Frade sipped his drink, then nodded. “Yeah. Knows about—and is involved in—Valkyrie.”
“Which makes a simple policeman like me think Gehlen doesn’t think Adolf Hitler is God’s sword against the Antichrist, and believes the best thing for Germany is to kill the bastard. Or am I wrong?”
“I think you’re absolutely right,” Clete said.
“So why did he send Möller?”
“I don’t know where you’re going,” Clete admitted.
“Möller was not lying when he told me I should understand that he considers himself a serving officer who has taken a personal oath of allegiance to Hitler,” Nervo said.
“And he made a point of telling you that. And he made a point of telling me that earlier today when we first met,” Clete thought aloud. “So what?”
“And this guy comes as a trusted assistant to Gehlen?” Nervo said. “That smells, Cletus.”
“What are you suggesting?” Clete asked.
“Well, I’m just a simple policeman, Cletus. But that phone call I made when we first came here, right after we landed?”
“What about it?”
“I told Subinspector General Nolasco to send two of my people to Santa Rosa—that’s just about in the middle of the pampas—with orders not to come back until they have the cattle robbers—”
“Rustlers,” Clete corrected him without thinking.
Nervo gave him a dirty look, then went on: “—operating down there in handcuffs. They’re good people, Cletus, but they like Nazis and don’t like Americans, and I didn’t want them around to be curious about you and Alejandro and me suddenly becoming good friends. And talking about it.”
“You think Gehlen sent Möller here to get rid of him?”
“Maybe to do both things,” Nervo said. “To set things up to bring the rest of the Abwehr Ost people here, and to get him out of the way while he works on Valkyrie. But you’re the intelligence officer. What do I know?”
What do you know? You knew about Valkyrie, didn’t you?
And you didn’t have to search your memory very hard to come up with Abwehr Ost, did you?
“You said before that both Möller and Körtig were lying. What’s Körtig lying about?”
Schultz now spoke up. “Well, for one thing, I don’t think he’s really a sergeant major.”
Frade looked at him without replying.
Schultz went on: “Clete, I’m certainly no intelligence officer. I spent all my life, from the time I was sixteen until a couple of months ago, as an enlisted sailor. But a lot—most—of that time I was a chief petty officer, and I know another senior noncommissioned officer when I see one, and Körtig ain’t one. I have the gut feeling he’s the OIC.”
“You’ll recall, el Jefe,” Frade challenged, “that I had to tell you that José Cortina, Martín’s sergeant major, is really a lieutenant colonel.”
Schultz didn’t back down.
“I’ve never seen Cortina, Clete. All I did was talk to him on the telephone—and only a couple of times. If I’d have seen him, he wouldn’t be able to pull that sergeant major bullshit on me.”
“ ‘OIC’?” Nervo asked.
“ ‘Officer-in-Charge.’ Or maybe ‘Officer-in-Command,’ ” Clete furnished.
Nervo nodded his agreement and said: “That would make some sense.”
“So you think Möller knows?” Clete asked.
“Sure he does,” Nervo said.