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

"Sorry," Peter said, genuinely contrite. "I'm sure there will be tailors. Oberst Per?n painted a fascinating picture of Buenos Aires for me."

"Who?"

"ArgentineOberst Juan Domingo Per?n . He's attached to their embassy over here studying our welfare programs. He's a friend of the family of the Duarte fellow. I met him at the Foreign Ministry, and I've had dinner with him. He called me up."

Generalmajor von Wachtstein nodded, then dismissed the Argentine officer as unimportant.

"Peter, we have to talk about money," he said.

"A delicate subject, Poppa. One the son is glad the father brought up first. From what I'm told, Buenos Aires is a very expensive place to live. It was put to me that I would have difficulty making ends meet, and that it was hoped I could somehow augment my pay."

"That's not what I'm talking about," his father said. "But tell me about it. Would that be permitted?"

"I think encouraged," Peter said.

"Did you have the feeling there would be a limit on how much money you could take to Argentina?"

"I had the feeling that the more you'd be willing to give me, the better they would like it."

"Pay attention to me," the Graf said sharply.

"Sir?" Peter responded, surprised at his father's tone, and baffled by his question.

"There is money, Peter. A substantial amount here, most of it in English pounds and Swiss francs, and an even more substantial amount in Switzerland, in a bank. Actually, in two banks."

Peter was now genuinely surprised. Simple possession of currency of the Allied powers or neutral countries was a serious offense. Maintaining bank accounts out of Germany was even more stringently forbidden.

"This war will pass," the Graf said, now sure that he had his son's attention. "This government will pass. We, you and I, will pass. What is important is that the family must not die, or that we, the family, don't lose our lands. We have been on these lands for more than five hundred years. My duty—our duty—is to see that we do not lose them. If we lose the war, and I agree we cannot win it, we will lose our lands ... unless there is money. Not German money, which will be devalued and useless, but the currency of the victors, or a neutral power. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes, Sir."

"First, the money in Switzerland. The accounts there are numbered. I am going to give you the numbers. You must memorize the numbers. When you are settled in Argentina, I want you to have the money transferred there from Switzerland, secretly, and put somewhere safe, where we will have access to it after the war."

"How will I do that?"

"Von Lutzenberger will probably be able to help, but we can't bank on that."

"Ambassador von Lutzenberger?" Peter asked. Someone had given him the name of the German Ambassador to Argentina during the last couple of days, but he hadn't expected to hear it from his father.

"He's a friend," his father said. "But you would do well to consider him your last reserve, Peter, not to be used until you are sure you can't deal with a situation by yourself, without help."

"But he knows about your money?"

His father nodded, then corrected him. “Not my money, Peter. Von Wachtstein money. Money that has come down to us from our family, with the expectation that it will be used wisely and for the family."

Peter nodded, accepting the correction.

"A good man. We were at Marburg together. And he has as much to risk as we do. But keep in mind, Peter, that a situation may come where he will have to make a sacrifice for the common good, and you might be that sacrifice."

"How is it you never told me about any of this?"

"Because your possession of the knowledge would place you in jeopardy. If they found out you knew about it, you would be as culpable as I am. Your Knight's Cross notwithstanding, you would wind up in a concentration camp."

Peter blurted what came into his mind: "But what if you had died? What would have happened to the money then?"

"Dieter von Haas and I have an arrangement. If anything happened to me, he would have told you. If anything happens to him, I will inform Frau von Haas of the similar arrangements he has made."

Peter looked at his father for a long moment.

"I'm not good at memorizing numbers," he said. "I never have been."

“Then write the numbers down, make them look like telephone numbers or something. And then, to be sure, construct a simple code," the Graf von Wachtstein said, a touch of impatience in his voice. "One or two digits up from the actual numbers. Something like that."

"Yes," Peter said simply.

"About the cash here," the Graf went on. "Do you think you will be searched when you leave the country?"

Peter thought about that for a moment.

"No," he said. "The body will be accompanied by an honor guard as far as the Spanish border. I don't think anyone will search me. And the moment I cross the border, I will have diplomatic status."

He looked at his father.

When I leave here,he thought with a sudden chilled certainty, I will never see him again.

"I think it would be best if you took the money with you when you return to Berlin tomorrow. They may solve the problem of sheet lead for the casket, and you might not be able to come back here. And I wouldn't want to be seen passing anything to you at the train station. Do you have someplace safe to keep it? Where are you staying in Berlin?"

"With a friend, in Zehlendorf."

"Better than a hotel," the Graf said. "Well, I'll write the numbers down for you, and while you're copying them into a code, I'll get the money. And then we'll see about finding something to eat."

"You know what I would like for supper, Poppa?" Peter said. "I'd like to go into the gasthaus in the village and have sausage and potatoes and beer."

Generalmajor Graf Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein looked at his son. His left eyebrow rose.

"Yes, Peter, I think I would too," he said after a moment.

Chapter Five

[ONE]

The Vieux Carre

New Orleans, Louisiana

1955 1 November 1942

It was still raining when the 1938 Durham-bodied Cadillac pulled to the curb across the street from the Monteleone Hotel in the Vieux Carre. Clete wiped his hand on the window to clear the condensation.

"There he is. He even looks like the picture Graham showed me," Clete said.

He started to open the door. His grandfather stopped him. He had a microphone in his hand.

"Samuel, the gentleman we are meeting is standing to the left of the..."

Clete took the microphone from him.

"Samuel, pull up in front of the hotel. Don't get out of the car. I'll call to him."

"Have it your way," the old man said, then leaned across Clete to look out the window he had cleared. "He doesn't look like a Jew."

"What does a Jew look like?"

"Not like that," the old man said.

Samuel found a place in the flow of traffic and drove the thirty yards to the marquee of the Monteleone. Clete opened the door and called to Ettinger. Ettinger was visibly surprised to see the car, but after a moment came quickly across the sidewalk.

"We're only going around the comer, but why get wet?" Clete said, offering his hand. "David, I'm glad to meet you." Then he turned to the old man. "Grandfather, may I present Mr. David Ettinger? David, this is my grandfather, Mr. Cletus Marcus Howell."

"How do you do?" the old man said.

"How do you do?" Ettinger said, offering his hand.

With a just-perceptible hesitation, the old man took it. Briefly.

Then he picked up the microphone again. "Amaud's, Samuel," he ordered. "After you have found a place to park the car, go into the kitchen and tell them I would be obliged if they gave you something to eat."

Clete saw Ettinger's eyebrow rise, and smiled at him.