Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

“Jawohl, Herr Major Freiherr,” Günther said, and waited for further orders.

“Now you may either drive to my apartment now, and wait for me, or follow me there when I’m finished here. Whichever you prefer.”

Günther looked uncomfortable. “Whichever the Herr Major would prefer for me to do, Herr Major.”

“Then go now. Then we won’t have to worry about losing one another in traffic.”

“Jawohl, Herr Major,” Günther said. He clicked his heels, raised his hand in salute, and barked, “Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler!” Peter repeated, and returned the salute crisply.

Is there something in the German character that makes us happy to receive orders—the more detailed, the better—and to comply with them precisely and without question? And, on the other hand, makes us uncomfortable when a decision is required?

When Günther had closed the door behind him, Peter took the sheets of notepaper from his jacket pocket, and then filled in the first names and ranks and titles and associations.

Then he composed his message to Cletus.

* * *

2 May 10 am

Bagman, sausage and I ordered to Berlin on next Lufthansa flight, probably within 72 hours. Condor will bring here SS Oberführer Manfred von Deitzberg in uniform of Army General Staff Generalmajor, Standartenführer Erich Raschner, and Deputy Foreign Minister Georg von Löwzer. Korvettenkapitän Karl Boltitz, Abwehr, will follow later to be Naval Attaché. Hope to see you soon.

Fritz.

* * *

He read it carefully to make sure it contained everything, then smiled, wondering what quaintly American code names Clete would assign to the newcomers.

“Bagman” was von Tresmarck, a reference to his function as the man taking money to ransom Jews from concentration camps; Clete had told him it was American slang for a gangster collecting bribes. Because he had told Cletus that von Lutzenberger called Gradny-Sawz “Die Grosse Wienerwurst,” he was “Sausage.” He had signed himself “Fritz,” not only because that’s what Cletus called him when he was angry, but also because his official code name, “Galahad,” made him uncomfortable.

Sir Galahad, an honorable knight, had lived by the code of chivalry. His name seemed inappropriate for an officer who was consciously betraying his oath of allegiance and his country.

Günther was waiting outside his apartment, standing by the Embassy Mercedes, obviously relishing the right Corps Diplomatique license plates gave him to ignore the No Parking signs on Avenida Pueyrredón.

Peter parked his own car in the basement garage, climbed the stairs to the lobby, and motioned through the plate-glass lobby window for Günther to wait for him, then rode the elevator to his apartment.

He quickly packed a uniform—he didn’t think he would need it, bu

t you never could tell—and a change of linen in a small bag. Then he went into the kitchen and took from a cabinet a small, cheap, patent-leather purse still in its original box. From another cabinet he took a three-inch-wide roll of bright red ribbon with waving rows of sequins glued on it.

He went back to his bedroom, opened the purse, and inserted the sheets of notepaper, then two large open-ended wrenches. He closed the purse, then ripped off a fifteen-foot length from the roll of sequined ribbon, wrapped it firmly around the purse, and tied it. Next he took a flight suit from a hanger in his closet and, not without difficulty, managed to stuff the purse into the pocket on the lower right leg.

He picked up his small satchel, draped the flight suit over his arm, and started to leave the apartment; but then he remembered he had not left a note telling the maid he would be out of town overnight.

To hell with it. I’ll have Günther come back here and tell her. It will give him something to do.

Günther saw him getting off the elevator and almost ran into the lobby to carry the Herr Major’s luggage.

When he reached for the flight suit, Peter told him he would take it himself.

Then he got in the backseat. Günther closed the door, slid behind the wheel, and started for the airfield.

An hour later, Peter sat in the Feiseler Storch at the threshold of El Palomar’s Runway Three Six, now wearing the flight suit over his shirt and trousers. The suit jacket was with the satchel, strapped to the backseat.

He was about to tell El Palomar he was rolling, when he remembered the purse. Getting it out of the pocket in the air would be a bitch.

After another struggle, he managed to tug it loose. He then rolled the red sequined tape into a neat tube and fastened everything to his lap with the seat belt. He picked up the microphone. “El Palomar, German Embassy One rolling,” he called in Spanish. He shoved the throttle forward, and the Storch began to move. There was no need to worry about the flaps. He had all the runway he needed.