Sybilla’s brow was furrowed in puzzlement, but she was nodding slowly. “Okay, Tiny, I hear what you say.”
Sybilla spent the rest of the afternoon in Bariloche’s two winter sports shops. Following Tiny’s advice, she went above and beyond what she would have normally bought for skiing, making sure that she had good warm, weatherproof outer garments. Tiny’s remarks had puzzled her, but she assumed there must be a method to his madness.
The following day she met with the school staff and was escorted to each classroom in turn, where she introduced herself in German and in Spanish to the children. They had clearly been briefed prior to her visit, as each time she entered they would stand up and recite in unison, “Good morning, Frau Meyer.”
Sybilla found the staff friendly and helpful and the children polite and enthusiastic, but she was in no doubt that she was facing a tremendous challenge. The children were from widely differing backgrounds: Amerindians, Spanish, German and, more often, a mixture of two or more groups. In addition, she found a wide disparity of ability levels in spoken German, from the children and grandchildren of German immigrants, who spoke it as their first language, to many who had had no formal training in the German language.
Sybilla decided her best tactic was to split each class into three groups based on their ability to speak German. That way, she could focus most of her attention on the less able and perhaps use some of the more gifted children as mentors. For the next week, Sybilla worked feverishly to draw up a coherent teaching strategy and a set of lesson plans, which she presented to Priebke in the Friday lunch break. To say that Priebke was delighted and perhaps a little surprised would be an understatement, and it was with praise still ringing in her ears that she left the school that afternoon for her date with Tiny.
After changing into skiing attire and throwing a few essentials into a rucksack, she met with Tiny at the wharf on the lake. To her surprise, he ushered her into a small motor launch and, after climbing in beside her, started the twin Johnson 40 outboards and sped up the lake, leaving a trail of foam and spray cascading in their wake. As they travelled, Tiny pointed out various features, naming some of the mountains and islands they passed, paying particular attention to Huemul Island where he worked.
Tiny steered to the left of the island before turning west into a narrow branch of the lake, which became narrower the further they travelled into it. The scenery was quite breathtaking, and Sybilla felt a dull ache in her chest at the sight of the soaring mountains rising above them, reminding her so much of the majestic fjords of her homeland. Ahead, Sybilla could just make out a building on the southern shore of the lake. It was to this that Tiny was headed.
The building turned out to be a hotel, built in the Tyrolean style. Tiny had booked them a room each, and after settling in, they sat down together in the restaurant to enjoy the ubiquitous Argentinian beef steak accompanied by a bottle of local wine. They then retired to the lounge bar, where Tiny introduced her to some of his friends who had also come to the hotel, clearly a popular rendezvous for skiers. For a few hours, Sybilla, enjoying a drink in front of a roaring log fire among pleasant company, was able to forget her problems.
The following morning Sybilla rose early, as instructed by Tiny the night before. After breakfasting they pulled on their outer clothing and hoisted on their bergens. Tiny already had his skis, pointing vertically upwards so as not to impede his movement, attached to his bergen. He produced a second pair which he attached in a similar manner to Sybilla’s pack.
Once ready, Tiny smiled and pointed upwards towards the sky. “We’re going up!” he said as he stepped out along a barely discernible path which led from the hotel up the side of a shallow valley. A small stream gurgled its way down the slope in the centre of the valley.
“You should see this in the spring—it becomes a torrent, carrying the meltwater down from the hills,” he said, pointing to it. Chuckling, he added, “It’s less than one and a half kilometres to the slopes, it just seems like ten!”
In fact, Sybilla didn’t find the going too onerous; she had been used to it in her native Norway and had always kept herself fit. The valley opened out into a wide, sloping plain with perfect ski slopes. After a morning of strenuous skiing, they settled down for a bite of lunch. Both had brought a packed lunch, and it took Tiny no time to get a fire going to boil his billycan, which he had packed full of pristine white snow.
As they sat enjoying a coffee, Tiny pointed up the valley. “If you continue up there, the trees disappear and after about one and a half kilometres, you reach a high point. Looking westward from that point you can see a frozen mountain lake quite close by. People sometimes go there to skate, but it’s quite a hike. On the southern shore of the lake, close to where a small stream enters, is an unmanned rescue hut. If a person were to follow the course of that stream up the mountainside for only three hundred metres, he would reach the ridgeline. One further step and that person would be in Chile. Amazing, isn’t it?”
Sybilla was looking at him intently, her brow furrowed, but he steadfastly refused to meet her gaze, staring instead at the valley he had indicated. What on earth had prompted him to tell her this? Was he just showing off his local knowledge or had there been an ulterior motive, and if so what?
After an afternoon of skiing, they made their way back down to the hotel. Snow had started to fall, giving the area an enchanted look, so much so that Sybilla couldn’t go inside immediately. Instead, she stood outside savouring the atmosphere: the lake shimmering in the dim light, snow falling around her, the mountains, almost invisible now, brooding and menacing. This couldn’t be Argentina! Yet it was, and her thoughts inevitably turned to her predicament.
If she couldn’t get the information she had come for, perhaps she could retrieve the situation by taking something back. How useful to British and American scientists was the work being done by Richter? Could she engineer a way onto Huemul Island and perhaps gain valuable knowledge of the processes he was using to achieve cold fusion? It was a long shot but worth a try. Perhaps she could use Tiny to get onto the island.
It was a slightly more buoyant Sybilla who sat down to dinner. Skilfully she managed the conversation until they were talking about Huemul. “Do you know, Tiny, I’d love to go onto the island and look around. It must be fascinating!”
“I sincerely hope you never do,” said the big man, his voice flat.
“Why is that?” she asked, her voice registering surprise.
“Billa, there are only two ways you could get onto that island. One is that I take you—and that is never going to happen—and two is if you land there covertly. If you do that, I will find you and I will shoot you dead!”
Sybilla shot back in her chair, bolt upright, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide and staring. “Wha … what did you say?”
“If you get on the island, I will have to shoot you, otherwise you will blow my cover,” he said quietly.
“Your cover?”
“Oh, come on Agent Skadi, it’s time we stopped shadow boxing,” said Tiny, speaking quietly in English. “I’m Agent Valentino Garza, CIA, and you are Sybilla Thorstaadt, aka Frau Meyer, aka Skadi of MI5. I can’t believe you didn’t ‘make’ me sooner—I dropped enough hints. I even told you of an escape route from Argentina!”
Sybilla stared at him for some time, her lips a thin line, her eyes steely and penetrating, then a huge grin erupted onto her face and she started to laugh. “Tiny, I really, really hate you, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Tiny shrugged and looked sheepish. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure about you. I mean, I knew who you were, but I wasn’t sure how safe you were. I was worried that if I told you, you might inadvertently blow my cover. I really am sorry, I guess I should have known better.”
Sybilla nodded. “Okay, but why don’t you want me on the island? Wouldn’t it be possible to find out somehow what Richter is up to? That might be extremely useful to our own scientists.”
“I don’t want you on t
he island for two reasons,” said Tiny, shaking his head. “One, it would risk blowing my cover as I’ve already explained, and two, there is nothing left to find out. Every piece of paper Richter has ever written on has been photographed and sent to the States for analysis. More than a dozen close-up pictures of the apparatus he uses have been taken. I have a technician on the inside who draws two pay cheques every month, one from the Argentina Nuclear Energy Authority and one from the CIA which is paid into a secret account in the US. He’s very assiduous in his duties and comes into the lab every weekend to clear up and tidy up the professor’s papers. Anything new gets photographed and shortly after, finds its way to the CIA.”
“What are the findings of the experts who have analysed the papers? Are you allowed to share that?” asked Sybilla, her curiosity piqued.
Tiny chuckled. “I can give you that in one word—baloney! Some of the best minds in the States have looked at this and they say it’s going nowhere. Einstein and Allis say the theory is wrong. Enrico Fermi is not so sure; he thinks the theory has some plausibility but is adamant that cold fusion has not, so far, been achieved.”
Sybilla whistled through her teeth. “If President Peron hears that, heads will roll. He’s placed a lot of faith in Richter.”
“The only head that will roll will be Richter’s. Peron’s own physicists—and there are some good physicists here in Argentina—have warned him that they have severe reservations about Richter’s claims, but Peron won’t listen to them,” said Tiny. “I think the whole sordid business will come out within the next year or two, and probably a lot sooner.”
Shaking her head in disbelief, Sybilla digested the information, then sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “Okay, so where does that leave me? You’ve already beaten me to the one thing I thought I might salvage from my mission. So, I may as well pack up and go home.”
Tiny shrugged. “Sure, you could do that if you’re a quitter, but unless I read you all wrong, I don’t think you are. What was your mission?”
“To find out if Hitler is in Argentina and, if he is, to find out where.”
“So, complete your mission,” said Tiny pulling a wry face.
Sybilla gave a surprised laugh. “From here in Bariloche? Tiny, I’m a thousand miles from the action, I need to be in Buenos Aires!”
Tiny squinted at her from under his eyebrows. “Who in Buenos Aires has the answer to this? Who knows every single person who has arrived in Argentina using the Kameradenwerk ratline?”
Sybilla gave a half-smirk. “Herwig Weber, of course, which is exactly my point! He’s in Buenos Aires!”
“Aaah!” exclaimed Tiny, grinning broadly while at the same time tapping the side of his nose and winking. “A little bird called Priebke has let me into a secret.” He was nodding knowingly.
“Tiny,” said Sybilla, impatience clear in her voice, “I am at this moment looking around for something heavy to hit you with. What have you heard, what’s going on?”
“Well, madam,” said Tiny trying to look and sound serious, without really achieving it, “it seems that Herr Weber is totally smitten with you, so much so that he is coming down next weekend, ostensibly to ski, but in reality, to see the love of his life again.” A large smirk spread across his rugged face.
Sybilla was serious. “Is this for real?”
“Swear to God!”
Sybilla was quiet for some time, clearly turning the information over in her mind. Finally, she said, “And you think I should capitalise on his … infatuation?”
“It’s a one-off chance.”
“Tiny, are you suggesting I should—”
“Whoa! Hold it right there, lady, I’m not suggesting anything, that would be way out of line. You are an experienced MI5 agent. How you process and handle the information I have given you is entirely your business. I wouldn’t presume to interfere.”
They skied the following morning, but Sybilla was distracted, her mind on other things. On the boat journey back to Bariloche she barely talked, but as Tiny was tying up his launch, she spoke quietly but decisively.
“You know, Tiny, you’re right. This is a one-off chance!”
The following week flew by at a frenetic rate as Sybilla tried to manage three separate classes in the same classroom. Overall, she was pleased with the results, but by Friday afternoon, she was exhausted. As she left the school, she found Herwig Weber waiting at the gate.
“Oh, Herwig!” she exclaimed, feigning surprise and planting a kiss on his cheek. “How lovely to see you, are you down for the skiing?”
“Yes, of course,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant, but barely succeeding, “but I couldn’t come here without visiting you. I was hoping you would have dinner with me tonight?”
“There is nothing I would rather do!” lied Sybilla. She was worn out after her busy week and would have liked nothing better than to crawl into bed. And after a delicious meal and a few drinks, that’s exactly what she did do—with Herwig Weber!
They spent the weekend together skiing, and for the next two weeks the only time she was out of his presence was when she was in school. Herwig was an attractive man and an attentive lover, but Sybilla couldn’t help feeling sordid. She was using this man and did not have any real feelings towards him. This wasn’t like the passionate fling she had had with Hess on the boat journey down—that had been beautiful and spontaneous. What she was engaged in now was neither.
Sybilla would have ended the affair early on, except for one thing. Weber was a talker, particularly after sex.
He often alluded to the work of the Kameradenwerk. He was clearly very proud of his achievements in that respect, and frequently talked about some of the Nazis who had travelled down the ratline—some of whom Sybilla had already met—but no mention of Hitler.
After two weeks without gaining the information she required, Sybilla decided she would have to broach the subject. It was Saturday, and Weber was due to return to Buenos Aires on Monday morning. As they lay together after having sex, Sybilla sighed. “What a beautiful place this is, Herwig, what a shame the Führer couldn’t have lived out his days here. He would have enjoyed it, it’s so like Bavaria.”
“True, mein Liebling, but it was not to be. Müller tried to persuade him, but he was adamant he would not run away. He died in the bunker.”
“Oh, that is so tragic!” said Sybilla with real feeling. It meant her quest was at an end, and worse, she had just wasted two weeks. “I thought that was the case, but I just wanted to believe that he had escaped and was safe somewhere.”
“It’s not all bad news. Müller extricated Frau Hitler, Eva Braun, and initially brought her here.”
Sybilla sat bolt upright. Of course! The submarine, the man fitting Müller’s description and the plump woman with spectacles and short brown hair. That was Müller and Eva Braun! Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
Aloud she said excitedly, “How wonderful. Herwig, can I meet her? It would be such an honour.”
“Alas, no, she didn’t stay very long. She was heavy with child and wanted to give birth in the Fatherland. She went back with Müller. I understand that she did give birth and that mother and child are being looked after and protected by the Vril Maidens.”
“Oh, Herwig,” said Sybilla leaning across and laying on his chest, kissing him over and over, “this is such good news. The Führer has an heir! We will see Germany rise again!”
Escape
On the Sunday, Sybilla made the excuse that she really needed to do her preparation for the following week’s lessons at the school, which in fact was quite true. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts. She was tired of Weber and had what she wanted from him; consequently, she had no further use for him.
A little after midday, she was startled by a loud insistent rapping on the door of her hotel room. She paused and sat quietly, listening. The rapping was repeated even louder.
Quickly she moved to the door and opened it a crack but was nearly knocked off her feet by the forc
e of Tiny barging it open and rushing in, clearly agitated.
“Pack your gear, we’re leaving,” he said breathlessly. “You’ve been made, we have to get out! You’ll need your cold weather gear—we’ll have to go over the pass to Chile.”
Too much of a professional to argue or even question, Sybilla started throwing clothing into her bergen. She tied her sleeping bag to the top and pulled on her boots, collecting her extreme weather clothing together and stowing it under her arm. She walked out of the door, stopping only to pat the notes on her table. Sorry children, not tomorrow I’m afraid.
They strolled casually down to the quayside so as not to draw attention to themselves. Tiny gunned the engines of the twin outboards as he sped away from Bariloche without a backward glance. If he had looked behind, he might have noticed a small craft pulling away and following at a distance in their wake.
“So, what happened?” asked Sybilla above the growl of the engines.
“Do you remember meeting a guy called Fridolin Guth in Buenos Aires?”
“Yes,” confirmed Sybilla, “he was the only one I feared out of the whole group. He had been Gestapo Chief in France at the time I was undercover with Hauptmann Meyer. He must have known about ‘The Vikings’, as we were known.”
Tiny nodded. “You were right to fear him. Seems he had suspicions about you when you were in France and started an investigation there, but the Allied invasion intervened. After he met you the other night, it jogged his memory and he continued his investigation. He came to the conclusion that you were a plant then and therefore, in all likelihood, a plant now.”
Snow had started to fall. Tiny had to keep the speed down because of the reduced visibility, consequently their journey took longer than expected and it was twilight when they reached the hotel at Puerto Blest.
“Do we go straight on up the pass?” asked Sybilla.
Shadow Of Evil: Cold War Espionage Thriller (Dragan Kelly Book 2) Page 21
