She did it again. Not “things at my house,” but “things at Mother’s.” And whatever it is, she wants to take it “home.”
Clete hugged her a little more tightly.
Obstetrician? What the hell is that all about?
“You want to see your obstetrician? Honey, is everything all right?”
“As far as I know.”
“Then why do you have to see your obstetrician?”
“I’ve never seen him.”
“You told me you’d been to the doctor.”
“I went to Dr. Schimmer, our family doctor,” Dorotéa explained. “And he said I should go to see Dr. Sarrario—he’s the obstetrician; he delivered me and Little Henry—as soon as I could.”
“Why haven’t you been to see him before now?”
“Before now, I didn’t have this,” she said, holding up her left hand, now adorned with a wedding band. “I couldn’t go to Dr. Sarrario in the family way without being married.”
“And you don’t think he’ll be able to guess that you got pregnant a couple of months ago?”
“Of course he will, but now that I’m married, he won’t say anything.”
He laughed. “And with a little bit of luck, he will spread the word that for a premature child, our baby was born remarkably large and healthy?”
“Of course he will. That’s understood,” Dorotéa said. “I like it when you say ‘our baby.’”
“Yeah, me too.”
She gave him what she intended to be—and Clete initially accepted as—a very tender kiss and nothing more. But somehow things got out of control, and it was twenty minutes later when Clete opened the window, put his fingers in his mouth, and summoned Enrico with a shrill and piercing whistle.
He smiled when he saw the whistle had startled the people walking along the promenade, including Coronel Martín’s BIS agent, who immediately looked up at the hotel in something close to alarm, saw Clete, and then pushed himself off the railing and turned around and began to study the waves lapping at the beach.
[FIVE]
The Hotel am Zoo
The Kurfürstendamm, Berlin
1230 11 May 1943
When Generalleutnant Graf Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein caught sight of his youngest son coming down the stairway into the lobby of the hotel, his first thought was that—to judge from his pallor and bloodshot eyes—Hansel had spent the previous evening in the arms of Bacchus, and probably in those of one of the young women who frequented the hotel’s bar.
His second thought was that he was a fine-looking young officer. And his third thought was that Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein was his only remaining son and thus the last of the von Wachtstein line.
Peter spotted his father and walked quickly up to him. He gave the Nazi salute, muttered “Heil Hitler!”, and then gave his father the military salute.
The Graf raised his right arm from the elbow in a sloppy Nazi salute.
“Poppa!” Peter said.
“It’s good to see you, Hansel,” the Graf said, putting out his hand.
They shook hands.
The Graf turned to the officer standing beside him, an erect, tall, dark-haired Hauptmann. “I don’t believe you know my aide, do you?” the Graf asked. “Hauptmann Sigmund von und zu Happner.”