“Gradny-Sawz will call the foreign ministry,” von Lutzenberger said as he pushed his telephone to him. “And I suggest, Herr Generalmajor, that we get Boltitz and von Wachtstein in here and explain the situation.”
“Go get them,” von Deitzberg ordered, gesturing to Cranz. Then he had a second thought. “But before we do that . . . Is there any way Herr Frogger and his wife could just disappear? Do we know anyone who could arrange that?”
“I don’t,” von Lutzenberger said. “Oberst Grüner dealt with things like that.”
“Not too well, apparently,” von Deitzberg said. “Well, if the situation presents itself, that would be a satisfactory solution to this problem. Keep your eyes and ears open, Raschner. Take whatever action seems appropriate.”
“Jawohl, Herr Brigadeführer.”
Von Deitzberg looked at him as if he was about to remind him that he was to be addressed as “Herr Generalmajor” but then changed his mind.
[FOUR]
Diplomatic Liaison Section Foreign Ministry of the Republic of Argentina Plaza San Martín Buenos Aires, Argentina 1205 14 July 1943
The first call El Señor Alfredo Mashewitz, the chief of Diplomatic Services, made after assuring First Secretary Anton Gradny-Sawz of the German embassy that he would “get right on this” was to the chief, Office of Ethical Standards, Bureau of Internal Security, Ministry of Defense, in the Edificio Libertador on Avenida Paseo Colón.
The call was taken by Warrant Officer Frederico Attiria, who said that El Coronel Martín was not available—that he was with the president of the Republic, General Arturo Rawson, who was attending some sort of luncheon function at the Campo de Mayo military base. Attiria said that he would get word to him as quickly as possible.
Señor Mashewitz next called Comisario Santiago Nervo, chief of the Special Investigations Division of the Policía Federal, and got him on the phone. He told him what had happened.
Nervo said he would send an official of appropriate rank to the German embassy immediately, and asked if Mashewitz had notified the office of the president of the Republic, as he was sure they would want to hear about this.
Mashewitz said that he would telephone the office of the president of the Republic immediately, but that he had reason to believe the president himself was attending a luncheon function at Campo de Mayo.
“Well, then, I suppose I had better be getting out there myself, hadn’t I?” Nervo replied, then added, “And I think it would be a good idea if you called BIS and let them know about this. I presume you have the number?”
Mashewitz, deciding that it would only complicate matters if he said that his first call had been to BIS, simply replied that he had the number.
When he hung up, he did not call the office of the president, but instead went to lunch. The foreign minister, who would of course have to be told as soon as possible, was taking his lunch at the Jockey Club, where of course talk of business was verboten, and the foreign minister did not take kindly—to put it mildly—to being disturbed during his meal. The news would wait until the foreign minister returned from lunch. In the meantime, he would have a lamb shank and a glass or two of merlot at a restaurant just around the corner from the ministry.
[FIVE]
El Palomar Airfield Campo de Mayo Military Base Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1245 14 July 1943
Don Cletus Frade saw El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón waiting for him as he taxied the Piper Cub up to what on an American base would be called Base Operations.
Perón, in uniform, was sitting somewhat regally in the back of his official car, a glistening olive-drab Mercedes touring sedan, which, despite the chill of the wintry July day had the top down. Major Gonzalo Delgano, Army Air Service, “Retired,” was in civilian clothing and seated in the front beside the soldier driver. Delgano looked uncomfortable.
Perón appeared displeased when he saw Sergeant Major Rodríguez, Retired, get out of the backseat, then take out his Remington Model 11 self-loading shotgun. Rodríguez rested the shotgun against the landing gear and began to tie down the Cub and put its wheel chocks in place.
Oh, hell, Frade thought. I don’t know what’s going on. But the last thing I want to do is make a full day of this, with a long lunch at the club and where everybody will be making their manners to Perón—which is obviously what he has in mind.
What I have to do is get the hell out of here—fly to Tandil, wherever the hell that is, make sure that Dorotea made it all right, then make sure the Germans are firmly locked up where they won’t be seen, then get back to the estancia while there’s still enough light to fly.
Which means: I will need a chart to find Tandil.
And gas. I can’t make it with the fuel aboard—the J-3 Cub holds only twelve gallons of fuel, giving it a range of about 190 miles. And it’s farther than that from El Palomar to Tandil.
He turned his back to the Mercedes.
“Enrico, we have to go to Tandil. Get a twenty-liter can of gas and a map, and put them in the plane. And make sure the tank on the Cub is full.”
Enrico nodded.
“Aren’t you glad you brought me along, Don Cletus?”
“Yes, I am,” Frade said, and squeezed his shoulder. Then he walked toward the Mercedes.