The others followed suit. Hauptmann Hans-Peter von Wachtstein looked toward the door. A uniformed guard was leading a tall, dark-haired, and dark-skinned man in a business suit across the marble-floored reception area toward them.
Von Ruppersdorf took a few steps forward, smiled, and put out his hand.
“Buenas tardes, mi Coronel,” he said.
Von Ruppersdorf’s Spanish, Peter had learned three quarters of an hour before, was impeccable. He had served for three years at the Embassy in Buenos Aires, he informed Peter then.
The tall, dark-skinned man smiled, showing a handsome set of teeth, and shook von Ruppersdorf’s hand.
“Colonel Perón, may I present Brigadeführer von Neibermann, Oberst Susser, and Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein?” von Ruppersdorf said. “Gentlemen, Colonel Juan Domingo Perón, of the Argentine Embassy.”
Perón shook hands with each of them in turn. He seemed to look askance at Peter, which Peter felt was understandable.
Despite my new shoes and pressed pants, compared to these three, I look like a bum.
Von Ruppersdorf was wearing a morning coat, Brigadeführer von Neibermann was wearing an SS dress uniform, complete to dagger suspended from a silver brocade belt, and Colonel Susser was in the prescribed Luftwaffe walking-out uniform. Peter was wearing a leather uniform jacket which showed signs of having spent some time in a cockpit.
Another usher appeared, carrying five glasses of champagne on a tray. One by one the men took a glass.
“The late Captain Jorge Alejandro Duarte,” Brigadeführer von Neibermann said, raising his glass.
He mispronounced every other syllable, Peter noticed, despite the coaching he’d been given by von Ruppersdorf before they came into the reception room.
“Hear, hear,” Colonel Susser said.
“A tragic loss,” von Ruppersdorf said.
“El Capitán Duarte,” Peter said, raising his glass and then taking a sip.
Not bad, Peter thought. German Sekt, of course, not as good as French champagne, but the Foreign Ministry of the German Reich certainly could not serve French champagne in its reception room.
He was more than a little hung over and as dry as a bone, and had to resist the temptation to drain his glass and hold it up for another. He sensed Colonel Juan Domingo Perón’s eyes on him.
“I would like to apologize for my appearance, mi Coronel,” Peter said. “When I was summoned to Berlin, I had no idea it was to take lunch with a distinguished foreign statesman.”
“I’m not a ‘distinguished statesman,’ Captain,” Perón said with a smile. “Like you, I am a soldier. I am here to learn something about your social services. And if I was looking closely at you, it was to see if that is indeed the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross.”
“Hauptmann Freiherr von Wachtstein received that decoration from the hands of the Führer himself,” Brigadeführer von Neibermann gushed.
“Where did you learn your Spanish, Captain?” Colonel Perón asked Peter, ignoring von Neibermann. “You speak it extraordinarily well.”
“In school, mi Coronel,” Peter replied, “and then I served in Spain.”
“With the Condor Legion,” Brigadeführer von Neibermann furnished.
“You will have no trouble making yourself understood in Argentina, Captain,” Perón said.
“You think the Freiherr would be suitable, then, for the sad duty of escorting the remains of Captain Duarte, mi Coronel?” von Ruppersdorf asked.
“I should think that Captain Duarte’s family—we are acquainted—would be honored that such a distinguished officer would be spared from his duties for the task,” Perón said.
“It is a token of the respect of the government of the German Reich for Captain Duarte,” von Ruppersdorf said. “His loss is deeply regretted.”
“We feel that Captain Duarte fell for the Fatherland,” Brigadeführer von Neibermann said solemnly. “That he was one of us.”
Perón looked at him. Peter saw the sudden hardness in his eyes.
That was going a bit too far, Herr Brigadeführer.