Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

“With all respect, Herr Reichsprotektor, I don’t believe I have the authority to make a decision in this matter without the personal concurrence of Admiral Canaris.”

“Well, then, damn it, the decision will be made without him,” Bormann said. “You go back there, Fregattenkapitän, and report to him the contents of this cable, and what we decided to do about it. If he has any objections, he can tell von Ribbentrop or Himmler.”

“Jawohl, Herr Partieleiter.”

“When do you and the others go to Buenos Aires, Boltitz?” Himmler asked.

“Tomorrow night at half past seven from Templehof, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

“Is that enough time to bring von Wachtstein here?”

“I’ll have to start making the arrangements immediately, Herr Reichsprotektor.”

“Well, then, may I suggest that you and the Fregattenkapitän get about your business?” Himmler said.

Von und zu Waching and Boltitz gave a stiff-armed Nazi salute.

“Jawohl, Herr Reichsprotektor,” von und zu Waching said.

The two came to attention, clicked their heels, and marched out of the office.

[SIX]

Guest Room No. 1

Quarters of the General Officer Commanding

Luftwaffe Flughafen No. 103B

Augsburg, Germany

1820 25 May 1943

Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein jerked the sheet of paper from the Olympia portable typewriter, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it angrily into a wastepaper basket.

What the hell! If I ever finish writing this—and it is goddamned difficult to write it in the first place, not mentioning having to write it knowing some goddamn Gestapo clerk is going to read it—it will probably be on the first Condor some Ami P-51 pilot will luck up on and shoot down over the Atlantic.

Well, shit, I have to write it. I’ll give it another shot when I come back.

Or will I?

Will I write Alicia, or will I have a couple of drinks with Trudi, and then, principleless sex maniac th

at I am, bring her up here and fuck her ears off and put off the letter I have to write Alicia for one more day?

Goddamn it, I know what I’ll do. I’ll go to the hangar office and write it on one of their typewriters before I come here.

I will at least try to do that, as I will try not to fuck Trudi, and I will probably fail at both.

He looked at his US Army Air Corps—issue Hamilton chronograph, exhaled audibly, and stood up.

He was in his underwear. He put on a shirt and a sweater, then sheepskin high-altitude trousers and boots. He took the sheepskin jacket from a hanger, picked up the flight helmet, and left the room.

Oberstleutnant Friedrich Henderver was waiting for him in the living room. “You look unhappy, Hansel,” he said.

“No, Sir.”

“I was about to go looking for you,” Henderver said. “But I thought you might be entertaining Trudi.”