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“Mother Superior agrees with that theory?”
“She knows that’s what happened. What she can’t understand is why I think it was a good idea.”
“Neither can I. That sounds like cold-blooded murder.”
“Colonel, what were you thinking when you turned your Thompson on Colonel—whatsisname? Schmidt?—and his officers?”
“I was thinking if any one of them managed to get their pistols out, they were going to shoot me.”
“That’s all?”
“Look, later, when I was trying to justify to myself shooting Schmidt, I managed to convince myself that I had also saved General Farrell’s life, and Pedro Nolasco’s.”
“And that’s all?” Stein pursued.
It took Frade a moment to reply.
“Okay, Siggie. I’m apparently very good when it comes to justifying what I’ve done that I’m not especially proud of. I told myself that I was responsible for turning the Tenth Mountain Regiment around, which meant they would not get into a firefight with the Húsares de Pueyrredón and that meant a lot of Schmidt’s troops and a lot of Húsares would not get killed. And that—I just said I’m really good at coming up with justifications—there wouldn’t be a civil war where a lot of innocent people would get killed. By the time I was finished, I had just about convinced myself that I was really Saint George and Schmidt was the evil dragon.”
Stein nodded. “Don’t be hard on yourself, Colonel. You did the right thing, and so did whoever ordered that the Chilean Nazis be killed. That stopped the Nazi movement in its tracks in Chile. God knows how many people would have been killed if the Nazis had taken over th
e country.”
“Why does this massacre make you want to go to Germany?”
“I told you, Colonel, I don’t understand it, but it does.”
“You’re not thinking of doing something more than pissing in the Rhine?”
“Say, shooting Nazis so they can’t rise Phoenix-like from the ashes?”
“That thought did run through my mind, Siggie.”
“No, sir,” Stein said, then went on: “Don’t look for some nice explanation why I can’t go with you, Colonel. All you have to say is ‘No way.’”
“Whatever happened to that Leica camera you used at Tandil?”
“I’ve still got it. You want it?”
“I don’t know who Perón is sending to Germany with me, and I don’t know who I’m going to bring back from Germany. And he’s not going to tell me. But if I had photographs I could show Nolasco, Martín, and as far as that goes, Körtig . . .”
“I’ll go get the camera.”
“No. You can just bring it with you when we go to Germany. You’ll go as the radio operator. In an SAA uniform.”
“Yes, sir. And thank you.”
“When we finish this bottle of wine, Sergeant, get on the radio to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. Tell Schultz what’s going on. Tell him to get blank OSS ID cards out of the safe and have them made out for von Wachtstein and Boltitz by the time we get there tomorrow. You still have yours, right?”
“Yes, sir. But you told me those IDs are not real . . .”
“They’re not. But people don’t know that. And in our business, Sergeant Stein, what people don’t know usually hurts them.”
[THREE]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province 1305 15 May 1945
As the Red Lodestar, with Peter von Wachtstein at the controls, made its approach to the airfield, then smoothly touched down, Clete thought, There are some people born to be pilots, and ol’ Hansel is one of them.
