“Be careful,” she said. “Both of you.”
Ten minutes later, they were off the ground. Peter flew out over the River Plate in a shallow climb, put the fort-on-the-hill on his tail, and set the compass course for Buenos Aires. When he had climbed to 2,500 meters, he trimmed the aircraft up, and then, without really being aware he was doing it, took his feet momentarily off the rudder pedals and raised both hands above his head to check the condition of the trim.
“Can you do that?” von Tresmarck’s voice came metallically over the intercom. “Take your hands off the controls?”
“For a few seconds,” Peter replied. By then he had both his hands and his feet back on the controls. In that moment, he decided he would not cause the engine to backfire, or initiate maneuvers that would put von Tresmarck’s stomach into a tighter knot than it already was in.
He remembered a whipping his father had given him when he was nine or ten. He had been cruelly teasing a retarded boy from the village. His father had seen him, grabbed his arm, and marched him all the way up the hill to the Schloss. There he had taken him into the tack room of the stable, bent him over, and had at his bare bottom with a quirt. Half a dozen lashes, several of which broke the skin, all of which were painful.
And all he said was, “A gentleman, Hansel, does not take advantage of someone who cannot defend himself.”
The poor bastard in the backseat is frightened. And with good reason. It might well be decided in Berlin that he was the source of the information that resulted in the deaths of Goltz and Grüner. And of the three of us, he is the most expendable, and he must know that. Gradny-Sawz has many highly placed Nazi friends, and no reason to betray Operation Phoenix. They might in the end decide that I’m expendable, but not before they think long and hard about the cost. It will be difficult—which does not mean impossible—to tell Hitler that the son of Generalleutnant von Wachtstein, an officer around whose neck he had himself hung the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, was suspected of treason. It would be much easier to lay the blame on an SS officer, who, it had recently been learned, was a deviate.
“Inge likes you.” Von Tresmarck’s voice came over the intercom. “I can tell.”
“And I like Frau von Tresmarck,” Peter said. “A charming lady.”
“There is a great difference in our ages,” von Tresmarck said. “And, frankly, we have our problems. She, of course, misses Berlin and the young people. There aren’t very many young people around Montevideo…suitable young people. She was so pleased when you took her to dinner.”
“It was my pleasure,” Peter said.
“When we return, I wonder if you would have the time to do it again. Perhaps, if I sent her to Buenos Aires, you could show her around. It’s a much more sophisticated city than Montevideo.”
“It would be my pleasure, of course,” Peter said.
Freely translated, that means, “Peter, my friend, it’s perfectly all right with me if you want to fuck my wife.”
The Storch suddenly encountered turbulence, and the aircraft rapidly lost altitude, and then as rapidly regained it. It had just about leveled out when the engine suddenly spluttered, gave off clouds of smoke, and almost died. Then there was more turbulence.
In the backseat, Sturmbannführer Werner von Tresmarck became airsick.
Günther Loche and the Mercedes of the Military Attaché were waiting for them at El Palomar. “Herr Sturmbannführer, this is Günther Loche,” Peter said, “who does very fine work for the Office of the Military Attaché.”
Günther popped to attention. “A great honor, Herr Sturmbannführer,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” von Tresmarck said. “Major von Wachtstein has been telling me about you.”
Is Günther really pissing his pants, or does it just look that way?
“What we’re going to do, Günther, is drop me by the Embassy, and then, for as long as Sturmbannführer von Tresmarck is with us, you will be his driver, and otherwise make yourself as useful to him as you can.”
“Jawohl, Herr Major.”
“But he’s your driver, Peter,” von Tresmarck protested.
“Rank hath its privileges, Herr Sturmbannführer,” Peter said. “Where is the Herr Sturmbannführer going to stay, Günther?”
“At the Alvear Palace, Herr Major.”
“When I’m in the embassy, I’ll tell Gradny-Sawz. I know he wants to see you,” Peter said.
“And will we see each other while I’m here, Peter?”
“That, of course, will depend on what Gradny-Sawz has planned for you, but I’m sure we will.”
Peter’s maid, Señora Dora, was a forty-five-year-old Paraguayan Amazon who outweighed him by at least thirty pounds. As he came through the door of his apartment, she greeted him with the announcement that Señorita Carzino-Cormano had called him many times, most recently twenty minutes before, and seemed very anxious that he call her back.
“Make some coffee, please,” Peter said.