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“Simple answer, you can’t get fifty million dollars or a hundred million dollars or—and I really heard this figure—one hundred fifty million dollars in a suitcase.”

“More sophisticated answer?” Frade asked.

“The sale, or the transfer, whatever you want to call it, is not going to take place in Argentina,” Martín said. “Think about it, Cletus. There’s supposed to be five hundred sixty kilos of the uranium—that’s a little over half a ton. Even if Egorov had it in the Trade Mission right now, what would he do with it? How would he get it out of Argentina? And let’s say Mannhoffer—or Körtig or Lang—either separately or together, had the hundred or the hundred fifty million dollars Egorov paid them. What would they do with it? Put it under the mattress? They know we’d be looking for signs of sudden wealth. If a transfer takes place, neither the ore nor the cash will be actually involved here.

“The most credible scenario is that the ore will be moved from wherever it is now to a Russian ship on the high seas, and the money—which will never have been in Argentina at all—will be transferred, probably through the Banco Suisse Creditanstalt, to an account or accounts in South Africa or Switzerland.”

“Then how would the uranium oxide get from where it is now to rendezvous with a Soviet ship on the high seas?”

“On U-234,” Martín said. “I don’t think U-234 has been scuttled.”

Frade nodded thoughtfully. “Don’t let this go to your head, Bernardo, but that’s the most credible scenario I’ve heard so far.”

“I thought so,” Martín said, “when I heard it from von Dattenberg on the way here this morning.”

Damn it!

I give a five-minute speech on why I don’t trust that sonofabitch, then Martín marches him in here, offers a scenario I declare is the best one I’ve heard, then says he got it from von Dattenberg.

“From von Dattenberg?” Frade asked softly.

“Cletus,” von Dattenberg said, “earlier on you told me to put myself in Alois Schneider’s shoes. . . .”

I don’t recall giving you permission to address me by my Christian name.

Oh, Christ. Yes, I did . . .

“I remember,” Frade said.

“And I did. But that first attempt resulted in only changing my mind about whether U-234 made landfall in Argentina or not. But when I thought about what Alois would do about the uranium oxide—”

“You referred to Schneider by his first name just now. That implies you’re close.”

“Very close,” von Dattenberg said. “All of us who served aboard U-boats are sort of a brotherhood. But Alois and I were even closer than—”

“Were . . . or are?”

“Are. I should have said that.”

“Why?”

“Because we are alive, Colonel Frade—the U-boat service had a casualty rate approaching seventy-five percent—and because both of us made a number of special missions here. Only a few of us were selected, time and again, for that duty.”

Now he’s back to addressing me by rank?

“By ‘special missions,’” Frade said, “you mean smuggling missions?”

“Yes. That’s what I meant.”

“Where do you think U-234 is right now?” Frade asked.

“Very probably where Cronley thinks it is. If not there, then tied up somewhere close—within one hundred kilometers of there. I can’t think of any reason for Schneider to be taken from Villa General Belgrano except to do something with the boat.”

“Like what?”

“Move her. Or perhaps take her to sea. She’s been down there long enough for her to take on fuel and provisions.”

“Have you any suggestion how we should deal with your scenario?” Frade asked.