“Then that, as I said, would put us down there at a little after one, wouldn’t it?” Cranz said, and without waiting for a reply turned to Boltitz: “A car will pick you up at half past nine at the door, Boltitz. An American Packard. It will take you and Sturmbannführer Raschner to meet us at Necochea.”
“Yes, sir,” Boltitz said, then added, “An American Packard?”
“A dark blue one,” Cranz said.
There was a moment’s silence.
“Neither of you has any questions?” Cranz said.
“None that I dare ask,” von Wachtstein confessed.
“Correct, von Wachtstein,” Cranz said, smiling, then grew serious: “What we’re about to do is important business both to the Reich and to ourselves. If we succeed, we can take pride in having successfully performed our mission. If we fail, I would have to report our failure to Reichsprotektor Himmler, something I really would be loath to do. I came here to Argentina determined not to fail. Do you understand me, gentlemen?”
Both said, “Yes, sir.”
“My decision not to make either of you privy to the details of the landing of the special cargo was based on several factors, including the fact that we suspect—but do not know—that Herr Frogger was the traitor in our midst. In your case, von Wachtstein, there are those who felt your escaping from the debacle at Samborombón Bay without a scratch was a little suspicious. I did not share in this suspicion, of course, but it was there. Now, since I have not taken even Fregattenkapitän Boltitz into my confidence, he could not possibly have taken you into his. If there is trouble today, I will know—and can inform the reichsprotektor—that neither of you could possibly be the traitor.
“If it goes well—and Sturmbannführer Raschner and I have worked very hard to ensure that it will—it will tend to give some credibility to my belief that Frogger is, was, our traitor. Unfortunately, I’m afraid that it will not wipe completely from his mind what suspicions the reichsprotektor has about you, von Wachtstein.”
“Excuse me?” von Wachtstein said.
“You could hardly have informed your friend Major Frade—or anyone else—of the planned landing of the special shipment, could you, since you didn’t know, still don’t know, what those plans are, could you? That’s not quite the same thing as saying you would not have, had you been aware of them. And you won’t, now, have that opportunity.”
Von Wachtstein didn’t reply.
“You’re not going to stand there with a look of indignation on your face, are you, Hans? Pretending you didn’t know you were—indeed, still are—under suspicion?”
“I knew I was, Herr Standartenführer,” von Wachtstein said coldly. “At first. But in my naïveté, I thought I had been cleared by both you and Boltitz.”
“Neither Boltitz nor I think you’re our traitor, Hans. But there are those— Raschner among them, I’m afraid, as well as the people in Berlin—who still wonder about you. We live in that kind of world, I’m sorry to say.”
Von Wachtstein didn’t reply.
“If there are no further questions, gentlemen, I suggest we be on our way,” Cranz said. He looked at von Wachtstein. “No questions, Hans?”
“No questions, sir.”
“You called me Herr Standartenführer a moment ago.”
“I apologize, sir.”
“You were a little upset,” Cranz said. “Understandably.”
“It won’t happen again, sir.”
“Actually, I’m glad it happened. When we get to Necochea, and while we’re there, I think that if you and Boltitz addressed me by my rank, it would have a salutary effect on the people who will be there. God knows, it’s hard to work up a lot of respect for a commercial attaché in his new suit.”
Cranz stood, then took a 9mm Luger P-08 pistol from his drawer, ejected the magazine, then after ensuring it was full put it back in, worked the action to chamber a cartridge, clicked on the safety, and finally slipped the weapon inside his waist band.
Von Wachtstein had several thoughts:
Ready to do battle for the Thousand-Year Reich, are you, Standartenführer?
Why am I not surprised he’s got a P-08?
Most of these SS bastards never have heard a shot fired in anger; for them a Luger’s like those stupid daggers they wear on their dress uniform—a symbol, rather than a tool.
The first thing that Dieter von und zu Aschenburg did when I showed up with a Luger in Spain was take it away from me and give me a .380 Walther PPK.