Griffin W.E.B. - Honor Bound 01 - Honor Bound

He of course asked her for the privilege of the first dance after dinner. Though the dance was brief, it gave her opportunity to rub her bosom against him and to suggest that he come see her the next time he came to Berlin.

"Alois is very often out of town on Propaganda Ministry business," she told him.

Of course, it was possible that she may have had more to drink than she should have (she liked his cognac very much). Or, for that matter, she might simply have been teasing him. So Peter approached her invitation with understandable caution.

One of the great shocks of his life occurred a year before, when he learned that what appeared to be an unquestioned invitation in the eyes and attitude of a stunning redhead was really nothing more than a desire for him to betray interest in her. That way she could complain to her husband and remind him that she was still attractive.

He put the Horche in gear, turned toward Onkel Tom Allee, and then made two left turns back toward Beerenstrasse.

The door was opened by a gray-haired woman. She was not in uniform, but she was clearly a servant.

"I am Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein," Peter announced. "Is Frau Nussl at home?"

Nussl was her husband's name. Professionally, the lady was known as Lillian Hart.

"I will see," the gray-haired woman announced, and closed the door in his face.

Frau Nussl appeared three minutes later.

"God, I was afraid you'd do this," she greeted him.

Peter was prepared. He'd learned from the painful mistake with the redhead.

"I'm visiting Berlin on official business, Frau Nussl," he announced formally, and thrust a paper-wrapped parcel at her. "I hope you will accept this as a small token of the gratitude of the officers and men of Jagdstaffel 232 for your kindness in visiting us."

Laughing, she took the parcel and said, "Come back at five, or five-fifteen," then closed the door in his face.

Peter, sensing that his face was flushed, returned to the Horche and headed again for Onkel Tom Strasse.

What I will do tonight, after I see the Protocol idiot, is go to the Hotel Adlon. The Knight's Cross is usually enough to motivate some patriotic fraulein there to visit your room for its view.

The way my luck is running, there will be no rooms in the Adlon. Maybe the Hotel am Zoo. The one thing I will not do is be back at 35 Beerenstrasse at five or five-fifteen.

"Is that the only uniform you have with you, von Wachtstein?" Oberst Howze asked, annoyance in his voice.

"Herr Oberst, I regret that it is. The teletype said nothing about uniforms."

"You are having luncheon at the Foreign Ministry tomorrow," Howze said. "That uniform is inappropriate. Something will have to be done."

“Herr Oberst, if I may?” Oberstleutnant Huber said.

Oberst Howze nodded.

"May I suggest, Herr Oberst, that under the circumstances, his uniform may be very appropriate. It is the uniform worn by officers who are flying every day against the enemy. In that sense, it may be viewed as a token of respect for the late Hauptmann Duarte; that we are taking a man from the lines, so to speak, as a token of our respect."

Oberst Howze grunted.

"At least get your trousers pressed and get rid of those boots," Howze said to Peter.

"Yes, Sir. Herr Oberst, may I inquire?"

"All I know, von Wachtstein, is that if you pass muster at luncheon tomorrow, you will be traveling to Argentina as the Assistant Military Attach? for Air. And escorting the body of an Argentine who killed himself at Stalingrad, flying a Storch."

"Sir..."

Howze held up his hand impatiently to stop him.

"It will all be explained to you tomorrow, von Wachtstein," he said, and added to Oberstleutnant Huber, "Go with him. Make sure he has at least decent shoes. He can't have luncheon at the Foreign Ministry in flight boots!"

At almost exactly five o'clock, after failing to obtain an explanation from Oberstleutnant Huber either about the luncheon or about Argentina, Peter went back to the Horche, dropped a new pair of low quarter shoes from the Officers' Sales Store onto the passenger seat, and drove out of the Oberkommando der Luftwaffe complex.

The more he thought about it, the chances of his finding a room at either the Adlon or the Hotel am Zoo seemed remote. If he'd had a couple of days to telephone ahead, it might have been different. That left taking a room in one of the smaller hotels around the Zoo, or off the Kurfurstendamm. They catered these days to a warm-sheets clientele; but that would be all right, in a pinch. Or he could go to the bar of one of the better hotels, and with luck he might find a patriotic fraulein with an apartment. Or as a last resort he could take her to a small hotel. But that would not solve the problem of the pressed trousers.

There was, of course, always Frau Nussl. She had said to come back.

Her maid! Certainly her maid could press my pants!

He drove back down Onkel Tom Allee and ultimately to 35 Beerenstrasse.

This time Frau Nussl herself opened the door to him.

"I couldn't have you in with Frau Leiss here," Frau Nussl greeted him.

"I understand," Peter said.

"The cognac is marvelous!" Frau Nussl said. "I started without you, the minute she was out of the door."

"I have a friend in Paris who sends it to me," Peter replied idly, and then asked, "Your maid is gone, I take it?"

"You seem disappointed," Frau Nussl said.

"I have to have my trousers pressed," Peter said.

"Really?"

"Really. Is there a cleaner's shop nearby?"

"It's probably closed," she said. "But there's an iron somewhere. AH we have to do is find it. Can you do it yourself?"

"Sure."

"It's probably in one of the closets upstairs, it and the board," she said. "Let's go see. One of those lovely bottles of cognac is already up there."

There was, in fact, a small but completely equipped linen closet Peter set up the folding ironing board and plugged the iron in.

Frau Nussl handed him a snifter generously served with cognac.

"I'd offer to do that for you, but I honestly don't know how," she said.

"Is there a robe or something I could borrow? You lose the crease unless you let them cool for fifteen or twenty minutes."

"ThatI can arrange," she said, and went down the corridor.

Peter took a healthy swallow of the cognac and felt it warm his body.

Argentina? Assistant Military Attach? for Air? Accompanying a body? What the hell is going on?

Frau Nussl returned with a heavy silk robe.

"It's Alois's. Almost unworn," she said. "When he puts it on, it drags on the floor."

"It'll do fine," Peter said. "It won't take me long. Thank you."

He closed the door, took his trousers off, and laid them on the board while he waited for the iron to grow warm.

The door opened.

"I wondered," Frau Nussl said, "what you would look like without your pants."

Frau Nussl had changed into a dressing robe.

"Oh, really?"

"And I thought you just might be idly curious to see what I looked like without mine," Frau Nussl went on, flicking the opening of her gown back and forth to give him, however briefly, that opportunity.

"Won't that wait?" she asked. "Isn't there something I could do to get you to put that off for a while?"

"You just did it," Peter said, and unplugged the iron.

Chapter Four

[ONE]

The Diplomatic Reception Room

The Foreign Ministry of the German Reich

Berlin

1205 30 October 1942

"There he is," Wilhelm von Ruppersdorf, Deputy Foreign Minister for South American Affairs, said softly to the three men sitting with him at a small table, and rose to his feet.

The others followed suit. Hauptmann Hans-Peter von Wachtstein looked toward the door. A uniformed guard was leading a tall, dark-haired, and dark-skinned man in a business suit across the marble-floored reception area toward them.