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“Herr Major, I have just learned of the soon arrival of a Condor at El Palomar.”
“What’s a ‘soon arrival’? When is a ‘soon arrival’? In the next ten minutes? Tomorrow? Friday?”
“Herr Major, I believe the aircraft is about to land at El Palomar.”
“I was not aware we were expecting a flight. Were you?”
“I was not, Herr Major.”
“You will go downstairs and wake up Günther Loche and tell him to bring a car around, Herr Schneider, while I go by the ambassador’s office to tell him that you and I are on our way to El Palomar.”
Günther Loche, a muscular twenty-two-year-old with a blond crew cut who von Wachtstein regarded as more zealous a Nazi than the Führer himself, was a civilian employee of the embassy. He had been born in Argentina to German parents who
had immigrated to Argentina after the First World War. He had been Oberst Grüner’s driver, and until a replacement for Grüner was assigned, he was von Wachtstein’s driver.
“You will be going with me, Herr Major?” Schneider said.
Oberst Grüner had rarely done that.
“No. The way that works, Untersturmführer Schneider, is that inasmuch as I am a major and the acting military attaché, you will be going with me.”
“Jawohl, Herr Major,” Schneider said, then threw out his arm again and barked, “Heil Hitler!”
Schneider suspected—he had no idea why—that von Wachtstein didn’t like him. But he was not offended by von Wachtstein’s curt—even rude—sarcasm. For one thing, an officer who had received the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross for extraordinary valor in aerial combat was entitled to be a bit arrogant.
And for another, I was wrong; I should have been more precise than “soon arrival.”
And I had no right to question his orders.
After the first call, Lufthansa Six Zero Two had attempted to contact the El Palomar tower once a minute for the next eleven minutes. Finally, the El Palomar tower operators had gotten through: “Lufthansa Six Zero Two, this is El Palomar.”
The response had been immediate.
“El Palomar, Lufthansa Six Zero Two has entered Argentine airspace at the mouth of the River Plate. Altitude three thousand five hundred meters, indicated airspeed three eight zero kilometers. Estimate El Palomar in four zero minutes. Request approach and landing permission.”
“Lufthansa Six Zero Two, El Palomar understands you are approximately one four zero kilometers east of this field at thirty-five hundred meters, estimating El Palomar in forty minutes.”
“That is correct, El Palomar.”
“Permission to approach El Palomar is granted. Begin descent to two thousand meters at this time. Contact again when ten minutes out.”
“Six Zero Two understands descend to two thousand meters and contact when ten minutes out.”
“Lufthansa Six Zero Two, that is correct.”
“El Palomar, Lufthansa Six Zero Two.”
“Go ahead, Six Zero Two.”
“Six Zero Two is at two thousand meters, indicating three zero zero kilometers. Estimate El Palomar in ten minutes.”
“El Palomar clears Lufthansa Six Zero Two as number one to land on runway Two Six. Winds are negligible. Report when you have El Palomar in sight.”
Eleven minutes later, Lufthansa Six Zero Two was on the ground.
When von und zu Aschenburg shut down the Condor’s engines, he noted in his log that he had fuel remaining for another hour and perhaps ten minutes of flight. That was unnerving, but he had landed here before with less than a half hour’s remaining fuel.
When he looked out the window he saw that the reception committee from the German embassy included—in addition to that SS asshole Schneider, who always met Condor flights—an old friend, Major Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein.
