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“We can argue about that later,” Mannhoffer said. “Right now, the first thing we do is get Kapitän Schneider and the rest of U-234’s crew back down there with enough diesel fuel so that they can move the U-boat a hundred kilometers away. The second thing we do is get enough SS men down there—thirty, thirty-five troopers—to eliminate the problem there, and—”

“Exactly what does ‘eliminate the problem’ mean?” Lang asked.

“When our men are finished, Colonel Habanzo, Major Grüner, the Storch, the fuel truck—everybody and everything that gottverdammt Martín sent down there—will have disappeared from the face of the earth.”

“I thought you wanted to eliminate von Wachtstein and Boltitz?”

“And von Dattenberg. But right now I don’t know where they are—or are going to be by the time we can form another SS Kommando unit—so where and when that will happen will depend on where they are. If they’re in Brazil or, for that matter, in the United States, terminating them will have to go on the back burner for a while.”

“The United States?” Lang asked.

“My man at the airport says they’re preparing the American Constellation for flight. They don’t know where it’s going—”

“‘The American Constellation’?” Körtig parroted.

“Frade’s grandfather’s, the Howell Petroleum Corporation airplane. A good possibility is that Frade is getting the women and the children out of Argentina until the submarine business is over. Sending them to the United States on his grandfather’s airplane would be a simple way to do that.”

“It would also get the grandfather out of the way,” Lang said.

“I should—we should—have more information fairly soon. The trouble is that I have only two people at the airport. One of them has to leave the airport and go to a telephone kiosk ten kilometers away to call me here.”

“Isn’t there a public telephone at the airport?”

“There is. Actually there’s three. And the women who operate that kiosk—and listen to every conversation—work for the BIS. As I was saying, the one who does make the calls is terrified of being caught at it.”

“Why? What could the BIS do to him?”

“The BIS, nothing. But my man believes that some ex-Húsares corporal in Frade’s Private Army would take him out onto the Pampas, slit his throat with his cuchillo criollo, and leave him there for the condors to eat.”

“With his what?” Lang asked.

“His gaucho’s knife. It’s a great big thing,” Mannhoffer explained, as he held his hands eighteen inches apart to show the length of a cuchillo criollo blade. “They carry them in the back, stuck in their wide leather belts.”

“Frade is that ruthless?” Körtig asked. There was a certain tone of professional admiration in his voice.

“Frade is,” he said, turning to Körtig. “But that wouldn’t happen if they caught him talking to me on the telephone. They would turn him over to the BIS, who would professionally interrogate him and then lock him up until this is over. I’ve often thought the one major weakness of the BIS is a certain lack of ruthlessness. My point here is that my man at the airport believes he would get his throat cut. What people believe is what counts, not the truth. What we have to do is convince the Deutschesvolk that the SS is here, strong, and prepared to be as ruthless as we ever were in Germany.”

“So where do we start?” Körtig asked.

“How’d you get to Buenos Aires?” Mannhoffer asked.

“By auto. Separately. We put them in garages. Separately. Mine’s in Recoleta.”

“Well, I suggest that one of you get back in one of them and head for Villa General Belgrano. Get Schneider and the rest of his crew back to U-234. Making sure Frade doesn’t get the uranium oxide is the highest priority, and the way to ensure that is to move the U-234.”

“You go, Lang,” Körtig said. “I’ll stay here a little longer—at least until we find out what Frade is up to at the airport.”

[TWO]

Office of the Managing Director

South American Airways

Aeropuerto Coronel Jorge G. Frade

Morón, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina

2205 20 October 1945