While he was waiting, Carter took a leisurely shower and shaved. He was just finishing putting on a sport jacket to hide Wilhelmina nestled under his arm, when he heard a knock at the door. He opened it to find a well-groomed young man in a crisp uniform standing in the corridor. He handed Carter a fat manila envelope, saluted stiffly, and left.
Vargas had worked very fast. Incredibly fast, as a matter of fact.
Carter brought the envelope over to the window where he sat down and took out the file folder stuffed with papers. It was an old file, however, its information no more up-to-date than the things he already had. It was disappointing. The federales, it seemed, knew even less about Hauptmann than Washington did, although he did uncover one interesting fact.
Hauptmann's mother had been Argentinian, but his father had been German. His father had come here just after the war and had set up a small printing business. The business had failed, there had been a divorce, and the father had eventually returned to Germany. He knew all that. What was new was that apparently Hauptmann's father had been an officer in the SS. The notation after the name was nothing more than the two letters, faded now with time, and yet it was something Washington did not have.
Carter closed the file and put it with the others in his suitcase. Then he went out, locking the door behind him. Outside he caught a cab.
St. Dominic's was a small church that looked as though it had seen better times. The pink stucco had fallen from the bricks in several places, and its plain wooden door looked well worn. But the sign in front was freshly painted, and as Carter's cab pulled up and he got out, the bells were ringing out the hour.
The church was located in the western end of the city, nestled in with the villas miserias — cities of misery — the slums made up of corrugated cardboard, tin, and plywood shanties pushed together in an incredible jumble. A group of filthy dirty, ragged children begging for coins surrounded Carter as he stepped from the cab. Norteamericanos were very rare in this part of the city. He took the change from his cab fare, added a few pesos, and distributed it among them. Then he went inside.
At the altar a man was lighting candles. Carter walked down the aisle and, when the priest was finished, cleared his throat.
"Father Wilfredo?"
The old man turned around. The sagging, lined flesh of his face bunched around his eyes as he squinted at Carter in the near darkness. "Yes, my son?"
"I would like to speak with you. Father, if I may. It is something of very great importance," Carter said in Spanish.
"Momento, por favor," Father Wilfredo said. "Please sit down. I will be finished in a moment."
The priest turned back to his candles, and Carter took a seat in the first row of pews. He waited until the priest had lit all the candles, then several more minutes while the man knelt in front of the crucifix and prayed.
Slowly the old man got up, shuffled to the vestry to the left of the altar, and a few minutes later reappeared wearing street clothes and a clerical collar. He eased himself into the pew next to Carter.
"And now, what may I do for you?"
"I am looking for a young man. Father. José Braga. I was told you might be able to help."
The smile left the old man's face. "There are many looking for José. Half of Argentina would like to find him. Why do you want to see him? You are American?"
Carter nodded. "I want to speak with him because he might have knowledge of a man I'm looking for. A man who is a hired killer."
The priest looked at him closely.
"I would be willing to pay well."
The priest sighed. "He needs money. There is so little food. If you can be trusted. Who is this man you seek?"
"Victor Hauptmann. I must know where he has been, who he has been working for, and what he has been doing for the past year. The information is worth a lot to me. Perhaps as much as one thousand dollars."
The old eyes looked at him uncertainly. "If I deliver your message, what would stop you from telling the police?"
"I am not from the police. I have no interest in them nor in what they think José Braga might be involved in. Victor Hauptmann tried to kill me several days ago. I have reason to believe he killed a very good friend of mine. A woman. I want to know why. I want to know who he is working for. Carter took out two hundred-dollar bills and handed them over. "One is for José, and one is for the church. There will be more when I have spoken with him."
Father Wilfredo glanced doubtfully at the money in his hand.
"I will meet him anywhere at any time. He can pick the place. And I will come alone."
Father Wilfredo looked Carter directly in the eye, weighed the alternatives for a moment, then put the money in his jacket pocket. "Come back after the eleven o'clock mass," he said.
It was a few minutes after noon when the last of the few parishioners had cleared the church. Carter came forward. The old priest said nothing. He turned and walked toward the rear of the building. Carter followed.
They went through a narrow door concealed in the wood paneling behind the altar, into an ill-lit hall, and finally into a tiny room at the back. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases jammed with papers and books covered three of the walls. A battered, ancient armchair and footstool stood to one side, and in the center of the bare, tiled floor was set a squat, ornate wooden desk. Perched upon the desk as though he too were a part of the furnishings was a slight, dark boy in threadbare cotton trousers and shirt. On his upper lip was a very thin mustache. He looked like any other Argentinian teenager except that across the bridge of his nose rested a pair of thick glasses that enlarged his eyes, giving him a vaguely owlish appearance.
"José Braga?" Carter asked.
The boy nodded, watching Carter suspiciously. The priest walked behind the boy and put his hand protectively on his shoulder.
"The money," Braga demanded.
Carter pulled out nine one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the boy who looked at them, then handed the money to the priest.
"You have just saved the lives of my comrades in arms, and you have prolonged the valiant struggle of the Argentinian people against the oppression of its cruel imperialist government,"
Carter noticed the boy did not speak the usual street jargon, and glancing at the book-lined walls, he could see why. Although his phrases were trite, they were well spoken.
"If the speechmaking is over, I came here for information," Carter said. The boy and the priest exchanged glances.
"What do you want to know about the pig Hauptmann? He has disappeared," Braga snapped.
"I killed him." Carter said.
Braga's eyes widened. "No one deserved death more than that maniac. But why did you do such a thing?"
"He tried to kill me."
The boy's eyes narrowed. "And now you want more information about him. What sort of information?"
"Where was he six months ago?"
"In jail. Salto, Uruguay. He had a profitable little gun-running business across the Uruaguay River into Concordia until his boat developed troubles and he was stranded."
"I have looked at the police files. That wasn't included."
Braga shrugged. "Communications are not always good with the provinces. And relations are somewhat strained with Uruguay at the moment." He smiled as though he'd had a hand in straining the relations himself.
"How do you know this, about Hauptmann?"
"You doubt my word, señor?"