by Nick Carter
"Mossad, I'm sure of it," Carter said. "Call him."
Mendoza placed the call, and when it was answered, Carter took the phone.
"Mr. Seidman?"
"Yes," a man answered cautiously.
"My name is Nick Carter. I am with the American State Department. We have run across some interesting information here in Argentina concerning certain Nazi war criminals."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Carter, but I don't know how I can be of any help…"
"Your name and telephone number were given to my associate just minutes ago by David Lieb. He suggested you might be able to help."
"I see," Seidman said, still wary.
"Does the name Marc Ziegler mean anything to you?"
There was a slight hesitation. "Come to my office in the embassy first thing in the morning. Let's say nine."
"We'll be there."
* * *
At precisely 9:00 a.m., Carter and Mendoza were ushered into Roger Seidman's office on the second floor of the Israeli embassy.
Seidman was a small, balding man with a ridge of black curly hair that fit his head like a crown. He invited them to take seats across from his huge desk in the book-lined office. The window was open to the lovely morning.
"I have checked with your State Department, Mr. Carter, but no one there has heard of you," Seidman said. He seemed amused.
"An oversight."
"I suspect that you are with one of the intelligence agencies."
"Does it matter?" Carter asked.
After a moment Seidman smiled. "No. Our common interest seems to be a man you call Marc Ziegler."
Carter took out the composite sketch and passed it across. Seidman looked at it, then handed it back. "Except for a monocle, this man is Marc Ziegler. How did you come by his name and this drawing?"
Mendoza had winced at the identification. But he said nothing.
Carter quickly related his story, beginning with the mysterious death of Lydia Coatsworth and ending with the attempt on his own life outside the town of Salto. He left out any reference to AXE, the CIA, or the police files he had been privy to.
Seidman listened attentively, his hands folded on the desk in front of him, showing little or no emotion. When Carter was finished, he took out a pack of dark brown Israeli cigarettes and lit one after first offering the pack around.
"You have, of course, heard of the Odessa, Mr. Carter?" he asked, exhaling a small cloud of foul-smelling smoke.
Carter just nodded. He did not want to reveal too much of his own knowledge before he had heard what the man was going to tell him.
"It is the organization of former S.S. officers… the animals who were responsible for the death camps across Europe in which six million of my people were slaughtered. They have been in open hiding since after the war. They have a very large, very powerful organization, very wealthy from gold stolen from… the bodies… of their victims."
Seidman stopped for a moment.
"The organization is real, then."
"Very," Seidman shot back. "Just after the war, they used their money to set up underground railroads to ferry themselves and their kind out of Europe, and to provide new identities, new positions, and a new life in friendly countries… such as Argentina, where they could be assured of no extradition."
"And nowadays?" Carter asked.
"The Odessa is stronger than ever, but now it has two goals: the first is to protect its own from continued inquiries; and the second is to take advantage of the enormous wealth they stole and the investments this wealth has yielded to promote the cause of the Third Reich."
Mendoza had held himself erect through all that, not saying a word, but now he leaned slightly forward. "Mr. Seidman, we came here to discuss Marc Ziegler. What can you tell us about him?"
"We think he is a member of the Odessa."
The breath went out of Mendoza. "I know him personally."
"Yes, I know that," Seidman said.
"Are you certain?" Carter asked.
"Reasonably," Seidman said. "If we are correct, then Ziegler is one of the organization's ranking members. We believe he was General Martel Zimmermann during the war. Worked for Himmler himself. He came out in March of 1944 as one of the youngest generals of the Reich."
"But you've done nothing?"
Seidman shrugged. "We'd very much like to get our hands on him, Mr. Carter, but until he leaves the country under our eyes, or commits some crime against Argentine law, we can do nothing. We do not have proof needed, and even if we did, the Argentine government would rather not act, especially against someone so rich. We've considered kidnapping the man, but since the Eichmann thing, that has become impossible."
"What would the Odessa — providing Marc Ziegler is the man you think he is — want in Iceland?" Carter asked.
"I don't know," Seidman said. "But it is of extreme interest to us. He may be getting ready to make some move. We've gotten the feeling that he's getting anxious. He may be feeling hemmed in here. We think he may be planning something… exactly what, we don't know."
Carter got to his feet. Seidman jumped up. "But we are not done here…"
"I'm afraid we are," Carter said. "I gave you what information I had, and you confirmed my suspicions."
"Your suspicions about what? How did Ziegler's name come up in connection with the trouble in Iceland? And just who are you?"
Mendoza had gotten to his feet as well. He shook hands with Seidman. "Thank you for your assistance."
Carter shook Seidman's hand. "If I come up with anything significant, I'll let you know," he said, and he and Mendoza left the office.
When they were gone, Seidman sat back down behind his desk, stubbed out the cigarette, and picked up the phone.
"There are two men leaving my office," he told his assistant. "I want them followed."
* * *
The middle-class houses of Belgrano, a suburb on Buenos Aires's south side, slipped past as Mendoza talked. He was driving.
"I don't know about these Israelis," he said. "They act as if Odessa is the most important thing in the world to them, but then they let us walk out of there just like that."
"We haven't heard the last of them," Carter said.
"We will regret they are involved."
"It was the quickest, surest way I knew of getting information on Ziegler. And we are on the same side, you know."
Mendoza pulled his Fiat onto the shoulder at the edge of a huge, well-tended piece of property. A large office building rising out of the center of the acreage seemed to be constructed entirely of gold-tinted windows.
"That's it," Mendoza said.
The building looked like a huge block of bullion set in a thicket of lush greenery.
"Computers, not nuclear reactors, Nick. I think both you and Seidman are way off.
"We'll see," Carter said absently. "Let's go to the front gate and see what kind of a rise we can get out of them."
They continued down the highway, turning into the long, blacktopped driveway that was blocked by a gate and a small guardhouse.
One of the guards came out. "Buenos dias, señores," the guard said. "Your names and your business, please."
"Howdy, partner," Carter said, leaning over toward the driver's window. "I'm Nick Carter with Techtelco. We're a small outfit out of Beaumont, Texas. I'm here to have a parlez-vous with Mr. Ziegler."
The guard checked his clipboard list. "I do not show an appointment for you, sir," he answered in English.
"Impossible," Carter drawled. "Marc specifically said eleven o'clock sharp on the eighteenth."
"But, señor, this is the seventeenth."
"Is that right? Missed it by a whole day, have I? Well, you just squeeze us in somewhere. It's real important I palaver with the man."
"But, señor, there are company rules…"
"Hang the rules, boy! Marc Ziegler is making an offer to buy my company. I either see him today or it's no deal. And that's final."
The guard was flustere
d. "Excuse me a moment, señores," he said, and he disappeared back into the guardhouse. A minute later he reappeared. "Mr. Ziegler is not in his office, and his personal secretary cannot be disturbed. You must understand that there is no way in which I can confirm…"
"Well, the hell with it!" Carter said. "You just let us through, and we'll wait for him inside."
Mendoza started the car, and the disconcerted guard quickly lifted the barrier as they passed through. A few hundred yards up the driveway they turned into a visitors' parking lot.
"It won't lake them very long to find us out," Mendoza said, turning off the engine and pocketing the keys.
"You stay here," Carter said. "If there's any trouble, run like hell." He grabbed a notebook and papers from the back seat.
"Be careful with that," Mendoza said. "I've spent a lot of hours researching that article."
"I'll be right back with it," Carter said. He got out of the car, left the parking lot, crossed the road, and hurried up the long steps to the front door.
The receptionist at the information desk was busy talking to a young man in shirt-sleeves. Carter walked up to her, out of breath.
"Important personal delivery for Señor Ziegler," he said in Spanish, holding out the papers.
The girl glanced up. "Elevator is down the hall," she said, pointing to the left. "Señor Carlos is his personal secretary. See him."
Carter nodded and hurried off in that direction.
Ziegler's office suite was behind a set of glass doors on the twelfth floor. Behind a long desk in the front sat an absolutely stunning young woman with long dark hair, wide dark eyes, and a lithe, sensuous figure. She was busy typing.
"I'm here to see Mr. Ziegler," Carter announced in English, coming up to her desk.
She scrutinized him closely. "You are the man from the front gate, aren't you?" she asked in charmingly accented English. "The one they called up about?" She smiled. "Just what is it you want?" She was lovely. Her complexion was flawless. But there was just a hint of sadness in her eyes, which made her even more appealing.
"Do you really want to know?" he asked, his Texas drawl more pronounced. "I came to see you, darlin'."
She laughed. "You're in big trouble, you know."
A retailer's plastic bag sat on the floor next to her chair. He could read the name of the boutique on the bag.
"I saw you at Armando's. I told them I had to know more about you. They gave me your name and told me that you worked here." The embossed nameplate on her desk read Roberta Redgrave. A very un-Argentinian name.
"Are you serious?" she asked. Her voice was lovely.
"Very," Carter said. He was very conscious of the time. He didn't have much of it left. "It cost quite a few American dollars to find out about you. And I don't intend to let you get away easily. I want to take you to dinner."
She was amused and slightly breathless. "I can't believe you're serious."
"I had to find out if you were as lovely face-to-face as you were at a distance. You are."
Shaking her head incredulously, she picked up the desk phone and started to dial.
"Please," he said, reaching across and putting his finger on the button. "At least give me a chance. I took a lot of risks coming up here like this. Just have dinner with me. Afterward, if you still don't like me, I won't ever bother you again."
"I don't even know you."
"Then have lunch with me first. Can't be any harm in that. Broad daylight. What time are you free?"
"One," she said automatically.
"I'll be waiting," Carter said, smiling. "But where? Pick a place. Something nice."
"Tomo Uno. It's not far from here."
"I'll be there at one. A date?"
She sighed and finally nodded. "Just lunch," she said.
He backed away from the desk. "If you don't come. I'll return and camp on your desk," he threatened.
She laughed again, somewhat dazed. He was almost out to the doors before she called after him. "But what is your name?"
"Nick Carter," he said.
From the end of the hall the guard from outside appeared, leading an entourage of similarly dressed security men. Carter ducked around a corner and into a door marked Escalera. He took the stairs down a flight, men slipped out onto the eleventh floor, where he caught the elevator.
There was a lot of commotion on the main floor, but no one seemed to notice him as he slipped out the front doors, hurried across the driveway to the parking lot, and jumped in next to Mendoza.
"Find out anything…" Mendoza started to ask.
"Move!" Carter snapped.
Mendoza started the car and peeled out of the parking lot, tires squealing. There were several security men at the main gate, but Mendoza did not slow down as he drove up on the grass and around the barrier. Soon they were back out on the highway, heading as fast as the car would go back into the city.
"Will they follow us?" Mendoza asked.
"I don't think so," Carter said, sitting back. He had entered Ziegler's territory to shake him up, nothing more. Instead he had accomplished something much better… or at least he had set the wheels in motion.
Carter told Mendoza what had happened in Ziegler's outer office, and then he had his friend drop him off at a car rental place downtown, where he hired an Audi 5000.
He drove out to Tomo Uno from directions he had been given at the rental office. It turned out to be an obviously expensive restaurant. Roberta had very good taste.
They were just setting up for the heavy afternoon crowd when Carter walked in. He found the headwaiter and for fifty dollars assured himself personalized service par excellence. He made his selections from the menu then and there, then retired to the bar where he ordered a cognac and called a florist.
He started by ordering two dozen roses, but then he thought better of it. He was a very rich Texan, about to strike it even richer. He splurged.
The flowers, two vans full of them, arrived a scant forty-five minutes later, and by the time they'd finished setting everything up, an entire corner of the main dining room was a wall-to-wall rose garden.
He sat waiting in the midst of it all, fielding stares from the other diners and the restaurant help, until 1:20 when he saw her wending her way through the tables behind the head-waiter. When she saw the flowers, her jaw dropped.
"Oh, my God," she whispered.
Carter had gotten to his feet and held a chair for her, but for several embarrassingly long seconds she stood where she was.
He had lost her, he thought. But at that moment the customers in the restaurant all got to their feet and began to applaud. Romance was alive and well in Argentina.
Carter smiled and bowed gallantly, and Roberta, awed by the entire scene, sat dumbly in the chair he was holding.
When the room had finally quieted and the other patrons had returned to their meals, she leaned across the table and whispered hoarsely, "You're crazy."
"Absolutely," Carter said, laughing. "That's how I got where I am today."
"And where is that?"
Carter told her about Techtelco of Beaumont, Texas, making it up as he went along, and surprising himself by coming up with a very credible cover under such short notice. Meanwhile, the waiter served the first course, a shrimp scampi in wine sauce, and they began to eat. This was the major meal of the day for many Argentinians.
He began slowly drawing her out. Her last name, Redgrave, was after her English mother, she explained. Her father had been German, a real bastard. When her parents got divorced, she legally changed her name to her mother's maiden name.
She was charming and very bright. She had gone to the university here in Buenos Aires but had spent some time with an aunt in England.
Several times he tried to gently steer the conversation toward Ziegler, but each time she resisted, saying she was not allowed to talk about business outside the office.
They talked about other things during the rest of the meal. After dessert, when they were having
coffee and brandy. Carter tried once more.
"I saw his portrait in the office," Carter said. "Ziegler looks too stem. Old school. Too much work."
"He is a difficult man. A workhorse. Day and night, I sometimes think. Always meeting someone. Always flitting here or there."
Carter sipped his brandy.
She looked at her watch. "I must get back," she said, suddenly getting up.
"I'll drive you back," Carter said.
"No, you stay. I have my own car outside." She looked at all the flowers. "Crazy," she said, looking at him. "But lovely."
"Will I see you again?" Carter asked. "Dinner?" He didn't want to lose her now, but he did not want to push.
She took a card out of her purse and laid it on the table. "Tonight," she said. "Ten o'clock. I'll fix a special dinner."
She started to go but then turned back. "By the way, Nick, I've had that bag from Armando's for two months now… since the last time I shopped there."
Six
The address on the card turned out to be a highrise in the center of town off Avenida Callao, overlooking the Plaza del Congresso. Roberta Redgrave's apartment was on the seventh floor.
She answered his knock wearing a peasant blouse richly embroidered around the neckline and a simple skirt that flared out away from her lovely legs. Her cheeks were flushed.
"Fix yourself a drink, and make yourself comfortable," she said. "I'm just about finished in the kitchen."
It was a small apartment. A table for two was set in one corner. A slender candle burned in its center. He threw off his jacket, poured himself a small cognac from a sideboard, and sat down in an easy chair. "Need any help in there, darlin'?" he asked.
"No, thank you," she called from the other room.
In a few minutes she appeared bearing a casserole dish with pot holders. He jumped up and helped her straighten the trivet to put it on, then, when they were seated, he poured two glasses of a very pale red wine.
"Considering the meal we had at lunch, I did not think you would be terribly hungry," she said, serving him. "This is just something light."
It was pesce d'ananasso, a mixture of broiled fish, noodles, and fresh pineapple. He had had it before at a fine restaurant in Rome. The dish before him was more than equal to it. And he told her so.
