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“Because it is the fastest, largest long-range transport aircraft in the world,” von Wachtstein said.

“You’re not suggesting that it is a better aircraft than our Condor?” von Gradny-Sawz pursued.

Help came from an unexpected source:

“Obviously, von Gradny-Sawz, it is,” Cranz said. “Von Wachtstein is suggesting our engineers will want to know as much about it as they can learn.”

“I didn’t think about that,” von Gradny-Sawz said.

“Obviously,” Cranz said dryly. “And he’s right. It is going to be a problem for us in several areas. Propaganda Minister Goebbels is going to be very unhappy when this story—these pictures—appears in newspapers all over the world. And the Americans will make sure that it does.”

“But it’s not a new airplane,” von Gradny-Sawz argued.

“Yes, it is, you Trottel !” Cranz snapped. “And it has never before (a) been in the hands of anyone but the Americans or (b) used to transport people across the Atlantic from a third-rate country—”

“More people and faster,” von Wachtstein interjected.

Cranz nodded and went on: “Suggesting that the Americans have so many of them they can spare some for Argentina.”

If von Gradny-Sawz took offense at being called a Trottel—which translated variously as “moron,” “clown,” but most often as “blithering idiot”—there was no sign of it on his face.

Cranz continued: “If this comes to the attention of the Führer—they try to spare him distractions, but I suspect this distraction will come to his attention—I suggest that it is entirely likely that the Führer will order that it be shot out of the sky . . .”

“It’s an Argentine aircraft,” Ambassador von Lutzenberger said.

Cranz glared at him for a moment. Then he admitted, “Good point. Which means he’s likely to order its destruction without the services of the Luftwaffe. In other words: here, by us.”

“Well, then, I guess that’s what we’re going to have to do,” von Gradny-Sawz said solemnly. “Destroy it here, on the ground.”

Cranz glowered at him for a long moment but in the end did not reply directly. Instead, he turned to von Wachtstein.

“What I’m having trouble understanding, Major von Wachtstein, is why the arrival of this airplane, this whole business of Argentina getting an aircraft capable of flying across the Atlantic Ocean, came as such a surprise to you.”

“I’m not sure I understand the question, Herr Cranz,” von Wachtstein replied.

“Your mother-in-law is a member of the board of directors of South American Airways, is she not?”

“Yes, sir, she is, but—”

Cranz shut him off with a raised hand.

“And Herr Duarte, whose son died a hero at Stalingrad, and who is reliably reported—by Ambassador von Lutzenberger, now that I think about it—to have said he has come to look upon you as a son, is also a member of that board, is he not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you heard nothing of this at all from either of them? Is that what you’re saying?”

“The first I heard anything at all about what happened yesterday was wh

en Señor Duarte telephoned me to say that something was going on at the airport—SAA’s private airport, Aeropuerto Jorge Frade—at five o’clock. Duarte had no idea what, but said that Señor Frade had suggested I be invited.”

“Señor Frade suggested to Señor Duarte that you be invited?”

“That’s what I was told, sir.”

“That was very courteous of him,” Cranz said sarcastically.

“I think he wanted to rub my nose in it, Herr Cranz.”