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Six gauchos on horseback appeared, and von Dattenberg now noticed the gauchos were heavily armed. Two of them held what looked like Mauser rifles, their butts resting on their legs. The other four held American-manufactured Thompson submachine guns.

There was an assortment of cars parked in front of the house, two late-model Ford station wagons, and two Buicks, a four-door sedan and a convertible coupe.

Three men clearly waiting for them were standing on the veranda of the house. One of them was General Martín. The other two were wearing blue uniforms heavy with gold braid. Von Dattenberg could not at first remember ever having seen them, but after a moment he recognized one of them.

The last time that Fregattenkapitän Wilhelm von Dattenberg had seen Hans-Peter von Wachtstein had been in Berlin, and the latter had then been wearing his Luftwaffe major’s uniform, to which that morning the Führer himself had pinned the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross.

“Wie geht’s, Willi?” von Wachtstein called cheerfully from the veranda. “Welcome to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.”

Von Dattenberg walked onto the veranda.

“It’s been a long time,” von Wachtstein said emotionally, as he grasped von Dattenberg’s shoulders. And then he blurted: “Mein Gott, you’re skinny!”

“Peter, what is that uniform you’re wearing?” von Dattenberg asked.

“South American Airways. We just came back from Germany, and there hasn’t been time to change.”

“You just came back from Germany?” von Dattenberg asked incredulously.

“This morning,” von Wachtstein said. “And guess who we had aboard?”

“Let’s go into the house,” Frade said impatiently.

Von Wachtstein gave him a look of annoyance.

“We’re really pressed for time, Peter,” Martín said.

“My name is Frade, Kapitän—”

“Cletus is my best friend, Willi,” von Wachtstein interrupted. “He’s the godfather of my son, and Karl Boltitz and I are godfathers to both of his.”

“—I’m a lieutenant colonel, U.S. Marine Corps, and have been in charge of the OSS in Argentina. What we have to do is get some answers from you, and then get you back to Puerto Belgrano before the wrong people know you’ve been gone.”

Von Dattenberg clicked his heels and shook the offered hand, but his face showed that he had no idea what was going on and that he didn’t like it.

“Come on in the house, Willi,” von Wachtstein said. “We’ll get you something to eat and we can talk while you’re eating.”

“I just ate,” von Dattenberg said.

“Then this way, if you please, Kapitän,” Frade said.

Von Dattenberg allowed himself to be led into the house and through a large foyer to a large room, the walls of which were lined with books.

“Right over there, please,” Frade said, indicating a chair at a table.

A middle-aged woman wearing a starched white maid’s apron and cap entered. She pushed a wheeled cart to them and placed coffee cups on the table as the others arranged themselves at it.

Frade and Martín put briefcases on the table and took from them several folders, legal pads, and writing instruments.

My God, von Dattenberg thought, I expected to be interrogated by my captors again, but I never dreamed that Peter would clearly be one of them.

“We are really pressed for time, Kapitän von Dattenberg,” Martín said. “And there may not be time for all the details right now. So let’s start with the names of the people who you put ashore and what cargo.”

I am an officer of the Kriegsmarine and I have given my word.

“As I told Vicealmirante Crater, Herr Oberstleutnant, I came to Argentina, to Puerto Belgrano, directly from Germany.”

“You sailed from Narvik, Norway,” Frade said unpleasantly.