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“Have you considered not going?”
Sam glanced up in time to see Remi’s knowing smile. “Never entered our minds,” he replied.
An audible sigh sounded from Tatiana’s end of the phone. “I wish you luck, then. We’ll be headed that way at some point but probably not in time to be of much help with your search. Our goal is to shadow Leopold and Rolfe and meet up with our contacts in that part of the world. We’ll be in touch with any information.”
“Thank you,” Sam said. “We appreciate it.” No sooner had he disconnected than the pilot announced they were cleared for takeoff.
“Buenos Aires, here we come . . .”
67
BUENOS AIRES
An afternoon of research led Sam and Remi to discover that Ludwig Strassmair’s great-grandnephew Dietrich was listed as the owner of a home about an hour’s drive from the city center. They pulled up in front of the bungalow that evening and found several boys playing soccer in the street out front.
As Sam and Remi walked toward the neat yellow and white house, a Spanish television announcer’s voice drifted from the open window. Sam knocked at the door, which was opened by a dark-haired woman in her late twenties. “We’re looking for Dietrich Fischer,” he said, then repeated the question in Spanish.
“Who are you?” she asked in thickly accented English.
“Sam and Remi Fargo. We’re . . . researching old World War Two history, and his name came up as being a relative of . . .” He looked at Remi.
“Ludwig Strassmair,” she said. “We think Dietrich might be able to answer questions about his relatives for a documentary.”
The woman said nothing for a moment, her gaze moving to Remi, then back to Sam, as though weighing whether or not she could believe either of them. “He left about two years ago,” she finally said. “We rent the house from him.”
“Any idea how to get in touch?” Sam asked.
“The only address I have is a post office box, where we mail the rent check.”
“A phone number?” Remi said. “Something in case of emergencies?”
“No. I have an email address for him, but the last email I sent over a month ago has yet to be answered. I’m not sure there is internet where he is.”
“Which would be . . . ?” Sam asked.
“Somewhere in the middle of the jungle.”
“Any idea where? Or what he does there?”
“Maybe someone at the property manager’s office might know. I’ll get you their card.”
—
THE PROPERTY MANAGER, a man in his forties, gave the same information as the woman. Just as Sam wondered if they’d hit a complete dead end, the man said, “If it’s really important, the fastest way to get in touch with him is by messenger. No internet, and cell phone signals are sketchy, but if you’re willing to pay, it’s possible to get a message out to him.”
“We’re willing to pay,” Sam said. “Let us know what we need to do.”
“Not what you need to do. Where you need to go.”
“And that would be . . . ?”
“Better to show you.” He brought up a map of Argentina on his computer screen and pointed to a location near the north. “The village borders the river on the outskirts of the jungle. The water is how most people get to the village. It caters to guided river travelers. But it’s also a longer route.”
Sam eyed the winding river on the map. “There’s a shorter route?”
“Two days shorter. Through the jungle, unfortunately.”
“What exactly does Dietrich do?” Remi asked.
