Von Wachtstein nodded.
“We’ll see you back in Buenos Aires, Boltitz. Make it in the morning. I think we have all done enough for the day.”
[SIX]
It was a three-hundred-meter walk up an incline from the shoreline to where the Storch was parked beside the trucks. Cranz walked behind von Wachtstein, and all the way von Wachtstein was very much aware of how the Luger P-08 in the low pocket was banging against his leg.
Not because it was uncomfortable—that too, of course—but because he didn’t see how Cranz could not notice it.
As they approached the trucks, the first of them moved off, and by the time they got to the Storch, only two were left.
“Good!” Cranz said, and a moment later von Wachtstein took his meaning. One of the soldiers in blue coveralls was standing ten feet away from the Storch. Beside the soldier were two twenty-liter gasoline cans.
Herr Standartenführer wants to make sure we don’t run out of benzene on the way to Buenos Aires.
As von Wachtstein topped off the tanks, he was afraid the swinging bulge on his right leg would attract Cranz’s attention. It didn’t. Cranz was watching one of the last two trucks drive off.
The last, its doors open, was just about empty. This truck apparently would carry the rubber boats and what men remained. The others had carried off the half-dozen wooden crates and the rest of the soldiers, both those uniformed and those wearing the blue coveralls.
“Can you hurry that up a bit?” Cranz called to von Wachtstein.
“I just finished, Herr Sta . . . Cranz. We’re ready to go anytime you are.”
By the time they’d gotten into the Storch and taxied to the end of the landing strip, the last of the trucks was moving off. Aside from some tire and foot marks, there was nothing on the beach that would tell anyone what had happened here.
By the time the runway lights of El Palomar appeared, von Wachtstein was not nearly so afraid of being shot once Cranz was safely on the ground as he had been.
Cranz had spent almost the entire flight wallowing in the success of the operation, first thinking about it, then sharing his thoughts with von Wachtstein, as if seeking his confirmation:
“All things considered, von Wachtstein, I’d say that Oberst Schmidt did a fine job. Just about as good as a German officer could have done. Wouldn’t you say?”
“I thought he did a splendid job, sir. And his men were obviously well-trained and well-disciplined.”
"I don’t think it would be rash to think, now, that the U-405 is safe from detection, do you?”
“I think once she reached the fifty-fathom line and submerged, sir, that she was as safe as she’ll ever be.”
“Zeiss makes a fine camera. I think those photographs will come out well, don’t you?”
“Zeiss is a fine camera, sir, and there was plenty of light.”
“The vibration—is that what you call it, ‘the vibration’?—of the airplane won’t make them, what, out of focus?”
“I think the speed of the exposure will keep that from happening, sir.”
“I’m sure the reichsprotektor—and others, of course, as well—will be interested in the photos.”
“You know what they say, sir. A picture is worth a thousand words.”
“I was wondering why Sturmbannführer Raschner and Kapitänleutnant von Dattenberg took such a dislike to each other.”
“Are you asking for my opinion, sir?”
“Please.”
"I would say that Raschner didn’t like von Dattenberg’s somewhat casual uniform....”
“You can hardly imagine the kapitänleutnant walking into the Kriegsmarine building dressed like that, can you?”
“No, sir. And Raschner probably thought that von Dattenberg didn’t treat you with the proper respect. And on von Dattenberg’s part, he is a captain, and they are kings in their castle.”
“I didn’t think von Dattenberg was being disrespectful, did you?”
“No, sir. I did not.”
An embassy Mercedes was waiting for them—or at least for Cranz—at El Palomar. Untersturmführer Johan Schneider was driving it, and had dozed off behind the wheel while waiting for his passenger to arrive.
This was not the behavior expected of a very junior SS officer when dealing with a very senior one—even one in a happy, self-congratulatory frame of mind—as Cranz made clear the moment he saw Schneider with his mouth open and his eyes closed.
Cranz got in the backseat finally, and the Mercedes drove off.
There was just time for von Wachtstein to conclude that he wasn’t going to be shot tonight when the car braked, then backed up to him.
The rear door opened.
“You’ll have to excuse me, von Wachtstein. I’m a little distracted.”
“That’s perfectly understandable, sir.”
“Get in. Where are you headed?”
“To my apartment, sir.”
“The baroness is there?”
Take the chance. All he can say is no.
“No, sir. She’s at the estancia. Sir, may I ask a favor?”
There was a just-perceptible pause before Cranz said, “Certainly.”
“While I will make every effort to report for duty on time tomorrow, may I ask your indulgence if I were to be as much as an hour, or an hour and a half, late?”
“You want to go to the estancia, right?”
“Yes, sir. If that would be possible.”
“Schneider!” Cranz ordered. “After you drop me at my apartment, you will take the Herr Major to his estancia.”
“Jawohl, Herr Cranz.”
“And try to stay awake, Schneider,” Cranz said. He turned to von Wachtstein. “That’s what’s known as killing two—no, three—birds with one stone. I am simultaneously being a kind superior, rewarding a subordinate for a good day’s work, and punishing another subordinate for falling asleep on duty.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
[SEVEN]
Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo Near Pila Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 0020 24 July 1943
Von Wachtstein saw the glow of what had to be the headlights of Cletus Frade’s Horch—what other car could possibly be racing down the private macadam road connecting Estancia Santo Catalina and Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo at this time of night?—long before he saw the headlights themselves.
He pulled his mother-in-law’s Buick to the side of the road and threw the switch so the headlights went off and the parking lights came on.
When the approaching headlights were two or three hundred meters distant—close enough to blind von Wachtstein—they suddenly turned to dying glows, then went completely out.
What the hell!
It took perhaps twenty seconds for his eyes to regain their acuity, and then he could see very little except the patch of gravel shoulder illuminated by his parking lights.
After a moment, he got out of the Buick. He stood on the road, looking down it into the dark.
“You are alone, señor?” a familiar voice said behind him.
Von Wachtstein turned and saw Enrico, his self-loading shotgun pointing at the ground.
“You really thought I was going to ambush him, Enrico?”
“We are perhaps a kilometer from where El Coronel and I were ambushed, Señor Wachtstein,” Enrico said, then added pointedly, “Either by Germans or by pigs working for the Germans.”
He walked in front of the Buick and signaled into the darkness that it was all right to come closer.
The enormous Horch headlights came back on and the car approached. When it was perhaps fifty meters distant, von Wachtstein could see that Doña Dorotea Mallín de Frade was driving, and that her husband was riding on the running board next to her, a Thompson submachine gun slung from his shoulder.
When the Horch had stopped parallel to the Buick, Frade jumped to the ground.
“We’re going to have to stop meeting this way, Hansel,” Frade greeted him. “People will talk.”