“Until further notice,” von und zu Waching said, “stay as close to him as you can, and call every few hours.”
“Jawohl, Herr Fregattenkapitän,” Karl said, and left the car.
XIII
[ONE]
The Lobby Bar
The Hotel am Zoo
Kurfürstendamm, Berlin
1720 10 May 1943
Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein watched Admiral Canaris, von und zu Waching, and Boltitz walk out of the bar and then sat down at the banquette.
What the hell was that all about?
Canaris didn’t touch his beer; the other guy drained his.
Obviously, Canaris wanted to see me personally.
But why here?
Did I let anything slip?
A short, muscular, blond Luftwaffe officer in his early twenties slid onto the banquette seat beside him. “If the Herr Major doesn’t mind, I will have the Admiral’s beer,” he said, and reached for Canaris’s untouched beer.
“Willi! Jesus Christ!” Peter said.
“He’s not coming back, is he? I mean, when I was coming back from the pisser, I saw him head for the door.”
“He’s not coming back,” Peter said. “Help yourself.”
“Waste not, want not, I always say,” Hauptmann Wilhelm Johannes Grüner said, and took a deep swallow from the glass.
Peter and Willi Grüner had flown in France together. His father was—had been—Oberst Karl-Heinz Grüner, late Military Attaché of the German Embassy in Buenos Aires.
Maybe he’s drunk. He doesn’t act like a man whose father was murdered less than a month ago. Or even particularly surprised to see me in Berlin.
“How’s it going, Willi?” Peter asked.
“Can’t complain,” Willi said. “And how are things in far-off Argentina? My old man been riding your ass?”
My God, he doesn’t know!
“What have they got you doing these days?” Peter asked.
“I have—had—your old squadron.”
“Had?”
“New assignment.”
“Doing what?”
“I can’t tell you, as much as I would like to. State secret.”