As an intelligent man, a warrior who had seen his share and more of combat, von und zu Aschenburg was not anxious to give his life for the German Reich. But if that was going to happen as he did his duty, he preferred that he die as a soldier, in uniform. He had not volunteered to fly back and forth over the Atlantic; he had been told he had been honored by being selected for that duty. There was no question in his mind that one day he wouldn’t make it.
It was one of the many reasons he loathed the Nazis.
He often thought,
First Officer Nabler was pointing to the tarmac. An open Mercedes, a big one, was coming out from the curved terminal building, obviously headed for them.
Two things immediately caught von und zu Aschenburg’s attention. First, that the license plate of the car incorporated the lightning flashes of the Schutzstaffel. And second, that it held a family. There was one child in front with the driver—and the driver was in an SS uniform—and two more children in back with two adults, almost certainly the parents.
Von und zu Aschenburg thought it was entirely possible that he was about to get into an argument with the man.
“I will see that our distinguished passenger is seated,” von und zu Aschenburg said, and unfastened his seat belt.
Von und zu Aschenburg went quickly through the passenger cabin and down the steps.
The man in the Mercedes was already out of the car, and the driver was taking a suitcase from the trunk.
“Captain,” the man said with an ingratiating smile. “My deepest apologies. I know how important it is for you to leave on schedule. Believe me, this couldn’t be helped.”
“It’s not a problem, sir,” von und zu Aschenburg said.
He then surprised himself by taking the suitcase from the SS driver.
“If you’ll come with me, sir, we’ll get you settled.”
Herr Karl Cranz of the Foreign Service kissed Frau Cranz and their three children good-bye, shook hands with the SS-sturmscharführer, then followed von und zu Aschenburg up the steps and into the Condor.
[TWO]
Office of the Managing Director Banco de Inglaterra y Argentina Bartolomé Mitre 300 Buenos Aires, Argentina 1205 10 July 1943
“Come in, Cletus,” Humberto Duarte said as he opened one of the pair of heavy wooden doors to his office.
Frade and Duarte embraced in the Argentine fashion, then they walked into the office, trailed by Enrico Rodríguez.
“Very nice,” Clete said, looking around the luxuriously furnished office. “I guess foreclosing on widows and orphans pays you bankers pretty good, huh? No offense.”
“None taken. And would you be offended—either of you—if I said you are splendidly turned out? Good morning, Enrico.”
Enrico nodded.
“Blame my wife,” Frade said. “She’s responsible.”
Duarte’s eyebrows rose in question as he waved Frade into a chair in front of his enormous, ornately carved desk. Enrico took a chair near the door and rested on the floor the butt of the shotgun that he concealed in his top coat.
“Our suits were my father’s,” Clete said. “In what is now my bedroom, he had a closet full of them. Right after Dorotea and I married, I showed them to her and said we really ought to give them to somebody who could use them. Most looked like he’d never worn them. She said she knew just the people who could really use them, so I told her to have at it. Two days later, an Englishman showed up, a tailor—”
“An Englishman or an Anglo-Argentine?”
“I’d guess an Anglo-Argentine. He talks like my father-in-law . . . or you. His name is Halsey.”
“I know him well,” Duarte said. “And let me guess, he stood you on a stool and took out his tape measure and a piece of chalk?”
Clete smiled and nodded. “And now Enrico and I look like advertisements in
“Has Claudia seen you wearing one?” Duarte asked.
Clete shook his head.
“Well, be sure to wear one when she invites you to dinner, which will probably be the day after tomorrow. She’ll be pleased.”
“Why, twice? Why will she be pleased, and why is she going to invite me to dinner?”
