"Welcome to Argentina, Josef!" Gradny-Sawz said, touching his glass to Goltz's, and then, after a moment, to von Wachtstein's.
"Hear, hear," von Wachtstein said.
"Nice," Goltz said, tasting the champagne.
"Their wine is nice, and so is their beer," von Wachtstein said. "And their beef! Magnificent!"
"And so, according to Oberst Per¢n, are the women?" Goltz said. "Or were you just being diplomatic, von Wachtstein?"
"No, Herr Standartenf?hrer, I was not being diplomatic. Their women are magnificent."
"Aryan?"
"I never thought about that before," von Wachtstein said. "I'm not sure where the Spaniards and the Italians fit in as Aryans. The majority here are Spanish or Italian. Some Germans, some English, even some Slavs. Poles, for example."
"If I were you, von Wachtstein, I don't think that I would take some Span-ish or Italian beauty home to Poppa in Pomerania."
Von Wachtstein laughed.
"I'm not ready, Herr Standartenf?hrer, to take some Berlin blonde of im-peccable Aryan background home to my father."
"Nor would I if I were in your shoes. Enjoy life while you can. Before you know it, you'll be as old as Anton here."
Anton Gradny-Sawz's smile was strained.
"I think we had better leave," he said. "It's time."
"I'll see that the Standartenf?hrer's things are packed, and take them to your residence, and then come to the Residence."
"You're a good man, von Wachtstein," Goltz said, smiling at von Wacht-stein and touching his arm.
He went to the mirror by the door, put on his black brimmed cap with the death's-head insignia, and adjusted it twice before he was satisfied.
/> Peter closed the suite door after them, helped himself to another glass of champagne, and waited for the maid's knock. When she arrived, he showed her what he wanted done. He then told her he had business in the lobby and would wait for the luggage in the lobby bar, and left the room.
When he got on the elevator he told the operator to take him to the roof gar-den. Once there, he stood in the line waiting before the maitre d'hotel's table. And when he reached the head of the line, he replied to the maitre d's surprised look at seeing him both in uniform and alone by announcing he had to make a quick telephone call.
The maitre d' picked up the telephone. Peter gave him a number, which the maitre d' repeated, then handed the receiver to Peter.
"This is the Duarte residence," a male voice announced.
"Se¤orita Alicia, please," he said. "Se¤or Condor is calling."
"I will see if the lady is at home, Se¤or," the butler said.
He didn't know if there were listening devices on the Duarte line; there might be. There were almost certainly listening devices on the line in Goltz's hotel room. But even if someone was listening to the Duarte line, no suspicions would be aroused, unless Alicia, in her naivet‚, said something she should not. He had arrived in Buenos Aires speaking fluent Spanish. Since then he had worked very hard to acquire the Porteno (Buenos Aires Native) accent and id-iom. Condor-which they had chosen as a nom d'amour from the Argentine na-tional bird, and because he was a pilot-was a fairly common name. It was unlikely that any telephone monitor would find one more call from a young man to Se¤orita Alicia Carzino-Cormano suspicious, or that Se¤or Condor was a German officer.
"Hola?"
Every time he heard her soft, somehow hesitant voice, his heart jumped.
"How are you?"
"How do you think I am? Where are you?"
"In the roof garden of the Alvear."
"I mean, really?"