Major von Wachtstein wasn’t sure if the act was heroic or cowardly. Or even worse, stupid. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that it would have taken more balls to stay alive and be accused of cowardice than to put a pistol in your mouth.
He flew over the old fort at the mouth of the harbor, close enough to see its battlements and ramparts and the old muzzle-loading cannon still pointing seaward, and then turned north. The altimeter showed 510 meters. He let it drop to a precise 500, then flew along the Rambla, just far enough out to sea so the black cross on the fuselage and the swastika on the vertical stabilizer couldn’t be seen by the people sitting in the sidewalk cafés along the beach.
Both he and the Storch were diplomatically accredited to the governments of both Argentina and Uruguay, and flying between the two countries was perfectly legal, but he knew there was no sense in stirring up the natives.
In five minutes, he could see the hotel and gambling casino at Carrasco, and a minute after that, the runways and hangars of the airport. He turned the nose landward, flew over the villas and small business section of Carrasco, and then to the airport on its outskirts.
As he flew over the airport to have a look at the windsock, he saw a canary-yellow 1941 Chevrolet convertible parked at the terminal building. He knew the car. It belonged to Sturmbannführer Werner von Tresmarck, who had bought it to keep Frau Ingebord von Tresmarck happy. Peter knew that Ingebord von Tresmarck, for a number of reasons, was able to get from her husband just about anything she wanted.
He wasn’t surprised to see the car. Ambassador von Lutzenberger had said he would try to let Ambassador Schulker know he was coming. As the Montevideo embassy’s security officer, von Tresmarck would be the officer Schulker would
send to meet an officer whose purpose in coming to Montevideo von Lutzenberger had been unwilling to discuss on the telephone.
As Peter taxied the Storch to the transient-aircraft ramp, two cars followed him—a 1937 Ford Fordor and the yellow convertible Chevrolet. The Ford carried uniformed Uruguayan customs and immigrations officers; in the convertible were von Tresmarck, in civilian clothing, and his wife. Peter had hoped that she wouldn’t show up at the airport, but was not surprised that she had.
Peter shut the engine down, made the necessary entries in the flight log—turning his landing at Estancia Santo Catalina into “precautionary landing at Pinamar re: compass problem”—and then climbed out of the airplane.
He peeled off the flight suit, draped it over the cockpit window, then took his suit jacket and suitcase from the backseat. He had just finished pulling his necktie into place and was shrugging into the jacket when he saw that von Tresmarck and the others had walked up to the airplane.
“Heil Hitler!” von Tresmarck said. He was in his forties and sported a neatly clipped full—à la Adolf Hitler—mustache. “How good to see you, Peter!”
Peter raised his right hand from the elbow in a sloppy return of the Nazi salute.
“Herr Sturmbannführer,” he said, and smiled at the Uruguayan officials. “Buenas tardes,” he said, and handed them his diplomatic passport and his carnet, a small card issued by the Uruguayan government to diplomats. “Frau von Tresmarck,” Peter said, smiling at her.
Ingebord von Tresmarck, a tall, slim blonde, perhaps fifteen years younger than her husband, gave him her hand. He bowed his head and clicked his heels.
“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Peter,” she said.
The taller of the two Uruguayans examined Peter’s documents perfunctorily, handed them to the other official, and said: “Welcome to Uruguay. May I ask how long you will be staying, Sir?”
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” Peter said.
The second official returned the documents to him, and both saluted and got back in their Ford.
The three Germans walked to the Chevrolet. Peter held open the passenger door for Frau von Tresmarck. After she got in, he then tried to push the seat back forward so he could climb in the back.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “There’s plenty of room in front.”
Von Tresmarck slipped behind the wheel and started the engine. “The Ambassador, Peter,” he said, “said only that you were coming.” It was a request for information.
“I have a message from Ambassador von Lutzenberger,” Peter said.
“I thought perhaps it might have something to do with…that unfortunate business last week.”
You bet your ass it does; we’re being ordered to Berlin.
“I’m sure the Herr Sturmbannführer understands that I can’t discuss the matter,” Peter said.
“Of course,” von Tresmarck said quickly. “I wasn’t trying to pry, Peter.”
“Where will I be staying, Herr Sturmbannführer?” Peter asked.
“With us, of course,” Frau von Tresmarck said. “We have plenty of room.”
Shit!
“That’s very gracious of you,” Peter said. “But I don’t want to impose.”