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“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Okay, wiseass, put your theory to the test. What does the map say?”

“I hope this is the one with the lowest scale,” Cronley said, looking for the legend. “Or is it the largest? The one that shows the finest details. And frankly, I really wish I had German maps.”

“Those are the next best thing to German maps,” General Martín said proudly. “The Wehrmacht sent their army map people here

to teach the Ejército Argentino military mapmaking. But there’s one in that stack that may be just what you’re looking for.”

Martín went through the stack of maps, selected one, and spread it out on the table.

There was no sign of civilization on the map in the area just north of the mouth of the Magellan Strait and the international border—south of which was Chilean territory—except Argentine National Route 3 and an unnamed, unpaved road to the east of it.

Route 3 was sixty kilometers from the coast. The unnamed, unpaved road ran off Route 3 parallel to the coast, about thirty kilometers from it to a dot on the map identified as Estancia Condor.

Jimmy wondered what could possibly be grown on an estancia so isolated and so close to Antarctica but decided this wasn’t the time to ask.

From the estancia the unnamed road went a few kilometers farther south, until it was close to the international border, went toward the coast parallel to the border for twenty kilometers or so, and then turned northeast until it reached a point maybe eight kilometers from the coast. After that, it turned just about dead south and continued south until it reached the border, then due east until it reached the coast, where it made a final dead south turn until it ended right at the coast.

Jimmy put his finger on the map there and looked at Willi von Dattenberg.

“Too close, I think,” Jimmy said.

“Too obvious,” von Dattenberg agreed. “And there would be vessels headed for the Magellan Strait.”

“But here,” Jimmy said, laying his finger on the coast dead east of where the unnamed road came closest before turning south.

“See what you come up with,” von Dattenberg said.

Jimmy located lines on the map identifying south latitude, then one in particular.

“See if you can find in south latitude point zero five something,” Jimmy ordered.

Von Dattenberg went down the row of positions on page one and found nothing. He said so, and then went down the row of positions on page two, found nothing, said so again, and turned to page three. Near the bottom of page three, he stopped moving his finger.

“I have a decimal zero five three nine nine,” he said.

“And the longitude?” Jimmy asked, very softly.

“Decimal six three zero eight eight.”

“Bingo,” Jimmy said. He put his finger on the map. “Right in here.”

“You’re telling me you found it?” Martín asked softly, as Frade asked incredulously, sarcastically, on top of him, “You’re telling me you found it?”

“In my judgment, General,” von Dattenberg said, looking from the map back to the sheet, “Lieutenant Cronley has established the landfall ordered for U-234 at 52.05399 degrees south latitude, 58.63088 degrees west longitude.”

He looked to where Jimmy pointed on the map.

“Right there,” he said.

“Operative phrase ‘the landfall ordered for U-234,’” Frade said. “We don’t know that the submarine even got through the English Channel, much less here.”

“In that case, I’d like proof that it didn’t,” General Martín said. “How do we get that?”

“Bernardo,” Frade said, “you know as well as I do that proving a negative is just about impossible.”

“Is my opinion welcome?” von Dattenberg asked.