“It happens that I have access to some funds in Uruguay. Enough funds to finance this.”
“Really?”
“If I were to get these funds to you, would you know how to set this up?”
“Oh, yes. Frankly, I’ve been thinking along these lines myself. I have even taken some preliminary steps. There is a delightful area here, in the footsteps of the Andes, around a charming little town, San Carlos de Bariloche, where I am sure we could, with absolute discretion, acquire just the property we would need. It’s very much like Bavaria. Should it come to this, of course.”
“Well, I think we have to consider that possibility as being very real.”
“Yes, I think we do.”
“Then the thing for me to do is get to Uruguay as soon as possible. I presume that von Wachtstein still has that Fieseler Storch?”
“May I make a suggestion, Manfred?”
“Certainly.”
“Why don’t you fly to Montevideo?”
“I was thinking of having von Wachtstein fly me there in the Storch.”
“I meant take South American Airways. They have two flights in each direction ev
ery day.”
“That would mean passing through both Argentine and Uruguayan customs and immigration, would it not? Are these documents you arranged for . . .”
Von Gradny-Sawz nodded and said more than a little smugly, “Jorge Schenck and his wife—they were childless—were killed in an auto crash in 1938. The people I dealt with have removed the reports of their demise from the appropriate registers. That way, the original number of his Document of National Identity became available. Your documents, Señor Schenck, can stand up under any kind of scrutiny.”
“You are an amazing man, Anton.”
“What I was going to suggest, Manfred, was that you take the SAA flight this afternoon—it leaves at four and takes less than an hour—then spend the night. And when Cranz comes here—and he should be here any minute—you have him order von Wachtstein to fly to Montevideo tomorrow.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because he enjoys diplomatic privilege,” von Gradny-Sawz said. “No authority—Argentine or Uruguayan—can ask to see what’s inside a package he might be carrying. As either authority might—probably would—demand of Señor Schenck.”
“Allow me to repeat, you are an amazing man, Anton,” von Deitzberg said, and put out his hand. “I think our collaboration is going to be a success. Not to mention, mutually profitable.”
XII
[ONE]
Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade
Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina
1700 1 October 1943
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Capitán Frade announced over the passenger-cabin speakers, “this is your captain. Welcome to Buenos Aires. The local time is five p.m. and, as you can see, it’s raining.”
“Ciudad de Rosario,” the tower operator’s voice came over his headset. “Follow the Follow-Me to the terminal. Be advised there is a band on horseback on the tarmac.”
“There’s a what?” Frade asked.
There was no reply from the tower. But when he turned Ciudad de Rosario onto the taxiway, there it was—a forty-trooper-strong, horse-mounted military band in dress uniforms getting soaked in the rain.
Frade turned to Capitán Manuel Ramos beside him and said, “Don’t let those horses get in the prop wash. It’ll be a Chinese fire drill.”