Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)
When I leave here, he thought with a sudden chilled certainty, I will never see him again.
“I think it would be best if you took the money with you when you return to Berlin tomorrow. They may solve the problem of sheet lead for the casket, and you might not be able to come back here. And I wouldn’t want to be seen passing anything to you at the train station. Do you have someplace safe to keep it? Where are you staying in Berlin?”
“With a friend, in Zehlendorf.”
“Better than a hotel,” the Graf said. “Well, I’ll write the numbers down for you, and while you’re copying them into a code, I’ll get the money. And then we’ll see about finding something to eat.”
“You know what I would like for supper, Poppa?” Peter said. “I’d like to go into the gasthaus in the village and have sausage and potatoes and beer.”
Generalmajor Graf Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein looked at his son. His left eyebrow rose.
“Yes, Peter, I think I would too,” he said after a moment.
V
[ONE]
The Vieux Carré
New Orleans, Louisiana
1955 1 November 1942
It was still raining when the 1938 Durham-bodied Cadillac pulled to the curb across the street from the Monteleone Hotel in the Vieux Carré. Clete wiped his hand on the window to clear the condensation.
“There he is. He even looks like the picture Graham showed me,” Clete said.
He started to open the door. His grandfather stopped him. He had a microphone in his hand.
“Samuel, the gentleman we are meeting is standing to the left of the…”
Clete took the microphone from him.
“Samuel, pull up in front of the hotel. Don’t get out of the car. I’ll call to him.”
“Have it your way,” the old man said, then leaned across Clete to look out the window he had cleared. “He doesn’t look like a Jew.”
“What does a Jew look like?”
“Not like that,” the old man said.
Samuel found a place in the flow of traffic and drove the thirty yards to the marquee of the Monteleone. Clete opened the door and called to Ettinger. Ettinger was visibly surprised to see the car, but after a moment came quickly across the sidewalk.
“We’re only going around the corner, but why get wet?” Clete said, offering his hand. “David, I’m glad to meet you.” Then he turned to the old man. “Grandfather, may I present Mr. David Ettinger? David, this is my grandfather, Mr. Cletus Marcus Howell.”
“How do you do?” the old man said.
“How do you do?” Ettinger said, offering his hand.
With a just-perceptible hesitation, the old man took it. Briefly. Then he picked up the microphone again. “Arnaud’s, Samuel,” he ordered. “After you have found a place to park the car, go into the kitchen and tell them I would be obliged if they gave you something to eat.”
Clete saw Ettinger’s eyebrow rise, and smiled at him.
A waiter greeted them at the door to Arnaud’s and led them through the crowded main dining area to a small private dining room. The waiter pulled aside the curtain on the doorway and bowed them in.
The table had been set. There was an impressive array of crystal, silver, and starched napkins. A menu was at each place.
“I took the liberty, Mr. Howell,” the waiter said, removing the cover from a plate in the center of the table, “to have a few hors d’oeuvres prepared for you, while you decide.”