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“My mother is a Strasbourger.”
“So is mine,” Mannberg said.
He examined the list of names.
“At least half of the people on this list learned from us,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“They managed to have themselves reported as having been killed,” Mannberg said. “This fellow, SS-Brigadeführer Ludwig Hoffmann, is a particularly nasty bastard. May I ask where you got this
list?”
Among the many things Good Ol’ Tiny didn’t tell me was what, if anything, I could tell Gehlen’s officers.
Fuck it! If this has been dumped on me, I’ll deal with it my way.
“They are reported to have been landed in Argentina from a submarine. U-405.”
“That U-boat used to be commanded by a friend of mine—actually a family friend, our fathers were friends and my younger brother was with him at university, Philipps, in Marburg. That’s presuming we’re talking about Fregattenkapitän Wilhelm von Dattenberg.”
“That’s the guy,” Cronley said.
Should I have admitted that?
He’s a very bright, very senior intelligence officer. One easily capable of taking advantage of a wet-behind-the-ears second lieutenant who has no idea what the fuck he’s doing.
Once again, fuck it. Go for broke.
“That makes sense,” Mannberg said. “Von Dattenberg was one of the better U-boat skippers. Himmler would order the best to get them out of Germany. I will undertake this task with pleasure, Herr Leutnant. These are the people who brought Germany to what and where it is today. They should not be allowed to escape the wrath of decent Germans. I presume you want this information quickly?”
“The sooner the better.”
“I’ll get right on it. Is there anything else?”
“Not right now.”
“Then with your permission, Herr Leutnant,” Mannberg said, popped to attention, clicked his heels, and walked out of the office.
[THREE]
Office of the President
Casa Rosada
Plaza de Mayo, Buenos Aires, Argentina
1215 12 October 1945
General de Brigada Bernardo Martín marched into the president’s office, stopped in front of the presidential desk, and saluted.
General Edelmiro Julián Farrell, the twenty-eighth president of Argentina, who was slightly built and whose pale skin reflected his Irish ancestry, returned the salute. He then rose and came around the desk, offered his hand, and patted Martín’s back.
“We don’t often see you in uniform, Bernardo,” Farrell said. “What’s the occasion?”
“Sir, I was in Puerto Belgrano, at the naval base arranging the movement of the U-405 crew to General Villa Belgrano. Dealing with the navy, I thought being in uniform . . .”
Farrell nodded his understanding.
