"I have something to go over with you," Peter said. "It's important."
He took the file card with the bank names and account numbers from his pocket. Dieter didn't ask many questions, and Peter wondered how much he un-derstood and could reliably pass on to his father.
"Are you running any risk carrying that card around?" he asked as Dieter slipped the filing card into his shirt pocket.
"The risk I'm worried about is, say four hours from now, looking out the window to find a B-24 pilot waving at me."
He made a gesture of pointing down, an order to land.
"A B-24?" Peter asked, surprised.
"The Americans gave the Brazilians a Navy version of the B-24. They're as fast as the Condor, and they have multiple half-inch Browning machine guns in turrets. Four turrets, if memory serves, plus a couple of single gun positions in the fuselage."
"If that happens, what will you do?"
"Try to keep Nabler from trying to ram the B-24 while I head for the near-est Brazilian airfield-waving a white flag."
"What's Nabler's connection with Goltz?"
"I used to think he was watching me, and Christ knows, he does that, but now I think there's something more than that."
/> "Any idea what?"
"You're the intelligence officer, Peter. I'm just a simple airplane pilot."
Peter heard a noise, and looked at the door to see Karl Nabler starting up the ladder.
"Have a nice flight, Dieter," Peter said.
"The station manager, Herr Kapitan, asks when you plan to make your de-parture," Nabler said.
"Just as soon as we can wind up the rubber bands," Dieter said. He offered his hand to Peter. "I'll tell your father how bravely you are holding up in this hellhole far from the comforts of home," he said. "That is, presuming I can get this overloaded sonofabitch off the ground."
He held his right arm up vertically from his belt elbow.
"Heil Hitler!" he said.
Peter returned the salute.
"Good flight, Dieter," he said. "Heil Hitler!"
[TWO]
The Horse Restaurant
Avenida del Libertador
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1905 14 April 1943
As they passed the Argentine Army Polo Fields on Avenida del Libertador across from the Hipodromo, Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein slid forward on the seat of Gr?ner's Mercedes.
"G?nther, just this side of the bridge," he ordered. "The Horse. The parking lot is in the back."
"Jawohl, Herr Major Freiherr!"
"What's this, Hans?" Standartenf?hrer Josef Goltz asked.