The Girl with the Silver Stiletto

by Vic Robbie

  ‘I do not want to fill your head with information. What you must understand is that we are here to help you. You have a promising future. You will become a powerful man.’

  ‘Don’t want to stay here.’ He turned, appealing to Natalie. ‘I want maman.’

  She stepped forward and took his hand. ‘We must stay here, it’s the same as school. Then maman will come and collect you.’

  ‘But I don’t like it here.’

  The men’s faces showed irritation. ‘Your mother will soon be here,’ Müller said. ‘Until she comes, Natalie will keep you company.’

  ‘I’ll take care of you, Freddie.’ She made an effort to pacify him. ‘I won’t leave you.’

  When she smiled, he always felt better.

  ‘You will learn so many things here,’ Mengele said in a soft, sibilant voice that he imagined a snake would sound like if it could talk.

  ‘Then tell me, who is that?’ He pointed a finger at the painting. ‘Is he famous?’

  Müller leant back in his chair and put both hands together as if about to share a secret and then thought better of it. ‘He was a great man. Perhaps the greatest the world has known.’

  ‘Even greater than Winston Churchill?’

  Their acid look made him want to run from the room, but Natalie held his hand tight.

  Mengele stepped out and took hold of him by the shoulders, and he wriggled as the man’s fingers pinched so hard it hurt. ‘Much greater than Churchill, yes. The man in the picture had ideas ahead of his time and his plan to rid the world of–’ He stopped and regained control. ‘One day, you will continue his work, and the whole world will realise we are–’

  ‘Herr Doctor.’ Müller’s words sounded like a warning.

  As if contaminated, Mengele straightened up and dropped his hands, giving Freddie a tortured grimace before resuming his position beside Müller.

  ‘I want to see maman now,’ Freddie said, his voice wavering as he sensed the atmosphere becoming more menacing.

  ‘She’s on her way here.’ Müller turned to Natalie and added: ‘Take the boy out and see he has everything he needs.’

  Natalie put an arm around his shoulder as she led him to the door. As they left, he heard Müller say to the doctor. ‘Perfekt.’

  33

  They drove around Buenos Aires’ sixteenth-century Plaza de Mayo and passed an imposing edifice that dominated the square and was as red as Pickering’s Cadillac 62 Series convertible. He pointed out the sights remembered from previous visits, and almost as if she had forgotten their reason for being there, Alena asked: ‘What’s that red building?’

  ‘Casada Rosada,’ he replied. ‘The presidential palace. Argentina’s White House.’

  Ben was baffled by the car, a gleaming fire engine red with whitewall tyres. ‘Ostentatious, isn’t it? Nothing like attracting attention.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Pickering chortled and mopped at his nose that still wept blood.

  He’s missing the point, Ben thought.

  ‘Want to look like tourists, old man.’

  ‘Well, you’ve managed that.’

  ‘If they believed we were agents, they’d expect us to be creeping around in the shadows, not riding about in this splendid chariot.’ He slapped a hand on the door. ‘Helps take the heat off the Frenchies.’

  Ben couldn’t understand his reasoning.

  Alena wasn’t listening, and her bottom lip quivered. ‘If we don’t get Freddie back, I’d rather he were dead than have his mind poisoned by those people.’

  He glanced at her as she tried to pull back her hair, unravelling in the breeze. How much more could she take? Only her belief that the Nazis would not harm Freddie physically was keeping her going although they were experts in brainwashing the young to justify the vilest of acts.

  ‘We’ll get to Freddie before they can hurt him,’ he said, placing a hand on her arm, and she reacted to his touch.

  ‘How much longer?’

  Pickering took his hands off the wheel to remove his hat and wiped his nose at the same time. ‘Not long now. Just around the corner, only several minutes’ walk from the Plaza.’ With something approaching genuine concern, he turned to her. ‘Must be tired, old girl. Been an ordeal. Everything will work out. I promise.’

  Better had. His anger still simmered and he was determined to make him pay for his betrayal.

  Pickering hunched over the wheel. ‘We’ll check in and wait for the Frenchies to contact us.’

  He did not share his enthusiasm. ‘When?’ he asked in a gruff voice.

  ‘Don’t know.’ Pickering snatched at his hat as it almost blew away. ‘We’re in SDECE’s hands. They keep their cards close to their chests, like most Frenchies.’

  He groaned.

  ‘All I know is they were tracking them as soon as they reached Buenos Aires. By now, they should have been able to locate their hideaway.’

  ‘Suppose they lost them?’

  ‘Got to hope they know what they’re doing, otherwise…’ He shrugged.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Only show in town.’ Pickering seemed to push his doubts to the back of his mind. ‘Once the French have pinpointed their compound, we can rescue Freddie.’

  Alena gasped and put a hand to her mouth. ‘By force?’

  ‘If necessary.’

  ‘That would put Freddie in danger. He could be killed, or they might use him as a hostage.’ She turned to Ben. ‘This is madness. They can’t do that.’

  All he saw were problems but decided not to share them with her.

  ‘Nothing will happen to Freddie,’ Pickering interrupted. ‘We’ll make sure of that. Won’t take any risks with your boy’s life.’

  While they spoke, Alena edged closer to him until touching his shoulder. He put an arm around her, and she trembled and fought back tears.

  The city had once been regarded as the Paris of the continent, and the hotel appeared stuck in that era like an old beauty that has dressed carefully but misapplied her lipstick. After an interminable time during which no one seemed willing to attend to them, a porter escorted them to their rooms along with the baggage. Alena wanted to be alone and would try to rest, instructing them that if they had news, or the French turned up, they must contact her.

  He threw his overnight bag onto a chaise longue in the outdated room. He was more worried now about Freddie than he had let on to Alena. Hostage situations more often than not ended in disaster when dealing with fanatics unwilling to negotiate. The Nazis would not give up and would rather die than be captured. In the bathroom, he stuck his head under the tap. After coughing and spluttering, a rush of cold water washed away a quantum of tiredness. Drying his hair and face on a towel, he peered in the yellowing mirror over the washbasin. Bloodshot eyes stared back at him, and the image, lined with strain and sporting a couple of days’ growth, could have been that of a desperado or someone standing in line at a soup kitchen. The motion of the planes and the cars remained, and he knew it was best to keep moving. Anything rather than waiting for news.

  Pickering sat in the bar off the lobby facing the entrance as if expecting a friend. The only other occupants were a middle-aged man with slicked down black hair and a drooping moustache, drinking with a dark-haired girl who might have been his daughter but for the way his hand moved up her exposed thigh.

  On the table before him were two glasses with quadruple measures of whisky. ‘Knew you’d be down, old man.’ He shoved one towards Ben. ‘Took the liberty of ordering your usual.’

  He slumped down and lifted the glass and downed half of it. Drinking whisky neat was never good because all you tasted was the harshness of the alcohol, but it worked its magic in double-quick time and, as a shock to the senses, sharpened his mind.

  Meanwhile, Pickering took a contemplative sip and watched him over his drink. ‘Your girlfriend shouldn’t have done that, old man.’ He grimaced and dabbed again at his nose which still leaked blood. ‘Wonder she didn’t break it.’

  �
�You deserved it,’ he said, refusing to feel any sympathy. ‘If you hadn’t been a friend, I’d have broken your neck. And if they harm the boy, you can be sure I will.’ His words caused Pickering to gulp and take another swallow of his drink. ‘Where are the French?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ Pickering tried to look apologetic. ‘My instructions were to call them when we arrived.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘There was no answer from their room.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Just have to sit and wait.’ A look of hopelessness almost engulfed him.

  Ben slammed the glass on the table in frustration, and the man halted his nocturnal explorations to study him. Thinking it was an order for an encore, the barman brought over two fresh drinks as large as the first.

  ‘So, we don’t know where the Nazis might be?’

  ‘Be careful.’ Pickering held a finger to his lips. ‘Informers all over the place, old man.’

  In the background, music was being turned up, and the couple got to their feet as Pickering rose from the table and picked up his drink. ‘Don’t think you’ll be wanting me around. ’ He nodded towards the entrance.

  ‘Sorry,’ Alena said with a diffident smile. ‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything. Couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘No problem, old girl. Just on my way.’

  The haunting opening bars of Otra Luna filled the room, and he paused and turned as the male stepped onto the centre of a small dance floor, highlighted by a single spotlight, while his partner waited in shadow. He had taken off his jacket, and his shirt was open and ruffled at the collar, and his shoes were black and white.

  ‘Aha, the tango! This’ll be worth watching.’ Glass in hand, Pickering waved them goodnight and sauntered out of the bar. ‘Most fun you can have with your clothes on,’ he added over his shoulder.

  The man began to dance with arms raised as if holding an imaginary woman and moved with a litheness that belied his age as though transformed by the music.

  The hovering barman brought over a chilled white wine for Alena, and she took several grateful gulps. ‘I needed that.’ Sweeping hair off her forehead with a firm hand, she wriggled in her seat to get a better view of the dancers.

  Like a hologram, the woman appeared out of the darkness and slipped into her partner’s arms, her left hand resting on the back of his neck and her face touching his.

  ‘It’s a dialogue of love,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve seen it before?’ So he could keep a watch on them, he turned around and moved closer to her. Was this a performance for them? Or a couple oblivious to their surroundings?

  The dancer held her right hand in his left with the other pressing lightly on her back but although he led she also pressed with equal force. The woman’s heels matched the slate-blue of her dress, and it swung to the rhythm of the music. Drop diamond earrings glittered in the spotlight, and hair pulled up highlighted the vulnerability of a long neck. Mouth open, exaggerated by the bright red of her lipstick, a sexual electricity sparked from bodies rigid with desire.

  ‘Once before,’ Alena said, ‘although I’d forgotten until now.’

  As he pivoted, he turned her, gently and firmly. And, bending in submission, she slid her right leg out behind before coming together again, their faces touching.

  He flashed an enquiring look, but she glanced away. ‘It’s the story of a romance played out in dance,’ she whispered so as not to disturb the dancers. ‘Pure passion and so elegant.’ She took a quick drink of the wine and watched him over the glass. ‘Compared to this, words are inadequate.’

  The bandoneon increased the tempo, ramping up the intensity of their emotions and she whirled about him, moving away, flirting, but always returning. Faces close. Her lips hungry, she brushed his right thigh with a hand and ran a foot up the back of his calf.

  ‘I often wondered if I’d see you again.’ He glanced at the girl, thinking the words sounded lame. He moved his hand on top of hers, and she didn’t object.

  ‘I thought perhaps you’d moved on. Maybe you’d met someone else.’

  Entranced by the dance, the actions of the dancers seemed to be prompting their words.

  They flowed with perfect balance, executing a cambio de frente. This is the start of love when yearning is at its strongest but also seduction with the woman’s eyes never leaving his.

  ‘You’re a hard act to follow,’ Ben replied, feeling a twinge of guilt.

  She allowed him to lead with his fingers and the pressure of the palm of his hand and she fell forward trusting her weight to him. For a moment compliant and then strong and imperious again, always circling him like a heavenly body in orbit to its sun.

  ‘Seven years is a long time. I doubted we could ever be together again.’

  Sinuous and sensual movements embodied their souls and it was as if their feet had no need to touch the polished wood of the dance floor.

  ‘We’ll find Freddie, and we’ll be together. I promise.’

  Turning back to him, she gave a broad smile and bent forward and kissed him on the mouth.

  Suddenly the dancers were embracing, their lips brushing, and he felt an overwhelming surge of emotion as though they’d been transported into their bodies and were experiencing that same passion.

  ‘They’re not dancing,’ she said, her voice husky and eyes glazed, and a kink of blonde hair hung over an eye like a half-open curtain inviting him to explore what lay behind. ‘They’re making love.’ And as the dancers ended the performance with the woman sitting on her partner’s outstretched knee, Alena stood up and held out a hand.

  34

  Müller’s troubled face concerned Dr Mengele when he entered the office.

  ‘Disturbing news, Josef.’ Müller rose and waved a hand at the drinks cabinet as an invitation to the doctor to help himself, but he declined. He offered him a cigar before making a play of lighting his. Impatient, Mengele urged him to get on with whatever he had to say. Müller sat down, holding the cigar between his second and third fingers. He gazed at the ceiling where a pall of smoke hung like an ominous cloud. He always believed the reason he had reached the top in the Gestapo was down to his expertise at strategy. His attention to detail, not just in planning an operation but considering every possible outcome should it fail, would divert any blame from himself. If one part of a plan was threatened, he had to be flexible enough to change course. When events beyond his control disrupted his plans, it only angered him more.

  ‘Was ist es, Heinrich?’ Mengele asked.

  ‘We could be facing danger.’ His colleague’s occasional flippancy annoyed him. He considered it beneath a man in his position.

  Mengele straightened up in his seat. ‘Okay, Heinrich, you have my undivided attention.’ He studied the end of the cigar.

  ‘My contacts,’ Müller paused to impart some gravity to what he was about to say, ‘inform me that we are in imminent danger of being discovered.’

  ‘Pah! I have heard those scare stories many times, but they have never come to anything.’

  Before he could say more, Müller raised a hand. ‘But this is much more worrying.’

  ‘We are protected here,’ Mengele said and looked out on the lawn, worried his colleague was becoming paranoid.

  ‘This is different. There is a team of agents in Buenos Aires.’

  Mengele picked a stray thread off his jacket and turned back. ‘They haven’t been able to find us before and, even if they did, what can they do?’

  ‘We have to take this seriously. They have enlisted the help of the anti-Peronists.’

  ‘Gottverdammt!’ Forgetting the cigar, Mengele sat upright. At last, his face mirrored the gravity of the situation. ‘Okay, so they know where we are. What can happen? The authorities will protect us. They would not deport us. In their eyes, we are guilty only of political crimes. We have not broken their laws.’

  ‘Exactly, but this is more sinister.’

  ‘We have the protection of the police and g
ood defences.’

  ‘That is not the problem this time. My information from Europe is they are here to assassinate us.’

  Accepting they could be in real danger, Mengele rose. Sometimes he found it easier to think on his feet. ‘Surely the Argentines would not allow that to happen?’

  ‘I should think not. But their advice is to leave the country for another of our havens and allow them to deal with it. Only as a temporary measure, you understand.’ He offered a broken smile.

  Mengele deposited his still-smoking cigar in an ashtray. ‘This is most inconvenient. I am conducting important medical research and cannot have any interruptions. The Führer always said take the fight to your enemies. Why don’t we exterminate them?’

  ‘That would be a last resort. First, let our friends here do what they have to do.’

  ‘But those peasants are unreliable.’

  ‘If the Führer were here, he would listen to the Argentines’ advice.’

  ‘Who are these assassins?’

  ‘French, agents of the SDCE.’

  Mengele exhaled. ‘Is it that mad person?’

  ‘Yes, she’s been on our case for years.’

  ‘Scheisse, one woman causes us all this trouble?’

  ‘Not one woman. Apparently, she has a strong team behind her. And not all of them are French. There are locals, and we think British Intelligence are involved and perhaps even America.’

  ‘But she is crazy and of mixed race. She makes mad claims that the Führer is alive.’ His voice trailed away into derisive laughter.

  He echoed his laugh, but it was a nervous one. ‘Crazy, maybe, but they could be on our doorstep soon.’

  Mengele sat down again and crossed his legs. ‘Very well, I am in your hands.’

  Appraising him with an expression that suggested he was dealing with an inferior brain, Müller drummed his fingers on the desktop. ‘Taking action would not be right. If we killed people on their territory, there could be pressure on the government to act. We would then be answerable to their legal system and could be deported. Like you, I would get immense pleasure in killing them and in particular her, but there is another way.’