There were no lights on the boat, but as they approached the vessel he heard its exhaust burbling. As soon as they were on the boat, in the cockpit aft, the floodlights on the pier went on and the cabin lights on the boat illuminated.
Pevsner asked with a gesture whether Castillo wanted to go into the cabin or up to the flying bridge. Castillo opted for the flying bridge, despite the fact that the air was chilly. These were the Andes Mountains, and springtime would not come to Argentina for several weeks. But Castillo-perhaps as a reflex response-wanted to see what could be seen and began climbing the ladder fashioned of heavy-gauge aluminum tubing toward the flying bridge.
Max barked his protest at not being able to follow him up the ladder. Elena appeared at the cabin door and called to him. He looked to Castillo for guidance.
"Go with Elena," Castillo ordered, and after a moment's thought Max walked into the cabin.
The man who had been with Pevsner when Castillo had first seen them was at the helm, his hands on the controls. As soon as Pevsner was on the flying bridge, the boat began to move.
Set into the panel were radar and GPS screens, and the man used the latter to navigate.
Meaning, of course, that he's pretty sure nothing is out there, on the surface or below.
Wrong. I hear other engines.
A moment later, as Castillo's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw first the wake of a boat ahead of them and then the boat itself, a twenty-odd-foot inboard. The three men who had been waiting for them outside the Llao Llao were in it.
The small inboard boat picked up speed and began to turn, obviously intending to circle the sportfisherman.
"Nice boat, Alek," Castillo said, raising his voice over the sound of wind and the rumble of twin diesels. "How did you get it here?"
"By truck," Pevsner replied. "The first try was a disaster. They went off the road and turned over."
"Jesus!" Castillo said, sympathetically.
"Always look for the silver lining, friend Charley. It took another month to get another boat from Miami-this wouldn't fit in any of my airplanes-but I now have spare parts for everything but the hull."
Twenty minutes later, a light appeared almost dead ahead. The radar screen showed something that had to be a pier extending into the lake from the shore. The engines slowed. A minute later, floodlights on a pier came on and the inboard boat came out of the darkness and tied up. A twin of the Peugeot van at the Llao Llao was backed up onto the pier.
Three minutes later, they had tied up to the wharf and were in the van, which started down the pier. As soon as the vehicle reached the foot of the pier, the floodlights went off.
It was a five-minute drive along a steep, curving, gravel road, and then they passed through a gate in a ten-foot-tall stone wall and came to a stop before an imposing house.
Pevsner led them all inside.
Anna and the boys and the girl-Elena, who is almost exactly as old as my son-said a polite good night.
Castillo looked around. There was an enormous room off the entrance foyer. A crystal chandelier hung from what was probably a thirty-foot-high ceiling, illuminating a wall on which hung probably fifty stuffed deer and stag heads. On either side of a desk, two stuffed, snarling pumas faced each other.
This is familiar.
Why do I recognize it?
The memory bank produced an image of a large, fat, jowly man standing at the entrance to the room, dressed in lederhosen and a Bavarian hat with a pheasant tail feather stuck in it, and holding a bow and arrow.
I'll be goddamned!
Pevsner said in Russian: "My people will take care of your bags, friend Charley. Does the boy-your communicator-have to be present while we talk?"
"No, but he has to be close," Castillo answered in Russian. "And he'll need some place to set up his radio."
"Will he require help?"
Castillo shook his head.
"Then let's go in there," Pevsner said, pointing to the enormous room and taking Castillo's arm.
Castillo switched to German and asked, "Are you sure it will be all right with the Reichsforst und Jagermeister?"
"You are amazing," Pevsner said in Russian. "How are you familiar with that, with Carinhall?"
Castillo continued to speak German: "My grandfather had a book-a large, leather-bound book-that Goring gave him when he was a guest. I used to look at it when I was a kid."
"Your grandfather was a Nazi?"
"He was an Army officer who was badly wounded at Stalingrad and evacuated just before it fell. With Billy Kocian, incidentally. He told me Goring used to receive busloads of wounded senior officers at the place, and everyone got a book. The first picture inside, so help me God, was of Goring in lederhosen holding a bow and arrow.
"But, no, to answer your question, my grandfather was not a Nazi. My mother told me-when she knew she was dying; she said she thought I should know-that he was on the SS's list of those officers known to be associated with Claus von Stauffenberg in the bomb plot, and they were looking for him until the end of the war."
"What kind of a senior officer, Karl?" Pevsner said, now speaking German.
"Infantry, detailed to Intelligence. He was a lieutenant colonel at Stalingrad; they promoted him to colonel while he was recuperating."
"And now the German senior officer's grandson is an American senior officer detailed to Intelligence, and the descendants of the SS, now in the employ of the Russians, are looking for him in order to kill him. Blood really does run deep, doesn't it, friend Charley?"
Castillo realized that Pevsner's observation made him uncomfortable and wondered why.
"I think you mean, 'History does repeat itself, doesn't it?'" Castillo said, then went on quickly before Pevsner could reply: "I had a couple of days off one time in Berlin and went to see Carinhall. It's in Brandenburg, in the Schorfheide Forest-was there; Goring had the place blown up to keep the Russians from getting it. They did a good job. The gates are still there, but aside from that not much else is left."
A maid rolled a cart loaded with spirits and the necessary accoutrements into the room, cutting off the conversation. After she had positioned the cart, she looked at Pevsner.
"That will be all, thank you," Pevsner said, and waited to continue speaking until she had left them alone.
"Would you have me serve you, friend Charley? Or…?"
"Wait on me, please. I find that flattering. Some of that Famous Grouse single-malt will do nicely, thank you very much."
Pevsner shook his head and turned to making the drinks.
Pevsner began: "The fellow who built this place-I bought it from his grandson-was German. Nothing much is known about him before he came here-and I have inquired and have had friends inquire. There is no record of a Heinrich Schmidt having ever lived in Dresden, which is where his Argentine Document of National Identity says he was born.
"Of course, the records may have been destroyed when Dresden was firebombed. What's interesting is that there is no record of his having immigrated to Argentina, or having been issued a DNI. Or of Herr Schmidt becoming an Argentine citizen. What I did learn was he bought this place-it was then four hundred sixteen hectares of forestland-and began construction of the house two months after it was alleged that a German submarine laden with cash and jewelry and gold had discharged its cargo near Mar del Plata and then scuttled itself at sea."
Pevsner handed Charley a glass, held his own up, and tapped rims.
"To friends you can really trust, friend Charley."
"Amen, brother. May their tribe increase."
"Unlikely, but a nice thought," Pevsner replied, took a sip, then went on: "Such a submarine was found eighteen months ago off Mar del Plata, incidentally. Probably just a coincidence."
"I know that story. There were three of them loaded with loot. One was known to have been sunk in the English Channel. The second is known to have made it here. I thought the third one just disappeared."