Von Dattenberg nodded, then blurted, “You’re a U.S. Navy officer?”
“Yes, I am. When we get you out on the Pampas, you and I can sit around and swap sea stories.”
I have to be dreaming, von Dattenberg thought. Why can’t I wake up?
Martín walked up to them.
“What are your plans now, General?” Schultz asked.
“What I’m thinking, Jefe, is that it’s a long drive to Buenos Aires. . . .”
“But a much shorter flight?”
General Martín nodded.
“What the hell, why not?” Schultz said. “Cletus and Peter are going to be pissed anyway when they hear you’ve been flying their toy.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do,” Martín said. He turned to von Dattenberg. “Go with Lieutenant Schultz. You’ll be in good hands. We’ll see one another soon.”
III
[ONE]
Headquarters, XXIInd CIC Detachment
Alte Post Hotel
Marburg an der Lahn, Germany
0700 9 October 1945
Major John Connell turned impatiently from his bathroom mirror when his telephone rang.
He thought about not answering it, but finally did.
“Major Connell,” he said, annoyance showing in his voice.
“Mattingly, Connell,” his caller announced. “You took your time in answering your phone.”
“Sir, I was shaving.”
“And Cronley didn’t answer his phone, period.”
“Sir, I believe Lieutenant Cronley was probably on his way to the roadblock. They start to process refugees at oh seven hundred.”
“What I want you to do, Connell, is retrieve that young officer from whatever you have him doing, put him in a vehicle, and have him brought here. Have him bring enough clothing for at least three days.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, where is here?”
“The Schlosshotel Kronberg. It’s in Taunus. You know where that is?”
“No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Looking at a map might be helpful,” Mattingly suggested sarcastically.
“Yes, sir. Sir, is there anything I should know?”
“About what?”