“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,” Grüner 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 Grüner 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,” Grüner 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?”