The next person to appear was a short, stocky man in a tight dark-blue suit. He stopped in the doorway for a moment and looked around before coming down the stairs.
That man is a policeman. He had a careful look around. Policemen always look around a room as they enter it, and getting off an airplane is like entering a room. That has to be Sturmbannführer Erich Raschner.
Confirmation came immediately. Once Raschner had reached the foot of the stairway, Gradny-Sawz marched up to the three men and gave the Nazi salute. Von Wachtstein, three steps behind him, repeated the gesture. They all shook hands, and then Gradny-Sawz gestured for them to proceed to the terminal building.
One of the immigration officers, also one of Martín’s men, was under instructions to take their passports into a room where a camera was waiting to photograph them, if he could do so without causing any suspicion. There was often useful information on passports besides place and date of birth, and even those were sometimes useful.
Martín walked across the control tower to look out the window that gave a view of the terminal parking lot. Three Mercedeses with CD plates, two small ones and a larger one—presumably Ambassador Von Lut
zenberger’s—were parked illegally right in front of the entrance.
It was five minutes before any of the Germans came out of the building and got in the cars. Löwzer and Gradny-Sawz stepped into the larger Mercedes, von Deitzberg and von Wachtstein got into one of the smaller cars, and Raschner and a chubby forty-year-old, with a mustache like Hitler’s, got into the third.
Who’s he? He’s obviously important enough to be out here to meet Löwzer and von Deitzberg. But he’s not with the German Embassy here; I know all their faces, if not their names. Maybe a Germano-Argentine? I thought I knew all of them, at least the Nazis, at least the important Nazis.
Maybe Milton can tell me.
Does who got in which car establish the pecking order? Löwzer is more important than von Deitzberg, and gets to ride in the big car? But is a deputy foreign minister more important than Himmler’s adjutant? I don’t think so. A major general is less important than a deputy foreign minister, and for some reason Himmler’s adjutant wants people to think he’s a major general. Why?
Martín turned away from the window and faced the photographer, who was still taking pictures of people around the Condor. “Stay here another thirty minutes to make sure no one else gets off the airplane,” Martín ordered. “Then—you personally—develop that film, and make three sets of large prints.”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
“Bring them, and the negatives, to my office. I’ll probably be there. If I am not, give them to Suboficial Mayor José Cortina.”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
[FIVE]
“I have something for you, von Wachtstein,” von Deitzberg said as they drove down Avenida Libertador. He reached into his jacket pocket and came out with an envelope. It bore the embossed crest of the von Wachtstein family. “I was at Wolfsschanze just before we left,” von Deitzberg went on, “and stopped by to see your father. He asked me to give you that.”
“The Herr General is very kind,” Peter said. He put the envelope in his pocket.
“Have you been to Rastenburg?” von Deitzberg asked.
“Yes, Sir, I have.”
“Oh, of course. That’s where the Führer gave you the Knight’s Cross, right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Your father is in excellent health, and a valued member of the OKW,” von Deitzberg said. “And very proud of you.”
“I am very proud my father, Herr General,” Peter said. “And I’m also in excellent health. I’m not so sure how valuable a member of the German Embassy I am.”
“You would rather be at home, on active service, so to speak?”
“May I speak honestly, Herr General?”
“Of course.”
“I am a soldier, Sir. I can only presume that my superiors have decided I can make a greater contribution to Germany here than in a cockpit. Having said that, there is a good deal to be said for being in Argentina.”
“Well put, von Wachtstein,” von Deitzberg said. “I appreciate candor.”
“The food is magnificent, and the women spectacular,” Peter said. “The people remind me of Hungarians. They have a zest for life.”
“From what little I’ve seen,” von Deitzberg said, gesturing out the window as they passed the Hipódrome, “I can already see that my prejudgment of this country was in error. This is not how I envisioned South America. This is European.”