“Six. A man named Johann Lange, from Rio Grande do Sul...” He smiled again. “Familiar? You remember his name? That’s right; he was the one who supported Stroessner not so long ago. His ranch comes right up against the Paraguayan border. We’ve had an eye on him for a long time. Not all of his house guests come equipped with entry visas for Brazil.” He dropped his hands. “True, one thing may not have anything to do with the other, but the fact remains that he was another one at that meeting. Plus, of course, Captain Erick von Roesler himself, in person.” He looked up suddenly, his eye gleaming. “Not an imitation. Anyway, that’s the lot. What do you think?”
Wilson sipped his cognac, his brow furrowed. “You never mentioned this before,” he said.
“We never discussed it before. If you want to see the complete dossier on each and every one of them, I have it in my office safe. But for what I need, I also have it here.” He tapped his forehead significantly.
“Well, there is no doubt that it is interesting,” Wilson said slowly, “but scarcely conclusive. The fact that people were at a meeting over twenty years ago doesn’t prove to me that they are organized for a conspiracy today.”
“In looking for an organization that is functioning in Brazil today,” Da Silva said, leaning forward in utter seriousness, “we can scarcely overlook the fact that an organization existed before dedicated to the same ends, even if it did exist over twenty years ago. Particularly when some of the people involved are the same. No, I am sure that the organization never changed, that it continued to exist always. What I am wondering is if the organizer of the group is the same.”
“The organizer? But you say that von Roesler organized the group.”
“Exactly.”
Wilson held up his hand in protest. “Now wait, Zé. Von Roesler disappeared in August of 1944. There is no evidence at all that he is still alive, let alone in Brazil. In those closing days of the war, many people disappeared and were presumed dead.”
“Presumed.”
Wilson shook his head. “Many were killed in those days, unidentified. It was complete confusion; people disappeared, changed their identities, died under different names. In some places in those days at the end, officers were even killed by their own troops. Many SD men tried to escape by changing uniforms, and died without any identification whatsoever.”
“And a lot more lived than died! Look, Wilson; I don’t state it as an irrefutable fact, only as a possibility. This group was organized shortly before the outbreak of war by von Roesler himself, and during the war they were quite active. After the war they quieted down — they didn’t disappear, or go out of business, they merely quieted down. Then, a few years later, they began activity again. And nobody knows where von Roesler is, or if he is alive or dead. I only state it as a possibility that he may be here.”
“Do you mean to say,” Wilson asked slowly, “that, assuming von Roesler is still alive and in Brazil — and there is no proof whatsoever that this is true, or even possible — that he waited all these years to start a new movement?”
Da Silva frowned stubbornly. “It is not a new movement; it is an old movement! With the same people. And I only said it was a possibility, not a fact!” He looked at Wilson almost morosely. “And even if von Roesler is dead, or in China, or posing as a security officer in the U. S. Embassy under the name of Wilson, the fact remains that a rebirth of Nazism is taking place in this country! That is a fact; and while we know a lot of the little wriggling arms that crawl about, we don’t know the head that joins them.” He looked at his wrist watch. “One thing I’m sure we will both agree on: it is late. We’ve had a big day.” He rose to his feet. “In any event, we shall see.”
Wilson rose with him, moving toward the door. “Zé, do you honestly believe there is any possibility that this story of Hans Busch and two million dollars could bring out the head man? Whoever he is?”
Da Silva shrugged. “At least it is a hope. I don’t imagine they are rolling in money. In fact, it is probably this lack of funds that has kept their development as slow as it has been. It’s a hope.”
“You have someone watching Schoenberg?”
“Three.” Da Silva laughed. “One very obvious. Two less obvious, I hope.” He looked at Wilson, smiling. “I’ll talk to you about that, too, one of these days.”
“When do you expect to see him again?”
Da Silva lifted his shoulders in a typically Latin gesture. “Not until I have to,” he said. “We’ll wait and see what develops from our shocking attack on the airport and Pan American.” He looked at his wrist watch again and stifled a yawn.
“Well; I enjoyed a very nice evening. We must do it again soon.”
Wilson grinned. “Not too soon, I hope,” he said, starting to close the door. Da Silva’s hand caught it in a last-minute gesture, holding it back for a moment.
“About your car,” he said seriously. “You really ought to have somebody look at that carburetor of yours.”
Wilson laughed. “You know I love Brazil,” he said, “but one thing we must all admit. There isn’t a mechanic in this whole country who could be trusted to properly change a tire.”
“I know a good one,” Da Silva said. “Works for a stolen-car ring. If he can’t fix your carburetor, at least he’ll change it for one from another car.”
“I’ll let you know,” Wilson said, smiling. He swung the door closed, hearing Da Silva’s chuckle from the other side.
Chapter 9
Four days had passed, and Ari was dining with the hotel manager, Herr Mathais, in the sedate restaurant of the hotel. It was a quiet evening with few guests present, and the ones who were there paid no attention to the two men in the corner alcove caught between the main room and the curve of the balcony.
The restaurant was on the first floor of the hotel, overhanging the veranda, and giving out on a magnificent view of the moonlight-sprinkled bay spread beneath their window. The food was excellent; Ari had found his appetite again and was getting, if anything, fatter than ever. His little blue eyes were beginning to hide behind rolls of fat, but their sharpness never diminished.
They lingered over their coffee, watching the play of moonbeam on wave, pleasantly relaxed in the magic of the warm evening breeze. “No,” the manager was saying, “I don’t believe Brazil is so different in this respect. When you arrived, of course, you were of interest to all the reporters, but that is only natural. And that was four days ago. Reporters are only interested in the things that happen at the moment; there is nothing deader than yesterday’s news.” He laughed, and as always when he uttered one of his vast repertoire of clichés, his face stretched in all directions. “I doubt if they will bother you now.”
Ari nodded politely, but his mind was elsewhere. It was time that something happened, time for contacts to be made, further contacts beyond this boring manager and the stupid customs man. If they had been waiting for the novelty to wear off so that contact could be made without exciting the notice of reporters, or the curious, then that time had arrived.
“Rio is a very lovely city,” he said slowly, choosing each word carefully, “but I’ve seen most of the things of interest. And it continues to be hot.” He stared out of the open window in a bored fashion. “I think I may possibly do some traveling...”