Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

“That’s very good of you, Sir.”

“We are, after all, so to speak, in this mess together, aren’t we?” von Tresmarck said, and before Peter could form a reply, went on. “Let me get us a little brandy, and then you can tell me what you know about what happened on the beach in Argentina.” Von Tresmarck went to the bar, where he poured generous drinks of French cognac into snifters, then handed one to Peter.

Peter raised his. “Unser Führer!” he barked, correctly.

“Adolf Hitler!” von Tresmarck said, and took a swallow.

“What, exactly, happened on the beach, Peter? In

fact, tell me all you know about the whole tragic incident.”

“With all possible respect, Herr Sturmbannführer, I don’t believe I am at liberty to discuss this.”

Von Tresmarck looked at him intently for a long moment. “I told you a moment ago you could address me informally,” he said. “But perhaps you’re right. You may consider, Herr Major Freiherr von Wachtstein, that we are now dealing with one another officially. That, in other words, I put that question to you as a Sturmbannführer of the Sicherheitsdienst.”

“Yes, Sir,” Peter said.

“Well?” von Tresmarck asked impatiently.

“Where would you like me to begin, Herr Sturmbannführer?”

“At the beginning,” von Tresmarck snapped.

Peter began at the beginning. Though he told von Tresmarck essentially the same “official” version he had told Inge earlier, he fleshed it all out in great detail.

Thus he provided von Tresmarck with a detailed description of Günther Loche and his father, including their dedication to National Socialism and their loyalty to Oberst Grüner, to Ambassador von Lutzenberger, and to Peter himself. He followed this with a detailed description of El Tigre, the river launch Coronel Gasparo, and the difficulty of sailing such a vessel into the oceanlike River Plate estuary.

By the time Peter reached the end of the tale, Von Tresmarck was visibly relieved. There were a few questions, mostly in an attempt to get Peter to admit to more knowledge than he claimed to possess, and to having learned this somehow beforehand.

But those questions seemed perfunctory.

Which means either that he believes me—I think Inge does—or that he thinks I’m lying, and that since there’s not much he can do about that here, he’ll wait until we get to Berlin.

Von Tresmarck looked at his watch. “It’s later than I thought, Peter,” he said. “And we have an early day tomorrow. Why don’t we have a nightcap, and then turn in?”

“May I pass on the nightcap, Herr Sturmbannführer? I don’t like to drink very much if I’m flying the next day.”

“I understand,” von Tresmarck said, and then remembered something that now obviously bothered him. “What is the rule? Nothing to drink for twenty-four hours before you’re scheduled to fly?”

“The body, Herr Sturmbannführer, will neutralize one drink each hour. My body will be alcohol-free when it is time for us to fly.”

Von Tresmarck seemed relieved to hear that. “I think, Peter,” he said, smiling at him, “we can go back to a first-name basis, at least when we’re alone.”

“Thank you.”

“So, good night, Peter.”

“Good night, Werner. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Von Tresmarck gestured toward the door, and Peter followed him through it, then up the stairs to the second floor.

He undressed and went to bed. It had been freshly made. He wondered what the maid thought.

He could hear the sound of Inge’s and von Tresmarck’s voices, but could not make out what they were saying.

He closed his eyes and went immediately to sleep.

Sometime later—it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes—he became aware not only of Inge’s presence but that she had decided to begin without his full attention.