“Are you familiar with our brandy?”
“At one time I was so fond of it, Sir, that it was said I grew too familiar with it.”
Portez-Halle glanced at him and smiled. The Argentinean was right; this was a nice young man, and his behavior suggested that he was accustomed to dealing with senior officers. He could also smell cognac on his breath. Perón had been right about that too. Alcohol had ruined the career of more than one fine young officer of Portez-Halle’s acquaintance.
“You served with the Condor Legion, I gather?”
“Yes, Sir.”
The least I can do for someone who risked his life to spare Spain from the communists is take him into my home overnight and keep him from temptation.
Portez-Halle poured brandy into both glasses, handed one to Peter, then raised the other.
“Por Capitán Duarte. Que Dios lo tenga en la gloria.” (Freely: “May he rest in peace.”)
“El Capitán Duarte,” Peter said politely.
“You knew him well?” Portez-Halle asked.
“I never knew him at all. All I know about him is that he was shot down at Stalingrad flying a Fieseler Storch that he should not have been flying in the first place, and that he was apparently well-connected.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They’re sending his body home, they relieved me of my command of a fighter staffel to go with it, and you saw that business at the border. They did just about the same thing when we left Berlin.”
“Colonel Perón suggested that you yourself are ‘well-connected.’”
“My father is Generalmajor Graf von Wachtstein, if that’s what you mean.”
“Why do I have the feeling, Captain, that you are not particularly pleased with the assignment?”
“I am an officer. I go where I am sent, and do what I’m told to do.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Just before you came, mi Coronel, I was asking myself the same question. I concluded that only a fool would be unhappy with this assignment. I’m going to a neutral country where it is highly unlikely that I will be asked to lay down my life for the Fatherland.”
“And did you decide whether or not you were such a fool?” Portez-Halle asked with a smile.
“I am not a fool,” Peter said.
“You’ll be staying in Argentina?”
“You caught me in the midst of my metamorphosis between soldier and diplomat,” Peter said. “I was, more than symbolically, changing into civilian clothing to go with my new diplomatic passport. I am being assigned to the German Embassy in Buenos Aires as the assistant military attaché for air.”
“An important stepping-stone in a career,” Portez-Halle said. “I was once an assistant military attaché. In Warsaw, 1933–34. It was said that it would round out my experience.”
“That has been mentioned to me,” Peter said.
“What is your schedule in Madrid?”
“I change trains to Lisbon.”
“Is someone meeting you?”
“I was told someone from our Embassy will meet the train, arrange for the casket to be taken care of overnight, get me a hotel for the night, and then put both of us aboard the Lisbon train in the morning.”
“It would give me great pleasure, Hauptmann von Wachtstein, if you would permit me to have you as my guest at my home while you are in Madrid.”