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“Hungarian wines are marvelous,” von Gradny-Sawz began, interrupting himself when a waiter appeared. Then, switching to German, he ordered: “Be so good, Herr Ober, as to bring us a bottle of the Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon 1939 if you have it. If not, 1941.”

“Jawohl, Exzellenz.”

“And then make sure there is another; I suspect it may be necessary.”

“Jawohl, Exzellenz.”

The waiter bowed and backed away from the table.

“An ethnic German, I would suppose,” von Gradny-Sawz said, switching back to Spanish. “What is it they say about converts to Roman Catholicism? ‘They become more Papist than the Pope.’ I suspect we are being served by a devout follower of the Führer.”

Martín chuckled.

“Where was I? Oh. Hungarian wines. They really are wonderful. Something else the Bolsheviks are going to wind up with. Including a vineyard that’s been in my family since the Romans.”

“That sounds as if you think the Allies are going to win the war,” Martín said carefully.

“As a loyal German, I of course have absolute faith in the ultimate Final Victory.”

Martín smiled and shook his head. Von Gradny-Sawz smiled back.

“Changing the subject,” Martín said, “I know something about that Don Guillermo Cabernet I suspect you don’t.”

“The initial pressing is by the bare feet of nubi

le virgins?”

“The ‘Don Guillermo’ makes reference to Don Guillermo Frade, granduncle of the present owner, Don Cletus Frade. He established the vineyard in Mendoza.”

“And now it’s in the hands of an American! War is really hell, isn’t it, Alejandro?”

“Yes, I think it is,” Martín said seriously. “But speaking of the war, may I ask you a question, friend to friend?”

“Certainly.”

“What’s going on with Mussolini? What was that all about?”

“You saw the story in La Nación?”

“And we heard from our embassy in Berlin that the newspapers there reported that after his brilliant rescue he’s on his way to see Hitler.”

“King Victor Emmanuel had him confined in a ski resort not far from Rome in the Gran Sasso. Lovely place; I often skied there. The Campo Imperatore Hotel. He was in the hands of the Carabinieri. The only way to get to the hotel is by cable car. It was therefore believed his rescue was impossible. Even if his rescuers parachuted onto the mountaintop, or landed there in gliders, which is what they ultimately did, Mussolini could be shot by the Carabinieri rather than waiting for the trial the king planned for him after the Americans take Italy. The king was determined that Il Duce should not be freed to attempt to resume control of the government.”

“I saw that the Allies have landed . . .”

“At Anzio,” von Gradny-Sawz confirmed. “And Italy has surrendered unconditionally to the Allies. The Wehrmacht is in the process of disarming the Italian army.”

The waiter appeared with two bottles of Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon, apologized for not having the 1939, but reported that he had a bottle of both 1938 and 1937, and hoped His Excellency would approve.

They went through the opening, tasting, and pouring ritual.

They ordered sauerbraten mit Kartoffelknödel und sauerkraut.

They raised their glasses.

“To good friends, good food, and good wine,” Martín offered.

“In the best of all possible worlds, a Hungarian Bikavér, as red as the blood of a bull, but failing that, this magnificent Don Guillermo,” von Gradny-Sawz responded.