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“This is Assistant Commercial Counselor Raschner.”

“He’s not available, Raschner, or he can’t be troubled talking to ordinary people?” von Deitzberg snapped.

“Who is this?” Raschner had asked. Most of the arrogance was gone from his voice, telling von Deitzberg that Raschner had recognized his voice.

Von Deitzberg hadn’t deigned to reply directly.

“I need to talk to you, and Cranz, somewhere where we won’t be seen together, without the ambassador knowing, and right now. Do not use my name or rank when you reply.”

There was only a moment’s delay.

“At the rear of the Colón Opera House, Mein Herr, is the Café Colón. We can be there in thirty minutes, if that is satisfactory, Mein Herr.”

“Weren’t you listening when I said, ‘somewhere where we won’t be seen together’?”

“What I respectfully suggest, Mein Herr, is that when you see me come into the Café Colón and then leave, you leave yourself and follow me to a place where no one will see us together.”

“Thirty minutes, Raschner,” von Deitzberg said, and hung up.

It took nearly that long for von Deitzberg to find a taxi and then be driven to the Café Colón.

He had just been served a café con crema—which came with a little cup full of solid lumps of real cream,

and a little spoon, which triggered the thoughts that Buenos Aires was really a beautiful city—indeed “The Paris of South America,” as they said—and that the Colón Opera House was larger than the opera houses in Berlin, Paris, and Vienna; and that in 1939 Argentina was said to have the largest gold reserves in the world; and that all things considered—such as that Berlin was already half destroyed and the rest would certainly soon be—Buenos Aires was a pretty nice place in which to live—when Raschner walked through the door. He looked around the café long enough to spot and be spotted by von Deitzberg and then turned and left.

Von Deitzberg decided that appreciatively drinking his café con crema was more important than jumping up to join Raschner, and did so.

When he finally left the Café Colón, he saw Raschner standing near the corner but did not at first see Cranz. His temper flared until he spotted him standing on the corner of the street diagonally across from Raschner.

When he started to walk toward Raschner, Raschner crossed the street, walked toward Cranz and then past him, taking a gravel walk that ran diagonally through a small park.

Von Deitzberg saw that Cranz was now bringing up the rear. Raschner crossed another street and then entered the lobby of a building near the corner. As von Deitzberg approached the door, he saw that the Argentine version of a concierge was holding open an elevator door, obviously waiting for von Deitzberg. When he got on the elevator and turned, he saw that Cranz was about to get on.

Not a word or a look of recognition was exchanged as the elevator rode slowly upward, nor as Raschner opened it and stepped out to put a key into one of the two doors opening on the elevator landing.

Von Deitzberg and Cranz followed Raschner into the apartment.

Raschner popped to attention, his right arm shot out, and he barked “Heil Hitler!” After a moment, Cranz repeated the gesture.

Von Deitzberg returned the greeting casually without the “Heil Hitler!”

“What is this place?” he asked.

“It is the former Frogger apartment, Herr Brigadeführer,” Cranz said.

“The name I am using is Jorge Schenck,” von Deitzberg said. “Use that only, please.”

“Jawohl, Herr Schenck,” both Cranz and Raschner said, almost in unison.

“Señor Schenck,” von Deitzberg corrected them.

“Jawohl, Señor Schenck,” they said, together.

“I want to talk about those swine,” von Deitzberg said. “But right now, I want a cup of coffee, with cream. And some sweet rolls. The voyage from Montevideo was tiring; I hardly slept, and my breakfast was inadequate.”

“There’s a café around the corner,” Cranz said. “Actually, there’s a café around every corner in Buenos Aires. But this one, the Café Flora, delivers.”

“And the telephone is still operable?”