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“You’ve heard the name,” Sam said. “Perhaps you know where to find him?”
“In regards to . . . ?”
“A relative of his. Ludwig Strassmair.”
“I’m Dietrich. I’m just not used to anyone using my given name unless it’s trouble. Definitely not in combination with my great-great-uncle’s name.” He finished pouring the beers, handing Sam one of the glasses. “What is it you want to know?”
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We heard you were a pilot,” Sam said, taking the first glass and passing it to Remi.
Dietrich laughed as he filled two other glasses with beer. “A nickname from some of my regular customers. Because of the plane painted on the front and the way it looks inside,” he said, nodding at the wooden ceiling fans shaped like plane propellers. “But you’re not here to talk about how I decorate my bar.”
“No,” Sam said as he heard the door behind them open. Light spilled in across the floor as two middle-aged men wearing cowboy hats, their faces deeply tanned, walked in. They nodded at Dietrich before their gazes flicked to Sam, Remi, and Nando, dismissing them, as they moved to the far end of the counter, sitting next to the other man seated there.
“One second,” Dietrich said, then pulled two beers, bringing them over to the men. He returned a moment later. “You were saying?”
“This uncle,” Sam replied, “what can you tell us about him?”
“Why are you asking?”
It didn’t occur to Sam until that moment how it might sound, announcing that someone’s relative was not only a Nazi war criminal but also one who had hoped to resurrect the Third Reich. Trying to be diplomatic, he said, “You’re aware of his history in the Nazi Party?”
“Unfortunately, yes. My grandfather made sure my mother knew, when she was old enough to understand, and she told me.”
“We believe Ludwig Strassmair fled from Europe to Argentina in order to resurrect the Third Reich and bring the Nazis back to power. The plan, called Operation Werewolf, was a closely guarded secret. Still protected even to this day.”
“That explains a lot.”
Not the reaction Sam was expecting. Even Remi’s brows went up at his response. “You know about Operation Werewolf?” she said.
He took a look around the bar, then lowered his voice. “It’s why I’m here. To find my great-uncle and give him a proper burial.”
“Your Uncle Strassmair?” Remi asked, surprised.
Dietrich’s expression darkened a moment. “Not that uncle,” he said. “My grandmother’s brother. My Uncle Klaus. But maybe you need to hear the whole story. Or at least what I know of it.” He glanced over at his other two customers, asking, in Spanish, if they needed anything. When they shook their heads, he directed Sam, Remi, and Nando to a table at the opposite end of the room, poured himself a beer, then took a seat with them where he could see the door and the bar.
“The short story is,” he said, “my great-grandparents fled Germany during the war to protect their middle son, Klaus, after their oldest was killed fighting the Nazis in the resistance. After the war, my great-grandmother’s brother, Ludwig Strassmair, showed up, offering to pay a good sum if Klaus would accompany him on a trip to Chile. The plane never made it. My grandfather believed it went down in the Andes Mountains, or it would have been found before now. It was after the plane was lost that people started making inquiries about what Ludwig Strassmair discussed with my great-grandfather. It’s also how I ended up here, of all places.”
“Did your grandfather know anything?” Sam asked.
“I know what he didn’t tell them. He only allowed Klaus to go with Ludwig as a paid companion. He felt guilty for taking the money, but they desperately needed it. And, of course, after the plane was lost, he suspected there was some other reason that Ludwig was taking the trip—something he didn’t know about, especially after these inquiries were made. There was no doubt in his mind that the people asking were Nazis.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “This last fact I didn’t find out until right before he died. Even my mother didn’t know. Once I was old enough, I did some digging on my own. My search eventually brought me here.”
“For what reason?”
“A number of reasons, actually. The night Klaus and Ludwig left, there was a murder at the shipping office where Ludwig worked. The newspaper reported it as a robbery, but my grandfather didn’t believe it.” He glanced over at the men at the bar, then back. “My grandfather said that the man deserved to die like the wolf he was. It wasn’t until I started researching the Nazi war criminals and read about Operation Werewolf that I realized he wasn’t speaking metaphorically. That, in turn, made me wonder about the drug runners in this area after I heard the locals referring to them as los lobos.”
“The wolves,” Sam translated. “We ran into them on the way here.”
“They have a compound in the jungle about three days west of here.”
Remi said, “I’d think this would be the last place you’d want to be.”
“I’m just the bartender. They’re so used to my presence, they tend to look right through me. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve stayed on.” He looked up at the door, then back. “I figured I might be able to turn over information about their movements to the government. My way of getting back for what happened to Klaus.”
“Rather dangerous, don’t you think?” Sam replied.
“Maybe so, but these men transport their drugs right past us on the river. The people in this village deserve better.”