Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

Frade was important because of his connection with the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos. According to the latest word from the Spanish Embassy in Buenos Aires, these men were about to stage a coup d’état. And Frade was reported to be the brains behind the plot, and certainly the financier.

Colonel Juan Domingo Perón, Portez-Halle had been told, was attached to the Argentinean Embassy in Berlin and would be accompanying the young Argentinean’s body to Lisbon, where it would be put aboard an Argentinean merchant vessel for repatriation. The dead officer was the nephew of el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade. Which probably explained why the Germans were going to all the fuss they were making. They knew who Frade was, too.

The Foreign Ministry originally intended to send an official of suitable rank—say, a deputy minister—to represent El Caudillo (General Francisco Franco, the Spanish dictator) at the border. But after Portez-Halle had brought up the Perón-Frade-Portez-Halle connection, it was obvious

that he should go. He would, he said, take El Coronel Perón into his home during the layover in Madrid. And have a dinner for him. Considering the importance of Perón’s connection to Frade, it was suggested that El Caudillo himself might come to dinner. Or drop by to show his respect.

There had not been time, of course, to issue a formal invitation to el Coronel Perón, but Portez-Halle had not considered that a major problem. He would seek him out at the border, identify himself as a friend of Jorge Guillermo Frade, and make the invitation there.

At that point the plans went awry.

“I’m not going any further than the border,” Perón told him. “And if it wasn’t for the insistence of the Germans, I wouldn’t have come this far. But I thank you for your most gracious offer of hospitality.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’d looked forward to it.”

“It’s simply impossible,” Perón replied, “but I’ll tell you what you could do.”

“Tell me.”

“The young Luftwaffe officer, the captain?” Perón went on, just perceptibly nodding his head toward a blond-headed young German around whose neck, Portez-Halle noticed, hung the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross.

“Yes. That’s Baron von Wachtstein. He’s escorting the remains. He’s a very nice young man. I’m sure he would be most grateful for a hot meal and a warm bed in Madrid. They just took his fighter squadron away from him, and he’s very unhappy about that. I don’t think he should be left alone in Madrid; he takes a drink sometimes when he perhaps should not, if you take my meaning.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Portez-Halle said.

“I would be in your debt,” Perón said.

Once the Paris-Barcelona-Madrid train cleared Spanish customs, changed engines, and got underway, Colonel Portez-Halle went into his luggage, took out a small leather box, and told el Teniente Savorra that he was going to look in on the young German officer.

As he walked into the Wagons-Lits sleeping car, he wondered idly what had been the peculiarly Teutonic logic behind the decision to send the Wagons-Lits on to Barcelona and Madrid with a lowly captain as its sole passenger. They could more easily have detached the car at the border and sent it back to Paris with all the other German officers. It would make more sense to have one junior officer change cars than ten or fifteen officers, including a German and an Argentinean full colonel. Colonel Portez-Halle had long ago decided he would never understand how the German mind worked. But it was sometimes interesting to try.

He next wondered if he was going to have to knock at each of the doors in the Wagons-Lits car until he found the young officer. But this didn’t happen. He faintly heard an obscenity, and knowing that would have been impossible through a closed door, he walked down the corridor until he came to an open one. And there was the young officer, attired in his underwear.

“Guten Tag, Herr Hauptmann,” Colonel Portez-Halle said.

“Buenas tardes, mi Coronel,” Hauptmann Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein replied, visibly surprised, as he started to rise.

“Yo soy el Coronel Portez-Halle.”

“A sus órdenes, mi Coronel. Yo soy el Capitán von Wachtstein.”

“You speak Spanish very well, Captain.”

“Gracias, mi Coronel.”

“I thought perhaps you might like a small taste of brandy.”

“You’re very gracious,” Peter said. “I was just changing out of my uniform. You’ll have to excuse me. I didn’t really expect visitors.”

“Colonel Perón asked me to look after you.”

“Then you are both very gracious,” Peter said.

“An old friend of the family, I gathered?” Portez-Halle asked as he walked into the compartment, laid the small leather case on the seat, and started to open it.

“No, Sir,” Peter said. “I met the Colonel when I got involved in all this…” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the goods wagon.

“Then I must have misunderstood,” Portez-Halle said. He took two small crystal glasses from the case, then a flat-sided crystal flask.