Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

Korvettenkapitän Karl Boltitz walked up to the banquette and looked down at them.

“Willi, say hello to Karl Boltitz. Karl, this is my old friend Willi Grüner. Wilhelm Johannes Grüner, known throughout the Luftwaffe as ‘Grüner the Great.’”

“And justifiably so,” Willi said. “Aside from Peter, here, of course, I am both the greatest fighter pilot and the greatest swordsman in the Luftwaffe.”

Boltitz chuckled and put out his hand. “Hello, Willi,” he said.

I said “Grüner” three goddamned times, and he didn’t pick up on it!

Maybe he doesn’t want to?

“U-boat man, are you?” Willi asked.

Karl nodded.

“You guys have more balls than I do,” Willi said. “More than Peter and I do combined. Can I buy you a beer?

“I haven’t finished this one yet,” Karl said, and picked his up.

“Grüner’s been telling me he now has, or had, my old squadron,” Peter said.

“‘Had’?” Karl parroted.

“And Hansel here was about to tell me how badly my father has been riding his ass,” Willi said, almost visibly wanting to change the subject.

Karl looked at Peter and met his eyes. “And your father is?” Karl asked.

“He’s the Military Attaché in Buenos Aires,” Willi said. “Where Hansel here has been sitting out the war.” He turned to Peter. “Not that I blame you, Hansel.”

When Peter didn’t reply, Willi grew serious. “You used to erupt when I called you Hansel, Hansel. So what’s wrong? What’s going on here that when I sat down made me think I was the last guy in the world you wanted to see?”

“Jesus!” Peter said, and looked at Karl.

“Obviously, Hauptmann Grüner,” Karl said, “there has been some sort of administrative slipup, some breakdown in communications—”

“Whatever you’re trying to say, say it,” Willi interrupted rather unpleasantly.

“Not here,” Karl said. “I think we should step outside.”

“What’s wrong with here?” Willi asked. “What the hell is going on?”

“Please come with me, Hauptmann Grüner,” Boltitz said formally, making it unmistakably an order. “And you, too, von Wachtstein.”

He stood up, and Peter followed his example. Willi Grüner looked up at them for a moment, then shrugged and got to his feet and followed them out of the bar, through the lobby, and onto the Kurfürstendamm.

[TWO]

Führerbunker #3

Wolfsschanze

Near Rastenburg, East Prussia

1720 10 May 1943

Generalleutnant Graf Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein—slight, nearly bald, and fifty-four years old—had been in his small, windowless, two-room suite only ten minutes, just long enough for a quick shower and shave, when he heard a barely audible knock on the steel door.

He was reasonably sure that his caller was either his aidede-camp or, more likely, his batman; he had left his boots in the corridor outside his room so his batman could have them polished by the dinner hour.