“Yes, sir,” the copilot said, smiling.
“Take-off power, please,” Clete ordered.
Five seconds later, the copilot reported, “Ten Zero Two rolling.”
The pilot-in-command tried very hard to spot the mother of his unborn child on the tarmac, but could not.
[FIVE]
Office of the Ambassador
The Embassy of the German Reich
Avenida Córdoba
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1620 27 September 1943
First Secretary Anton von Gradny-Sawz was already in Ambassador von Lutzenberger’s office when Commercial Attaché Cranz appeared at the door.
Von Gradny-Sawz was drinking coffee and eating pastry.
Cranz felt his temper flare.
Gottverdammt Wienerwurst!
“You should have waited for me,” Cranz snapped. “I had to ride all the way back in the cab of that goddamned truck. And then take a taxi here.”
“Herr Cranz, Herr Raschner came to me, told me you could see no point in waiting any longer for U-405, so we left,” von Gradny-Sawz said on the edge of self-righteousness.
“Aside from the inconvenience von Gradny-Sawz caused you—I’m sure inadvertently—were there any problems?” von Lutzenberger asked somewhat coldly.
He’s reminding me that he’s the ambassador, the ultimate authority.
What we really should have is a rule—a simple order from the Führer would do it—saying that ambassadors are in charge of everything but the missions and activities of the SS.
Himmler’s title, after all, is Reichsprotektor.
If that isn’t the most important responsibility any German official but the Führer has, I’d like to know what is.
And here is this canapé-pusher sitting with the Wienerwurst, stuffing his face with pastry and asking me what I’ve been up to.
What I have been doing, Exzellenz, is standing in the rain in the dark on the goddamned beach in the middle of nowhere for four hours waiting to see a flash from a signal lamp I knew goddamned well wasn’t coming.
While I am doing this, the gottverdammt Wienerwurst is sitting in his car a kilometer from the beach, stuffing his fat fucking face with something—when he’s not sleeping—while I am getting soaked to my skin and catching pneumonia.
And then the sonofabitch leaves me there, and I have to spend four hours in the cab of a goddamn truck getting back to Buenos Aires.
Cranz—as he had trained himself to do—smiled as he tried to rein in what he realized was a dangerous tantrum.
And then suddenly the flaming rage was gone, as if it had been washed away with a sudden torrent of ice water. He knew he was now in full control of himself.
My God, why didn’t I think of this before?
Von Lutzenberger is behind this kidnapping operation!
He’s been here forever. He knows his way around Buenos Aires.