“We know that, Willi,” von Wachtstein said.
Von Dattenberg began: “Under the Geneva Convention—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Frade said disgustedly, and then went on: “Cutting to the chase, let me tell you what’s going to happen, Kapitän, if in the next thirty minutes you do not answer fully and honestly any questions we put to you—”
“Give me a minute, Clete,” von Wachtstein said.
Frade looked at him for ten seconds.
“I’ll give you three minutes, Hansel,” Frade said. He raised his left wrist and punched a button on his Marine Corps–issued pilot’s chronometer. “Have at it. The clock is running.”
“Willi—” von Wachtstein began.
“Under these circumstances, Major von Wachtstein, please do me the courtesy of addressing me by my rank,” von Dattenberg said.
“As you wish, Herr Fregattenkapitän,” von Wachtstein said softly, after a moment. “We must never forget for a moment that we are officers and gentlemen in the service of our beloved Germany, correct?”
“Who both swore a holy oath of loyalty to the Führer,” von Dattenberg said.
“I’m sure Claus von Stauffenberg, who we both know was always a better Christian than either of us, Herr Fregattenkapitän, had that holy oath in mind when he placed that bomb under the map table at Wolfsschanze. And had it in his mind the next day when he was standing against the wall on Bendlerstrasse waiting for the SS to shoot him for high treason.”
“Claus was—may God forgive him—a traitor,” von Dattenberg said.
“And so apparently was my father, and I’m sure he had that hol
y oath in mind when he was hanging naked in the execution hut in the Bendlerblock, being very slowly choked to unconsciousness, and then revived, and then choked again—over and over again, until God, in his mercy, took his life.”
“Treason is treason,” von Dattenberg said, his voice on the edge of breaking.
“Get him talking, Hansel, or I’ll kill the sonofabitch right here and now,” Frade said. “To hell with flying him to your beloved fucking Germany for trial—”
Von Wachtstein held up his hand to silence him.
“We’ve learned, Willi,” von Wachtstein went on calmly, “that Claus’s last words were ‘May God save our beloved Germany.’ We don’t know what Admiral Canaris was thinking when he was hung, naked, from a gallows at the Flossenbürg Konzentrationslager, of course. . . .”
“Admiral Canaris was hung?” von Dattenberg asked softly.
“He was as much a traitor as was Claus and my father—and Karl Boltitz’s father.”
“Karl? Is Karl alive?”
Von Wachtstein nodded.
“He is in Narvik, looking for his father. Unfortunately, it looks as if Admiral Boltitz chose jumping into a Norwegian fjord over facing a People’s Court for treason and being strangled to death.”
“And Karl was a . . .”
“Was Karl a traitor? Yes, he was. And, I tell you proudly, my old friend Willi, so am I. Not a traitor to the Code of Honor under which the von Wachtsteins and the von Dattenbergs have lived for hundreds of years. But, yes, a traitor to the Austrian corporal and all the evil men around him who brought to our beloved Germany shame and—”
“Time’s up, Hansel,” Frade said, tapping his wristwatch crystal.
Von Wachtstein, ignoring him, went on: “What my honor as an officer demands now, Willi, is that I do whatever is necessary to keep Nazis from finding refuge here in Argentina. I demand that you not only tell us who, where, and what you put ashore from U-405, but that you give me your word as a German officer that you will do whatever General Martín asks you to do.”
“My cup runneth over,” Frade said. “I have had more of this honor-of-the-officer-corps bullshit—German and Argentine—than I can swallow. See if you can make your pal understand that he’s about sixty seconds from getting shot and being buried in an unmarked grave on the Pampas.”
“Cletus!” General Martín said warningly.
“Cletus what?” Frade snapped. “The fucking Nazis murdered my father, and Hansel’s father, and this smug sonofabitch sits here and says, ‘Sorry, my officer’s honor doesn’t—’”