W. IV - Honor Bound 05 - The Honor of Spies

He turned to the maid. "Maria, after you throw all of that herbal junk away, go to the restaurant and get me some scrambled eggs-- four scrambled eggs--toast, ham, and a pot of coffee."

She looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

"My God, didn't you hear me?"

Maria began to cry.

Von Gradny-Sawz gave von Deitzberg a dirty look, put his arm around Maria's shoulders, and led her out of the room, speaking softly to her. Von Deitzberg went into the bathroom, took a cold shower, and then dressed.

When Maria returned with his scrambled eggs, von Deitzberg apologized to her for raising his voice and whatever else he had done to cause her to be uncomfortable.

While doing so, for the first time since they'd met, he looked at her as a female. He'd heard somewhere that Latin women-- or was it Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese? --matured earlier than Aryans. It was apparently true so far as Maria was concerned. She had an entirely mature and quite attractive bosom.

He did not permit his thoughts to wander down that path.

My God, she's fifteen!

Any mature man taking carnal advantage of a fifteen-year-old female child should be lashed at the stake first, and then castrated.

And Peron likes them even younger! That's obscene!

Unfortunately, I don't think I will ever be able to watch el Coronel Peron as he is lashed or castrated.

I have other plans for that degenerate sonofabitch!

Von Deitzberg, to ensure he hadn't missed anything, read Himmler's letter a third time as he ate his scrambled eggs.

He knew that while everything Himmler had written was true, it was not a complete report of what had happened at Wolfsschanze. Himmler was too smart to write that down, and he knew that von Deitzberg--who not only was privy to the backstabbing of the senior Nazis but personally had witnessed at least a dozen of the Fuhrer's legendary tirades--would be easily able to fill in the blanks.

Himmler had not considered it necessary to suggest that Goebbels, the clubfooted propaganda minister, had brought South American Airways' accomplishment to Hitler's attention, not in order to keep the Fuhrer up-to-date, but rather it would direct the Fuhrer's rage at Reichsmarschall Hermann Goring, of whose power he was jealous and whom he loathed.

It wasn't at all hard for von Deitzberg to picture the scene around the map table at Wolfsschanze with Hitler ranting at a cowering Goring. The Fuhrer was wont to stamp his foot. His tirade was often accompanied by a shower of spittle. And a supply of spectacles was kept available to replace those he threw at the floor or at whoever was the target of his rage.

And von Deitzberg could clearly see the concern in Goebbels's eyes when Hitler was on the edge of ordering that the Constellations be shot down, then that concern replaced with relief when Canaris, with his usual skill, kept that from happening.

My God! I'm thinking clearly!

Twenty minutes ago, all I was thinking of was what those gottverdammt concoctions that that moron Muller has been feeding me are doing to my stomach and bowels. Or daydreaming like a sixteen-year-old with raging hormones about Inge von Tresmarck.

It's as if I've been asleep, or drugged, and suddenly woken up.

Why? What happened? What woke me up?

After a moment's thought, he knew what had happened.

He was terrified because of the last paragraph of Himmler's letter: "The discussion ended somewhat abruptly at that point when the Fuhrer turned to me and said, in effect, 'Von Deitzberg is over there; have him take care of this.' "

I have been personally given the task of destroying SAA's aircraft, and in such a manner that the finger of suspicion cannot be pointed at Germany.

Every one of those Sohns der einer Hundin at Wolfsschanze must have been delighted.

Canaris, because Hitler hadn't ordered him to do it.

Goebbels, because there would not be an uproar in the world's press over Germans shooting down a civilian airline of a neutral power carrying a load of priests and nuns.

Goring, because Hitler hadn't ordered the Luftwaffe to do the shooting down. And Heinrich Himmler, because he hadn't been ordered to put the Sicherheitsdienst to work destroying the airplanes.

Not one of them--but me, personally!

"Have von Deitzberg take care of this."

All Himmler was doing was relaying the Fuhrer's orders.

Yet if I somehow succeed in destroying the airplanes, Himmler will of course take all the credit.

And if I fail, I will have Hitler personally furious with me. And I am a lowly SS-brigadefuhrer, not a senior general. Hitler doesn't scream at unimportant people like me; he just has the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler stand them in front of a wall.

Unless he's really angry, and orders the Leibstandarte to hang me from a butcher's hook with Goebbels's movie cameras filming so the Fuhrer can watch my agony at his leisure and over and over again.

And it's not as if I don't already have my hands full.

I still have no idea how I'm going to do what else I have to do here--eliminate that gottverdammt American Frade of the OSS, locate and eliminate the Froggers, find out how much damage the Froggers have done to Operation Phoenix, and check on both how the confidential special fund is being handled in Uruguay and whether that miserable deviate von Tresmarck has been able to keep his mouth shut.

And now this!

And I am absolutely alone!

Cranz and Raschner are incompetent--not only did they fail to eliminate Frade but they managed to lose an SS officer and half a dozen of his men while shooting up an empty house. Only a fool would not consider that they will shortly receive a letter from Himmler--now that I think about it, it probably came in the same pouch as Himmler's letter to von Lutzenberger and me--ordering them to secretly report on how I am carrying out my assignments.

And Cranz will do a good job on that. That Sohn der einer Hundin would like nothing better than to get me out of the way so he could become first deputy adjutant to the Reichsfuhrer-SS.

Well, as I always say about facing a difficult task: "You need good men and a lot of money."

And I have all the money I could possibly need--or will just as soon as I can get to Uruguay.

But men? Where am I going to find good men?

There's no one at all, except that fat slob--Anton von Gradny-Sawz, the grosse Weinerwurst--and he's stupid and as useless as teats on a boar hog.

Or . . .

Wait a minute! I don't think he's really stupid. He was certainly smart enough to know when to change sides just before the Anschluss. And he's done a remarkable job of covering his Gesass since he joined the German diplomatic service.

And he's afraid of me!

And what other choice do I have?

Anton von Gradny-Sawz and August Muller, M.D., were standing in the foyer of the petit-hotel when von Deitzberg came quickly down the stairway.

Dr. Muller looked at von Deitzberg curiously. Von Gradny-Sawz had a look of concern, as if he were afraid that von Deitzberg would attack the physician.

"Ah, the Bavarian medical genius!" von Deitzberg then cried happily. "What are you doing here in the foyer? Come up to the room and we'll send Maria out for a little schnapps. We can find schnapps here, right, Anton?"

"I'm not sure if we can," von Gradny-Sawz said uneasily.

"Nothing to drink for me at this hour," Dr. Muller said. "Thank you just the same. I have to go to the hospital."

"Of course, of course," von Deitzberg said. "I understand. But I really wanted to celebrate."