Ground handlers and customs and immigration officers marched across the tarmac. A moment later, Ambassador von Lutzenberger and Generalmajor von Deitzberg, both in civilian clothing, came out of the terminal and walked quickly after them.
“That’s Ambassador von Lutzenberger,” Dorotéa said.
“The other one is von Deitzberg, who is an SS officer pretending to be a soldier.”
“How do you know that?”
In for a penny, in for a pound, Clete decided. “Martín gave a picture to Leibermann. Leibermann made a copy for me.”
“Is Martín on our side?”
“Martín is on Argentina’s side. And I suspect that he is just as adept at getting cozy with the Krauts as he is with me.”
The Condor taxied onto the tarmac and the pilot skillfully parked it beside the Lodestar. The cockpits were separated by the length of the right wing of the Lodestar and the left of the Condor.
The pilot of the Condor looked down with shameless curiosity at the blonde sitting in the copilot’s seat of the Lodestar with earphones over her soft blond hair.
Stairs were wheeled up to the door of the Condor as it opened. The delegation of Argentine officials climbed them and entered the aircraft.
A moment later, a plump man got off.
“Gradny-Sawz,” Clete said.
“I know.”
“That’s von Tresmarck,” Clete said as a second man appeared in the door. “He’s from Montevideo, where he runs the ransom operation. He’s queer.”
“Really?” Dorotéa replied, then: “Oh, there’s Peter! Thank God!”
Peter, who was in uniform, glanced at the Lodestar.
For Christ’s sake, Peter, don’t wave!
He was followed by a man in a German naval officer’s uniform. He followed Peter down the stairs, where they both gave von Lutzenberger and von Deitzberg stiff-armed Nazi salutes, shook their hands, and then followed them across the tarmac to the terminal building.
“Who was he?” Dorotéa asked.
“I never saw him before,” Clete said. From a nearly forgotten portion of his brain, information he thought he would never have to use popped to the top. “He’s a Korvettenkapitän.”
“A what?”
“It’s the same rank as lieutenant commander. The equivalent of major.”
“Nice-looking man,” she said.
“He’s a goddamned Nazi,” Clete snapped.
“Cletus, you’re jealous!”
A moment later, other passengers began to leave the airplane.
Four or five minutes later, Martín appeared in the cockpit again.
Apparently he’s satisfied that everyone who’s going to get off is off.
“Thank you for your kind hospitality, Dorotéa and Clete,” he said.
“It’s nothing, Bernardo,” Dorotéa said.