“You will arrange it, or this conversation never took place.”
“Where is he now?”
“He commands a Jaeger squadron near Berlin. Focke-Wulf 190s.”
“Oberstleutnant?”—First Lieutenant.
“Hauptmann”—Captain.
“He’s young to be a Hauptmann.”
“He was eighteen when he went to Spain as a Feldwebel”—a sergeant.
“After,” von Haas chuckled, “he was sent down from Marburg, * I recall.”
“You and I, Dieter, came very close to being sent down from Marburg,” von Wachtstein said.
“They were better times, weren’t they?” von Haas said. He looked at his watch. “It’s a long drive to Berlin. I’d better be going.”
Von Wachtstein stood up.
“Understand, Dieter, that my desires for Peter are not wishful thinking. Your telling me that you’re sorry, you tried, but it couldn’t be arranged will not be enough.”
“I understand,” von Haas said, and put out his hand.
“What do they say in Spanish? ‘Vaya con Dios’? Vaya con Dios, Dieter. Go with God.”
Von Haas met his eyes, nodded, and turned and walked out of the room.
[TWO]
The Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel
Los Angeles, California
12 October 1942
When Lieutenant Cletus Howell Frade, USMCR, stepped out of the tub onto a bath mat, the telephone was ringing.
He walked quickly, naked and dripping, into the bedroom to answer it, wondering both who it could be and how long the telephone had been ringing. It had been a long time since he’d had access to either unlimited hot water or privacy; he’d been in the shower for a long time.
He picked up the telephone on the bedside table.
“Hello?”
“¿E1 Teniente Frade?”
“Sí, yo soy el Teniente Frade.”
“Yo soy Graham, Teniente, Coronel A. F. Graham.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Are you alone, Lieutenant?” Graham asked, in Spanish.
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
“I’d like a word with you. Have you been drinking?”