Frade stood. For a long moment, he couldn’t find his voice.
Finally he did, and it all came out in a burst: “Stupid fucking question, Bernardo. Of course we can.”
There was an awkward moment’s silence before Martín matter-of-factly broke it.
“Señor Grüner, Lieutenant Cronley and von Dattenberg have determined what they believe is the landfall U-234 made. It’s at the southern tip of Argentina, close to the Strait of Magellan. In other words, the weather conditions there are much like those of the Antarctic, or Russia in the worst of winters. If we were to truck an airplane down there—”
“What kind of an airplane?” Grüner interrupted.
“A Storch, Willi,” von Wachtstein furnished.
“Could you somehow make a landing strip and operate from it?”
“Sure,” Grüner said without hesitation, and turned to von Wachtstein. “Hansel, where the hell did you get a Storch?”
“It is a long story for later,” von Wachtstein said.
“May I volunteer for this operation?” von und zu Aschenburg asked.
“Yeah,” Frade answered, “but we old men are going to have to fly the transports and miss out on the fun.” He turned to Martín. “When do we start?”
“This is your area of expertise, but I would suggest that getting the Storch down to Estancia Condor should head the list of priorities. It’s going to be at least a three-day drive to get it there. And where are we going to get a flatbed truck on short notice?”
“There’s several at the airport,” Frade offered. “The contractor building the second runway brought his earthmovers on them. No reason one or more can’t be pressed into the service of the Argentine Republic.”
“Next important question,” Martín said. “Maybe the most important of all. How do we keep people—in particular, el Coronel Perón—from learning what we’re doing?”
“Why don’t we ask Dorotea?” Frade asked. “She seems to have an answer for everything.”
“And more often than not it’s the right one,” Dorotea said, smiling. “Now, that’s the last of your sarcasm, agreed?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
XI
[ONE]
Apartment 4-C
1044 Calle Talcahuano
Buenos Aires, Argentina
2125 20 October 1945
Former SS-Brigadeführer Gerhard Körtig, a fifty-year-old, short, plump, ruddy-faced Bavarian, wheezed as he got out of the taxi in front of the Colón Opera House. He was wearing a well-tailored suit and carrying a shiny leather briefcase.
He walked to a news kiosk just across an alley from the opera house and picked up a copy of La Nacíon. He dropped coins on the stack of newspapers, then opened his copy to the classified advertisements section.
Looking over it, he saw Konrad Fassbinder puffing on a cigar as he leaned on the wall of the opera house. He knew that Fassbinder had seen him, too, but there was no indication of this—not even a discreet nod—by either of them.
Körtig returned his attention to the newspaper for perhaps thirty seconds. Then he folded it and stuck it under his arm.
A bus pulled to the curb where he stood. The third passenger to get off was former SS-Oberführer Horst Lang, a tall, slim, fair-skinned Prussian. He was also wearing a well-tailored suit and carrying a briefcase.
The two exchanged no sign of recognition.
Lang started down the alley and was soon out of sight. Körtig could see no indication of any kind that Lang had been followed. Körtig started down the alley. If anyone was following him, Fassbinder would see.