"That's not fair, Nick. There are a lot of Germans here in Argentina."
"Some of them former Nazis on the run. In Hauptmann's file there was a notation that his father had been in the S.S. I wonder what Ziegler's file looks like?"
"The police wouldn't have one on him, I wouldn't think. We surely do not."
Carter sat back, puffing his cigar as he tried to think this out. There was every possibility that he was chasing wild geese. Yet… He looked up. "Who's the Israeli ambassador to Argentina?"
"David Lieb."
"Do you know him?"
Mendoza nodded. "As a matter of fact I did an article on him and his family. 'The Changing Face of Israel' it was called."
"Will he remember you?"
"Certainly. The article appeared not very long ago. He sent me a case of Dom Perignon."
"Call him. Tell him you may have come across some information on Nazi war criminals, and you want to know to whom you should pass it."
Reluctantly Mendoza made the call. Lieb was just getting home from an evening at the theater. He was not happy about being disturbed, but when Mendoza made it clear what he wanted, Lieb's attitude suddenly changed.
"Roger Seidman. He is my political consul. He would be most interested to hear what you might have." He gave a telephone number.
"Mossad, I'm sure of it," Carter said. "Call him."
Mendoza placed the call, and when it was answered, Carter took the phone.
"Mr. Seidman?"
"Yes," a man answered cautiously.
"My name is Nick Carter. I am with the American State Department. We have run across some interesting information here in Argentina concerning certain Nazi war criminals."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Carter, but I don't know how I can be of any help…"
"Your name and telephone number were given to my associate just minutes ago by David Lieb. He suggested you might be able to help."
"I see," Seidman said, still wary.
"Does the name Marc Ziegler mean anything to you?"
There was a slight hesitation. "Come to my office in the embassy first thing in the morning. Let's say nine."
"We'll be there."
At precisely 9:00 a.m., Carter and Mendoza were ushered into Roger Seidman's office on the second floor of the Israeli embassy.
Seidman was a small, balding man with a ridge of black curly hair that fit his head like a crown. He invited them to take seats across from his huge desk in the book-lined office. The window was open to the lovely morning.
"I have checked with your State Department, Mr. Carter, but no one there has heard of you," Seidman said. He seemed amused.
"An oversight."
"I suspect that you are with one of the intelligence agencies."
"Does it matter?" Carter asked.
After a moment Seidman smiled. "No. Our common interest seems to be a man you call Marc Ziegler."
Carter took out the composite sketch and passed it across. Seidman looked at it, then handed it back. "Except for a monocle, this man is Marc Ziegler. How did you come by his name and this drawing?"
Mendoza had winced at the identification. But he said nothing.
Carter quickly related his story, beginning with the mysterious death of Lydia Coatsworth and ending with the attempt on his own life outside the town of Salto. He left out any reference to AXE, the CIA, or the police files he had been privy to.
Seidman listened attentively, his hands folded on the desk in front of him, showing little or no emotion. When Carter was finished, he took out a pack of dark brown Israeli cigarettes and lit one after first offering the pack around.
"You have, of course, heard of the Odessa, Mr. Carter?" he asked, exhaling a small cloud of foul-smelling smoke.
Carter just nodded. He did not want to reveal too much of his own knowledge before he had heard what the man was going to tell him.
"It is the organization of former S.S. officers… the animals who were responsible for the death camps across Europe in which six million of my people were slaughtered. They have been in open hiding since after the war. They have a very large, very powerful organization, very wealthy from gold stolen from… the bodies… of their victims."
Seidman stopped for a moment.
"The organization is real, then."
"Very," Seidman shot back. "Just after the war, they used their money to set up underground railroads to ferry themselves and their kind out of Europe, and to provide new identities, new positions, and a new life in friendly countries… such as Argentina, where they could be assured of no extradition."
"And nowadays?" Carter asked.
"The Odessa is stronger than ever, but now it has two goals: the first is to protect its own from continued inquiries; and the second is to take advantage of the enormous wealth they stole and the investments this wealth has yielded to promote the cause of the Third Reich."
Mendoza had held himself erect through all that, not saying a word, but now he leaned slightly forward. "Mr. Seidman, we came here to discuss Marc Ziegler. What can you tell us about him?"
"We think he is a member of the Odessa."
The breath went out of Mendoza. "I know him personally."
"Yes, I know that," Seidman said.
"Are you certain?" Carter asked.
"Reasonably," Seidman said. "If we are correct, then Ziegler is one of the organization's ranking members. We believe he was General Martel Zimmermann during the war. Worked for Himmler himself. He came out in March of 1944 as one of the youngest generals of the Reich."
"But you've done nothing?"
Seidman shrugged. "We'd very much like to get our hands on him, Mr. Carter, but until he leaves the country under our eyes, or commits some crime against Argentine law, we can do nothing. We do not have proof needed, and even if we did, the Argentine government would rather not act, especially against someone so rich. We've considered kidnapping the man, but since the Eichmann thing, that has become impossible."
"What would the Odessa — providing Marc Ziegler is the man you think he is — want in Iceland?" Carter asked.
"I don't know," Seidman said. "But it is of extreme interest to us. He may be getting ready to make some move. We've gotten the feeling that he's getting anxious. He may be feeling hemmed in here. We think he may be planning something… exactly what, we don't know."
Carter got to his feet. Seidman jumped up. "But we are not done here…"
"I'm afraid we are," Carter said. "I gave you what information I had, and you confirmed my suspicions."
"Your suspicions about what? How did Ziegler's name come up in connection with the trouble in Iceland? And just who are you?"
Mendoza had gotten to his feet as well. He shook hands with Seidman. "Thank you for your assistance."
Carter shook Seidman's hand. "If I come up with anything significant, I'll let you know," he said, and he and Mendoza left the office.
When they were gone, Seidman sat back down behind his desk, stubbed out the cigarette, and picked up the phone.
"There are two men leaving my office," he told his assistant. "I want them followed."
The middle-class houses of Belgrano, a suburb on Buenos Aires's south side, slipped past as Mendoza talked. He was driving.
"I don't know about these Israelis," he said. "They act as if Odessa is the most important thing in the world to them, but then they let us walk out of there just like that."
"We haven't heard the last of them," Carter said.
"We will regret they are involved."
"It was the quickest, surest way I knew of getting information on Ziegler. And we are on the same side, you know."
Mendoza pulled his Fiat onto the shoulder at the edge of a huge, well-tended piece of property. A large office building rising out of the center of the acreage seemed to be constructed entirely of gold-tinted windows.
"That's it," Mendoza said.