“That one had plenty of macho. We don’t have a monopoly on machismo, you know.”
“No, I’m sure we don’t. Stupid ideas travel widely. But looking at him, at the others, they all could be German. But what does that prove.”
“For the young ones, nothing. But the old ones, scars, the military, more than old enough to have fought in World War II____”
“Nazis!”
Diaz nodded. “Very possibly. But how do we find out?”
“We have some in Argentina, but small fry for the most part. You have them in Paraguay, don’t you?”
“A few. Military advisors they call them. But as far as we know small fry like yours. But — wait! — not too far down the river is…. “
“Uruguay! Where they all are! The concentration camp commanders, the SS bullies, the mass murderers. They are everywhere there, in the government and out, like filthy roaches.”
“Just a few kilometers down the river,” Diaz said quietly. “If what we think is true, we may have established the link we are looking for. But we must find out who these men are.”
“The Tupamaros might know. Do you have contacts with them?”
Diaz shook his head. “Not any more. Most of them were killed in 1974, then the movement collapsed. But I can make enquiries. But that will take time. The QE2 has left Cape Town and will be in Australia in a few days. We must find out at once who those men are. Who would know?”
“The Jews!” Rivelles said. “The Israelis must know who and where the escaped Nazis are. They could identify them. But how do we contact them? You can’t just walk into the Israeli Embassy and ask for help.”
“Why not?” Diaz said, putting the photographs back into the envelope. “If we have information they want, they’ll talk to us. And we have nothing to lose by trying.”
“It sounds a wild idea — but it might work. But for God’s sake call a taxi so I can take it too and go home and fall into bed. And get ready to face my uncle in the morning.”
“Did you tell him you were ill?”
“No, he wouldn’t believe a simple story like that. He’s a most suspicious man — he would want a letter from the doctor. I’m going to keep it simple. I’ll tell him I’m in love and went away with the woman to Brighton.”
“Why should he believe that?”
“I’ll tell him it’s a married woman. He’s so afraid of scandal that he’ll worry about that and not my taking off the time. I can also use the idea again if there is an emergency and I need the time.”
“I’ll get the taxi. Someone look in the phone book and get me the address of the Israeli Embassy.”
Diaz got out of the taxi on Bayswater Road and walked down Kensington Palace Gardens. One of the last private roads in London — with a guard at both ends. Discreet, quiet, a good place for the Israelis. The Arab terrorists wouldn’t find it easy to get in here. A policeman at the front door looked him over closely as he went in and a very solid young man stopped him as he stepped inside.
“Would you mind opening your coat please, just a formality.” He frisked Diaz quickly and efficiently, then moved away. “Thank you. Reception is right through there, please.”
Diaz had difficulties at once with the steely-eyed young lady behind the desk.
“Just who would you like to see?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps your military attache.”
“Would you state your business, please?”
“I would like to tell him.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have a military attache. If you would tell me what you wanted I am sure I could find someone to help.”
Diaz was aware of the people sitting around the room behind him, could almost feel their ears twitch in his direction. He was beginning to feel slightly foolish.
“I’ll be happy to tell someone when they help me.”
She gave him a withering look that would have burned a hole in sheet steel. “The Vice-Consul is free now. Perhaps he will be able to understand your problem.”
“You’re very kind,” he said, trying to sound as though he meant it. She was not convinced. Nor was the Vice-Consul.
“Mr. Diaz, I can understand what you are saying, but I’m afraid that I cannot help you.” He was as young and soberly determined as the girl.
“If I could talk to someone in your military — or your intelligence service…. “
“Mr. Diaz! Do you realize what you are saying? We are the official representatives of our nation in Great Britain. A friendly country. You don’t think for a moment we would have an intelligence service operating here?” +
Diaz, knowing the ways of international politics, was certain that they had intelligence people here. As did every other embassy in London. But, of course, this man could not admit it. Diaz could be anyone as far as they were concerned; spy, provocateur, anything. He made his mind up. He dropped the envelope with the photographs on the desk then scribbled his phone number on it.
“You’re right, of course, and I’m sorry to bother you. I have some photographs here that I was hoping your intelligence people might have been able to identify. We think at least one of them is a German. The photographs were taken just a day ago. No — please don’t say anything. I’m going to leave these photographs with you and pick them up at this time tomorrow. Meanwhile, if anyone wants to get in touch with me I can be reached at this number. Thank you for your time.”
“I’m afraid that we cannot help you,” the Vice-Consul said as Diaz left. “This is most irregular and there is nothing that we can do.”
Yet even as he said this he did not touch the photographs or insist that Diaz take them away with him.
Outside, the sky had clouded over and there was the smell of rain in the air. Diaz walked to the bus stop, taxis were a luxury they could not normally afford, and stood at the end of the queue. And by taking a bus he would know if he was being followed or not. Security becomes a reflex when most of your friends are dead.
It was an hour before he reached the apartment and let himself in.
“What have you been doing?” Alvaro asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The phone. It has been ringing steadily for the past thirty minutes. Always the same voice, asking for you. Hangs up at once when he finds out you’re not here.”
He was cut off by the strident ringing of the telephone bell.
“It must be him again. You take it this time,” Alvaro said.
“Leandro Diaz speaking,” he said into the phone.
“Are you the gentleman who recently left some photographs with your name and phone number on the envelope?” a man asked. A neutral, mid-Atlantic voice with no trace of a recognizable accent.
“I left the photographs, yes.”
“Would you please tell me where they were taken.”
“No. I want to meet someone and then I will be happy to supply all the details about the photographs. Understood?”
“I understand. Can you be in Oxford Street within the hour?”
“Yes.”
“Go to the Centrepoint building at the corner of Charing Cross Road. You want the twenty-first floor, room 20135. Understood?”
“Of course.”
The line went dead as he spoke the words and the dial tone hummed in his ear. Diaz dropped the receiver back into the cradle and smiled. “They’re interested, very interested. Alvaro, get the cash box — and no complaints this time, if you please. With the car being repaired again I’ll need a taxi to get there in time.”
Outside the Centrepoint building, the splatter of the ornamental fountains was half drowned in the continuous roar of traffic. But once inside the doors the air-conditioned silence was broken only by the ubiquitous sound of muzak. The lulling music played in the elevator as well and all the way down the corridor of the twenty-first floor. The entrance to 20135 was suitably impressive with its two large mahogany doors. On one of them, conservatively spelled out in small bronze letters, was the legend Cabot, Lowell, Smith & Green-stein. Diaz went into an equally impressive waiting room where the receptionist, blonde and very attractive, gave him a toothpaste commercial smile.