“Make sure you pay your respects before we go to Berlin.”
“Of course, Herr Baron.”
“You said something about a compass problem with the aircraft?” von Lutzenberger asked.
“A minor problem, Excellency. Probably a loose wire or corroded terminals. It should be repaired by now.”
“Don’t be too sure. This is Argentina,” von Lutzenberger said.
Von Wachtstein chuckled, then went on: “At the very latest, I should clear Argentine customs and immigration, and get off the ground, by one-thirty or two o’clock. It’s an hour, or a little more, to Montevideo, depending on the winds.”
“Make sure the airplane is in perfect condition, von Wachtstein,” von Lutzenberger said. “I really would rather not have to tell Berlin that you have disappeared into the Río Plate.”
“I will make very sure it is as safe to fly as possible, Sir.”
“If I can get through by telephone to Ambassador Schulker, I’ll tell him to have someone waiting for you at the airport from two-thirty,” von Lutzenberger said.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Give me a minute to dictate a note to Fräulein Hassell, and then you can be on your way.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Have Loche follow you to your apartment and then take you out to the field,” von Lutzenberger ordered. “Then you won’t have to leave your car out there.”
“That’s very kind of you, Sir,” Peter said, and left the office, hoping that no one—especially the Big Sausage (as he, too, thought of him)—had sensed his annoyance with the Ambassador’s kindly gesture. The last thing he wanted right now was Günther Loche breathing down his neck.
Günther, a muscular, crew-cut-blond twenty-two-year-old, was an ethnic German—he had been born in Argentina to German immigrant parents and was an Argentine citizen—who was employed by the German Embassy as driver to the Military Attaché.
He—and his parents—saw Adolf Hitler as the greatest man of the twentieth century, and National Socialism as the hope of mankind. From the moment Günther had first seen von Wachtstein, he knew he had found his idol in life, a Luftwaffe fighter pilot who had received the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross from the hands of the Führer himself.
Günther’s worship had been bad enough when he had been Grüner’s driver, but it was worse now that Grüner had nobly given his life for the Fatherland (which Günther had never seen) and the Herr Major Freiherr was acting as Military Attaché.
If I let him, Peter thought, he would sleep on the rug outside my bedroom door, like an Alsatian.
Peter had to tell Cletus Frade about the message from Germany, and having Günther around was going to complicate that.
Peter walked down the corridor from von Lutzenberger’s office to his own, mentally repeating von Deitzberg–Raschner–von Löwzer–Boltitz; von Deitzberg–Raschner–von Löwzer–Boltitz; von Deitzberg–Raschner–von Löwzer–Boltitz, over and over.
Günther was sitting in a chair in the corridor outside Grüner’s office—now temporarily Peter’s. He stood up when he saw Peter, coming almost to attention. “Guten morgen, Herr Major Freiherr,” he said.
Peter smiled and held up his hand to signal him to wait. He went into his office, sat down at Grüner’s desk, and quickly scribbled “von Deitzberg–Raschner–von Löwzer—Boltitz” on a notepad.
He exhaled audibly in relief that his concentration had not been broken. Then he tore off the sheet of paper, as well as the eight sheets beneath it, folded them, and put them in his pocket.
“Günther!”
Günther appeared immediately. “Yes, Sir?”
“In five minutes, I will drive my car to my apartment and pack a small bag,” Peter announced. “You will then drive me to El Palomar.”
“Jawohl, Herr Major.”
“Tomorrow, you will be at El Palomar at eleven o’clock to meet me when I return.”
“Jawohl, Herr Major.”
“I may be delayed by unforeseen circumstances. If I am, I will attempt to leave word at the embassy. If I am not at El Palomar by one o’clock, you will call the embassy and see if there is any word from me. If there is not, you will call the embassy every hour to see if I have called. If I have not, you may leave El Palomar at dark. You understand?”