“Möller. Alois Möller. We kept their real Christian names.”
“. . . with Señor Alois Möller.”
“About what?”
“I’ll decide that after I talk with him,” Nervo said. “But right now I’m thinking along the lines of suggesting to him that his only option—presuming he wants to stay alive—is to do nothing that might in any way annoy Don Cletus or myself.”
“What about Edmundo Wattersly?” Martín asked.
“Tell him we need a daily report on el Coronel Schmidt’s activities. We can’t have that Nazi sonofabitch going to Casa Montagna looking for the weapons cache. . . . Or, now that I think of it, for the Froggers.”
“Okay. But what I meant is: Do we tell him about this?”
Nervo didn’t reply for a long moment, before finally asking, “We don’t have to make that decision right now, do we?”
“No,” Martín said. “But sooner or later. Him and Lauffer.”
“Not now,” Nervo said.
Martín nodded.
Nervo asked: “Do you want me to send Pedro out to the estancia with your car?”
“How about this?” Clete interrupted. “Father Silva is going to bring the National Identity booklets out here at nine tomorrow morning. I’m going to make a fuel stop at the same time on my way to Mendoza. Santiago, if you want to spend the night at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo . . .”
“I accept your gracious offer,” Nervo said. “Alejandro, have Pedro bring the car here in the morning. Wait . . .” He turned to Cletus. “I’d like Subinspector General Nolasco to see Casa Montagna for himself. Would there be room for him on your airplane?”
Clete nodded. “Plenty of room. You want to send somebody else?”
“Tell Nolasco to pick two other people, who will stay there for a few days, a week. Don’t tell them where they are going. Got that?”
“Sí, mi general,” Martín said sarcastically.
“Good man,” Nervo said.
[FOUR]
Calle Martín 404
Carrasco, Uruguay
1615 2 October 1943
Sturmbannführer Werner von Tresmarck—a somewhat portly man in his forties who wore a full, neatly manicured mustache, à la Adolf Hitler—rang the doorbell of his home a second time.
It was literally a door bell, a five-inch brass bell ha
nging on a chain from the roof of the house. A woven leather cord was attached to the clapper.
When there was again no answer, he turned to the person standing with him, a tall, trim, olive-skinned man in his thirties.
“Dare I hope not only that my beloved wife is still in Punta del Este, but that the maid has taken advantage of this and given herself the day off?”
“Your wife’s car is not here,” the man with him said.
“Cross your fingers,” von Tresmarck said as he took the door key from his pocket.
He pushed the door open and called, “María?”