Death and Honor

“And what’s going to happen when we return to Burbank?”

“That’s what I’ll decide before you return to Burbank,” Graham said.

“Why can’t you tell him now?” Hughes protested.

“Tell either one of you now?” Graham asked, and then answered his own question. “Because I just realized that both of my loose cannons would probably approve of what I’m thinking, and when that happens I want to really be careful.”

He stood.

“Good evening, Major Frade,” he said. “Try to get a good night’s sleep. Whatever ultimately happens tomorrow, I suspect it will be a busy, busy day.” He turned to Hughes. “Let’s go, Howard. And if you’re even thinking about sending somebody to keep Clete company, don’t.”

He walked to the door. Hughes pushed himself out of his chair and walked after him.

XIV

[ONE]

Grand Reception Room Embassy of France Cerrito 1399, Buenos Aires, Argentina 2205 4 August 1943

German Ambassador Manfred Alois Graf von Lutzenberger, attired in the splendiferous gold- and silver-encrusted diplomatic uniform prescribed for ambassadors of the Third Reich, stood with First Secretary Anton von Gradny-Sawz, whose uniform was only slightly less laden with gold thread embroidery. They were holding champagne stems and making polite conversation with Mexico’s ambassador to the Republic of Argentina, José Enrico Tarmero.

Despite von Lutzenberger’s smile, he was having unkind thoughts about many things, starting with Ambassador Tarmero’s uniform, which outshone his own.

Then there had been Tarmero’s inquiry.

The Mexican ambassador had asked the German ambassador if he could offer—in confidence, of course—his opinion of the ultimate effect on the war of King Victor Emmanuel having dismissed Benito Mussolini and then appointed Marshal Badoglio to replace him.

Von Lutzenberger had thought: The simple answer to your question, you stupid man, should be self-evident.

The King understands the war is lost and wants to salvage whatever he can, then dodge, as well as he can, the wrath of the Allies.

I would not be at all surprised to learn that as we stand here dressed like characters in a Hungarian comic opera—in this grand reception room in the embassy of what pretends to be a neutral sovereign state but is in fact Axis-leaning—officers of the American OSS are meeting with Badoglio—probably in Rome, maybe in the Vatican—discussing with him the capitulation of Italy.

And with that in mind, Mister Ambassador, I dare to suggest that your question is something less than diplomatic.

But what von Lutzenberger had told the ambassador was that, in his opinion, once it became evident that Italy could not function without Il Duce, particularly when it came to throwing the British and the Americans off Sicily, Mussolini would be restored to power.

Von Lutzenberger also had unkind thoughts about the minister extraordinary and plenipotentiary of the United States of America to the Republic of Argentina, who, while standing across the room under the magnificent chandeliers and before a portrait of Napoleon, had had the gall to raise his champagne stem and smile.

But, von Lutzenberger told himself, the American ambassador was nodding and smiling at Tarmero—not at von Lutzenberger.

One does not nod at the ambassador of a nation with which your nation is at war.

Von Lutzenberger glanced again at the American ambassador.

In a pig’s ass he’s smiling at Tarmero!

The sonofabitch is smirking at me!

And his gottverdammt smirk is asking, “Heard about Sicily, Mr. Ambassador of the Third Reich? Or about Il Duce getting the boot? Getting the message, are you?”