Blood and Honor Read online

  ‘‘What the General Staff needs, Jodl,’’ the Führer had said at the small promotion ceremony in his bunker, ‘‘is more general officers like Graf von Wachtstein and myself —men who have been exposed to fire.’’

  Hitler had won the Iron Cross First Class—an unusual decoration for a lowly corporal—in the First World War, and was fond of reminding his generals that, unlike many of them, he had been tested under fire.

  ‘‘Hello, Goltz,’’ von Wachtstein said, returning Goltz’s salute with an equally casual raising of his arm from the elbow, palm extended. ‘‘What can I do for you, beyond offering you coffee?’’

  ‘‘Coffee would be fine, Herr Generalleutnant,’’ Goltz replied. ‘‘It was a long ride from Berlin.’’

  Von Wachtstein mimed raising a coffee cup to his lips to his chief clerk, Feldwebel (Technical Sergeant) Alois Hennig, a tall, blond twenty-two-year-old.

  ‘‘Jawohl, Herr Generalleutnant,’’ Hennig said, and left them alone.

  ‘‘Reichsleiter Bormann is in conference,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘I thought I would pass the time paying my respects to you.’’

  ‘‘Bormann is a busy man,’’ von Wachtstein said.

  ‘‘I’m about to go to Buenos Aires.’’

  ‘‘I’d heard something about that.’’

  ‘‘I thought of your son, of course, when I received my orders.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure he would be delighted to show you around Buenos Aires,’’ von Wachtstein said. ‘‘By now I’m sure he is familiar with everything of interest. Most of that, unless he has suddenly reformed, will be wearing skirts.’’

  ‘‘He does have that reputation, doesn’t he? Have you heard from him lately?’’

  ‘‘Not often. The odd letter. He was apparently asleep in church when they went through that ‘Honor Thy Father’ business.’’

  Goltz chuckled.

  ‘‘And then the mail is erratic, isn’t it? I thought perhaps I could carry a letter for you.’’

  ‘‘That would be very kind, but irregular,’’ von Wachtstein said.

  ‘‘Even if it came to anyone’s attention—and I can’t see how it would—I don’t think there would be any serious questions about someone in my position doing a small service to an old friend.’’

  ‘‘I would be very grateful, Goltz, but I don’t want to impose on our friendship.’’

  ‘‘It would be no imposition at all.’’

  ‘‘When are you leaving Wolfsschanze?’’

  ‘‘Whenever the Heinkel leaves. The Herr Reichsleiter got me a seat on it.’’

  ‘‘There is something,’’ von Wachtstein said. ‘‘In one letter he complained that he has only one set of major’s badges . . .’’

  ‘‘That’s right, he was promoted, wasn’t he?’’

  ‘‘. . . and spends a good deal of time carefully moving them from one uniform to another. I could probably get a set or two here. . . .’’

  ‘‘I’d be delighted to carry them to him.’’

  ‘‘Thank you.’’

  Feldwebel Hennig appeared with two cups of coffee on a wooden tray.

  ‘‘The African coffee, Herr Generalleutnant,’’ he said. ‘‘Unfortunately, about the last of it.’’

  ‘‘You’re a bright youngster, Hennig,’’ von Wachtstein said. ‘‘I have every confidence that you will be able to steal some more somewhere.’’

  ‘‘I happen to have a source of coffee, good coffee,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘I’ll tell my office to send you a couple of kilos with the next messenger.’’

  ‘‘And I was not really glad to see you, Josef, when you walked in here. I shamelessly accept.’’

  ‘‘Friends should take care of one another, shouldn’t they?’’

  ‘‘A noble sentiment.’’

  As Hennig was setting the tray down, one of the three telephones on von Wachtstein’s desk rang. Hennig moved to answer it but stopped.

  ‘‘It’s the red line, Herr Generalleutnant,’’ he said.

  A red-line telephone—so called because the instrument was red—was another symbol of status in Wolfsschanze. There were only fifty red-line instruments. The special switchboard for these had been installed so that Hitler and very senior officials could talk directly to one another without wasting time speaking to secretaries. Those who had red-line telephones were expected to answer them themselves.

  ‘‘Heil Hitler, von Wachtstein,’’ he said, picking it up.

  ‘‘Canaris,’’ the Chief of the Abwehr identified himself. ‘‘I understand Standartenführer Goltz is with you?’’

  ‘‘Yes, he is. One moment, please, Herr Admiral,’’ von Wachtstein said, and handed the phone to Goltz. ‘‘Admiral Canaris.’’

  ‘‘Yes, Herr Admiral?’’ Goltz said, listened a moment, and then said, ‘‘I ask the Herr Admiral’s indulgence to finish my cup of the Herr Generalleutnant’s excellent coffee. ’’ There was a pause, and then, chuckling, ‘‘I’ll tell him that, Herr Admiral. Thank you.’’

  He handed the telephone back to von Wachtstein.

  ‘‘Admiral Canaris said that if you have excellent coffee, you have the only excellent coffee in Wolfsschanze, and it is clearly your duty as an old comrade to tell him where you found it.’’

  ‘‘Actually, Peter got that for me in North Africa. He ferried a Heinkel over, and brought that back with him.’’

  ‘‘Maybe he wasn’t asleep in church after all,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘May I suggest you get your son’s rank badges as soon as you can, and if you’re going to send a letter, write it as soon as possible. Within the hour.’’

  ‘‘You’re very kind, Josef.’’

  ‘‘Not at all. After all, since you served me the last of your African coffee, it is the least I can do.’’

  ‘‘Please give my regards to the Admiral,’’ Generalleutnant von Wachtstein said.

  [FOUR]

  Admiral Canaris was preoccupied. He did not acknowledge Goltz’s salute, and although he looked up when Goltz entered, Goltz felt that his mind was far away.

  But then, suddenly, he felt Canaris’s eyes examining him coldly.

  ‘‘This won’t take long, Standartenführer,’’ Canaris said. ‘‘But I have a few things to say to you before you leave for Argentina.’’

  ‘‘I will be grateful for any direction the Herr Admiral may wish to give me.’’

  Canaris ignored that too.

  ‘‘One. I agreed to the elimination of Oberst Frade with great reluctance. But in the end, I decided the risk that he would assume the presidency was unacceptable. It was entirely possible, in my judgment, that he might well have had sufficient influence to obtain a declaration of war against us—especially in the period immediately following the seizure of power by the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos. The implications of that should be obvious. Not only does Germany need Argentine food and wool, but as Argentina goes, so will go Uruguay, Paraguay, Chile, and probably Peru.’’

  ‘‘I understand, Herr Admiral.’’

  ‘‘His elimination, Standartenführer, was not without price. I know the Argentine Officer Corps. While the great majority of Argentine Army officers are sympathetic to the National Socialist cause, they will deeply resent the elimination of Oberst Frade. Not only was he a popular figure, but the Argentines are a nationalist people. They understandably resent an action like that occurring on their soil. Meanwhile, it is to be hoped that in time the necessity of our act will be understood, and later accepted. The goodwill of the Argentine Officer Corps is an asset we cannot afford to squander; and I admonish you, Standartenführer, to do everything possible to avoid further antagonizing them.’’

  ‘‘I understand, Herr Admiral.’’

  ‘‘For that reason alone, I did not sign your mission order until after the elimination had taken place. I did not want you suspected of any responsibility for it. That, in my judgment, would have been the case had you been in Buenos Aires at the time the elimination was carried out.’’

 
‘‘I understand, Herr Admiral.’’

  ‘‘Two. Regarding the Reine de la Mer incident. The Portuguese government has protested—has von Ribbentrop gone into this with you?’’

  The Portuguese vessel Reine de la Mer (really a replacement, replenishment vessel for German U-boats) was sunk in Argentine waters—by Americans, everyone believed but could not directly prove.

  ‘‘I received a Foreign Ministry briefing, Herr Admiral.’’

  Canaris looked at him for a long moment.

  ‘‘Well?’’

  ‘‘I was informed that the Portuguese government has in the strongest possible terms protested the sinking to the United States government. I was further informed that the Americans deny any knowledge of this.’’

  ‘‘The Portuguese have also protested strongly to the Argentine government,’’ Admiral Canaris added. ‘‘More important, the Spanish Foreign Ministry called in the American ambassador to express their ‘grave concerns’ about the Reine de la Mer, and made it clear that there would be ‘grave consequences’ if anything like that happened in the future to a vessel flying the Spanish flag.’’

  ‘‘So I was informed, Herr Admiral,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘The Spanish said they would regard such an attack as ‘an unpardonable act of war.’ ’’

  ‘‘Since the Americans do not wish to see the Spanish join the Axis, Standartenführer, one would think that would be enough to make them think twice about attacking a Spanish-registered vessel in Argentine waters. Or even boarding a Spanish vessel on the high seas to search for contraband. Were you briefed thoroughly on this by the Navy?’’

  ‘‘I was informed during my Navy briefing: That the replacement replenishment vessel will sail from Sweden, via the English Channel, directly to Buenos Aires. That she will notify both the German and British authorities she is bound for Argentina. And that she will have the Spanish flag on her hull floodlighted at night, so there can be no mistake as to her nationality and neutral status.’’

  ‘‘And?’’

  ‘‘That five other Spanish and Portuguese vessels will be crossing the Atlantic toward Argentina at the same time—’’

  ‘‘Not at the same time!’’ Canaris interrupted impatiently.

  ‘‘I misspoke, Herr Admiral. Pardon me,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘At twenty-four-hour and forty-eight-hour intervals ahead of the Comerciante del Océano Pacífico.’’

  ‘‘The idea is that the Americans, who expect us, of course, to send a vessel to replace the Reine de la Mer, will board any suspicious vessel. We have taken steps to make sure their agents in Spain and Portugal believe the other ships are suspicious. The moment the Americans stop Ship One, the vessel will radio that it is being boarded. The Portuguese or Spanish will immediately summon the American ambassadors in Lisbon and Madrid to protest. If the Americans sight the Comerciante del Océano Pacífico— who will be doing her very best to avoid being sighted (she’ll sail far into the South Atlantic, and then approach Buenos Aires from the south)—perhaps they will not be so eager to stop her after this has happened two, three, or four times.’’

  ‘‘I thought it was a clever plan, Herr Admiral,’’ Goltz said.

  ‘‘It is overly complicated, and enormously expensive, and I would not give it more than a fifty-fifty chance of succeeding,’’ Canaris said coldly. ‘‘It was justifiable only in that a replenishment vessel is essential for submarine operations in the South Atlantic.’’

  ‘‘I understand, Herr Admiral.’’

  ‘‘Two of three members of the OSS team which took out the Reine de la Mer left Argentina immediately afterward. The team leader, Oberst Frade’s son, and a man named Pelosi. Pelosi returned four days ago. . . .’’

  ‘‘I had not heard that, Herr Admiral.’’

  ‘‘There was a radio from Oberst Grüner. He’s a good man. He has someone in the Foreign Ministry. Pelosi now has diplomatic status, as an assistant military attaché. My feeling is that he was returned to assist a follow-on OSS team which will probably be sent when the Americans learn we have replaced the Reine de la Mer.’’

  ‘‘The third man of the OSS team? The Jew?’’

  ‘‘He is still in Argentina, working covertly. The Americans apparently feel he can garner information from the Jews in Buenos Aires. Shipping information, that sort of thing. The head of their FBI in Buenos Aires is also a Jew. I have the feeling Ettinger, the Jew, may be working for him, and no longer is connected with the OSS. In my judgment, that OSS team—they are of course known to the Argentines—has ceased to exist as an operational unit. Thus I believe we can count on the OSS sending an entirely new team down there when the Americans learn the Océano Pacífico is on station. When that happens, it may be necessary to eliminate them. This of course has to be done very carefully—referring to my earlier remarks about not antagonizing the Argentine sense of nationalism. The first OSS team down there was eliminated with great skill by Grüner—there was not even notice of it in the newspapers. Please tell him I expect the same sort of first-class work when the time comes to deal with the next OSS team to show its face.’’

  ‘‘Of course, Herr Admiral,’’ Goltz said with a smile.

  Canaris looked at him curiously, as if surprised that his words could have been interpreted in any way as amusing.

  ‘‘May I ask a question, Herr Admiral?’’

  Canaris waited for him to go on.

  ‘‘The third member of the former OSS team. You say he is working with the Jews in Buenos Aires? Is there a possibility—’’

  ‘‘That he will put his nose into the source of our special funds?’’ Canaris interrupted. ‘‘Yes, of course there is. If that happens, you have permission to eliminate him, taking the same great care I’ve been talking about.’’

  ‘‘And not before, as a precautionary measure?’’

  ‘‘I’m getting the idea I am not making my point about Argentine sensitivity, Standartenführer. Let me make it again. You will do nothing that might even remotely annoy the Argentines unless there is absolutely no other option. We want them to think of us as allies in the war against communism, not, for example, as the kind of people who come to their country and blow up ships or eliminate people. Now, is that clear?’’

  ‘‘Perfectly, Herr Admiral.’’

  Canaris looked at him coldly, as if wondering why someone with such visibly limited mental powers could be entrusted with the mission he had been given.

  ‘‘Three, Standartenführer,’’ Canaris went on after a long moment. ‘‘I have supported from the beginning the idea of acquiring property in Argentina for operational purposes. As a matter of fact, the concept was originally mine. If my recommendations had been listened to as far back as 1937, we would already have property in place. Not only for the immediate operation planned, but for other purposes. I repeated these recommendations at the time the Graf Spee2was scuttled, and again nothing was done. The result of that inactivity is now obvious. Here we are embarked on an operation far more important than anything else I can think of—important to the very existence of the Thousand Year Reich. And we’re starting from scratch so far as acquiring property is concerned. Not to mention that we have been unable until now to even seriously plan to repatriate the Graf Spee officers, something that should have been done three years ago.’’

  Goltz could think of no tactful way to respond, and said nothing.

  ‘‘I want you to clearly understand, Standartenführer,’’ Canaris went on, ‘‘that I view the property you will acquire as a long-term asset, not something which can be, so to speak, expended in the course of the repatriation operation. Do you understand that?’’

  ‘‘I understand, Herr Admiral.’’

  ‘‘Good,’’ Canaris said. He extended his hand. ‘‘That’s all I have. Thank you for coming to see me. Good luck.’’

  Goltz saw in Canaris’s eyes that he had already been dismissed.

  II

  [ONE] Café Lafitte Bourbon Street New Orleans, Louisiana 1535 5 April 19
43

  The bar was crowded, smoke-filled, hot, noisy, and reeked of sweat and urine. Most of the patrons were servicemen, and most of these were sailors, sweating in their blue woolen winter uniforms. A pair of Shore Patrolmen stood just inside the door, each holding a billy club in one hand and a paper cup of soft drink in the other.

  As the young man in a tieless white button-down-collar shirt and a seersucker jacket elbowed his way toward the bar, he was aware that he was getting dirty looks from some of the sailors. He thought he knew why: Hey, what the hell are you doing out of uniform, when here I am, three weeks out of Great Lakes Naval Training Center and about to go out and save the world for democracy?

  The last thing in the world the young man—who was twenty-three years old, and whose name was Cletus Howell Frade—wanted to do was find himself in a confrontation with a half-plastered nineteen-year-old swab jockey. It seemed to be the final proof that coming in here for a Sazerac cocktail was not the smartest thing he had done today.

  He knew for a fact that the Café Lafitte made lousy Sazerac cocktails. But ten minutes before, when he first got the idea to have a symbolic farewell Sazerac, and in the Café Lafitte, which was supposed to have been in business since Christ was a corporal, it seemed a good idea.

  The bartender, a corpulent forty-year-old with a stained white apron around his waist, looked at him, his eyebrows signaling he was ready to accept an order.

  ‘‘Sazerac, please.’’

  ‘‘I got to see your draft card,’’ the bartender said in what Clete recognized to be a New Orleans accent.

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘We’re cooperating with the authorities,’’ the bartender said. ‘‘Gotta see your draft card.’’

  Clete took out his wallet and removed a plastic identification card—not a draft card—and handed it to the bartender. The bartender examined it carefully and compared the face on the photograph with the face of the young man standing before him.