Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

Fraülein Hässell left the Ambassador’s office and immediately telephoned Peter von Wachtstein. He sounded sleepy when he answered, as if he had just gotten up or was still in bed.

She told him the Ambassador wanted to see him immediately.

She liked the young Pomeranian. She did not like First Secretary Gradny-Sawz, and did not telephone his apartment.

[TWO]

Anton von Gradny-Sawz arrived at five minutes to nine. He was forty-five, tall, almost handsome (with a full head of luxuriant reddish-brown hair), and somewhat overweight (von Lutzenberger privately thought of him as Die grosse Wienerwurst—the Big Vienna Sausage).

As he stepped into von Lutzenberger’s office, he raised his right arm at the elbow. “Heil Hitler,” he said. “Good morning, Excellency.”

Von Lutzenberger returned the salute and the greeting.

Converts to National Socialism, von Lutzenberger thought, are something like converts to Catholicism: more Catholic than the Pope.

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

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

Figured that out by yourself, did you?

“I suggested that either you or I might be helpful to explain what happened in Berlin,” von Lutzenberger said. “They apparently feel that you could do that best. You and von Wachtstein. I have no idea what von Tresmarck—”

He interrupted himself. “Ah, there you are, von Wachtstein.”

Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein (whom von Lutzenberger often thought could have been a model for an SS recruiting poster) gave a crisp Nazi salute, his right arm fully extended.

“Heil Hitler!” he barked.

Von Lutzenberger returned the salute.

“When you’re through with that, Anton,” he said, “let von Wachtstein see it.” He turned to von Wachtstein. “Two questions, Peter. How soon can you fly to Montevideo? And how much luggage can you carry in that little airplane of yours?”

“There is room for one small suitcase behind the passenger’s seat, Excellency.”

“That’s all?”

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

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

“Thank you, Herr Baron,” von Wachtstein said. “Yes, it is. Señor Duarte introduced me to his tailor.”

“You’ll have to give me his name,” Gradny-Sawz said.

“Of course,” von Wachtstein said, then read the message.

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

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

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

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

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

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