Gr?ner and Krantz drank theirs at a gulp. Peter returned his glass to the table barely touched. He didn't like Slivovitz, and he was concerned about alcohol loosening his tongueKrantz was sending champagne, and there would probably be more than one bottle. It was entirely likely that the purpose of Gr?ner's friendliness was to feel him out. Ambassador von Lutzenberger warned him to be careful around him.
Krantz finally left.
"No more of this for you?" Gr?ner asked as he picked up the Slivovitz bottle.
"Thank you, no, Herr Oberst."
"You don't like it, or you're a little afraid of drinking with your new commanding officer?"
"A little of both, Herr Oberst."
"Good for you. In my line of work, alcohol is a dangerous thing. And I suppose the same is true with flying."
"We have a saying in the Luftwaffe, Herr Oberst, that there are old cautious pilots, somewhat fewer old bold pilots, and no old drunken pilots at all."
Gr?ner smiled his appreciation of that.
"In my line of workit will now to some degree be your line of work as wella tongue loosened by alcohol is a dangerous thing. One is often possessed of knowledge that should not be shared with others."
"I'm sure that's true, Herr Oberst."
"I have, for example, two pieces of information about you that I elected not to share with Ambassador von Lutzenberger."
"Whatever the accusations, Herr Oberst, I plead guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the court."
Gr?ner laughed.
"The first makes Krantz's free champagne especially appropriate," Gr?ner said. "The Ambassador will soon be notified, and he will in his own diplomat's good time notify me, that you have been promoted major."
"Really? You're sure, Herr Oberst?"
"The reason I am sure is that my source is impeccable," Gr?ner said, obviously pleased with himself. "A source about whose credibility I have absolutely no doubt."
"The F?hrer told you I was being promoted?"
"No." Gr?ner chuckled, then reached into his pocket and tossed a photograph on the table.
Peter picked it up. It showed two pilots standing under the engine nacelle of a Messerschmitt ME-109, holding between them the bull's-eye fuselage insignia torn from a shot-down Spitfire. Both wore black leather flying jackets, each of which was adorned with brand-new second lieutenant's insignia and brand-new Iron Crosses. One was Second Lieutenant Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein and the other was Second Lieutenant Wilhelm Johannes Gr?ner.
Did I shoot that Spit down? Or Willi? Or was that piece of fuselage fabric just one of the half-dozen around the officers' mess, and we picked it up to have the photo taken?
"Willi," Peter said. "France. Calais, I think. Or maybe Cherbourg. 1940."
Why the hell didn't I make the connection ? I knew Willi's father was an officer, an Oberstleutnant. Because I don't like to think of Willi Gr?ner? Because the last time I saw Willi was outside London. His aircraft was in flames, and he was on his way down by parachute.
"Willi," Gr?ner repeated.
"Have you heard from him?" Peter asked, remembering only now that there had been word from the International Red Cross.
Willi was a POW, alive but injured.
"You weren't paying attention," Gr?ner said. "I learned about your promotion from Willi."
"I don't understand."
He had himself named escort officer for a group of seriously wounded prisoners exchanged via Sweden. He's now in Berlin. Hauptmann Willi."
"I was with him the day he was shot down," Peter said.
"Yes, he told me. He also told me that you followed him to the ground to make sure the English didn't use him for target practice."
He would have done the same for me, Peter said. "In any event, Willi was in Berlin, and looking for you. At the Oberkommando of the Luftwaffe, he found that you've been sent here, but promoted major as well."
"I'm surprised the word got here so quickly," Peter thought aloud. "It almost got here before I did."
"Well, there is Condor service, of course. Willi's letter was on last week's flight." German four-engine transports, called "Condors," were engaged in transatlantic service via Spain and Africa. "It used to be twice a week, but it's down to once a week, sometimes once every other week. The aircraft have been temporarily diverted to supply von Paulus at Stalingrad."
Well, scratch the Condors from the property books. Stalingrad is lost, and so will be the aircraft trying to supply von Paulus.
"If you have his address, I'd like to write him," Peter said.
"Of course. I'll see that it goes in the diplomatic pouch."
Krantz returned, leading a two-waiter procession bearing champagne bottles in coolers.
"I think you will find this satisfactory, Herr Freiherr," Krantz said as he popped the cork and began to pour. "It is not quite as good as German, of course, but it is drinkable."
Peter took a sip and pronounced it very nice.
The bottle was empty by the time they finished their meal, and then Krantz produced a bottle of French cognac.
During the meal, Peter couldn't fail to notice that there were indeed an extraordinary number of good-looking, long-legged, nicely bosomed young females parading down the sidewalk outside.
"The French," Herr Krantz proclaimed as he poured the cognac, "may well be a decadent people, but they do know how to make brandy." Krantz's face was flushed, doubtless from sampling the brandy himself.
And he took a long time to leave.
"He attaches himself like a leech," Oberst Gr?ner observed. "But his food is not only first-class, but free. And you can bet he will invite you to return as often as your duties permit."
"That would be very nice."
"Tell me, Peter," Gr?ner said, for the first time addressing Peter by his Christian name, "how much of Frade's son did you see when you were in Oberst Frade's guest house?"
Now it comes. Even though Willi and I are close. He is after all, as von Lutzenberger put it, the "embodiment" of the Sicherheitsdienst and the Abwehr in the embassy.
"Not much. I was there when he walked in. He said hello, had a glass of cognac with me, and went to bed."
"He is a serving officer of the American Marine Corps. Did you know that?"
"No, Sir. Really?"
You have just violated the Officer's Code of Honor, Hauptmann von Wachtstein. An officer has asked you a question in the execution of his office, and you consciously and deliberately lied to him. That von Lutzenberger told you to is not justification, and you know it. So why did you do it? Who are you to criticize Herr Krantz for not knowing his allegiance?
"You're familiar with the American Marine Corps, of course?"
"No, Sir."
"An elite force, like the Waffen-SS," Gr?ner said.
"Really?"
Cletus was furious when 1 made that comparison.
"Like yourself, he is an aviator. His father introduced him at the Centro Navalthat's the downtown officers' club, used by both services, I will get you a guest membershipas a veteran of the Pacific, specifically Guadalcanal."
"Interesting. What is he doing in Argentina, if I may ask? For that matter, how did he wind up in the American Army"
"Marine Corps," Gr?ner corrected him. "It is part of the U.S. Navy."
"excuse me, in the Marine Corps if he's an Argentinean?"
"His mother was an American. He was raised there. He has dual citizenship. I have an agent in Internal Security, a ComandanteMajorHabanzo. He showed me his dossier."