“Where I will fly him around in my Feiseler Storch,” Peter said.
“Is that what they have you doing, flying a Storch?”
Peter nodded.
“And you can look yourself in the mirror in the morning?”
“Absolutely,” Peter said.
Willi shook his head.
“Speaking of sex,” he said.
“Who was speaking of sex?” Peter asked.
“I’m going to have to get a room, since I think I am going to be too shitfaced to take one of the girls home.” He inclined his head toward the bar, where half a dozen young women were sipping cocktails and looking their way.
“I’ve got a room here,” Peter said.
“My apartment isn’t far,” Karl said. “You’re welcome to stay with me.”
“U-boat, don’t tell me you’re a faggot,” Willi said.
Boltitz’s face whitened. “You have a dangerous mouth, Grüner,” he said.
“Jesus Christ, Willi!” Peter protested.
Boltitz stood up.
“Oh, for God’s sake, U-boat! Can’t you take a joke?”
“I’m going to the pisser,” Boltitz said. He walked toward the men’s room in the lobby.
“So what’s with you and U-boat, Hansel?” Willi asked.
“He’s investigating…what happened in Argentina.”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
“Somebody had to tell the Americans, or the Argentines, that we were coming.”
“And you’re one of the suspects?” Willi asked incredulously.
“They brought three of us back to make reports,” Peter said.
“Four eight six six one,” the man who answered the telephone said.
“Korvettenkapitän Boltitz for Fregattenkapitän von und zu Waching.”
“What’s up, Boltitz?” Von und zu Waching asked.
“Sorry, Sir, I didn’t recognize your voice.”
Von und zu Waching said nothing, and it took Karl a moment to recall Canaris’s habit—now obviously adopted by von und zu Waching—not to waste time with unnecessary words, such as accepting an apology.
“Oberst Grüner’s son—he’s a Luftwaffe Hauptmann—was in the bar when you and the Admiral were here. He’s now with von Wachtstein.”
There was another long silence.