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“Don’t start that crap again, Bernardo. The OSS no longer exists.”
“I may not be very bright, Cletus, my friend, but I’m smart enough to know when not to—what is it you say?—pull your chain. I just want to know what list.”
Frade looked at him for perhaps five seconds, and then tapped the thick stack of paper held together with a metal clip with his fingertips.
“I got this in Germany,” he said. “This is the list of people the U.S. government—and all the Allies, which theoretically includes Argentina—are looking for.” He paused, and then went on: “For a lot of reasons. That same list allowed us to find Elsa von Wachtstein.”
“Are you going to give me a look at it?”
“How come you don’t have a copy, Bernardo? I’m sure the Argentine embassy—or whatever it’s now called—in Berlin was given a copy.”
“Would you be shocked to learn there are people in my government who would rather I didn’t have access to the information in your list?”
“Nulder, you mean?”
“Nulder and others,” Martín said.
“I’ll do better than giving you a look,” Frade said. “I’ll have el Jefe shoot it with his trusty Leica.”
“I would be grateful,” Martín said.
“According to the list, SS-Brigadeführer Ludwig Hoffmann is a three-star sonofabitch. We really want him. And of the other fifteen SS officers, nine are of ‘special interest,’ which means if they weren’t here, and we caught them, they’d be on death row waiting to be hung. Unless the Brits found them first—seven of von Dattenberg’s Nazis are on the Special Air Service’s ‘execute on locating’ list. I’ve got a copy of that, too, which, if you’d like, el Jefe can also photograph.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll probably learn more when I send the list to . . . to somebody I know in Germany.”
“Your little brother, you mean?” Martín asked.
“Yeah, my little brother,” Frade said, smiling. “Like most second lieutenants, he knows everything about everything. So, what happens to von Dattenberg now?”
“Well, presuming we can get him back to Puerto Belgrano without attracting too much attention—”
“Define ‘too much attention,’” Frade interrupted.
“No eyebrows will be raised if the chief of BIS is reported to have been at Puerto Belgrano to see what he can find out about U-405. That’s my job. The same eyebrows would go way up if it got out that I took him away for all this time.”
“And if they don’t go up?”
“I will report to General Farrell that I interviewed von Dattenberg, and that he told me he had not put anything or anyone ashore anywhere. I will recommend that he and his crew join the internees of the Graf Spee in Villa General Belgrano in Cordoba, until it can be decided what to do with them. I think Farrell will go along with that. Once they’re there, certain people will go there to try to find out what, if anything, he told Admiral Crater and me about his passengers and cargo.
“I think ‘certain people’ will either be el Coronel Perón’s good friend former Teniente Coronel Nulder, or one of Rudy’s charming associates. With a little bit of luck, von Dattenberg’s crew will tell them he ordered them to say nothing about their putting anything ashore in the San Matias Gulf.”
“His crew will do what he asked them to,” von Wachtstein said flatly.
“I really hope so, Peter,” Martín said.
“So, what happens to him now? To them? After they’re in Villa General Belgrano?”
“We’ll just have to wait and see what happens, Peter,” Martín said. “What we have to do now is get him back to Puerto Belgrano as discreetly as possible. And as quickly.”
“Quickly would be in the Lodestar,” Frade said. “But that airplane seems to attract attention, doesn’t it?”
“Just a little,” Martín agreed. “Maybe because it’s fire-engine red?”
“I could fly Bernardo and Willi to Puerto Belgrano in the Storch,” von Wachtstein said. “And then take Bernardo to Buenos Aires. Your driver is here, right?”
Martín nodded.
