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“Did you manage to get that submarine captain to say anything?”
“He finally admitted to have put sixteen SS officers and five heavy wooden crates ashore on the San Matias Gulf. He said he didn’t know what was in the crates, sir, but almost certainly it was currency and other valuables.”
“And where are they, and these crates, now?”
“I don’t know, sir. My fault. A week before this happened, I pulled my coast watchers off the job. I thought we’d seen the last of the German submarines, and I needed my people to deal with our other problem.”
“But you have suspicions?”
“Only suspicions, sir. Nothing I can prove.”
“If you had to guess?”
“In Patagonia, sir.”
“You think el Coronel Klausberger was involved with smuggling these people into Argentina?”
“Sir, you asked me to guess.”
“When I became president, el Coronel Perón made the point to me that el General Rawson had gone much too far when he charged Klausberger with treason.”
Martín did not reply.
“You didn’t,” Farrell said. It was both a question and a statement, and again Martín did not reply.
“Bernardo, the last thing I want—and the last thing you want—is a Spanish Civil War here. Court-martialing Klausberger—or even bringing him before a court of honor—might well have triggered such a war. So I accepted Juan Domingo’s suggestion that I assign Klausberger to duty in the Edificio Libertador. And then, more than a year later, I accepted Perón’s suggestion that he be given command of the Tenth Mountain Regiment. And there was no civil war during that year.”
Martín remained mute.
“And you think I made a mistake,” Farrell said, and again it was both a question and a statement.
“Mi Presidente, I serve you. I never have and never will question your decisions.”
“I know. And I hope you know how much I appreciate that.” He paused and then went on: “Is my returning Klausberger to the Tenth Mountain Regiment one of the reasons half of my officer corps talks of assassinating Perón? They think he has too much influence on me?”
“Sir, I believe that to be the case. And then there is Señorita Duarte.”
“Who, as we speak, is mobilizing the—what does she call them? ‘The Shirtless Ones’?—to protest Perón’s arrest?”
Again it was both a question and a statement, and again Martín did not reply.
“How difficult a situation is that going to be?” Farrell asked.
“I don’t know, sir. I do know that Señor Rodolfo Nulder is assisting Señorita Duarte’s efforts with the shirtless ones. And I believe, sir, that el Coronel Perón’s association with Nulder is another reason some in the officer corps are annoyed with him.”
“They’re not just annoyed with him, Bernardo. They want to kill him.”
“I’m afraid that’s true, sir.”
“How safe is he for the moment?”
“As far as I know, sir, no one in that group of officers knows we have him on Isla Martín García. But it’s only a matter of time until they find out.”
“We have to keep Juan Domingo alive. If he is hurt in any way, much less assassinated, we will have civil war. What about Cletus Frade? Is he going to . . . do anything?”
“Señor Frade told me, and I believe him, that he is going to do nothing with regard to el Coronel Perón unless you ask him to.”
“God, I wish his father were alive and in this office!” President Farrell said. “He’d know how to deal with this.”
