“Señor von Tresmarck, please,” von Deitzberg asked in Spanish.
“I’m sorry. El Señor von Tresmarck is not available.”
“Perhaps he’s at home. Could you give me that number, please?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t do that.”
He switched to German: “Herr von Tresmarck is an old friend.”
So did she: “I’m sorry, Mein Herr, I can’t give out home numbers of embassy officers.”
“Connect me with Herr Forster, please.”
Von Deitzberg didn’t want to talk to Forster either, but again realized he had no choice.
Konrad Forster, who was diplomatically accredited to the Republic of Uruguay as the commercial attaché of the embassy, was actually Hauptsturmführer Forster of the Geheime Staatspolizei of the Sicherheitsdienst. His mission was to report on the activities of Ambassador Joachim Schulker and of course on Sturmbannführer Werner von Tresmarck, who was officially the embassy security officer. Reports on the latter went directly to the office of the Reichsführer-SS, which normally meant to the desk of First Deputy Adjutant von Deitzberg.
But I’m not there. And if Forster reports that I’m in Montevideo and it comes to the attention of Himmler—as it almost certainly will—the Reichsführer will wonder what I’m doing here when I’m supposed to be blowing up airplanes in Buenos Aires at the specific order of Der Führer.
“Forster speaking.”
“Konrad, this is Manfred,” von Deitzberg said in German.
“Who?”
“The last time we saw one another was when you were being interviewed for your present assignment.”
“Excuse me?”
“Listen to what I just said, and think, you Trottel !” von Deitzberg snapped.
After a long moment, Forster said, “Herr Brig—”
“Do not use my name!” von Deitzberg interrupted.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m in town unexpectedly, and I don’t want anyone to know. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get in your car and drive to the Carrasco casino—”
“Right now?”
“No, a week from Thursday! You are trying my patience, Forster.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Drive your car—drive yourself in your personal car—into the basement garage. Come up to the lobby. I will be there reading a newspaper. Do not recognize me. Once you have seen that I have seen you, go back to the garage. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Von Deitzberg hung up.
Forster came into the lobby of the casino twenty-five minutes later.
He was a slight man in his early thirties who wore his black hair slicked down and just long enough to part. He wore wire-framed glasses, the lenses of which were round. The result was that he looked very much like Heinrich Himmler.