Cranz made a
“I doubt the Standartenführer ever feels like a natural bidder for frozen cubed beef,” Boltitz said.
“I can hear one day my nephew asking, ‘And what was your most painful experience in the war, Oncle Karl?’ And I can hear me replying, ‘Standing in a freezing warehouse on the docks in Buenos Aires, leibling, trying to buy frozen cubed beef.’ ”
Boltitz chuckled dutifully.
“Did von Wachtstein tell you I wanted to go to Uruguay in the Storch?” Cranz asked.
“Yes, sir, I did,” Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein said from the office door. “If I had known you wanted to see me, sir, I would have tried—”
“No matter, von Wachtstein,” Cranz interrupted him. “You’re here. Is the Storch flyable?”
“Yes, sir. And if we leave in the next hour, we can arrive in Montevideo in time for a nice lunch at the casino in Carrasco.”
“We’re not going to Uruguay,” Cranz said.
“I had the impression, sir—”
“Impressions are often wrong, von Wachtstein.”
“Yes, sir, I suppose that’s true.”
“I tried, and apparently succeeded, von Wachtstein, to give you the erroneous impression that I wanted you to fly me to Uruguay.”
Von Wachtstein stood silently and thought,
“Doesn’t that make you curious?” Cranz went on.
“Yes, sir, it does.”
“But not enough to ask me why I would do that?”
“No, sir. I assume you had your reasons.”
“Are you a naturally curious man, von Wachtstein?”
“I think I am, sir.”
“But you never asked me about something I feel sure arouses your curiosity, ” Cranz said. “Do you take my meaning?”
“No, sir. I’m lost.”
“You were curious about the special shipment, weren’t you?” Cranz asked, smiling.
Peter felt the base of his neck tighten.
“Yes, sir, I admit that I was. Am.”
“Two weeks ago, I told you the special cargo had been loaded aboard U-BOAT 405. Weren’t you curious, von Wachtstein, about what was going to happen next?”
“Yes, sir, I was.”
“But you never asked me about that, did you?”
“No, sir. I thought you would tell me when you thought I should know.”
“Did you perhaps ask the fregattenkapitän?”
Von Wachtstein looked at Boltitz, then back to Cranz. “Yes, sir, I did.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“Essentially that I would learn about it when you decided I should know, sir.”
“Is that all you asked the fregattenkapitän?”
“The truth, sir, is that I asked Karl—”
“ ‘Karl’? Not the ‘fregattenkapitän’?”
Von Wachtstein exchanged a glance with Boltitz and decided Boltitz also had no idea where Cranz was going with his line of questioning.
“No disrespect was intended, sir,” von Wachtstein said to Cranz. “I had the privilege of the fregattenkapitän’s friendship before he became a fregattenkapitän. ”
“So you did. So what did you ask your friend the fregattenkapitän?”
“Sir, I asked him if he knew and wouldn’t tell me, or whether he didn’t know anything himself.”
“And the fregattenkapitän’s response?”
“The fregattenkapitän told me that was none of my business, sir, and that I should have known better than to have asked him something like that.”
Cranz smiled broadly and laughed.
“And indeed that’s what Karl should have told you, Hans,” he said. “But you are forgiven. And Karl didn’t know any more than you did. What he was doing was what most officers—including this one—do: give their subordinates the erroneous impression they know more than they actually do.”
Boltitz chuckled dutifully.
“It is not kind to make fun of a simple fighter pilot,” von Wachtstein said.
Cranz and Boltitz both laughed.
“Speaking of flying,” Cranz said, and motioned for von Wachtstein to come around the desk.
Von Wachtstein did. There was a map of the Argentine coast laid out on it. He saw that the map had come from the Ejército Argentino’s Topographic Service.
Cranz took a pencil from a jar on his desk and pointed at the map, to a point on the Atlantic Ocean von Wachtstein estimated to be about two hundred kilometers south of Samborombón Bay.
“If I told you I wanted you to fly me there, von Wachtstein, what would be your reply?” Cranz asked softly.
“ ‘Yes, sir, with qualifications.’ ”
“Meaning?”
“If you wanted to land there, sir, I would need somewhere I could put down the Storch.”
“And?”
“If you wanted to come back, I would need fuel. I can make it there with a comfortable margin of safety, but to get back . . .”
“A smooth field would suffice, am I correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And two hundred liters of aviation-grade gasoline? Would that be enough?”
“Yes, sir. More than enough.”
