Death and Honor

And what’s particularly galling is that he has every right not only to smirk but also to mock me and just about every other ambassador in the room by his dress. He is in white tie and tails, rather than any sort of diplomatic uniform. And there is nothing whatever—no silken sash nor ornate decorations, not even miniature medals of any kind—on his jacket or sleeves or anywhere else to suggest his rank or even his nationality.

He looks as if he could be a gigolo or a headwaiter.

But what he is—and everybody knows it, including this moron of an ambassador from Mexico—is the representative of the most powerful nation on earth, which inevitably will be the ultimate victor of the second world war to end all wars.

Von Lutzenberger drained his glass and put it on a table.

And if I have any more of this splendid champagne—which, aside from pâté de foie gras, is about the only thing the French do well—I am almost certain to make an ass of myself.

I have to think of some way to get out of here without violating any diplomatic protocol.

Now, how the devil am I going to do that?

Not quite thirty seconds later, the problem was solved.

Assistant Consul Johan Schneider—wearing civilian clothing, of course— was being led to him by a young man who was almost certainly one of his French peers—that is to say, a junior officer on the French ambassador’s staff.

I wonder if he suspects that Schneider is an SS-untersturmführer?

Schneider announced: “I regret the necessity, Excellency . . .”

Von Lutzenberger tried but failed to shut him off with a gesture.

"... of this interruption,” Schneider plunged ahead, "but there has been an important communication from—”

“I understand, Herr Schneider,” von Lutzenberger cut him off abruptly, thinking, It certainly is not Ambassador Tarmero’s business to know from whom I have an important message, and possibly none of Gradny-Sawz’s. “And where is this communication?”

“—from Berlin,” Schneider plunged on, and then patted his chest.

Von Lutzenberger gestured impatiently for Schneider to hand over the message.

Schneider took a gray manila envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to von Lutzenberger, who then looked at Tarmero and Gradny-Sawz.

“Will you be so kind, gentlemen, as to excuse me for having to answer the call of duty?”

He didn’t wait for a response. He gestured for Schneider to follow him and went to the men’s room. He had been in the French embassy often enough to know where it was, and also that it would reek of perfume to mask the odors from the plumbing, which apparently had been installed about the time of the Franco-Prussian War and not repaired since.

It was not occupied.

Thank God. Now I won’t have to go in one of the indoor pissoirs.

“Don’t let anyone else in,” von Lutzenberger ordered.

“Jawohl, Excellency,” Schneider said, and stood beside the door, prepared to defend the men’s room with his life.

Once von Lutzenberger was inside, despite what he had originally decided not to do, he went into one of the stalls, which did indeed smell like a pissoir on the Champs-Élysées, and latched it closed before he tore open the gray manila envelope.

It contained a white letter-sized envelope stamped MOST SECRET and closed with an official stamp, not unlike a postage stamp, across which, following the protocol, Schneider had written his name.

Von Lutzenberger tore it open, took out several sheets of paper, and began to read them.

CLASSIFICATION: MOST URGENT

CONFIDENTIALITY: MOST SECRET

DATE: 4 AUGUST 1943

FROM: PARTEILEITER MARTIN BORMANN NATIONAL SOCIALIST GERMAN WORKERS PARTY BERLIN

TO: IMMEDIATE AND PERSONAL ATTENTION OF THE REICH AMBASSADOR TO ARGENTINA, BUENOS AIRES

HEIL HITLER!