“Sir, I asked him if he knew and wouldn’t tell me, or whether he didn’t know anything himself.”
“And the fregattenkapitän’s response?”
“The fregattenkapitän told me that was none of my business, sir, and that I should have known better than to have asked him something like that.”
Cranz smiled broadly and laughed.
“And indeed that’s what Karl should have told you, Hans,” he said. “But you are forgiven. And Karl didn’t know any more than you did. What he was doing was what most officers—including this one—do: give their subordinates the erroneous impression they know more than they actually do.”
Boltitz chuckled dutifully.
“It is not kind to make fun of a simple fighter pilot,” von Wachtstein said.
Cranz and Boltitz both laughed.
“Speaking of flying,” Cranz said, and motioned for von Wachtstein to come around the desk.
Von Wachtstein did. There was a map of the Argentine coast laid out on it. He saw that the map had come from the Ejército Argentino’s Topographic Service.
Cranz took a pencil from a jar on his desk and pointed at the map, to a point on the Atlantic Ocean von Wachtstein estimated to be about two hundred kilometers south of Samborombón Bay.
If that isn’t where they intend to bring that special cargo ashore, I can’t imagine what it is.
“If I told you I wanted you to fly me there, von Wachtstein, what would be your reply?” Cranz asked softly.
“ ‘Yes, sir, with qualifications.’ ”
“Meaning?”
“If you wanted to land there, sir, I would need somewhere I could put down the Storch.”
“And?”
“If you wanted to come back, I would need fuel. I can make it there with a comfortable margin of safety, but to get back . . .”
“A smooth field would suffice, am I correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And two hundred liters of aviation-grade gasoline? Would that be enough?”
“Yes, sir. More than enough.”
“And how long would it take us to get there?”
“I would guess,” von Wachtstein said, and made a compass with his fingers, and then put them on the map scale, “that that’s about five hundred kilometers from El Palomar . . .”
“Four hundred eighty-three, to be precise,” Cranz corrected him, just a little smugly.
“Then a few minutes more than three hours, Herr Cranz.”
“It’s now twenty-two past nine,” Cranz said. “If we left here now, and it takes us an hour to get to El Palomar and to take off, that’s ten-thirty. Plus three hours. That means we could be at Necochea at one-thirty. Correct?”
Von Wachtstein made a rocking gesture with his hand that meant more or less.
“How much is . . . ?” Cranz mimicked von Wachtstein’s gesture.
“No more than thirty minutes, perhaps even less, either way, sir. Depending on weather, winds, et cetera.”