“Yes, it does, thank you. I have one more.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Will our route take us over your wife’s farm? Let me rephrase: Is it necessary that we fly over your wife’s farm, or that of your friend Frade?”
“I had planned to fly down National Route Three, Herr Standartenführer. It goes all the way to Necochea. My mother-in-law’s estancia touches Route Three.”
I don’t think he’s angling for an invitation to call on Doña Claudia.
“Can you avoid doing so?”
“Certainly, Herr Standartenführer.”
“Do so,” Cranz ordered curtly.
“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer!”
Does he really think I’ll try something to tell somebody what’s going on?
He’s too smart for that.
Then is he trying to scare me?
If so, why?
What the hell is going on here?
Jesus Christ!
My vivid imagination has just gone into high gear:
When we get to the beach at Necochea, he’s going to use that Luger on me.
“As you suspected all along, Herr Reichsprotektor, von Wachtstein was our traitor. As soon as he learned where the special cargo was to be brought ashore, he attempted to tell our enemies again. I would have preferred that he could have been brought for trial before a People’s Court—traitors don’t deserve an Officer’s Court of Honor—but with the safety of the special cargo at risk, I decided it was necessary to eliminate him then and there. And did so. Heil Hitler!”
Von Wachtstein began his preflight walk-around inspection of the Storch.
You’re paranoid, Hansel! Absolutely out of your fucking mind!
Maybe not.
Or I am paranoid—which really wouldn’t surprise me—but that doesn’t mean that Herr Standartenführer Cranz isn’t prepared to kill me to make himself look good with Himmler . . . and incidentally get rid of someone who really might be a traitor.
Which of course I am.
As he worked the rudder back and forth with his hand, he glanced at Cranz, who was watching him with some interest.
Well, one thing is for sure. He’s not going to shoot me while we’re in the Storch. He doesn’t know how to fly, and the Herr Standartenführer is very good at protecting his ass.
If I live through this, I will have to remember to get my PPK out of the damn drawer and start carrying it with me.
Why didn’t I think of that before? I know these people are murderers.
Clete goes around armed to the teeth, as if he’s on the way to that gunfight in the Wild West. What was it called—“The Easy Corral”?
No. The O.K. Corral. That’s it. The O.K. Corral.
What the hell is a corral?