They sipped, swallowed, and smiled.
“So what was the purpose of rescuing Il Duce?” Martín asked.
“I’m sure the Führer had his reasons. Our Führer doesn’t always explain his decisions, but we are all agreed that he is virtually incapable of making a mistake.”
Martín did not reply.
“According to the story our commercial counselor, Señor Cranz, got from some friends of his in Germany,” von Gradny-Sawz went on, “what the SS did—and I think this was brilliant—was kidnap a senior Carabinieri officer, a colonel or a general, I didn’t get his name. They loaded him on one of the gliders and took him to the hotel. Under a flag of truce, the senior SS officer present—most of the attackers were parachutists, but this was an SS captain named Skorzeny—went to the senior Carabinieri officer and told him he had a choice. Either release Mussolini and no one would be hurt, or shoot Mussolini, whereupon the SS would shoot the Carabinieri colonel and then all the Carabinieri.
“Il Duce was released. Not a shot was fired. A Storch and a pilot were waiting nearby . . .” He waited to see on Martín’s face that he knew what a Storch was, then went on: “Then Captain Skorzeny squeezed Il Duce and himself into the plane and flew to Rome.”
Martín said: “I thought the Storch—you have one at the embassy, right?”
Von Gradny-Sawz nodded.
“—was a two-place airplane?”
“I wondered about that, too,” von Gradny-Sawz said. “But I have found it wise never to question Herr Cranz about any detail of an SS operation.”
“I understand,” Martín said.
“Herr Cranz was inspired by the kidnapping,” von Gradny-Sawz said.
“Excuse me?”
The waiter appeared with their sauerbraten mit Kartoffelknödel und sauerkraut.
“In Germany, you understand, Alejandro, where they don’t have your magnificent Argentine beef, the meat sometimes has the consistency of shoe leather. I don’t find that a problem. I love the sauce. If I were facing execution, I think I would request for my last meal the Kartoffelknödel and the sauce, hold the sauerbraten. And, of course, a bottle of Bikavér and some hard-crusted bread.”
Martín chuckled.
“You were saying something about Señor Cranz being inspired by the ki dnapping?”
By the time he asked the question, von Gradny-Sawz had a mouthful of the sauerbraten. When he finally had it all chewed and swallowed, he said:
“If I was guaranteed Argentine beef like this, I would add sauerbraten to my last meal.” And then, without a perceptible pause, he continued, “What SS-Obersturmbannführer Cranz plans to do is kidnap Señora Pamela Holworth-Talley de Mallín, Doña Dorotea Mallín de Frade’s mother. He also plans to kidnap Doña Dorotea’s fifteen-year-old brother Enrique—and possibly Señor Mallín himself. And then he plans to exchange them all for the Froggers.”
He then sawed off a piece of the Kartoffelknödel, moved it around his plate to coat it with the sauce, and put it into his mouth.
Martín laid down his knife and fork, then took a swallow of his wine before asking, “Anton, why are you telling me this?”
Von Gradny-Sawz finished chewing the Kartoffelknödel, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, and took a swallow of his wine. He refilled his glass before continuing.
“Two reasons, Alejandro, one of them being that I like to think of myself as a Christian gentleman, and as such am morally offended at the involvement of an innocent woman and her fifteen-year-old son in this sordid business, let alone Señor Mallín.”
Martín considered that for a moment before asking, “And the other?”
“The other reason is quite selfish,” von Gradny-Sawz said. “The possibility exists that I might find it necessary at some time in the future to . . . how do I say this? . . . seek asylum in this beautiful country of yours, and I would like a highly placed friend should that become necessary.”
Martín looked at him intently. Von Gradny-Sawz met his eyes for a very long moment, then picked up his wineglass again.
“Anton,” Martín said carefully, “if you are serious about seeking asylum, it will take me a couple of days to . . .”
“I don’t think—operative word think—that such action will be immediately necessary. I would like to think of myself as a loyal German, a loyal diplomat, who would not take such action unless it was absolutely necessary. I am not a traitor. What I would like to do is have the asylum ready should I need it. In the meantime, I will carry out my duties at the embassy and, while doing so, make what might be considered deposits in my account with you.”
“For example?” Martín asked.
“What I just gave you, for example. A violation of the generally accepted standards of decency, which I don’t consider are covered by questions of lo yalty.”