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Propaganda was very valuable to the Thousand-Year Reich.
Kapitän Dieter von und zu Aschenburg knew that the Condor manifest also listed a German diplomat. But that luminary had not boarded, which was almost certainly the reason the tower’s permission for von und zu Aschenburg to start his engines and take off now had been delayed “momentarily” for more than a half hour.
“Herr Oberst,” the co-pilot said, bringing von und zu Aschenburg back from his thoughts.
He had been addressed as “Herr Oberst” because—airline pilot uniform or not—he was a Luftwaffe colonel. All of Lufthansa was in fact in the Luftwaffe, but that was not for public consumption. Both “First Officer” Karl Nabler and “Flight Engineer” Wilhelm Hover were actually Luftwaffe hauptmanns who had been assigned to the Condor flights after “distinguished service” as Junkers Ju- 52 pilots on the Eastern Front.
Somewhat cynically, von und zu Aschenburg thought that their “distinguished service” meant they had somehow miraculously avoided getting shot down. The tri-motor, corrugated-skin Ju-52, derisively known as “Auntie Ju,” was easy prey for Russian fighters.
Von und zu Aschenburg wondered why he liked Willi and loathed Nabler. For all he knew, Willi might be an even more zealous National Socialist than Nabler. He had never discussed the war, or politics, with either of them.
As an intelligent man, a warrior who had seen his share and more of combat, von und zu Aschenburg was not anxious to give his life for the German Reich. But if that was going to happen as he did his duty, he preferred that he die as a soldier, in uniform. He had not volunteered to fly back and forth over the Atlantic; he had been told he had been honored by being selected for that duty. There was no question in his mind that one day he wouldn’t make it.
It was one of the many reasons he loathed the Nazis.
He often thought, If the swine could read my mind, I would be hanging from a butcher’s hook.
First Officer Nabler was pointing to the tarmac. An open Mercedes, a big one, was coming out from the curved terminal building, obviously headed for them.
Two things immediately caught von und zu Aschenburg’s attention. First, that the license plate of the car incorporated the lightning flashes of the Schutzstaffel. And second, that it held a family. There was one child in front with the driver—and the driver was in an SS uniform—and two more children in back with two adults, almost certainly the parents.
Von und zu Aschenburg thought it was entirely possible that he was about to get into an argument with the man.
Those SS bastards are so impressed with themselves they really believe they can rescind the laws of physics. Or, at the very least, cause the deplaning of lesser persons so that the wife and kiddies can go flying.
There’s simply no way I’m going to take off with the wife and three kids.
“I will see that our distinguished passenger is seated,” von und zu Aschenburg said, and unfastened his seat belt.
“Jawohl, Herr Oberst.”
Von und zu Aschenburg went quickly through the passenger cabin and down the steps.
The man in the Mercedes was already out of the car, and the driver was taking a suitcase from the trunk.
“Captain,” the man said with an ingratiating smile. “My deepest apologies. I know how important it is for you to leave on schedule. Believe me, this couldn’t be helped.”
“It’s not a problem, sir,” von und zu Aschenburg said.
He then surprised himself by taking the suitcase from the SS driver.
“If you’ll come with me, sir, we’ll get you settled.”
Herr Karl Cranz of the Foreign Service kissed Frau Cranz and their three children good-bye, shook hands with the SS-sturmscharführer, then followed von und zu Aschenburg up the steps and into the Condor.
[TWO]
Office of the Managing Director Banco de Inglaterra y Argentina Bartolomé Mitre 300 Buenos Aires, Argentina 1205 10 July 1943
“Come in, Cletus,” Humberto Duarte said as he opened one of the pair of heavy wooden doors to his office.
Frade and Duarte embraced in the Argentine fashion, then they walked into the office, trailed by Enrico Rodríguez.
“Very nice,” Clete said, looking around the luxuriously furnished office. “I guess foreclosing on widows and orphans pays you bankers pretty good, huh? No offense.”
“None taken. And would you be offended—either of you—if I said you are splendidly turned out? Good morning, Enrico.”
Enrico nodded.
