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There was something surreal about it, even though this would not be the first time he had realized that he had had to, so to speak, cross the Rubicon.

From the moment Ambassador von Lutzenberger had shown him the message from Canaris about the “senior officer to be later identified” and told him to set up the identity card, driver’s license, and the rest of it, von Gradny-Sawz had known he was going to have to do whatever was necessary to keep himself from being identified as the traitor everyone—certainly including the “senior officer to be later identified”—knew was in the embassy.

That he wasn’t the traitor was irrelevant.

They were going to find a traitor, he well knew, even if they had to invent one.

Actually, von Gradny-Sawz wasn’t sure who “they” were, only that the senior officers of the embassy—Ambassador von Lutzenberger, “Commercial Attaché” Cranz, and Naval Attaché Boltitz—who were all, of course, under suspicion themselves, were understandably not going to find themselves and their families in Sachsenhausen or Dachau as long as they could throw someone else to the Sicherheitsdienst.

But von Gradny-Sawz recognized that First Secretary Anton von Gradny-Sawz could easily be that sacrificial lamb.

When Wilhelm Frogger, the commercial attaché of the embassy, had gone missing with his wife, there had been a brief moment’s hope that they had been the traitors. Yet that hope had been shattered when “they” had decided the Froggers had been kidnapped by the American OSS.

Von Gradny-Sawz thought what had happened was that Frogger—or, for that matter, his wife, who was sub rosa working for the Sicherheitsdienst—had decided that he was going to be the sacrificial lamb and had gone to the Americans to save his life.

That scenario had not sat well with Cranz—and with his superiors in Berlin—because it would have meant that one of their own, Frau Frogger, had been a traitor. That would have damaged the image of the Sicherheitsdienst, and that couldn’t be tolerated.

The arrow was again pointing at Anton von Gradny-Sawz, and, having come to that conclusion, he had understood he really had no choice in the matter; he had to do what he was about to do.

El Coronel Alejandro Martín, chief of the Ethical Standards Office of the Bureau of Internal Security, was sitting in a booth halfway down the right side of the ABC, buttering a chunk of rye bread.

He was wearing a tweed suit that von Gradny-Sawz thought was “cut on the English style” and didn’t look much like what came to mind when thinking of someone who was Argentina’s senior intelligence—and, for that matter, counterintelligence—officer.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, el Coronel?”

Martín rose and offered von Gradny-Sawz his hand.

“Actually, I came a bit early. How are you, Mister Secretary?”

“I thought we’d agreed you weren’t to call me that?”

“At the time, we agreed you wouldn’t call me ‘Coronel.’ ”

“Touché, Alejandro,” von Gradny-Sawz said. “Shall I go out and come back in and do it right?”

“Sit down, Anton, and as soon as we decide which of our governments is paying for our lunch, we’ll have a look at the wine list.”

Von Gradny-Sawz managed to slide onto the opposing bench, and he reached for the red-leather-bound wine list.

“Before we allow the subject to get in the way of our lunch, Anton,” Martín said, “I regret that I have been unable to turn up any trace of Señor Frogger. Or Señora Frogger.”

“They seem to have simply fallen off the edge of the earth, haven’t they?” von Gradny-Sawz said. “But now that we have talked business, diplomatic protocol gives me no choice in the matter. Our luncheon is on the Foreign Ministry of the German Reich.”

“I will not argue with diplomatic protocol,” Martín said. “And since I know nothing of German wines, I’m happy to bow to your expertise.”

“Have you thought of what you would like to eat?”

“They do a marvelous sauerbraten here.”

“Yes, they do,” von Gradny-Sawz agreed cheerfully. “And that would call for a red.” He looked up from the wine list, smiled happily at Martín, and announced, “And here it is!”

He pointed. Martín looked.

“That’s Argentine,” Martín said.

“Yes, I know,” von Gradny-Sawz said. “And since, with all modesty, I am something of an expert on German wines—which range from the tolerable to the undrinkable—I will confess—trusting in your discretion—that I never drink them unless it is my diplomatic duty to do so.”

Martín smiled at him but didn’t reply.