‘‘In their truck, which could carry, say, twenty or twenty- five people without attracting any attention at all?’’
‘‘Oberst Grüner said you were a bright and perceptive young officer,’’ Goltz said approvingly, and then went on: ‘‘If Herr Loche is willing to assist the Fatherland, his estancia would offer a good refuge for the Graf Spee officers until arrangements for their movement to the Fatherland can be arranged. Perhaps through Chile.’’
‘‘Fascinating.’’
‘‘Since this operation has approval at the highest echelons —I have been told the Führer is personally aware of it—there is no question regarding money. We will generously compensate Herr Loche for the use of his truck, and for the room and board of the officers while they are under his care.’’
‘‘And also arrange a scholarship for Günther to Daimler-Benz, ’’ Peter said.
‘‘And Günther’s presence in Germany might reinforce Herr Loche’s patriotism, if you take my meaning. Grüner tells me the Argentine counterintelligence people . . . What do they call themselves?’’
‘‘The BIS. Bureau of Internal Security.’’
‘‘. . . the BIS is not as incompetent as generally believed. If they should ask questions of Herr Loche, it is important for him to give the right answers. Or the wrong ones, which would depend on your perspective, as we talked about this morning.’’
‘‘Excuse me?’’
‘‘You said, ‘under the right’ circumstances the Brazilians might actually be able to shoot down the Condor. The semantics are interesting, wouldn’t you say?’’
‘‘I’m sure the Standartenführer took my meaning correctly this morning.’’
‘‘Of course,’’ Goltz said, smiling. ‘‘Now, you’re going to have a role in this . . .’’
‘‘I would be honored, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘. . . but just what role has not been decided. I’m having dinner with Herr Loche tomorrow, and I’ll broach the subject to him then. If that goes well, perhaps it would be a good idea for you to visit Bariloche. . . . You said you’ve been there. How did you travel?’’
‘‘By train, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘Well, perhaps you might drive to Bariloche, reconnoiter the road, examine the facilities at the Loche farm. . . .’’
‘‘I understand, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘As I say, I have not yet had a chance to make firm decisions.’’
‘‘I will hold myself in readiness, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘If things work out well with Herr Loche . . . ,’’ Goltz said carefully. ‘‘What I’m driving at, Hans, is that it might be very useful to us to have a place, perhaps more than one place—I’m talking about somewhere in the country, what do they call their farms?’’
‘‘Estancias, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘If we had an estancia, several estancias, I can see where that would be very useful to us in the future. Not only in connection with the repatriation of the Graf Spee officers, but in connection with other operations. There are two operations, which I’m not at liberty to discuss, which come immediately to mind. And I’m sure there will be others.’’
‘‘Is the Herr Standartenführer talking about buying an estancia?’’
‘‘Should we decide to acquire an estancia or two—and perhaps even the controlling interest in a business, a trucking firm, for example—it would be absolutely essential that our ownership be kept secret.’’
‘‘I understand, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘The legal owner could be someone like Herr Loche or one of his friends, Argentine nationals who are good Germans. People we can trust.’’
‘‘I see.’’
‘‘But questions might be asked if Herr Loche were suddenly to start acquiring property. His business, as I understand it, while successful, is not successful to the point where he can buy another estancia.’’
‘‘I see the problem.’’
‘‘Bankers would be curious, is what I’m driving at. Which brings us to your relationship with the late Hauptmann Duarte’s father. One would think that someone who had lost his son at Stalingrad would be interested in helping Germany in any way he could. But on the other hand, Herr Duarte is the Managing Director of the Anglo-Argentine Bank. How would you judge Herr Duarte’s feeling toward Germany?’’
‘‘His nephew is an American, Herr Standartenführer,’’ Peter said. ‘‘And I think he believes we were connected with the death of his brother-in-law.’’
‘‘That’s unfortunate. You know, of course, the nephew is an American OSS agent.’’
‘‘So I have been told.’’
‘‘It may be necessary for him to join his father,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘Which would, in your judgment, further tilt Herr Duarte toward the Allies? He is close to the nephew?’’
‘‘Frade is going to be married shortly . . .’’
‘‘Oh, really?’’
‘‘. . . to the daughter of the man who runs SMIPP, Enrico Mallín.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘It stands for Sociedad Mercantil de Importación de Productos Petrolíferos. They import petroleum and petroleum products from the Howell Petroleum Company, which is owned by Frade’s family.’’
‘‘How did you learn this?’’
‘‘I’ve spent a good deal of time with the Duarte family, Herr Standartenführer. One hears things.’’
‘‘And Frade is marrying the daughter of this firm?’’
‘‘One of the things I heard this weekend, Herr Standartenf ührer, was that Herr Duarte—rather emotionally—feels that since God has taken both his son and his brother-in-law, God is now making things right by giving the family a baby.’’
‘‘You did not hear what I said a moment ago about young Frade joining his father, Hans. And from this moment on, you will not hear another word about it. If that becomes necessary, I want you to be outraged.’’
‘‘Excuse me?’’
‘‘Let me try to explain. We have right now a situation in which they regard you with a certain fondness. We want to encourage that.’’
The waiter appeared at the table, interrupting Goltz.
‘‘I think we should have one more,’’ he said, nodding at the waiter, ‘‘and then think about dinner.’’
He waited for the waiter to leave.
‘‘What I’m thinking is this, Hans. At some point in the future, you approach Herr Duarte and tell them you are not only disenchanted with Germany—’’
He interrupted himself.
‘‘The more I think of this, the more it seems to be a splendid solution to our problem,’’ Goltz said.
‘‘I’m afraid, Herr Standartenführer, that I’m not following you.’’
‘‘Even before something unfortunate happens to young Frade, you approach Herr Duarte and tell him that you are disenchanted with Germany, that you are convinced Germany will lose the war, and that you wish to invest your family’s money in Argentina. Naturally, this would have to be done in the greatest secrecy. . . .’’
‘‘Herr Standartenführer, the von Wachtstein family doesn’t have any money to invest anywhere. And if we did, sending money out of Germany is considered treason.’’
‘‘And rightly so. Hence the reason for secrecy. It’s all very credible,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘The money you would invest here—in an estancia, or estancias, or to acquire the controlling interest in a trucking firm, for example—would be from the funds available to me for the Argentine operations I alluded to a moment before. Someone like Herr Duarte would be able to keep such activities very quiet, and certainly no one would suspect the Anglo-Argentine Bank would be conducting secret operations on behalf of the German Reich!’’
‘‘I don’t know what to say,’’ Peter said.
‘‘You have your choice between a simple ‘Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer,’ ’’ Goltz said, smiling broadly, obviously very pleased with
himself, ‘‘or, if you agree, ‘what a clever line of thought, Josef.’ Either will suffice.’’
‘‘It does seem like a brilliant idea, Herr Standartenf ührer.’’
‘‘Sometimes the best ideas’’—Goltz snapped his fingers —‘‘come from out of the blue like that,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘Our Führer has often said that impulsive action is often better than anything else.’’
‘‘Permission to speak, Herr Standartenführer?’’
‘‘Permission granted, Major.’’
‘‘The possibility must be considered, I respectfully suggest, Herr Standartenführer, that the elimination of young Frade might cause Herr Duarte to dislike all Germans, including me.’’
‘‘No, Hans. . . . No, don’t you see, if you went to Duarte immediately and allied yourself against the Third Reich now, then when Frade is eliminated, and you are outraged, it will make it all the more credible that you wish to disassociate yourself from Germany.’’
Peter nodded, thoughtfully, as if accepting Goltz’s reasoning.
‘‘Another thought,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘What is your relationship with Frade? You must see him from time to time.’’
‘‘Correct, Herr Standartenführer. We are officers of belligerent powers on neutral soil.’’
‘‘While there is still time, it might be a good idea for you to cultivate him. Doing so would make your indignation at his passing more credible.’’
You slimy, amoral, miserable sonofabitch!
‘‘I see your reasoning, Herr Standartenführer,’’ Peter said. ‘‘I don’t know how—’’
‘‘If the situation comes up where you can, Hans,’’ Goltz said, ‘‘don’t be too obvious about it.’’
The waiter appeared with their drinks.
‘‘I’m sorry now that I ordered this,’’ Goltz said. ‘‘I would really like champagne.’’
‘‘Well, we can have champagne with our dinner, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘Hans, about dinner . . .’’
‘‘Yes, Herr Standartenführer?’’
‘‘The point is, we have actually covered all the matters I wanted to discuss with you over dinner. In point of fact, a good deal more. And Gradny-Sawz has promised a diversion, if you take my meaning, if I could conclude our business at an early hour. Could I renege on my offer of dinner? Save it for another time?’’
‘‘Of course, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘Do I detect a tone of relief in your voice, Hans?’’
‘‘Perhaps regret, Herr Standartenführer. I was looking forward to having dinner.’’
‘‘What I meant was that I thought perhaps after how you spent yesterday afternoon and evening, you might wish to make a very early night of it. Our Inge can be exhausting.’’
‘‘I don’t think I will be up until the wee hours tonight, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘Can I drop you somewhere?’’
‘‘I can find a taxi, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘You’re sure?’’
‘‘I live in the opposite direction from Herr Gradny-Sawz ’s house, Herr Standartenführer.’’
‘‘Well, then. The least I can do is pay for the drinks,’’ Goltz said. He laid money on the table and put out his hand to Peter.
‘‘Bonne chasse, Herr Standartenführer,’’ Peter said.
‘‘And the same to you, Hans. After you regain your strength, of course.’’
Goltz walked to the balcony stairs. Peter watched him descend and leave The Horse. He caught the waiter’s eye and signaled that he wanted the check. When he had paid it, he left The Horse and walked up Avenida del Libertador past the polo field.
When he was satisfied that he wasn’t being followed, he flagged down a taxi and gave the driver the address of Humberto Valdez Duarte’s mansion on Avenida Alvear.
[THREE] 1420 Avenida Alvear Buenos Aires, Argentina 2025 14 April 1943
Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein was kept waiting in the foyer of the mansion while the butler went to determine if Señor Duarte was at home.
Humberto, in his shirtsleeves, appeared immediately through the door Peter had learned led to the dining.
‘‘I’m sorry to come like this. . . .’’
‘‘Don’t be silly,’’ Humberto said. ‘‘I’m always glad to see you.’’
‘‘Something has come up that I thought I should tell you about right away,’’ Peter said. ‘‘And I really need to talk to Cletus.’’
Humberto looked at his watch.
‘‘Cletus is taking the ten-o’clock train to Corrientes,’’ he said. ‘‘He’s probably at the Avenida Coronel Díaz house. I’ll call.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘I’m just having a little dinner,’’ Humberto said. ‘‘My wife is . . . indisposed. Can I offer you something?’’
‘‘I don’t like to impose.’’
Humberto took him into the dining room, ordered a maid standing there to set a place for Peter—only one place was set at the huge table, which Peter thought was sad—and then dialed the telephone.
Peter could hear only one side of the conversation.
‘‘Cletus, I think it’s important that we have a word before you board the train,’’ he said. ‘‘Could you come here?’’
‘‘It’s not that at all. I promise.’’
‘‘The sooner the better.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’
He hung the telephone up.
Peter’s curiosity got the better of him.
‘‘What’s ‘it’s not that at all, I promise’?’’
‘‘Cletus had a very bad day,’’ Humberto said, smiling. ‘‘Business all morning, then a long, long lunch discussing wedding plans, followed by a long, long afternoon doing the same thing. He told me that he had all the wedding plans he could stand for one day. I had the feeling he has had a couple of recuperative drinks.’’
‘‘Why’s he going to Corrientes?’’
"He didn’t say, Peter,’’ Humberto said. ‘‘Let me get you a glass of wine."
‘‘Can I offer you something to eat, Cletus?’’ Humberto asked when Clete walked into the dining twenty minutes later, trailed by Enrico.
‘‘Enrico said the food is pretty good on the train,’’ Clete said. ‘‘But yes, I will have a little whiskey and soda, thank you for asking.’’ He turned to Peter. ‘‘Not that I’m not glad to see you, amigo, but if we keep meeting like this people will talk.’’
Humberto was right. Cletus has been drinking.
‘‘I wasn’t followed,’’ Peter said. ‘‘I wanted you to hear about Standartenführer Goltz, and I wasn’t sure you would be at The Fish—The Horse—tonight.’’
‘‘I wouldn’t have been,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Duty calls. I’m on my way to Corrientes.’’
"Why?"
‘‘I could say I am going to inspect Estancia San Miguel, but I’m at the point where I am forgetting which lie I told to which person,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Actually I’m going to bring a C-45 in from Brazil.’’
‘‘What’s a C-45?" Peter asked. ‘‘An aircraft?’’
‘‘A light twin,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Liaison, it has six or eight seats in the back. They also use it as a trainer for navigators. ’’
‘‘How are you going to bring it into the country?’’ Humberto asked.
‘‘Fly it across the border into a strip at Santo Tomé,’’ Clete said, ‘‘and from there to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.’’
‘‘Cletus, isn’t that dangerous?’’ Humberto asked. ‘‘They patrol the border.’’
‘‘I made a deal with the BIS,’’ Clete said. ‘‘They help me bring the airplane into the country, and I make it available to them in case they don’t get away with their coup d’état.’’
He looked at his watch.
‘‘I don’t have much time,’’ he said.
‘‘Two things,’’ Peter said. ‘‘I want to tell you both about a conve
rsation I just had with Standartenführer Goltz. And I want to tell you, Cletus—it might be better if Humberto didn’t know about this—what I found out when I was in Montevideo.’’
‘‘Perhaps it would be best if I was familiar with everything, ’’ Humberto said.
‘‘I think maybe Peter’s right,’’ Clete said. ‘‘You probably shouldn’t, for your own good, know about—’’
‘‘For the common good,’’ Humberto said, very seriously. ‘‘The more I know, the better.’’ When neither Peter nor Clete seemed convinced, he added, ‘‘When I became involved in this business, I knew it was going to be like pregnancy.’’
‘‘Excuse me?’’ Peter asked.
‘‘One cannot be a little bit pregnant,’’ Humberto said. ‘‘So if there is not some valid reason not to tell me everything ..."
‘‘The two are connected, Cletus,’’ Peter said.
‘‘OK, Humberto,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Your choice. Let’s have it, Peter.’’
‘‘I’ve heard rumors,’’ Humberto said after Peter finished, ‘‘about money being paid to help people immigrate here, or to Uruguay, from Germany. I didn’t hear much, and this is the first I’ve heard that they were being released from concentration camps. I thought it was simply bribe money, paid to obtain visas.’’
‘‘There’s one more thing,’’ Peter said, ‘‘now that I think about it. Inge said that her husband was ‘making himself rich’ getting Jews out of concentration camps. That sounds personal—I’m sure she meant it that way—so how does that fit in with the money in Uruguay being used to buy property, et cetera?’’
‘‘Perhaps your friend’s husband,’’ Humberto said, ‘‘is taking a small commission for himself.’’
‘‘Wouldn’t that be more than a little dangerous?’’ Clete asked.
‘‘Illicit moneys have a way of sticking to people’s fingers, ’’ Humberto said.
‘‘The SS is full of thieves,’’ Peter said matter-of-factly. ‘‘When I think about it, I think Humberto’s probably right.’’
‘‘You’re sure about what your lady friend said?’’ Clete asked.
Peter nodded.
‘‘When are you going to see her again?’’ Clete asked.
‘‘Never, I hope,’’ Peter said.
Blood and Honor Page 48
