“Herr Cranz, some men attempted to kill Frade as he was opening the gates of his house on Avenida Coronel Díaz.”
“And?”
“Frade and his bodyguard killed them. There were three of them. Frade used a shotgun and his bodyguard a pistol.”
This was not what Cranz hoped to hear.
“Frade was not injured?”
“No, sir. Neither he nor his bodyguard.”
“And the men who did this: You think they all died?”
“Yes, sir. They were all dead.”
Well, there’s the silver lining in the dark cloud. If they’re dead, the police can’t tie me or Raschner to this.
“You did very well, Günther,” Cranz said. “There’s one more thing I want you to do. Go to Herr Raschner’s apartment and tell him—and absolutely no one, no one, else—what you just told me.”
SS-SD-Sturmbannführer Erich Raschner, his “deputy commercial attaché,” had organized the hit for Cranz.
“Jawohl, Herr Cranz.”
“And send Fräulein Hässell back in here, will you, please, on your way out?”
“Jawohl, Herr Cranz,” Loche barked. He gave Cranz the straight-armed Nazi salute, barked “Heil Hitler!” did an about-face, and marched to the door.
Cranz shook his head and waited for Fräulein Hässell to reappear.
When she had, he said, “Please set up a meeting for eight-thirty tomorrow morning between the ambassador, Herr Gradny-Sawz, Kapitän zur See Boltitz, and myself.”
Fräulein Hässell nodded.
“Please ask the ambassador if we might use his office. And tell Herr Raschner to make sure that he inspects the ambassador’s office for listening devices.”
She nodded again.
He smiled warmly at her. “And now where were we, Fräulein Ingeborg, when we were so rudely interrupted?”
[FOUR]
1728 Avenida Coronel Díaz
Palermo, Buenos Aires
1705 12 August 1943
Police of varying ranks had come to the scene, but the interrogation of Frade and Rodríguez had been stopped by a telephone call from the Bureau of Internal Security, which announced it was taking over the investigation and that el Coronel Martín was en route.
When Martín arrived at the mansion ten minutes later, he found two policemen guarding the door of the library, and Frade and Rodríguez inside. Frade was sitting in an armchair with a glass in his hand and a bottle of Johnnie Walker on the low table in front of him.
“Alejandro, what a pleasant surprise,” Frade said. “But we’re going to have to stop meeting this way; otherwise people will talk.”
Martín had not been amused when Frade had said it before, and he was not amused this time either.
“What happened?” Martín asked.
“Enrico was opening the gate when people started to shoot at us,” Frade said. “Who the hell are they? Were they?”