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“We are, therefore, going to hoist a black flag and make for the nearest enemy port, where I then will surrender U-405. The nearest enemy port is the Port Belgrano Navy Base at Punta Alta near Bahía Blanca, about seven hundred kilometers south of Buenos Aires.

“On our surrender, we will of course be interrogated by our captors. After some thought, I have decided the honorable thing for me to do as an officer of the Kriegsmarine is to forget who our passengers were and what our cargo was. Because I will no longer be in command, I can only ask all of you to go along with my decision.

“As you know, Admiral Canaris was a prisoner of the Argentines in the First World War, and the crew of the Panzerschiff Graf Spee has been interned here since December of 1939. Both the admiral and the crew of the Graf Spee have stated that the Argentines are gracious captors, and that the food and women of Argentina are spectacular.”

There then came the sound of the microphone clicking, and for a long moment the speakers—and the crew—were silent. Then the mic clicked again.

“Korvettenkapitän Schröder,” von Dattenberg ordered. “Hoist a black flag. Set course for Mar del Plata. All ahead full.”

[TWO]

The Lafayette Room

The Hay-Adams Hotel

800 Sixteenth Street, N.W.

Washington, D.C.

1335 6 October 1945

Cletus Marcus Howell—a tall, sharp-featured, elegantly tailored septuagenarian—walked briskly across the lobby of the hotel and into the Lafayette Room. He stopped before the headwaiter’s lectern.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Around the corner, behind a screen, Mr. Howell.”

“How long has he been there?”

“About ten minutes.”

Howell reached in his pocket and came out with a thick wad of cash secured by a gold money clip shaped like an oil well drilling rig.

“I said to tell me within five minutes, but that’s close enough,” he said, extracting a one-hundred-dollar bill from the clip. He handed it to the headwaiter.

“Thank you, sir.”

Howell marched into the dining room, found the screen, and stepped behind it.

A well-tailored, barrel-chested, bald-headed fifty-year-old with a pencil-line mustache was sitting alone at a table.

“Well, if it isn’t my old friend Alejandro Graham. What a pleasant surprise!”

The man looked up from his menu.

“Marcus, I knew damned well if I came in here, you would show up and ruin my lunch.”

Howell pulled out the chair opposite Graham and began sliding into it.

“Yes, thank you, I will join you. Very kind of you.”

A waiter appeared almost immediately with a tray holding a pinch bottle of Haig & Haig scotch whisky, glasses, a bowl of ice, and a pitcher of water. Howell for years had maintained an apartment in the exclusive hotel across from the White House and delivering his tray was a ritual approaching a sacred custom.

“Put his lunch on my tab, Charles,” Howell said. “I always try to assist the unemployed in our midst however I can.”

Graham shook his head resignedly.

“Been across the street, have you, Alejandro?” Howell said, nodding toward the White House. “Seeking employment?”