Despite von Lutzenberger’s smile, he was having unkind thoughts about many things, starting with Ambassador Tarmero’s uniform, which outshone his own.
Then there had been Tarmero’s inquiry.
The Mexican ambassador had asked the German ambassador if he could offer—in confidence, of course—his opinion of the ultimate effect on the war of King Victor Emmanuel having dismissed Benito Mussolini and then appointed Marshal Badoglio to replace him.
Von Lutzenberger had thought: The simple answer to your question, you stupid man, should be self-evident.
The King understands the war is lost and wants to salvage whatever he can, then dodge, as well as he can, the wrath of the Allies.
I would not be at all surprised to learn that as we stand here dressed like characters in a Hungarian comic opera—in this grand reception room in the embassy of what pretends to be a neutral sovereign state but is in fact Axis-leaning—officers of the American OSS are meeting with Badoglio—probably in Rome, maybe in the Vatican—discussing with him the capitulation of Italy.
And with that in mind, Mister Ambassador, I dare to suggest that your question is something less than diplomatic.
But what von Lutzenberger had told the ambassador was that, in his opinion, once it became evident that Italy could not function without Il Duce, particularly when it came to throwing the British and the Americans off Sicily, Mussolini would be restored to power.
Von Lutzenberger also had unkind thoughts about the minister extraordinary and plenipotentiary of the United States of America to the Republic of Argentina, who, while standing across the room under the magnificent chandeliers and before a portrait of Napoleon, had had the gall to raise his champagne stem and smile.
But, von Lutzenberger told himself, the American ambassador was nodding and smiling at Tarmero—not at von Lutzenberger.
One does not nod at the ambassador of a nation with which your nation is at war.
Von Lutzenberger glanced again at the American ambassador.
In a pig’s ass he’s smiling at Tarmero!
The sonofabitch is smirking at me!
And his gottverdammt smirk is asking, “Heard about Sicily, Mr. Ambassador of the Third Reich? Or about Il Duce getting the boot? Getting the message, are you?”
And what’s particularly galling is that he has every right not only to smirk but also to mock me and just about every other ambassador in the room by his dress. He is in white tie and tails, rather than any sort of diplomatic uniform. And there is nothing wha
tever—no silken sash nor ornate decorations, not even miniature medals of any kind—on his jacket or sleeves or anywhere else to suggest his rank or even his nationality.
He looks as if he could be a gigolo or a headwaiter.
But what he is—and everybody knows it, including this moron of an ambassador from Mexico—is the representative of the most powerful nation on earth, which inevitably will be the ultimate victor of the second world war to end all wars.
Von Lutzenberger drained his glass and put it on a table.
And if I have any more of this splendid champagne—which, aside from pâté de foie gras, is about the only thing the French do well—I am almost certain to make an ass of myself.
I have to think of some way to get out of here without violating any diplomatic protocol.
Now, how the devil am I going to do that?
Not quite thirty seconds later, the problem was solved.
Assistant Consul Johan Schneider—wearing civilian clothing, of course— was being led to him by a young man who was almost certainly one of his French peers—that is to say, a junior officer on the French ambassador’s staff.
I wonder if he suspects that Schneider is an SS-untersturmführer?
Schneider announced: “I regret the necessity, Excellency . . .”
Von Lutzenberger tried but failed to shut him off with a gesture.
"... of this interruption,” Schneider plunged ahead, "but there has been an important communication from—”
“I understand, Herr Schneider,” von Lutzenberger cut him off abruptly, thinking, It certainly is not Ambassador Tarmero’s business to know from whom I have an important message, and possibly none of Gradny-Sawz’s. “And where is this communication?”