Empire and Honor Page 18

  I’ll fix that right now.

  “I see you’re wearing the insignia of your old regiment, Hans,” he said with a smile. “May I infer from that that your little difficulty has been put to rest once and for all?”

  El Coronel Klausberger glared at him.

  “You may,” he said icily.

  “What little difficulty was that?” Hoffmann asked.

  “Well, for a while there, it looked as if Hans was going to stand before a wall with a blindfold over his eyes,” Moreno said.

  With a broad smile on his face, Moreno mimed a firing squad rifleman taking aim.

  And, as he thought he would, Klausberger lost his temper.

  “Goddamn it! You know it never came close to that. I was never even formally charged.”

  “Oh, really? I thought you had been charged, and then when General Rawson turned over the presidency to General Farrell, Farrell decided that charging you with treason for being a little too friendly with the late el Coronel Schmidt was going a bit too far and instead assigned you to the Edificio Libertador staff.”

  Innkeeper Mueller decided the subject should be changed, and quickly.

  “How did you get here, José?” he said. “If the Aeroposta flight was canceled?”

  You know very well how I got here, Franz. What you are doing is changing the subject.

  So what?

  Hoffmann is going to ask about Klausberger’s “difficulties” until he knows all about them. And that’s even better for my purposes than hearing them from me.

  “Well, South American Airways’ Lodestars, Humberto Duarte told me with a rather infuriating smugness—”

  “Who?” Hoffmann interrupted.

  Good. He wants to know everything.

  “Humberto Valdez Duarte, Señor Hoffmann,” Moreno explained. “He’s managing director of the Anglo-Argentinian Bank. He’s also a director of SAA.” He paused, and then went on, “As I was saying, Humberto told me SAA’s Lodestars have sufficient range to go back to Buenos Aires if they can’t land here.”

  “I don’t understand why you called Duarte,” Klausberger said.

  “Because the SAA flight here was full. I already knew that. That’s why I made a reservation on Aeroposta. And when they canceled that flight, I had to have someone with influence get me on the SAA flight. I tried to call Juan Domingo—that’s el Coronel Perón, Herr Hoffmann, who’s also an SAA director—but no one seems to know where he is right now. So I had no choice but to call my dear friend Humberto. And here I am.”

  “I can’t imagine you not being able to get through to el Coronel Perón,” Mueller said.

  “I wouldn’t read anything into that,” Moreno said. “He’s probably off to Mar del Plata—or may even be here—with the fair Evita.”

  He refilled his wineglass and helped himself to several crackers on which he spread Brie and then topped that with black olive.

  “Well, I don’t have much time,” he announced. “So if I may make a suggestion?”

  “Please do,” Hoffmann said, and then parroted, “‘Don’t have much time’?”

  “My flight to Buenos Aires leaves at five oh five,” Moreno said. “And I don’t want to miss it.”

  “Excuse me, Señor Moreno,” Hoffmann said. “I was under the impression that we were going to discuss, in detail, the . . . financial situation.”

  “That’s going to be impossible in the time I have, I’m afraid,” Moreno said.

  “And I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist,” Hoffmann said.

  “Señor Hoffmann, at the risk of sounding disrespectful, you are not in a position right now to insist on anything,” Moreno said.

  “You’re talking to SS-Brigadeführer Hoffmann, Señor Moreno,” Klausberger said indignantly.

  Well, here goes . . .

  “I’m talking to former Brigadeführer Hoffmann,” Moreno said matter-of-factly. “Herr Hoffmann, you have a choice. You may either listen to me tell you how things are—”

  “Or what, José?” Klausberger challenged.

  “Or I walk out of here right now and find a taxi to take me to the airport.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Klausberger said.

  After a moment, Hoffmann said: “I think we should hear what Señor Moreno has to say, Oberst Klausberger. Please go on, Señor Moreno.”

  That “courteous” response was intended to be menacing.

  He’ll have to learn right now that he’s no longer in a position to menace anyone.

  “Thank you,” Moreno said. “I have received from Banco Suisse Creditanstalt a list of people the Americans are looking for. It was provided to the Swiss border authorities. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn, Herr Hoffmann, that you are on that list. I would be surprised if the names of the other SS officers who came here with you aren’t also on that list.

  “For the moment, you are relatively safe here. For the moment.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Herr Hoffmann, but U-405 surrendered to the Armada Argentina early on the morning of nine October.”

  “Surrendered?” Hoffmann asked. “I ordered von Dattenberg to scuttle his vessel.”

  “Her captain?” Moreno asked, and when Hoffmann nodded curtly, went on, “Well, the vessel was surrendered intact. The BIS—the Bureau of Internal Security, Herr Hoffmann, corresponding to the former Sicherheitsdienst—”

  “I know what the BIS is,” Hoffmann interrupted.

  “As I was saying, the BIS was apparently notified. The same day U-405 surrendered, Brigadier General Martín, the head of BIS, flew to the Puerto Belgrano Naval Base and interrogated her captain. I understand the captain said that he had come directly from Germany—that, in other words, he denied any knowledge of putting anyone or anything ashore.

  “I’m sure General Martín and Vicealmirante Crater did not believe him. And that it’s simply a matter of time before it comes out that U-405 did in fact put you, the other officers, and your cargo ashore—”

  Klausberger interrupted: “Brigadeführer Hoffmann ordered this man to—”

  Hoffmann silenced him with a raised palm.

  Moreno went on: “—At which time, if not before, General Martín will turn his attention to you, el Coronel Klausberger. He is aware of your previous roles in assisting el Coronel Schmidt in bringing people and cargo from German submarines ashore, and, if I have to say this, General Martín does not like you.

  “General Martín, Herr Hoffmann, is not only a very good intelligence officer, but a very powerful man. He has the ear of President Farrell. He does not need to ask for permission to carry out what he sees as his duty, and only President Farrell can tell him not to do so.

  “You can therefore expect, el Coronel Klausberger, that the barracks of the Tenth Mountain Regiment in San Martín de los Andes—and any other place where he thinks fleeing German officers and what they brought with them might be concealed—will shortly be searched by BIS personnel.

  “So far as the other German officers are concerned, I think they will be safe in the homes of the loyal Argo-Germans to which Señor Mueller arranged for them to be taken.

  “The cargo—in other words, the currency, gold, other precious metals and diamonds, et cetera—is something else. Its discovery would mean not only its loss, but an intensification of the search for you and your officers.

  “The obvious thing to do is twofold: You and your officers will have to remain in deep hiding for at least a month, possibly longer, until the search for you is, if not called off, then less intense. The cargo will have to be taken somewhere where it cannot be found. In my judgment, the most safe place for it is in the vaults of the Banco Suisse Creditanstalt in Buenos Aires, and its branches in Rosario, Mendoza, and elsewhere.

  “To that end, when I heard you were here, I dispatched an armored car, with a crew that has worked for me for years and can be trusted, to San Martín de los Andes. I told the driver to drop off sufficient bank bags—you know the type, heavy leather and lockable—at
el Coronel Klausberger’s office.

  “What I want you to do now, Klausberger, is go back to San Martín and load those bags with the contents of the crates. My driver will take the bags off your hands at noon tomorrow.”

  Klausberger looked alarmed.

  “I’ve cared for the . . . the special cargo . . . often before,” he protested. “I can see no reason . . .”

  Moreno glanced at him, then turned to Hoffmann.

  “I don’t wish to debate this, Herr Hoffmann,” Moreno said. “If you prefer to leave the ‘special cargo’ in Colonel Klausberger’s care, that’s fine with me. My armored car will return to Buenos Aires, you and el Coronel can deal with General Martín, and I will conclude that our relationship is over.”

  “Over?” Hoffmann said softly.

  “Over,” Moreno confirmed. “Bluntly, if our business relationship is going to continue, it will have to be on my terms. I have no intention of putting Banco Suisse Creditanstalt—or myself—at risk.”

  “Now see here, Moreno!” Klausberger began, and was again silenced by Hoffmann’s raised palm.

  “We will, of course, listen to your wise advice,” Hoffmann said. “But there is one question I hope you will have time to answer before you leave.”

  “Which is?”

  “What about the assets in Uruguay?”

  “You’re referring to the Confidential Special Fund?”

  Hoffmann nodded.

  “I can understand your interest,” Moreno said. “I still don’t have all the details, but this is what I know: SS-Brigadeführer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg came here—aboard U-405, now that I think of it—in October 1943.

  “I don’t know this—I’m a banker, not a member of the Sicherheitsdienst—but I have concluded his orders were to take charge of the assets of the Confidential Special Fund.”

  Hoffmann said nothing.

  “Herr Hoffmann, if I’m going to tell you what I know, or believe, you’re going to have to do the same,” Moreno said.

  “Your information is correct,” Hoffmann said.

  “The Confidential Special Fund was then controlled by Sturmbannführer Werner von Tresmarck, the security officer of the German embassy in Montevideo, Uruguay.”

  He paused and waited for Hoffmann to say something.

  “It was,” Hoffmann said, after a pause.

  “Anton von Gradny-Sawz, of the German embassy here, procured an Argentine identity document—a libreta de enrolamiento, same as I just got for you—for von Deitzberg in the name of Jorge Schenck. Von Deitzberg/Schenck then took the overnight steamer to Montevideo.

  “His purpose was to see von Tresmarck, presumably to relieve him of the assets of the Confidential Special Fund. Frau Ingeborg von Tresmarck told him that her husband and his good friend Ramón Something were in Paraguay.”

  “Von Tresmarck is a homosexual, Señor Moreno,” Hoffmann offered. “That is the reason he was sent to Uruguay to manage the Confidential Special Fund. Since his alternative was being sent to a konzentrationslager with a pink star pinned to his breast, I thought he would appreciate the benefits of doing nothing that would annoy me, or even arouse any suspicions on my part about his performance of his duties.”

  That, Moreno thought, was intended to remind me how important Brigadeführer Hoffmann was in the Third Reich.

  I don’t think he really understands that the Third Reich is finished and so is whatever authority he had.

  “Yes, I knew that,” Moreno said. “Well, von Deitzberg waited until von Tresmarck and his friend returned from Uruguay, and then had him transfer title of all the assets of the Confidential Special Fund to him. Then he gave him a large sum of money—nearly the equivalent of a million U.S. dollars—and then strongly suggested that he and his friend Ramón disappear.

  “Von Deitzberg returned to Buenos Aires. I later learned from our branch manager in Montevideo that the embassy had reported to the police that both—husband and wife—had disappeared. The police had no idea where von Tresmarck was, but they had learned that Frau von Tresmarck had taken the steamer to Buenos Aires the next night.

  “The Buenos Aires authorities learned that Señora von Tresmarck had taken a room at the Alvear Palace Hotel. She had then gone shopping, leaving a message to that effect with the hotel switchboard. She never returned to the Alvear Palace, and has not been seen—at least as Frau von Tresmarck—since.

  “However, a woman matching her description, and calling herself Señora Schenck, was seen two weeks later in San Martín de los Andes, in the company of Señor Jorge Schenck, el Coronel Juan D. Perón, and Señorita Evita Duarte. El Coronel Perón went there to purchase a small estancia in the name of Señorita Duarte.

  “While they were there, Brigadeführer von Deitzberg was shot to death in the men’s room of the Rio Hermoso Hotel.

  “Neither el Coronel Perón nor Señorita Duarte nor Señora Schenck was interrogated by the police about Señor Schenck’s murder. This was probably at the order of President Rawson, who was then in the area dealing with the problem of el Coronel Schmidt.”

  “What problem was that?”

  “Would you like to tell Herr Hoffmann, el Coronel?” Moreno asked. “Or should I?”

  “You’d better be damned careful what you say!” Klausberger said.

  That bluster wasn’t very convincing, Klausberger.

  “Well, if I get anything wrong, please feel free to correct me,” Moreno said. “As I understand the situation, el Coronel Schmidt was leading his regiment to an estancia outside Mendoza owned by Cletus Frade. He believed that there was an illegal cache of arms on the estancia and two diplomats who had disappeared from the German embassy in Buenos Aires—”

  “Traitors, Herr Brigadeführer,” Klausberger put in.

  Hoffmann met his eyes and said, “You were the one, Herr Oberst, who suggested we no longer use my rank.”

  Hoffmann turned back and said, “Please go on, Señor Moreno.”

  “Once Schmidt had confiscated the arms cache, he apparently intended to stage a coup against President Rawson. Am I right so far, el Coronel Klausberger?”

  Klausberger nodded curtly.

  “Rawson, however, had learned of the plot. He and Señor Frade and some troops of the Húsares de Pueyrredón met the regiment on the highway. Schmidt attempted to place President Rawson under arrest, whereupon Frade shot Schmidt and at least one of the officers with him. The regiment was then placed under the command of its sergeant major and ordered to return to its barracks. Which it did. Did I get anything wrong, Klausberger, or leave anything out?”

  Klausberger didn’t respond.

  “What I believe happened,” Moreno went on, “was that President Rawson, on learning that el Coronel Perón was in San Martín, feared that Perón might be connected with Schmidt’s coup. I don’t think he was, but Rawson had no way to know. Permitting Perón to return immediately and quietly to Buenos Aires, and then pretending not to know he had been there, solved that problem.

  “I have subsequently learned that Señora Schenck was awarded all of her late husband’s property—the Confidential Special Fund assets—by judges known to be friendly to el Coronel Perón and that, presumably as an expression of her gratitude, she subsequently transferred half of what she received to Señorita Duarte.”

  “Who shot von Deitzberg?” Hoffmann asked.

  “I really have no knowledge of that, but it probably has something to do with the German officers—members, I have heard, of the former Abwehr Ost—Frade is rumored to have brought here from Germany.”

  “And what is that all about?” Hoffmann asked.

  “I have no idea,” Moreno said. He looked at his wristwatch. “Well, I really have to go. And so do you, Klausberger. Can I offer you a ride?”

  “No, thank you,” Klausberger said.

  Moreno walked to each of them in turn, wordlessly shook hands, and then left the room, stopping only to help himself to the hors d’oeuvres on the table.

  When he had been go
ne at least sixty seconds, Klausberger said, “I’d like to kill that Swiss bastard.”

  “So would I,” Hoffmann said. “Even more, Herr Frade. He’s given us trouble ever since he came to Argentina. But we won’t take them out just yet. We still need Moreno, and I want to find out what Herr Frade is doing with General Gehlen’s Abwehr Ost people before we kill him.”

  V

  [ONE]

  Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten

  Maximilianstrasse 178

  Munich, American Zone, Germany

  1820 10 October 1945

  There were two signs over the door to the off-the-lobby restaurant of the hotel. One read RESTAURANT MAXIMILIAN and the other OFFICERS’ OPEN MESS.

  “Let’s get something to eat,” First Sergeant Tiny Dunwiddie said to Second Lieutenant James D. Cronley Jr. as he pointed to it.

  First sergeants are enlisted men and don’t get to eat in an officers’ mess. Cronley didn’t say anything, but his surprise registered on his face and Dunwiddie saw it.

  “Not to worry, Lieutenant, sir. This place is loaded with CIC, and I can probably pass myself off as one of those special agents, like you, sir.”

  A headwaiter led them to a table without questioning Dinwiddie’s right to be messing with his social betters.

  A waiter appeared.

  “Two glasses of your finest beer, if you please, Herr Ober,” Dunwiddie ordered in flawless German. “And then a menu.”

  Then he made a pointing gesture to Cronley with the hand he had resting almost regally on the linen tablecloth.

  Cronley followed the pointing to the next table, at which sat a spectacular—tall, very blond, and magnificently assembled—female and her escort, a plump young man, no older than twenty-one, who looked Jewish and was wearing pinks and greens with “civilian triangles” sewn to the lapels.

  “Spectacular,” Cronley said.

  “My sentiments exactly,” Dunwiddie said. “He’s probably regaling her with tales of his exciting life in the CIC, which I would say is going to see him in her bed—or vice versa—in the near future.”