“Charming man, isn’t he?” von Wachtstein said, pointing to the light fixture on the ceiling and then at the telephones on his desk.
Von und zu Aschenburg nodded his understanding.
“I met him when I was in Germany,” von Wachtstein said.
“You mean recently?” von und zu Aschenburg asked. He looked around the room, then motioned for von Wachtstein to come close.
“In May,” von Wachtstein said.
“I didn’t know you’d been in Germany, Peter.”
“Oh, yes.”
Von und zu Aschenburg handed him a thick, airmail-weight envelope and mouthed the words Your father.
Peter took the envelope and mouthed, Thank you, Dieter.
“Doing what?” von und zu Aschenburg asked, as von Wachtstein walked across the room and sat behind his desk.
“Apropos of absolutely nothing, have you heard that there is a new Messerschmitt with a new kind of engine?”
“When I’m not an airline pilot, I’m a Luftwaffe officer. General Galland was kind enough to show me what he’s doing in Augsburg. Unfortunately, I was unable to convince my superiors that I could make a greater contribution to the final victory with a squadron of Me-262s than I am flying a transport back and forth here.”
“I know exactly how you feel,” von Wachtstein said. “I was in Augsburg and had just passed my check ride in the Me-262 when I was sent back here.”
Von und zu Aschenburg looked at him, asking with his eyes if that was the truth, rather than having been said for the benefit of the hidden microphones. Von Wachtstein nodded.
“That’s unusual. Why? What are you doing here that’s so important?” He stopped himself, then went on. “I should not have asked that.”
“What’s more than a little embarrassing, Dieter, is the reason I was sent back.”
“Which you cannot tell me for reasons of security?” It was more a statement for the recorder than a question.
“Which I don’t want to go any further than this room.”
Von und zu Aschenburg nodded his understanding.
“I was about to become a father.”
“So they got you out of Germany to keep you from an unsuitable marriage? One that would embarrass the Luftwaffe?”
“I was, I am, about to be a father here,” von Wachtstein said.
“I don’t understand.”
“When the lady who is now my wife learned that she was in the family way, she went to her priest, a Jesuit named Welner. He went to Colonel Juan Domingo Perón—”
“Who’s he?”
“One of the more important colonels. And the least important colonels in Argentina, I’ve learned, are at least as important as one of our Generalmajors. Tío Juan Domingo, as my wife calls Colonel Perón, is ‘special assistant’ to General Ramírez, the president. I’d say that he’s the second or third most powerful man in Argentina.”
“And?”
“Anyway, Alicia went to her Jesuit, the Jesuit went to Perón, and Perón went to Lutzenberger. Then Lutzenberger sent a cable to Berlin, and it was decided at the highest levels that I could make a greater contribution to the final victory by coming back here and doing the right thing as a Luftwaffe officer and gentleman—marrying the lady, in other words—than I could shooting down B-17s flying an Me-262.”
“Somehow, Hansel, I’m getting the idea they didn’t have to march you to the altar at the point of a bayonet.”
“I love her, Dieter. I really love her.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I should be flying Me-262s, and I know it, but I’m glad I’m here.”
“You can have a clear conscience, Major,” von und zu Aschenburg said. “You are an officer doing what you were ordered to do.”
“So I have been telling myself. Sometimes I almost believe it.”
There was a knock at the door, and before von Wachtstein could open his mouth, it opened and Cranz came in.
I wonder if the sonofabitch was hoping to catch us at something—anything?
Well, when he listens to the wire recording of what Dieter and I said to each other, he won’t hear anything he shouldn’t.
“Ambassador Lutzenberger,” Cranz announced, “has decided the best way to handle things will be for everybody in Uruguay to come here on the overnight boat. Which means that leaves my evening free. I hope that you and the Baroness von Wachtstein are free to have dinner with me. I’d really like to meet her. And I’m sure Kapitän von und zu Aschenburg would.”
Von Wachtstein nodded, but said, “Unfortunately, my wife—who is known here as Señora Carzino-Cormano de von Wachtstein, but who I suspect would love having you call her ‘Baroness’—is at her mother’s estancia. And as I have the duty—”
“And going there would be out of the question?” Cranz interrupted.
“I have the duty until Gradny-Sawz returns, unfortunately.”
“Ambassador Lutzenberger says there’s no reason Schneider can’t fill in for you tonight,” Cranz said. "’Señora Carzino-Cormano de von Wachtstein’? That’s a mouthful, isn’t it?”
“Think how bad it would be if she’d married Dieter here,” von Wachtstein said. “ ‘Señora Carzino-Cormano de von und zu Aschenburg.’ Now, that’s a mouthful.”
“It’s a good thing you’re buying dinner, Hansel, or you’d pay for that,” von und zu Aschenburg said.
Cranz smiled at both of them.
“Or would that be a real imposition, Peter?” Cranz finally asked. “Having von und zu Aschenburg and myself at your mother-in-law’s home?”
“I’m sure it would be no problem,” von Wachtstein said. “Actually, unless you really want to go to a hotel, we could spend the night out there. There’s plenty of room.”
“If you’re sure it would be no imposition . . .”
“Let me call them and let them know we’re coming,” von Wachtstein said, and reached for the telephone.
[FIVE]
Estancia Santa Catalina Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province 2215 12 July 1943
That afternoon, when Don Cletus Frade, El Patrón of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, on hearing that El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón had found time in his busy schedule to accept the kind invitation of Doña Claudia de Carzino-Cormano of Estancia Santa Catalina to a small, “just family” dinner, Frade had taken several steps to make sure things went smoothly.
For one thing, he told his wife, Señora Dorotea Mallín de Frade, to make sure Señorita Isabela Carzino-Cormano, the elder daughter of Doña Claudia de Carzino-Cormano, was aware that not only were they coming to the dinner for Tío Juan Domingo but that he probably was going to bring at least one American officer with him.
“El Bitcho,” as Clete thought of Isabela, not only disliked him intensely on a personal basis but was more anti-American than Mussolini. With just a little bit of luck, he hoped, El Bitcho would suddenly remember a previous engagement which, sadly, would preclude her presence at the “just family” dinner with Tío Juan Domingo.
Dorotea had done what her husband asked, but it hadn’t worked.
When they had driven over to Estancia Santa Catalina in time for the cocktail tour, El Bitcho was there in the sitting room, dressed in black, and again playing the tragic role of widow-in-everything-but-name of the late Capitán Jorge Alejandro Duarte, who had fallen nobly on the field of battle at Stalingrad.
Clete knew that his uncle, Humberto Duarte, while deeply mourning the loss of his only son, did not hold Clete’s father—who had arranged for Jorge to be an aerial “observer” with Von Paulus’s Sixth Army in Russia—much less Clete responsible for what had happened.
But Isabela sure as hell made it clear that she did. Jorge had been killed by the godless Russian Communists, who were allied with the Americans. Cletus Frade was an American. It was as simple as that.