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.
“A Luger’s for looks, Hansel, my boy. If you’re going to shoot somebody, you’ll need something that doesn’t jam after the first shot. Or before the first shot.”
As he and Cranz walked across the sidewalk to get into the embassy Mercedes, he had three more thoughts:
I still have the PPK; it’s in the bedside table in my apartment.
Cranz didn’t say anything about me taking a gun.
My God! Was there some sort of threat in him making sure I saw he had the P- 08 ready to fire?
[TWO]
El Palomar Airfield Campo de Mayo Military Base Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1035 23 July 1943
“Tell me something about the radio in the Storch, von Wachtstein,” Cranz said as they walked up to the aircraft.
“What would you like to know, Herr Standartenführer?”
“How do they work? What do they do?”
“Well, this one has the latest equipment. There’s a transmitter-receiver—”
“Which does what?”
“Permits me to communicate with the control tower here, to get permission to taxi, to take off and land, to check the weather, things like that.”
“Can you communicate with anyone else?”
“If there were other German aircraft here, and within range, I could talk to them.”
“Not to an Argentine aircraft?”
“We use different frequencies, Herr Standartenführer. Theoretically, yes; actually, no.”
“Anything else?”
“It has an RDF receiver, Herr Standartenführer. That round antenna on top?” He pointed to it and, when Cranz nodded, went on: “It rotates. There’s a control in the cockpit, and a dial. First you tune in the frequency of the airfield. You hear a Morse code signal. Here, that’s PAL: Dit dah dah dit. Dit dah. Dit dah dit—”
“I know Morse code, von Wachtstein.”
“Yes, sir. I should have known that. No offense intended, sir.”
“None taken. And?”
“When I hear that repeated, I rotate the antenna. Signal strength is shown on a dial. When the dial shows the strongest signal strength, it does so on a compass. That shows me the direction of the field.”
“Very interesting.”
“It’s effective, sir.”
“Just as soon as we get into the air, von Wachtstein, I want you to turn off the transmitter-receiver.”
“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer.”
Jesus Christ! He thinks I’m going to get on the radio and tell somebody where we’re going!
“Does that answer your question, Herr Standartenführer?”
“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?
Just when the elapsed-time clock mounted at the top of the Storch’s windscreen showed that they had departed El Palomar two hours and fifty-five minutes earlier, Major von Wachtstein felt something push at his shoulder. He turned and saw that Standartenführer Cranz was holding a celluloid-covered map out to him.
He took it and saw that it was another Argentine Army Topographic Service map, this one of a smaller scale. It was centered on Necochea and showed little else. Arrows indicated that some place called General Alvarado was to the north, near the Atlantic Ocean, and a place called Energia was to the south, what looked like a kilometer or two inland from the ocean.
The reason it doesn’t show much more than a couple of dirt roads is that there probably isn’t anything else down there.
What the hell. You don’t want anybody around when you’re trying to smuggle things ashore.
A long oblong had been drawn with a grease pencil on the celluloid covering the map. It was labeled Landeplatz 1,200 M. It was located, von Wachtstein estimated, about three hundred meters from the ocean, at right angles to it.
He looked over his shoulder at Cranz, and gestured to him that he should put on his headset.
Cranz nodded, and thirty seconds later, “Hello, hello, hello. Can you hear me?” came over von Wachtstein’s earphones.
“I hear you clearly, Herr Standartenführer.”