The Honor of Spies

I have already transferred all of the Operation Adler property in Uruguay to Herr Jorge Schenck--in other words, to me. It doesn't matter that I did so because I frankly didn't know what else to do with it. I had to take it away from von Tresmarck, and obviously I couldn't, even as fond as I am growing of Inge, risk putting it in her name.

What I will do here, right now, is take a look at the various real-estate properties owned by the former confidential fund and transfer one of them--perhaps two, but I don't want to move too quickly and draw attention to Herr Schenck--to me.

Von Deitzberg finished dressing, examined himself admiringly in the mirror, and decided the tailors in Buenos Aires were every bit as good as the ones in Berlin, the main difference being that here the tailors' shops were full of fine woolens and the ones in Berlin had either been destroyed in the bombing or were out of material, even to those with the special SS clothing ration coupons.

His mind turned back to the present: If I report to Himmler that I am taking the appropriate steps not only to recover the Operation Phoenix assets von Tresmarck stole, but to protect our assets in Argentina from disappearing by putting them in my name, he will understand. And that will give me an excuse--"It's not going as quickly as one would wish"--to stay here.

It might also serve as the reason to keep Cranz and Raschner here, so that some of the properties can be transferred to them. I am going to have to give them something, enough to keep them happy. Two birds with one stone.

He walked to the bathroom door and pushed it open. Inge, drying herself, had one foot resting on the water closet.

"Hurry it up," he said. "Schmidt's due any minute."

She smiled and wiggled her buttocks at him.

He turned and went to the window and looked down at the street.

San Martin de los Andes was really nothing more than a small village. There was hardly any vehicular traffic on the street he could see at all.

And then he saw an olive-drab Mercedes touring car coming down the road. The canvas top was down. There was a soldier driving, and two men in the backseat. The younger of them was in civilian clothing; the other was wearing an Argentine army uniform.

That has to be Oberst Schmidt.

"They're almost here," he called. "I'm going to meet them in the lobby. Get rid of your underwear before you come down."

Inge appeared in the bathroom door. Naked.

"You want me to come down without my underwear? Or do you mean get that out of sight?"

She pointed to her underwear on a chair.

"If you came down without your underwear, it would give Oberst Schmidt a heart attack," he said. "And we need him."

Von Deitzberg reached the lobby of the hotel just as el Coronel Erich Franz Schmidt of the 10th Mountain Regiment walked in from the street. The young man in civilian clothing with him, who looked like a recruiting poster for the SS, was SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer Sepp Schafer of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler.

I shall have to be very careful with that young man; not say anything at all that might be construed as defeatism.

Oberst Schmidt did not cut a very military figure. He was portly and rather short.

He looks more like a Bavarian party official--and don't those bureaucrats and clerks love to wear uniforms and boots?--than a soldier.

"El Coronel Schmidt?" von Deitzberg asked, advancing on him.

"At your service, senor," Schmidt said.

Schafer popped to attention and clicked his heels.

"I don't think clicking your heels in these circumstances is wise, Schafer," von Deitzberg said coldly.

"I beg pardon."