This Hamilton had been issued to the pilot of a U.S. Army Air Corps B-26 Peter shot down over Cherbourg. An Abwehr Hauptmann showed up at the squadron’s officers’ mess the same night and announced that Peter’s brilliant aerial victory—having been witnessed by three reliable spectators—was confirmed and made a matter of official record; and the Hauptmann thought the Hauptmann Freiherr might like the watch as a souvenir (the
Hauptmann took it from the pilot during interrogation).
Peter did not immediately reply. He was a little drunk at the time, but sober enough to recognize the foolhardiness of lecturing an Abwehr captain—who goddamned well should have known it—that stealing from prisoners of war was not only a violation of the Geneva Convention, but a pretty goddamned dishonorable thing for an officer to do.
“And where is the prisoner now, Herr Hauptmann?”
“He has been taken to the Central Detention Facility outside Paris, Herr Hauptmann Freiherr. At Senlis.”
“And do you happen to have this officer’s name, Herr Hauptmann?”
“Not at the moment, Herr Hauptmann Freiherr,” the asshole replied, and then the confusion on his face was replaced by comprehension. “Of course, I should have thought of that myself. It will have more meaning to you if you know his name. I will find it for you.”
It will also permit me to return this officer’s watch to him, preferably in person, together with an apology from one officer to another for the shameful behavior of an asshole wearing a German officer’s uniform.
“I would be very grateful, Herr Hauptmann.”
“My great pleasure, Herr Hauptmann Freiherr.”
I never got the poor bastard’s watch back to him. When the Abwehr asshole never sent me his name, I just kept it. Good watch. I’m glad I wasn’t wearing it when I met Cletus. He wouldn’t have understood.
Yeah, Cletus would have understood.
And what the hell am I going to do about Cletus? Simply sit around with my finger in my ass waiting for Herr Oberst Grüner to happily inform me that his Argentine gangsters have followed his neat little Operational Plan and cut Clete’s throat?
“Buenos días, Room Service.”
“This is Señor von Wachtstein in 701. Will you send up a pot of coffee, please? Right away?” He looked at the Hamilton chronograph again. “How long will that take?”
“I will have it there within half an hour, Señor.”
That means an hour. I don’t have an hour. Goddamn it!
“Forget it, thank you just the same.”
He hung up, then walked quickly to the bathroom and stood under the cold shower for five minutes. Then he shaved, cutting himself twice in the process, put on his winter dress uniform, and left his suite.
In the elevator, he felt woozy.
I have to put something in my stomach, or I will be one of those poor bastards that fall on their face during the ceremony. Wasn’t there a restaurant in the lobby?
There was, in a wide corridor to his right when he stepped off the elevator. He walked to it, found a small table, and sat down. He looked around for a waiter. Several of them were standing near a buffet table. He finally managed to attract one’s attention.
“Coffee, por favor, and a pastry of some kind.”
“Señor,” the waiter said. “It is a buffet. Complimentary to guests of the hotel. Señor is a guest?”
“Yes, of course I am,” Peter replied, and took a closer look at the buffet. A line of prosperous-looking people were there. A man inclined his head toward him and smiled. And another did the same.
What the hell is that all about? Oh, hell, of course. These people are here for the funeral, and they are being charming to the young man whose dress uniform and Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross tell them he is the man who brought poor Whatsisname’s body home for burial.
Peter smiled and nodded back.
Do I have that goddamned thing on right?
He looked down at his chest. He didn’t have the goddamned thing on at all.
“Señor,” the waiter asked. “Would you be so kind as to give me your name and room number?”