“Excuse me?”
“When Frade returned from California, after getting the SAA pilots their certificates, or licenses, or whatever they had to have to get insurance, Señora de Carzino-Cormano gave a dinner—a supper, to be precise—at Estancia Santa Catalina. Frade made a point of telling me that he had seen the Constellation aircraft at the Lockheed factory.”
“Why would he want to do that?” von Gradny-Sawz asked.
“I think it was to annoy my sister-in-law.”
“I was there,” Boltitz said, smiling. “Señorita Isabela de Carzino-Cormano is—how do I say this?—a great admirer of Lufthansa Kapitän Dieter von und zu Aschenburg. As soon as Frade began extolling the merits of the Constellation, Señorita Isabela leapt to defend the Condor. She called upon von Wachtstein for support, and, ever the gentleman, von Wachtstein did so.
“I don’t think I understand,” Cranz said.
“When Frade said the Constellation flew at so many kph, von Wachtstein assured everyone that the Condor was fifty kph faster; when Frade said the Constellation could fly at ten thousand meters, von Wachtstein said the Condor routinely flew at twelve thousand meters . . .”
“Everyone at the table had seen the Condor, Herr Cranz,” von Wachtstein said. “No one had seen even a picture of the Constellation.”
“Von Wachtstein made Frade look the fool,” Boltitz said. “No one believed him.”
“As well they shouldn’t have. Americans are notorious for their boasting,” von Gradny-Sawz offered.
“Unfortunately, Gradny-Sawz,” Boltitz said, “the Constellation is everything Frade said it was. And when Frade saw the chance to get his revenge on von Wachtstein, he took it.”
“Which, of course, he may now have, on reflection, regretted,” von Wachtstein said. “Once I was invited out there, he could hardly tell me not to take photographs.”
Cranz, who had not looked at von Wachtstein’s photographs before, now went to von Lutzenberger’s desk and picked up one of the stacks. He went through it carefully, then picked up the second stack and examined each of them.
“I now see what you mean, von Wachtstein,” he said. “I thought I was going to see—how shall I put this?—postcard views of that airplane, like those in the press. Your photographs are of technical features, parts of the airplane. I can see where they would be of great value to an aeronautical engineer.”
“That’s what I intended to do, Herr Cranz.”
“If what I just said sounded something like an apology, von Wachtstein . . .”
“No apology is necessary, Herr Cranz, and none was expected, sir.”
“An apology is called for, and you may consider that one has been offered.”
“I can only repeat, sir, that no apology is necessary.”
“Indulge me, von Wachtstein. Accept my apology.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When is the next Condor flight due here?” Cranz asked.
“Either tomorrow or the day after,” Boltitz said.
“And will return to Germany when?”
“If weather permits, they usually leave as soon as they can after forty-eight hours.”
“Between now and then,” Cranz said to von Wachtstein, “you—and Loche—will be up to your ears in those chemicals you spoke of. I want four copies of each photograph—in addition to the sets you have already made.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Three sets of these will go to Berlin on the Condor,” Cranz announced. “One for General Galland and the second for Reichsmarschall Göring and the third for Reichsführer-SS Himmler.”
“May I suggest a fourth set, Herr Cranz, for Canaris?” Boltitz said.
“Why not?” Cranz replied. “Make five sets, von Wachtstein.”