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Okay. So that makes this guy one of the good guys.
Why does that make me unhappy?
Because when I take von Wachtstein into a corner and tell him I’m sorry but I just can’t allow you to try to smuggle your pals into Argentina, that such an act will add another risk we can’t afford, von Wachtstein will say, “Fuck you. I don’t work for you. I work for Cletus Frade. And since he’s not here, that makes the Constellation my airplane. And besides, my pals have earned themselves a seat.”
“How long did Lufthansa fly to Buenos Aires?” Mattingly asked.
“Until Hitler decided the Condors would be more valuable serving the Eastern Front,” von und zu Aschenburg said drily.
“So you flew in Russia, too?”
“Until there were no more Condors. And then I flew Auntie Ju’s—Junkers JU 52s, a tri-motor like your Ford. Until there were no more of them. And then I was allowed to fly Fw-190 fighters until we ran out of fuel for them. I was then impressed into the Volkssturm, from which I deserted.”
I like this guy.
But that doesn’t alter the fact that I can’t allow von Wachtstein to try to smuggle him and his pal into Argentina.
Presuming of course that von Wachtstein pops to attention and says, “Yes, sir!” when I tell him he can’t, which is about as likely as me being taken bodily into heaven.
And what am I going to do with the two suitcases in the back of the Horch?
“Mattingly, I can’t believe that you just handed over to a German—a German who is still listed as an escapee from Fort Hunt—intelligence material of that importance. What the hell were you thinking?”
Well, turning the bags over to Major Harry Wallace and telling him to get on von Wachtstein’s Constellation and personally hand them over to Cletus Frade in Buenos Aires would be an option.
Except that I need Harry to finish setting up the South German Industrial Development Organization in Pullach.
And I can’t have Cronley take that over so that Major Harold Wallace can go to Argentina. He’s a second lieutenant—a smart one, okay—but he just doesn’t have the knowledge or experience to supervise the setting-up of Pullach. . . .
Jesus Christ, why didn’t I think of this before?
Cronley takes the suitcases to Argentina!
“Why did you turn the suitcases over to a second lieutenant, Mattingly?”
“Because he was the only intelligence officer I had for the assignment.”
Now all I have to do is keep the Condor pilot and von Wachtstein’s other buddy off the Constellation. That shouldn’t be hard. I’ll tell von Wachtstein they’ll have to wait until we can arrange passports for them.
Von Wachtstein came back into the kitchen, his arm around the shoulder of a short, muscular, blond man about his age and also wearing remnants of a Luftwaffe uniform.
“You remember Willi, Karl?”
“Of course. How are you, Grüner?”
“Alive,” Willi said as they shook hands. “And a little confused. What’s going on here? What was that uniform Hansel was wearing when he came here earlier?”
“That’s my Mexican bus driver’s uniform. If you play your cards right, we can probably get yo
u—and of course Dieter—ones just like it in Buenos Aires.”
What? Mattingly thought.
“Buenos Aires?” Dieter asked incredulously. “And how do we get to Argentina?”
“You get on my bus, and twenty-five, twenty-six hours later you’re in Buenos Aires.”
I’ve got to somehow stop this!
