drink when he heard female voices in the foyer, and six young women came into the sitting room a minute later. They were neither quite as good looking nor as elegant as the young women who could be found in the bars of the Adlon and am Zoo Hotels in Berlin, but they obviously were a Bavarian version of the same breed.

There were several ways to look at them, Peter decided.

The most kind was to see them simply as young women looking for eligible young men, with the three AT's as their basic ambition: Kinder, Kirche and Kiichen-Children,

Church, and Kitchen. According to the Nazi philosophy, these described the female function in life.

Or else they could be considered to be young women looking for attractive young men; and, by and large, Luft waffe pilots met that description.

Less kindly, they had come to understand that while the chances of getting a Luftwaffe fighter pilot into a wedding ceremony ranged from poor to none, Luftwaffe fighter pilots almost always could be counted on to provide access to food and luxuries not available elsewhere.

Including, of course, to French wine, cognac and Cham pagne, and even scotch whiskey.

With a couple of drinks of Remy Martin or Martell to warm your heart, it seemed less important that the young man who had just given you a kilo box of Belgian chocolate, or two pairs of French silk stockings, was interested in getting you in bed, not to the marriage registry office.

Or to convince yourself that it was obviously your patriotic duty to bring joy, or solace, to a young hero of the Third

Reich who daily risked his life to protect the Fatherland from the Bolshevik hordes.

"And this, my dear Trudi," Generalmajor Galland said, "is another old comrade-in-arms, Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein."

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Herr Baron," Trudi said.

Trudi looked enough like Alicia to bring her picture clearly into Peter's mind.

And she looks like a nice girl, like Alicia; there is nothing of the whore, or the slut, in her face.

So what is she doing here?

If the Brazilians were bombing Buenos Aires and I was an

Argentine, flying one of their antique American Seversky fighters out of El Palomar, would Alicia be in a place like this smiling at me because I looked like a source of silk stockings or chocolate?

Maybe. If the Gendarmerie Nacionale was setting up roadblocks on the highway to Estancia Santo Catalina, to keep people from moving food around, maybe she would.'

No, she wouldn't, not Alicia.

"The pleasure is mine, Fraulein," Peter said, and bowed his head at the neck and clicked his heels.

The white-jacketed steward rolled in a tray of hors d'oeu vres.

"Oh, I think I'm going to have some of that!" Trudi declared. "It all looks delicious."

"I think, Hansel," General Galland said thirty minutes later,

"that you could take Trudi home."

"Herr General?"

Trudi was smiling at them from across the room. She was warming a brandy snifter in her hands.

"I think she likes you," Galland said. "But I am not sure, under the circumstances, that that would be such a good idea."

"It was not my-"

"I was about to suggest if you told her you had to fly first thing in the morning, she might be amenable to spending the night here."

"Am I flying first thing in the morning?"

"The Navy's coming first thing in the morning," Galland said. "How much of the scotch have you had?"

"Korvettenkapitan Boltitz," Peter said. "He slipped my mind for a minute."

"That's understandable, Hansel. I've never seen a sailor nearly as attractive as Trudi," Galland said, smiling. "But under the circumstances, I will, Major von Wachtstein, change that suggestion to an order."

"Sir?"

"If you feel, Major von Wachtstein, that it's your duty to maintain the reputation of Luftwaffe fighter pilots by pro viding what the lady so obviously wants, you will do so on the premises."

Peter didn't reply.

"I gave my word, you will recall," Galland went on, "that I would have you here for the Korvettenkapitan in the morning. I don't want to tell him you're off God only knows where attempting to increase the Bavarian birth rate."

"Jawohl, Herr General."

"I had my orderly put your bag in the second bedroom to the left, at the top of the stairs," Galland said. "And he will take Trudi home in the morning."

"I wish I shared your high opinion of my irresistibility,

Herr General," Peter said. "I don't think she's all that inter ested in me."

"Oh, I'm sure she is."

"With all possible respect, Herr General, I disagree."

Galland winked at Peter, smiled knowingly, punched him affectionately on the arm, and walked away.

Across the room, Trudi saw that Galland had left Peter, and she walked to him, offering the glass.

"I've got scotch, thank you."

"Scotch tastes like medicine to me."

"And the cognac?"

"Like… cognac," Trudi said.

There was the sound of music, a phonograph playing in an adjacent room.

"That's Glenn Miller," Peter said.

"Well, I won't tell if you won't tell," Trudi said.

It took him a moment to take her meaning. "Is Glenn

Miller proscribed?" he asked.

"He's decadent," Trudi said. "Are you decadent, Herr

Baron?"

"I really wish you wouldn't call me that," Peter said without thinking.

"Herr Major?" she asked with a smile.

"Peter will do nicely," he said, and thought aloud: "He's in the American Air Corps, you know. Glenn Miller, I mean."

"Really?" She seemed surprised. "How do you know?"

"I read it in the English newspaper, the Buenos Aires Herald, when I was in Argentina. He and his whole band."

"I thought reading enemy newspapers was proscribed,"

Trudi said. "They're decadent."

"Actually, it was my duty to read them."

"Really?"

"There's a German newspaper in Buenos Aires-actually two of them, and some magazines. And I'm sure my coun terparts-the military attaches in the British and American embassies-read them. The military principle involved is

'know your enemy.' "

Cletus Frade, for example.

"Do you think you could get to know the enemy better if we went in there"-she inclined her head toward the door of the room where the sound of the music was coming from-"and danced to the decadent music of Glenn

Miller?"

I don't want to dance with Trudi, and I don't want to take her to bed.

Because ofAlicia?

Or because I know Trudi knows getting in my bed is expected of her, and I feel bad about taking advantage of her?

That never bothered me before.

Why now?

Alicia, of course. I wonder where she is now?

It's early. There's five hours' time difference between here and Buenos Aires.

Maybe she's having tea with Dorotea Frade in Claridge 's

Hotel.

Or shopping with her for baby clothes in Harrod's.

Why did I ever get involved with Alicia?

All I am going to do is bring her grief.

"Why not?" Peter said. He drained his scotch, set the glass down, smiled at Trudi, and motioned for her to precede him into the adjacent room.

One of Galland's white-jacketed orderlies stood almost at attention beside the table that held the phonograph. When one record was finished, he replaced it with another, all the time pretending not to see that Oberstleutnant Henderver's hands were pressing the girl he was dancing with against him by holding her buttocks, and that Hauptmann Griiner had his hand under the sweater of the girl dancing with him.

"General Galland really likes you," Trudi said, her mouth close to his ear.

"How do you know that?"

She smells good. That's French perfume. I wonder where she got it?

You know damned well where she got it, from someone like Henderver, or Willi, maybe from Galland himself.

"He told me," Trudi said. "He said that I shouldn't be misled by your looks…"

"My looks?"

"How young you look. He said that you were one of the old-timers, starting in Spain."

"We were in Spain," Peter said.

"And then in Poland and France, and England…"

"Guilty."

"And that you got the Knight's Cross from the Fiihrer himself."

"Absolutely," Peter said. "I was the only man in my squadron with a perfect record for six months of never missing

Sunday mass."

Trudi laughed delightedly, and far more enthusiastically than the bad joke merited. And when she leaned back to look up at his face, she pressed her midsection against his. That she left it there proved it was not accidental.

It produced an immediate reaction, and Peter withdrew his midsection. Trudi's groin followed his.

"Meine Damen und Herren," an orderly announced, "dinner is served."

"I'm hungry," Trudi said, stopping the dancing move ments but not withdrawing her groin from his. "But I hate to stop dancing."

"We'd better go in," Peter said.

She moved her hand from his back to the base of his neck and pulled his face to hers and kissed him.

Not really lewdly, Peter decided. Not wide-open-mouthed with a tongue hungrily seeking mine, accompanied by a grinding of her pelvis against my hard-on.

A slightly opened mouth, with the tip of her tongue daintily touching my lips, and a just barely perceptible increase of pelvic pressure.

A promise of more to come.

And you like it, you sonofabitch!

You get near any reasonably good-looking female and you 're instantly ready to play the bull.

Jesus Christ! You really should be ashamed of yourself!

You don't deserve Alicia.

General Galland, standing at the head of the table, smiled knowingly at Peter and Trudi as they took their seats.

Two white-jacketed orderlies served the meal. It was roast loin of wild boar, oven-roasted potatoes, creamed onions, and a salad. There was Champagne and wine.

Trudi tapped her Champagne glass against his and smiled.

Peter smiled back.

You are probably a very nice girl, Trudi.

And you are probably very good in the sack.

But thank you, no thank you.

After dinner, I am simply going to disappear.

I am not, so help me God, going to take you to bed.

[THREE]

Guest Room #1

Quarters of the General Officer Commanding

Luftwaffe Flughafen No. 103B

Augsburg, Germany

0715 17 May 1943

Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein was naked and spread-eagled on his back. Trudi pushed him in the ribs. She had been trying to wake him for at least ninety seconds. He grunted.

"Liebchen," Trudi whispered fiercely, "there's someone at the door."

Peter opened his eyes and looked around the room, as if wondering where he was.

"Liebchen," Trudi whispered again, "there's someone at the door."

He looked at Trudi. She was supporting herself on an elbow, which served to put her left nipple about six inches from his eye.

Oh, God!

"There's someone at the door," Trudi hissed a third time.

With a tremendous effort, Peter pushed his torso off the bed. "What is it?" he called as loudly as he could, which was not very loud, as the inside of his mouth was absolutely dry.

"Ruttman, Herr Major," a male voice responded, "the

Herr General's orderly."

"What is it?" Peter demanded.

"I am to drive the young lady into Augsburg, Herr Major."

"Wait downstairs," Peter ordered.

"Jawohl, Herr Major."

"You were really sleeping, Liebchen," Trudi said.

"Liebchen"? Oh, my God!

"How much did I have to drink last night?"

"Not very much," Trudi said. "Do you feel bad?" She ran her fingers across his forehead.

Not very much? The way I feel? That's absurd.

But enough obviously to bring Trudi up here.

"Poor Liebchen," Trudi said.

Oh, my God, and Boltitz is coming this morning!

Was I out of my mind, to get drunk?

He let himself fall back against the bed.

Trudi looked down at him, smiled, and ran the tips of her fingers over his chest. And then lower. "And how is he this morning?" she asked naughtily.

"I suspect he's out of service," Peter said.

I don't even remember bringing her up here, much less anything about what obviously happened last night.

The last thing I remember is standing at the bar, arguing with Oberstleutnant Henderver about the best way to fight a

Mustang.

What happened after that?

"He doesn't act as if he's out of service," Trudi said as she manipulated him.

"Trudi, I've got to get up and have a shower and get dressed."

"Oh, really?"

She sounds genuinely disappointed. Is that because I am the greatest lover since Casanova? Or because she's a nymphomaniac?

Oh, Jesus Christ, I'm really hard!

"I would really hate to waste that," Trudi said.

"Trudi, I'm beat," Peter said. "I don't have the energy…"

"Ssssh," Trudi said, putting her finger on his lips. Then she straddled him and guided him into her.

Oh, my God!

Peter opened his eyes. Someone was knocking at door.

Christ, I told him to wait downstairs!

He looked around for Trudi. She wasn't in the bed with him, and there was no sign of her in the room-no purse, no clothing. He remembered that she had collapsed on him, and he hadn't particularly liked that, and he remembered that he was just going to have to close his eyes and get a couple of minutes sleep.

"What is it?" Peter called.

"Herr Major, the Herr General and the other gentlemen are downstairs."

"I'll be there directly," Peter said.

He found his watch. The U.S. Army Air Corps chronometer said that it was 12:09.

Christ, I remember telling Henderver-and, my God, Gal land too-about that slime of an SS officer who stole it from the American pilot.

What else did I run off at the mouth about last night?

And the orderly said "gentlemen." More than one. Who's with Boltitz? That charming slime, Obersturmbannfuhrer

Karl Cranz, who met us in Lisbon?

Galland had been disgusted with the story. Disgusted enough to tell Obersturmbannfuhrer Karl Cranz about it?

You goddamn irresponsible fool!

Getting drunk out of your mind!

He swung his feet out of the bed and walked unsteadily to the bathroom. He turned on the cold water of the shower and stood under it until he was shivering nearly out of control.

He hoped the cold water would clear his head.

All it did was make me shiver.

Keep your goddamn mouth shut when you go downstairs.

Peter cut himself in three places while shaving.

Generalmajor Adolf Galland, Obersturmbannfuhrer Karl

Cranz, Korvettenkapitan Karl Boltitz, Oberstleutnant Hen derver, Oberstleutnant Deitzer, and Hauptmann Willi Griiner were in the sitting room when Peter walked in. "Heil

Hitler!" Peter said, giving the Nazi salute. "My apologies,

Herr General, for my tardiness."

The Nazi salute was returned with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

"You may notice, Cranz," Galland said, "that Major von

Wachtstein looks a bit pale."

"So he does."

"Yesterday," Galland went on. "Major von Wachtstein flew a new aircraft-"

"You're not referring the ME-262?" Cranz asked.

"Indeed I am. Are you familiar with the aircraft, Cranz?"

"I've seen photographs," Cranz said, "and read its charac teristics."

"And von Wachtstein flew it, Herr General?" Boltitz asked, obviously surprised.

"I personally qualified Major von Wachtstein in the ME 262," Galland said.

"Isn't that a little unusual?" Cranz asked.

"Major von Wachtstein is a very unusual pilot," Galland said. "And if you're familiar with ME-262 characteristics, you're aware of the great increase in speed it offers?"

"I heard nine hundred kilometers," Boltitz said.

"In level flight. The figure is considerably higher in a dive."

"Amazing," Cranz said.

"Naturally, flying an aircraft at those speeds subjects the human body to great stress."

"I'm sure it does," Cranz said.

"But nothing like the stresses placed upon the human body-in this case Hansel's body-by the party that always follows a pilot becoming rated in the ME-262. What you see before you, gentlemen, bleeding from his shave and looking like death warmed over, is a brand-new ME-262 pilot."

Cranz laughed dutifully. Boltitz chuckled.

"And he went beyond that, gentlemen," Galland said.

"Delicacy forbids me to get into specifics, but let me assure you that Major von Wachtstein gave his all-to judge by his bloodshot eyes, all night-to maintain, even polish, the rep utation Luftwaffe fighter pilots enjoy among the gentle sex."

"Hansel," Willi Griiner said, "You look awful."

Peter gave him the finger.

"Ruttman!" Galland called. The orderly appeared. "The emergency equipment for Major von Wachtstein, if you please."

"Jawohl, Herr General!"

Ruttman left the room and returned in a minute with a face mask and a portable oxygen bottle. He handed them to

Peter.

"What is that?" Boltitz asked. "Oxygen?"

"The best-so far as I know personally, the only-cure for a hangover," Galland said.

The cool oxygen felt marvelous.

"With a little luck, Major von Wachtstein may live through lunch," Galland said. "He may wish he were dead, but I think he may live."

Obersturmbannfiihrer Cranz kept Galland's orderly from refilling his wineglass by covering it with his palm. "To get to the sad business before us," he said. "Specifically, Haupt mann Griiner, the details of the interment of your father."

Willi Griiner looked at him and just perceptibly nodded his head.

"It has been proposed by Reichsprotektor Himmler, in consideration of your late father's distinguished service to the SS, that his interment and the accompanying ceremonies be joined with those of the late Standartenfiihrer Goltz.

Have you any objection to that, Herr Hauptmann?"

Willi shook his head.

"The Reichsprotektor also suggests that an appropriate place for the interment of both of these fallen heroes would be in the SS section of the Munich military cemetery. He has ordered that two grave places immediately adjacent to the

Horst Wessel monument be made available. Does this also meet your approval, Hauptmann Griiner?"

Willi knew that was meant to be an honor. Horst Wessel, a student, who had been in trouble with the police "for rowdy ism," had joined the Nazi party in 1926, and become a storm trooper. In 1930, political enemies, possibly Communists, had killed him in a brawl in his room in the Berlin slums.

Nazi propagandists had blamed three Jews for his murder, executed them, and elevated Wessel to martyrdom. "The

Horst Wessel Lied" was now the anthem of the Nazi party.

"Yes, Sir."

"The arrangements haven't been finalized, of course, but it is anticipated that company-size units from each of the armed forces will participate. Would providing such a unit, to represent the Luftwaffe, pose any problems for you, General

Galland?"

"No," Galland said simply.

"I know the SS unit at Dachau can be counted upon,"

Cranz said; "And that leaves the Wehrmacht and the Navy.

Boltitz?"

"There's a Navy Signals school at the air base at Fiirsten feldbruck," Boltitz said. "I'm not sure how large…"

"Why don't you call them after lunch and find out?"

Cranz said.

Boltitz nodded.

"The Munich military garrison has the troops, obviously,"

Cranz said thoughtfully. "And now that I think about it, a quite good band. I'll get on the telephone to them."

"When is this going to happen?" Willi Grtiner asked.

"Reichsmarschall Goring has made an aircraft available-a Junkers Ju-52. It should be here sometime today. It will take Korvettenkapitan Boltitz, Major von

Wachtstein, me, and, if General Galland permits…" Cranz paused and looked at Galland, "… you to Cadiz to meet the

Oceano Pacifico."

Galland nodded. "Of course," he said.

"The remains of your father and Standartenfuhrer Goltz will be flown here," Cranz went on. "The actual date and time of the interment ceremonies will depend on whether

Reichsprotektor Himmler or Admiral Canaris, either or both, feel they can take the time from their duties to partici pate. Both, Hauptmann Griiner, really wish to do so."

Griiner nodded.

Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein thought: This is insane.

These people are insane.

Hundreds of thousands of German soldiers are in unmarked graves in Russia, hundreds of thousands more are in

Russian POW enclosures because Unser Hermann failed on his promise to supply von Paulus by air.

On 19 November 1943, the Soviets had launched pincer movements north and south of Stalingrad. By 23 January they had encircled General Friedrich von Paulus's 6th Army.

German attempts to relieve and resupply von Paulus failed.

Under orders from Adolf Hitler, von Paulus continued to fight on, but on 31 January 1943, von Paulus disobeyed

Hitler and surrendered the last of his remaining (91,000) troops. The Soviets recovered 250,000 German and Romanian corpses in and around Stalingrad, and total Axis losses

(Germans, Romanians, Italians, and Hungarians) were esti mated at 800,000 dead.

And here we sit, at a table loaded with food and wine, served by orderlies in white jackets, talking about a funeral parade for two people, whose bodies we are going to fly here in an airplane desperately needed in Russia, so they can be buried in the shadow of a monument of a storm trooper who never heard a shot fired in anger.

These people are insane.

And they are taking Germany down with them.

XVII

[ONE]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

0805 May 18,1943

El Patron of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, Don Cletus

Frade, had left instructions with the butler, Antonio La Valle, that, following his morning ride, he wished to take breakfast at eight A.M. with Senora Frade in the gazebo in the formal garden. He had also specified, in some detail, what he wished to eat. Senora Frade had left instructions with her maid that she wished to be awakened at half past seven (which she frankly thought was an obscene hour to rise), in the belief that thirty minutes would give her time to perform her toilette and arrive at the gazebo in time to make sure her husband's wishes vis-a-vis his breakfast had been met.

At five minutes to eight, Senora Frade arrived at the gazebo, wearing a light blue dressing gown over a pink peignoir, her blond hair perfectly coiffured in a modest bun appropriate to her status as an expectant young matron. At the gazebo, she found everything to her satisfaction.

Two places had been set with silver and crystal on the central round table. There were two large silver pitchers, one containing coffee and the other tea. A smaller silver pitcher held cream. Crystal pitchers contained orange juice, grape fruit juice, and water. Just outside the gazebo, two portable grills had been set up, fueled by coals from the wood fire of the parilla in the kitchen. A cook was prepared to fry eggs, make toast, and broil a bife de chorizo for the master of the: house. A housemaid stood by to serve.

It was, she thought, actually rather elegant.

When her husband rode into the formal garden on Julius

Caesar, he was not at all elegant. He was wearing a red polo shirt, khaki trousers, a Stetson hat, and battered Western boots he had owned since he was sixteen and his feet had j stopped growing, at which point a good pair of boots made! by a

Mexican boot maker was justified.

He was followed by Enrico Rodriguez, on a magnificent | roan. Enrico was wearing the billowing shirt, trousers, wide- ' brimmed black hat, and wide leather belt of a gaucho. The ' stock of a Mauser 7mm cavalry-model carbine rested on his thigh, and a.45 ACP pistol was in his wide belt.

When Senora Frade examined her husband more closely, j she saw that he, too, was armed. An old Colt six-shooter was \ stuck in his waistband (he had shown her the weapon with! great pride; it had belonged to his grandfather, el Coronel

Guillermo Alejandro, and it had been his "working gun"-whatever that meant), and he had what Senora thought of as another "cowboy gun" in a scabbard attached to

Julius Caesar's saddle. This weapon, she had learned when her husband had found it in the estancia armory-with all the joy of a ten-year-old finding an electric train under his

Christmas tree-was a Winchester Model 94 30.30 lever action.

One just like it-"my first high-power"-had been presented to Clete by his uncle Jim on his thirteenth birthday. This occasion had also been marked by "my first whitetail six-point buck." He had explained to her this meant a deer with an unusually large rack of horns.

Dorotea Frade could not imagine a responsible adult making a present of a dangerous weapon to a thirteen-year-old, much less taking him out to slaughter a helpless animal with it the.same day-and this provided her with yet another opportunity to remind herself that she had married a Texan, not an Argentine, and that a Texan could not be expected to behave like an

Argentine.

Don Cletus Frade dismounted from Julius Caesar with what

Dorotea Frade thought was effortless grace, tied his reins to one of the supporting poles of the gazebo, and walked to his wife.

"Goddamn, you're beautiful," he said, then kissed her.

Julius Caesar began to munch on the flowers that grew up on the supporting pole of the gazebo.

"We're going to need a place set for Enrico," Clete said.

"Oh, no, Senor Clete," Enrico said.

"I thought we had been over this," Clete said. "You're my best friend, right?"

"Si, Senor."

"When I eat, my best friend eats," Clete said. "Get off that ugly nag and sit down."

Enrico looked at Dorotea.

"Please, Enrico," Dorotea said.

"Si, Senora. Gracias."

"I'll have a small glass of grapefruit juice, please," Dorotea ordered, "and a piece of toast. And tea with milk and two lumps of sugar, please."

Enrico ordered a cafe cortado and helped himself to a croissant.

"I don't understand how you people manage without a real breakfast," Clete announced as the maid served him orange juice, milk, the steak, two eggs fried sunny-side up, home-fried potatoes, and toast. "A good breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

Dorotea glanced at Enrico, who rolled his eyes.

"What..I'm going to do, baby," Clete announced, "is run some tests."

"What kind of tests?"

"I'm going to put in about twenty acres-eight hectares-"

"I know what an acre is, darling."

"-of corn. That's where I was this morning, looking at the soil. Enrico and I found a place. I don't know where I'm going to get the seed-good seed-but I'll deal with that somehow. And then, when the corn has come in, I'm going to segregate maybe two hundred, maybe three, of calves when they're weaned. There will be two groups of calves. One will eat nothing but grass. The other I'll start on corn and grass. We'll weigh them once a week."

"You're going to weigh three hundred calves once a week?" Dorotea asked incredulously.

"And keep accurate records, to see if I'm right or not."

In his mind, Dorotea thought, the chances of his being wrong about this are about the same as those of the sun not setting this afternoon.

Antonio appeared, carrying a telephone on a silver tray.

"Pardon the interruption, Senor Clete. Are you at home to

Senor Leibermann?"

Clete gave the question some thought before replying.

"Sure," he said finally. "Why not? Plug it in."

Antonio plugged the telephone into a jack mounted on one of the supporting poles.

Clete, smiling smugly at Dorotea, picked it up.

With the assistance of Chief Schultz, Clete had "fixed" the telephone service at the estancia. One "fix" was to install jacks all over the main house and the outbuildings, including the gazebo, and another was to replace the short cords that connected the instruments to the wall with cords at least four meters long.

It was no longer necessary to return to the house from the gazebo, for example, to take a telephone call. The telephone went to the gazebo.

Clete was proud of the improvements-just a little child ishly proud, Dorotea thought.

Dorotea could hear both sides of the conversation.

"Hello, Milton," Clete said cheerfully into the mouth piece. "Why do I suspect I'm not going to like this call?"

"I had hoped marriage would reduce your cynicism,"

Leibermann chuckled. "How was the wedding trip?"

"Compared to what?"

"What did I do, wake you up?"

"Actually no. I got up at first light and had a little ride on the pampas. I am now just finishing my breakfast. Until you called, I didn't think I had a care in the world."

"You fell off the horse?"

"I'm an Aggie, Milton. We don't fall off horses."

"Never?"

"Never," Clete said firmly. "So what's new, Milton?"

"There's a story making the rounds in Buenos Aires that

Senor and Senora Frade, following their return from their wedding trip to Bariloche, are going to have a little "we're back" soiree tonight for their many friends."

"Why do I suspect that you suspect that my good senora and I, despite the stories making the rounds in Buenos Aires, could not find time to fit Bariloche into our busy social schedule?"

"Because by nature you are a suspicious cynic who fell off his horse before breakfast?"

Clete laughed heartily. "Then may I cynically suspect that you've mentioned the intimate little soiree my senora is having tonight-there won't be more than five thousand or so people here-because you would like to come?"

"I thought perhaps you didn't like me anymore," Leiber mann said.

"My house is your house, Milton. I thought you under stood that."

"I'd like to bring someone with me," Leibermann said.

"Male or female?"

"Male. The new assistant military attache for air. I thought you would like to meet him. He tells me that he's a multi engine instructor pilot."

"That's fascinating!" Clete said. "By all means, bring him. While he and I are exchanging lies about flying, you can share social notes with el Coronel Martin."

"You invited Bernardo, and you didn't invite me?"

"My Tfo Juan suggested I should."

"Your Tfo Juan will be there?"

"Of course."

"Thank you so much for thinking of me, Don Cletus."

"Don't mention it, Milton."

Clete was still smiling when he put the telephone back in its cradle.

"What was that all about?" Dorotea asked. "And there will be no more than fifty people, not five thousand."

"I think Milton is bringing someone who can give me the time I need in the Lockheed," Clete said. "There's a new attache for air at the American Embassy."

"You like him, don't you?" Dorotea said, and went on without giving him a chance to reply. "It doesn't sound like it."

"Yeah, I like him," Clete said. "Don't you?"

"If you like him, I do," Dorotea said, then changed the subject: "I really hope you can find time in your 'busy social schedule' to be here for lunch. At one sharp. Mother and Claudia-and most likely Alicia and Isabela-will be here."

"OK, baby," Clete said. "I'll be here, and I will even try to smile at Isabela."

[TWO]

The Airstrip

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1240 18 May 1943

Clete didn't see Dorotea and Alicia Carzino-Cormano standing by the hangar until he had almost reached the spot beside the hangar where he was going to park the Lockheed

Lodestar.

And from the looks on both their faces, he knew some thing was wrong.

He very carefully turned the Lodestar around and went through the procedure for shutting it down, and then got out of the pilot's seat and started to walk through the cabin.

Dorotea and Alicia were standing outside when he opened the door. They were both dressed in sweaters and skirts, and each wore a single strand of pearls. He had the idle thought that both of them would look quite at home on the porch of a

Tulane sorority house.

"I was afraid for a moment you were going flying,"

Dorotea said. It was an accusation. He had made the mistake of telling her he wasn't really well qualified to fly the trans port. To which her wifely response had been "then don't fly it again until you are."

"With something this big," he explained patiently, "the tires get flat on the bottom if it sits for a while. Since it's too big to push, I had to start the engines. Since I had the engines started-which is something else you have to do, every couple of days, to keep a little oil circulating-I fig ured I might as well get some taxi practice. OK?"

She nodded her acceptance of the explanation, then asked:

"Can we talk in there?"

"I'll have to put the steps down," he thought aloud. He was reluctant to use the electrically powered steps more than he had to. They were making a funny noise. He had no idea what it was, but he suspected that something in the mecha nism was about to fail, and he didn't think there were replacement parts available in Argentina.

"Yes, darling, I guess you will," Dorotea said, a little impatiently.

He found the switch, and the stairs began to unfold. He heard the funny noise again.

Dorotea waved Alicia up the stairs, and she gave Clete's cheek the ritual kiss as she walked past him. Dorotea passed him. He patted her buttocks.,

"What's up?" he asked softly.

She didn't reply.

He followed her up the aisle.

Alicia had taken one of the seats on the left. Dorotea slipped into the seat across the aisle.

He faced them, then squatted in the aisle. "What's up?"

Alicia sobbed and looked out the window.

"Alicia thinks she's in the family way," Dorotea announced.

"Oh, shit!" Clete blurted, and then asked, "Are you sure?"

Alicia bobbed her head and put her hand to her mouth.

"She thinks it happened that night at the Alvear," Dorotea said.

Clete had been married long enough to Dorotea to under stand what she was not saying: "If you hadn't put them together in your apartment in the Alvear, you stupid man, this wouldn't have happened." And he had a selfish thought:

My God, Claudia will kill me!

"Does your mother know?" Clete asked, realizing it was a stupid question even as the words left his mouth.

If Claudia knew about this, Alicia wouldn't be here.

Alicia turned to look at him and shook her head. "Cletus, what am I going to do?" she asked plaintively.

"The first thing you're not going to do is tell your mother," he said, "until we work this out. Can you handle that?"

"Work this out"? What the hell am I talking about? This is a goddamn problem without a solution if I ever heard one.

Alicia nodded her head. "Will Peter be coming back, Cle tus?" she then asked.

"For all we know, he may be on his way back right now,"

Clete said.

On the other hand, they may have already stood him in front of a firing squad, or whatever those bastards do to a traitor, or someone they suspect might be.

"I wanted him to go to Brazil," Alicia said, softly. "If he was in Brazil, I could have gone to him there."

And if he had gone to Brazil, the Nazis would by now have shot his father.

"That wasn't an option, honey," Clete said gently.

"Can we find out when he's coming back? If he's coming back?"

"I'll try," he said.

German Embassy? Good afternoon. This is Major Cletus

Frade of the OSS. I wonder if you'd be good enough to tell me if Major Hans-Peter von Wachtstein is coming back to

Argentina? And if so, when can I expect to see him?

Welner! Can Welner help?

"Honey, is Father Welner coming today?"

"You think he could help?" Dorotea replied. "I didn't think of him."

"I don't want him to know," Alicia said.

"He's going to have to know eventually," Clete said. "He can be trusted." He turned to Dorotea. "Is he coming, baby?"

"Of course," Dorotea said.

Alicia sobbed.

"If your mother sees you crying," Clete said, "she's going to wonder why."

"Cletus is right, Alicia," Dorotea said. "You're going to have to act as if nothing-"

"How can I do that?" Alicia challenged.

"We'll work this out," Clete said. "You're just going to have to hang tight until we do."

She looked into his eyes, then nodded her head.

She trusts me. Goddamn it!

"We'll go back to the house," Dorotea said. "So you can wash your face. Cletus will come up with something."

Is she saying that to make Alicia feel good? Or is she, too, placing faith in me that's absolutely misplaced?

He stood up.

Alicia raised herself out of the seat. "Thank you, Cletus," she said, and then turned and walked down the aisle.

Dorotea stood up and met his eyes for a moment but said nothing, then followed Alicia down the aisle.

Clete followed them to the door, watched them walk away from the Lockheed, and then flipped the switch that acti vated the electrical motor for the stairs. They began to retract, with the funny noise again, but finally came in place.

He exhaled audibly and jumped to the ground.

"Shit!" he said.

[THREE]

Gendarmerie Nacional Post 1088

Route Nacionale No. 2

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1530 18 May 1943

Sargento Manuel Lascano abruptly braked the blue 1939

Dodge sedan. This act awakened el Coronel Bernardo

Martin, who had been dozing in the front seat beside him.

Martin looked out the window.

Fifty meters down Route 2 was a Gendarmeria Nacional

Post. The two-lane highway divided around an island on which sat a guard shack. On the right of the road was a two story administrative building. Martin knew the plan; he'd been inside many such buildings. Offices and a detention cell occupied the first floor, and the second was a barracks for the dozen or so men who manned the post.

There were three gendarmeros on the island. A sargento was signaling the Dodge to stop with a somewhat imperi ously raised palm. This could mean any number of things. It could mean, for example, that the Gendarmeria Nacional sargento was bored and was stopping them for something to do. Or else he had had a fight with his wife and was looking for someone on whom to vent his unhappiness.

But probably it meant that Lascano had been caught speeding. The Gendarmeria Nacional sometimes hid men in roadside ditches a kilometer apart, who timed how long it took a car or truck to cover the kilometer. Speeders were reported to the next post, where offenders were pulled over and issued citations.

There were two kinds of speeding. Manuel could have been going like hell, say 120-130 kph (75-80 mph), which was really a bit much for Route 2 in this area, or he could have been going just a few kilometers over the absurd posted speed limit of 75 kph (45 mph).

Gendarmeria Nacional road checkpoints were all over the country; this was the third they'd passed since leaving

Buenos Aires. El Coronel Martin regarded not only the checkpoints but indeed the Gendarmeria Nacional itself as a monumental waste of effort and money.

Though organized on military lines, the Gendarmeria was a law-enforcement agency. They were policemen, in other words, who dressed like soldiers. But they were not very good policemen. On one hand, they didn't have the requisite training. On the other, they felt they were far too good to stop a man who was beating his wife, for example, or who was selling farmers tickets in a nonexistent raffle.

Manuel stopped the Dodge and rolled the window down.

The Gendarmeria Nacional sargento saluted. "Buenas tardes," he said. "Documents, please."

The saluting also annoyed Coronel Martin-as it did many other Army and Navy officers-who felt the salute was a greeting of mutual recognition between warriors, and should not be rendered by a policeman to a civilian who was about to be cited for a traffic violation.

Perhaps for that reason, though he usually displayed his

BIS credentials reluctantly, Martfn found himself reaching into the breast pocket of his well-tailored, faintly plaided suit for his papers. Agents of the Bureau of Internal Security were immune to arrest by any law-enforcement or military agency.

He leaned across Sargento Lascano.

This earned him another salute from the Gendarmeria

Nacional sargento-a much crisper salute than the first. "If you will be so good as to wait a moment, Senor," the sar gento said, and trotted across the road to the Administration

Building.

Lascano looked at Martin, who held his hands up help lessly.

Martin was tempted to tell Lascano to just drive off, but there might be a reason why they'd been stopped.

That appeared a moment later.

Commisario Santiago Nervo, Chief of the Special Investi gations Division of the Policia Federal, emerged from the building, leaned down, put his hands on the window frame, and smiled. "Shame on you, mi Coronel. One hundred thirty-five in a seventy-five-kilometer zone."

"Been promoted, have you, Santiago? Out here catching speeders! Before you know it, they'll let you wear a uni form."

Nervo laughed. "Before I throw you in a cell, Bernardo,

I'll buy you a cup of coffee."

"You are so kind," Martin said.

Nervo pointed to the parking area beside the Administra tion Building and got out of the car.

Martin followed him into the building, where Nervo was considerably less jovial to the Gendarmeria Nacional lieu tenant in charge. "El Coronel and I will require coffee," he announced, "and we do not wish to be disturbed."

"Si, Senor."

"Would you be good enough to get my driver a cup of coffee, too, Lieutenant?" Martin asked courteously.

"Si, mi Coronel."

Nervo waved Martin into an office with OFFICER COM

MANDING lettered on the door, and then onto a couch. He sat at the other end of the couch and offered Martin a cigarette.

Martin held up his hand to decline.

The sargento who had stopped Martin's Dodge carried in a tray with coffee cups and a thermos of coffee.

Nervo nodded at him

"You're very kind, Sargento," Martin said.

"Close the door as you leave," Nervo ordered. He poured coffee for Martin, who declined milk and sugar.

"What a pleasant coincidence meeting you here, of all places," Martin said.

"Well, I don't get invited to the estancias of the high and mighty," Nervo said. "I have to park by the side of the road and watch them drive by."

My God, is he really jealous?

"What can I do for you, Santiago?" Martin asked.

"I would like your honest opinion about a political matter.

Make that opinions, political matters."

"Certainly. Ask away."

"Ramirez has appointed Peron Minister of Labor."

"Yes, he has."

"Why?"

"Why not? Juan Domingo Peron is a very capable man."

"Why isn't he Minister of Defense?"

"General Farrell is Minister of Defense," Martin said.

"Nobody told you?"

"Don't fence with me, please, this is serious," Nervo said.

"Peron doesn't have to be at the Ministry of Defense so long as Farrell is there. Farrell does exactly-no more and no less-what Peron tells him to do."

"Why does Peron want to be Minister of Labor?"

"Because he wants to be president of the Republic. The

Minister of Labor can do nice things for the laboring class, who vote. What can the Army and the Navy do for the vot ers?"

"You think Peron will make it? Become the president?"

"Yes, I do."

"And if he does, will we get into the war?"

"I don't think so. I can't believe he could be that stupid."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning the English and the Americans are going to win the war, and I think that Peron knows that-no matter how much he would wish otherwise."

Nervo nodded. "We have finally found something we agree upon, Bernardo," he said.

"We agree upon many things, Santiago, and you know it."

"Peron will be at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo today?"

Martin nodded.

"Is that why you're going out there?"

"I was invited out there," Martin said.

"What's that all about?" -

"I don't really know," Martin said. "But it will give me a chance to see who's there, won't it? And maybe even see who's talking to whom, and with a little bit of luck, hear what is said."

"And will Perdn like that?"

"Peron has Don Cletus Frade calling him 'Tib Juan.' "

"You're kidding!"

"I am not. I have the feeling that Juan Domingo will be delighted to see me. The more Argentine friends Frade makes, the better his Tio Juan likes it."

"Isn't that letting the fox into the chicken coop?"

"By now, everyone knows that Frade is in the OSS. I don't think he will be told anything he should not be told."

"Even by his Tfo Juan?"

"That's really in my half of the football field, Santiago, but I'll answer you anyway: No. Whatever else he might be,

Juan Domingo Peron is both intelligent and a patriot."

Nervo paused, considered the reply, then nodded. "Speaking of whatever else an unnamed gentleman might be, are you aware of the new lady friend?" "He sent the other one home to

Mommy?" "No. Senorita Maria-Teresa Alsina will probably celebrate her fifteenth birthday in the Arenales apartment." The two exchanged glances of wonderment and contempt. "How old is the new one?" Martin asked. "A little older, twenty-two or thereabouts. I have it reli ably that he is looking for another apartment for her. When I have the address, I'll give it to you."

"The new one has a name?"

"Her name is Eva Duarte. Blonde. She works at Radio

Belgrano."

"You're sure about them?"

"Of course, it could be my cynical mind, but the lady has spent the last two nights in the Frade place on Libertador."

"What do we know about her?"

"Not much. She's from the country. I'm working on it. All I know now is that she is a very friendly lady if she thinks you can do her any good. You don't know the name?"

"I'll check. We'll exchange notes?"

Nervo nodded.

"Anything else?" Martin asked.

"If you learn anything interesting today?"

"You'll be the first to know."

Martin got up and extended his hand to Nervo. Nervo held on to it.

"What would happen if it got out that Peron likes little girls?" he asked.

"Why should it get out? As far as I'm concerned, if it doesn't endanger the nation's security…"

"If it got out, who do you think Peron would blame?"

"Well, I would blame you, Santiago, because I'm not going to tell anybody. And I trust the very few of my people who know to keep their mouths shut."

"It's something to think about, isn't it?"

"With a little bit of luck, maybe he'll marry the blonde."

"I think if the blonde got out, he'd be in trouble. She is not some virgin of good family."

"But she's twenty-something, you said. Maybe that would make the difference between a caballero with an eye for the ladies, and a dirty old man?"

"Interesting question," Nervo said, and finally let go of

Martin's hand. "Drive slow, mi Coronel. Respect the nation's laws."

"How could I do otherwise, with police officers like you on the job?" Martin asked, then walked out of the room.

[FOUR]

El Estudio Privado del Patron

La Casa Grande

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1605 18 May 1943

As the Reverend Kurt Welner, S.J., walked through the door with a smile, Cletus Frade began to push himself out of his overstaffed, dark-red leather armchair. The Jesuit motioned for Cletus to stay where he was. The two shook hands, then

Welner sat on the edge of another overstaffed, but not matching, leather armchair. This one was smaller, green, and sat closer to the floor.

"Yes, thank you, I will," he said, reaching for the bottle of

Merlot sitting on the low table between the chairs.

"Mi vino es su vino, Padre," Clete said. "And yes, I think I will have another drop." He leaned forward and shoved Ms glass toward the priest, who topped it off.

"This is new," Welner said, indicating the green chair.

"Dorotea put it in here."

"How does Dorotea feel about this?" Welner asked, waving his hand around the room that had been described as

Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade's Shrine To His Son.

"I don't know," Clete said. "So far she hasn't suggested we turn it into a nursery."

"And you?"

Clete met his eyes. "I don't know. Sometimes I'm what?

Embarrassed… and sometimes it makes me a little sad, thinking of all the hours my father spent in here because my grandfather was such a sonofabitch."

"Maybe it would be more useful as a nursery," Welner said.

"On the other hand, it's the only room on the estancia where I know nobody's going to come through the door."

"Your father made it rather plain this was his, period."

"Did he let you in?"

"Not often. Usually when you had done something that made him proud of you. He'd show it to me before he had it framed, or put it into one of the scrapbooks."

They looked at each other.

"I suppose it's too much to hope that I am being allowed into the sanctum sanctorum to hear your confession-"

"Don't hold your breath." Clete chuckled.

"-but something is on your mind."

"Oh, yeah," Clete said. "Tell me about this business of what I tell you as a priest-"

"As your priest, Cletus."

"-going no further. Does it apply if I tell you something about somebody else?"

"That would depend," Welner said.

"I was afraid you would say something like that. Yes or no, Padre?"

"I can give you my word as a man, as your friend. You have it."

"Alicia is with child," Clete said.

Welner shook his head sadly. "The German?" he asked.

Clete nodded.

"How far is she along?"

"She thinks it happened that night in my apartment in the

Alvear."

"When you played Cupid?"

"You really know how to go for the nuts, don't you?"

"I take your meaning, even if I never heard it phrased so graphically before. 'Go for the nuts.' I'll have to remember that one."

"We Episcopals don't believe we automatically go to hell because we tell a priest to go to hell."

Welner smiled. "That would depend, of course, on the cir cumstances. Whether you really wish for me to spend eternity in the fires and agony of hell, or whether that is simply a paraphrase of 'fuck you,' in which case it would be a cru dity, not a curse."

Clete laughed.

Welner took a sip of his wine. "Very nice," he said, then added, "You do bear a certain degree of responsibility, wouldn't you say?"