The Graf stilled him with a quick wave. “According to von Arnim, his troops have done all they could. But he is out of ammunition, has many casualties, the situation is hopeless, and to preserve the lives of his men, he has sent emissaries to the Americans. He believes there will be a cease-fire as of 0700 tomorrow.”
“So we have lost Africa,” Peter said.
The Graf waved his hand again. “Von Arnim concluded his message ‘God Save Germany!’” He went on. “It fell to me to take the message to the Führer.”
“Why you?”
“Probably because Generaloberst Jodl decided that if a head was to roll, mine was the most expendable. When something goes wrong, the Austrian corporal often banishes the messenger.”
“And what happened?”
“Whatever he is, Hitler is no fool,” the Graf said. “His face whitened, but he took the news quite calmly. He touched my shoulder. He knew it wasn’t my fault, he said, and that I was one of a very few of his generals in whom he had complete trust. He then very courteously asked me to ask Generalfeldmarschall Keitel and Generaloberst Jodl if they could tear themselves from their duties to confer with him.”
The Graf sighed, then went on: “When they went in, we could hear him screaming at them, despite the thick walls. His tantrum lasted ten minutes. He actually picked up chairs and smashed them against the floor. And then Keitel came out, ashen-faced, and ordered me to message Von Arnim that surrender was out of the question; that the officers who had recommended such action to him were to be shot; and that he was to fight to the last cartridge and the last man.”
“Mein Gott!”
“When I went to the communications bunker, there was a final message from Africa. They were destroying their cryptographic equipment and radios so it would not fall into the hands of the Americans.”
The Graf paused, looked at his son, and almost visibly changed his mind about what he was going to say.
“And now tell me why you are here.”
Peter then explained what happened on the beach, and how Boltitz and Cranz were trying to establish who was responsible.
“Do they suspect Ambassador von Lutzenberger?” the Graf asked when Peter had finished, and then answered his own question. “Of course they do. My God, what a mess!”
“The possibility exists, of course, that they will, in the absence of some proof to the contrary—”
“These people don’t need proof, Hansel,” the Graf interrupted. “There is no presumption of innocence.”
“—conclude that the Argentines were responsible. They have a very efficient counterintelligence service, the Bureau of Internal Security, run by an Oberst Martín. The Argentine officer corps was furious when Oberst Frade was murdered.”
“That sounds like wishful thinking,” the Graf said.
Peter slowed the car. His headlights had picked up a striped pole barring the road, and a guard shack. Two soldiers wearing steel helmets, with rifles slung over their shoulders, came out of the guard shack.
“We’ll talk no more tonight,” the Graf said. “There’s a lot for me to think about.”
When Peter had stopped the Horch and the soldiers came to the car, Peter saw they were both Stabsgefreiters (lance corporals), and both well into their forties. And both were surprised and nervous to see a Generalleutnant of the General Staff appearing at their guard post.
Peter cranked down the window.
“Generalleutnant Graf von Wachtstein,” he said rather arrogantly.
One of the Stabsgefreiters rushed to raise the barrier pole.
A few minutes later, the headlights illuminated the gate in the wall of Schloss Wachtstein. A sign had been erected next to the gate:
* * *
Recuperation Hospital No. 15
* * *
XV
[ONE]