Page 241

“He gave me one, too, General,” Fischer said. “For the same reason.”

Nervo’s eyebrow rose, but he didn’t say anything.

“Where’s the other German?” Martín asked.

“Well, I didn’t give that Nazi sonofabitch a pistol,” Frade replied. “If I did, once he finds out—if he doesn’t already know—how my grape expert rides around with the Valkyries, he would be duty bound to use it on him. I’ve got him under sort of house arrest; I don’t know what the hell else to do with him.”

“Just don’t let him get loose,” Nervo said.

“I hope he doesn’t try to get away. I told him if he or his wife tried, I’d shoot both of them. I don’t want him calling my bluff.”

Nervo looked as if he was about to reply, then stopped and said: “I was telling you about the dinner party Schmidt gave for some of his officers and the Schencks. According to Martín’s guy, they toasted El Presidente, and then the Führer, as Schmidt stood before the Argentine flag and a swastika. . . .”

“What did you say about von Deitzberg accusing me of ordering my father’s murder?”

“Señor Schenck gave a little speech, winding it up with saying what great pleasure it was going to give him to do his duty executing not only the Froggers and Sturmbannführer von Tresmarck for treason, but also the even more despicable Milton Leibermann for encouraging the Froggers to desert, and the most despicable of all, the evil Don Cletus Frade, who, when he failed to turn his father into a traitor, ordered his murder and promptly placed all Frade assets in the hands of international Jewry.”

“That’s absolutely disgusting!” Doña Dorotea exclaimed. “They believed that?”

“Everybody but Martín’s guy,” Nervo said.

“Are you going to warn Leibermann?” Clete asked.

“For the foreseeable future, Milton is going to be under close BIS surveillance to make sure he does nothing against the interests of the Argentine Republic,” Martín said, and chuckled, and added, “And just as soon as I get back to Buenos Aires, I’ll explain to him what it’s all about.”

“Tell him what you told me,” Nervo said, and then went on without giving Martín a chance to reply: “He said it would be good training for his agents; that Señor Milton is better at escaping from surveillance than anyone he’s ever known.”

“You think von Deitzberg will try to assassinate Leibermann?” Clete asked.

“Actually, no. He’d have to do it in Buenos Aires, either himself or using some German from the embassy. I really don’t think our assassination professionals would be available. Both Martín and I have gotten the word to them that the season on Americans is closed. And you and Enrico removed three of the best of them from their rolls.

“But is von Deitzberg going to try to assassinate you and the Froggers? Oh, yes. Even if he has to do it himself. When he went to Bariloche, he took with him the SS officer in charge of the SS people who were on the submarine. In private conversation after the dinner, Martín’s guy said von Deitzberg was talking about the similarities between ‘rescuing’ someone from Casa Montagna and the rescue of Mussolini from that mountain in Italy. He said the SS officer—his name is Schäfer, Hauptsturmführer Sepp Schäfer—had gleams of glory in his eyes. He sees a chance for him to become the Otto Skorzeny of South America. What I think Schäfer is going to do is reconnoiter this place.”

“If he does, can I shoot him?”

“I’m just a simple . . .”

“Yeah, I know. Señor Simple Policeman. Answer the question.”

“They would just send somebody else. If you don’t shoot him, then they will think they will have the element of surprise.”

“And they won’t?”

“It’s about fifteen hundred kilometers from San Martín to here,” Nervo said. “The rule of thumb for a motor convoy is an average of thirty-five kilometers per hour. That’s about forty-three hours. Even pushing—say they try to drive fourteen hours a day—that’s three days . . .”

“Gee, I didn’t know simple policemen could do that kind of figuring in their heads,” Clete said.

Nervo smiled and shook his head. “. . . and what Martín and I have been doing is arranging to stretch that time a little. The convoy is going to have to take detours along primitive roads; they will have to wait while bridge repairs are accomplished. They may even find that twenty-kilo barrels of nails have been spilled onto the roads at various places by careless carpenters, requiring the time-consuming repair of truck tires. . . .”

“Oh, mi general, you’re evil!” Clete said.

“Thank you. Coming from a patricidal assassin such as yourself, I consider that a great compliment.”

“I can’t believe you two!” Martín said.

“Neither can I,” Doña Dorotea said.