by Martin Gunn
“Thank you,” Slater replied and jumped off his bunk without hesitation. Picking up his coat and woolly hat he followed the sailor into the corridor. He didn’t need to be asked twice, anything for a change of scenery.
Born to Irish American parents in Hell’s Kitchen, Manhattan, New York, it became apparent whilst growing up that he had a natural aptitude for languages, and by the time of his graduation, he could speak French fluently. Plus, he had a good command of German and Spanish. His brother Liam was five years his senior and when he was killed at Pearl Harbour attempting to take off in his Curtis P-40B Tomahawk pursuit plane, Slater decided to follow in his footsteps. So, at the tender age of nineteen, immediately put himself forward for recruitment into the USAAF.
It wasn’t long however, before his talent for languages was brought to the attention of the Office of Strategic Services – America’s newly-formed intelligence agency. After intensive training he became a valuable member of the Special Operations Group within OSS and was deployed in the European theatre of war on covert operations. When in 1947 the OSS transformed into the CIA, Slater was one of their most experienced operatives. Not least due to the fact that many of his colleagues had died on active duty during the war.
The captain turned his attention to the hatch in the conning tower as he heard Slater clamber up. He smiled as Slater approached.
“It’s a nice evening,” observed the captain, “if a little chilly.”
At five feet eight inches, Slater was a little shorter than the stern-looking captain, who inwardly disapproved of his longer than normal jet-black hair. Slater didn’t care, it wasn’t that much longer and it was important that he blended in when he reached his destination. He glanced over the tower; the sea was like a mill pond, calm and peaceful. Luckily the sky was overcast so there was no moon to give their position away.
“It’s good to get some fresh air,” agreed Slater, nodding, “it’s stifling down there.”
“You get used to it,” ventured the captain.
“I don’t know about that,” replied Slater doubtfully.
“We should be off the coast of Argentina in forty-eight hours,” observed the captain with a grin, “so your confinement will soon be over.”
“Good,” replied Slater, encouraged by this news, though he did wonder whether it would be a case of out of the frying-pan and into the fire.
***
Fifty hours later, Slater was being paddled ashore in a rubber dinghy by two sailors from the submarine. The vessel had an outboard motor, but he thought it prudent to make as little noise as possible. Glancing over his shoulder, he could just about make out the silhouette of the sub in the pitch black, anchored a mile out in the San Matias Gulf off the coast of Argentina. They were close to shore and during his briefing he was told to expect to be met by a local by the name of Santino Perez. Stepping out of the dinghy as it slid up onto the sand, Slater nodded his thanks and watched as the two sailors turned and started on their way back to the sub. When he could no longer see them, Slater turned his attention to his surroundings. The bay was large and sandy, and as he made his way inland, the sand dunes became littered with clumps of grass. He made his way up the dunes to a ridge. From there Slater looked around him. All he could see was a large expanse of barren, deserted land and a dusty track which followed the coastline. There was no-one to be seen, so having little choice but to wait, he sat down in the dunes and looked out to sea, wondering whether he could make out the sub, though he knew it wouldn’t be hanging around in the gulf for long. Looking at his watch, Slater was starting to get concerned; he was due to meet his contact at 2100 hours, it was now 2130 and there was still no sign of him. Glancing to his left, he began to discern a light heading his way, gradually getter bigger. Eventually much to his relief he could hear a motorbike, its engine getting louder as it approached. The motorbike passed him as he squatted in the sand and stopped about thirty feet away. The young man dismounted from his 1948 Vincent Black Lightning and first looked out to sea, then around him. This had to be his contact, so Slater stood up to make himself known. The young man was initially startled, then relaxed as he realised that he had made contact. He walked over to the CIA agent,
“Sean Slater?” he enquired, extending his right arm.
The young Argentinian was about six feet tall, skinny with black wavy hair. Slater guessed him to be in his mid-twenties.
“You must be Santino Perez,” replied Slater.
The lad nodded, his face showing concern.
“We must get out of here before we are noticed,” he urged in a strong Spanish accent, though his English was good.
Perez put his leg over the motorbike and kick started the engine. Then he invited Slater to sit and ride pillion.
“Where are you taking me?” enquired Slater.
“I rent an apartment in San Antonio Oeste, on the northern part of the bay,” replied Perez, looking back and shouting over the engine noise, “it will take about an hour.”
The ride along the coast road was bumpy and extremely uncomfortable. Slater was glad when they got to the outskirts of the town where the road was much smoother. Eventually they pulled up at a rundown building, and Perez rode through an alleyway to the rear. They dismounted and Slater looked around him. He noticed a fire escape which worked its way in a spiral from the ground to the roof. Turning his attention to the Vincent motorcycle, Slater smiled.
“Nice machine, a friend of my mine had one, he let me ride it now and again.”
“Thanks,” replied Perez covering the bike with a tarpaulin, “it’s a little old but it still runs well.”
They walked back to the front of the building, then Perez led Slater up some steps and into his apartment. The rooms were sparse but comfortable.
“Would you like a drink?” enquired Perez, “I have beer.”
“A beer would be great,” confirmed Slater.
Perez returned from the small kitchen holding two brown bottles. He handed one to Slater, who looked at the label.
“Quilmes,” he read, “not heard of that before.”
“It’s brewed in this country. Try it – it’s good.”
Slater was thirsty, took a long swig, and then nodded his approval at Perez. The beer was indeed good.
Pulling out chairs from a dining-table, they both sat down and Slater decided to get down to business.
“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“First, I thought we could do a reconnaissance, just so you can get your bearings, and then later I will take you to meet a lady by the name of Camila Varela.”
“Good,” stated Slater, finishing his drink, “I think that we should get our heads down and start early in the morning.”
Perez agreed and showed Slater to his room. He got undressed and laid on the bed. At last, he thought, A proper room and a proper bed. Maybe I’ll get a decent night’s sleep tonight.
***
The following morning, they were up at 0800 hours. Slater, scratching his head, padded into the small kitchen to see Perez laying the table for breakfast.
“Good morning,” greeted Perez, “you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you,” confirmed Slater.
“Please take a seat,” gestured Perez.
Sitting down, Slater studied what constituted an Argentinian breakfast. Where were the eggs? Where was the bacon? All he could see were a few croissant-looking rolls. He was familiar with these from his time in France during the war. Also, there was a coffee pot and two small glasses of sparkling water.
“What’s the soda water for?”
“Just to freshen your palette after coffee,” replied Perez sitting opposite, “I have some marmalade if you like.”
“Great,” replied Slater, trying his best to sound enthusiastic.
As they started to eat, Perez looked at Slater studiously and asked,
“So, how
did the CIA get involved? My contact was with the FBI.”
“It seems that the FBI have been gathering intelligence on Nazis operating out of this country since the end of the war,” replied Slater, “and in particular, sightings of Hitler.”
Perez nodded, he was well aware of all this. He was one of the intelligence gatherers.
“The problem is,” continued Slater, “Hoover has been sitting on this intel, and doing nothing with it.”
“I know The CIA and FBI don’t share information, so how did it get into your hands?”
“You are well informed,” acknowledged Slater, impressed.
“Being well informed is what has keeps me alive,” stated Perez.
“The intel on the Hitler sightings, which interest us the most, were passed to my agency by a concerned FBI agent who thought something should be done. The problem is the Bureau rarely concern themselves with matters outside the USA, so he thought it prudent to pass the info onto us.”
“I would imagine he was taking a big risk,” mused Perez.
“You’re not kidding, if Hoover found out, he’d be in serious shit.”
Slater studied the young man in front of him, then ventured,
“What motivates you to do this? It’s dangerous work.”
A cloud seemed to descend over Santino as he recalled his sister.
“My sister, Mia, was raped and murdered by one of those monsters,” he spat with venom, “it destroyed my mother and father. The police turned a blind eye, those Nazi bastards have them in their pockets.”
“You do realise that when this is over your position here could be untenable,” stated Slater sympathetically. “Is there anywhere else you could go?”
“I have friends in Chile, I could disappear there.”
Knowing that the Nazi network extended into Chile, Slater thought that this might not be adequate. It occurred to him that Santino might be joining him on the submarine when he had completed this mission.
They finished their breakfast and Perez stood up.
“I have borrowed an old army jeep off a friend. It will make it easier to get around.”
“Good idea,” agreed Slater and disappeared into the bedroom to grab his jacket. He decided, for today, to leave his gun behind. As they walked into the street, Slater was confronted with a bright red Willy’s jeep. It occurred to him that the vehicle might be a tad conspicuous but put the thought to the back of his mind.
Perez had put more than five years into investigating and researching what he believed to be Hitler’s movements within the country. He spent the morning pointing these out to Slater, who considered the relatively dilapidated look of the area with disdain. Finally, at midday he stopped the jeep opposite a large mansion, set back from the road and bordered with metal railings.
“This is the home of the Lahusen family,” stated Perez, “very rich Nazi sympathisers. It’s alleged they had a big hand in establishing Hitler in this country. This very house may have been a refuge when he first arrived.”
“How did they make their money?”
“The wool industry,” replied Perez. “Their influence in the area cannot be over exaggerated – they even have their own bank.”
“Let’s get some lunch and discuss our next move,” proffered Slater, “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
Perez nodded and drove them to a café where they ordered lunch and coffee, then they found a table outside where they couldn’t be overheard. While they were eating, Perez dipped into his bag, pulled out a map and opened it up.
“I believe they next moved him to here,” he observed, pointing to a north-eastern part of Argentina, “a small remote complex deep in the forest of Misiones. I visited this place two years ago but couldn’t get close. It was too heavily guarded.”
“But that’s, what, 1500 miles away!” exclaimed Slater, mentally estimating the distance.
“I’m sure it would’ve only been a temporary home, until something more comfortable was found,” continued Perez, “unfortunately the trail goes cold after that.”
“And what of this woman?” enquired Slater.
“Camila Varela,” confirmed Perez, “she claims to have been taken to the safe house at Misiones to clean and undertake other menial duties.”
“We will go and see her after lunch,” he continued, “she lives in a small apartment nearby.”
Walking up the stairs to Camila Varela’s apartment later that afternoon, it became apparent that she must be struggling to make ends meet. The building was ramshackle and run down. Perez knocked on the door at the top of the stairs and eventually an old woman furtively showed her face. She was small and slight, with her silver hair tied up in a bun. Her face was wizened from years of toil and she looked tired.
“Mrs Varela?” enquired Perez.
The old lady nodded and impatiently ushered them in. Slater looked around the room, its furnishings were basic but the room was clean and tidy.
“I have brought a friend along,” continued Perez, “he is very interested in what you have to say.”
“Please sit down,” invited Camila, gesturing to some chairs, “I would offer you a drink, but I would prefer it if you were out of here as soon as possible.”
“I quite understand,” Perez assured, “if you could just tell us what you overheard, then we will be gone.”
Camila became pensive for a moment, and then spoke.
“It’s funny how when you are considered below someone’s contempt how invisible you can become,” her voice laced with derision, “I don’t know much German but I overheard Bormann talking to some of his men at Misiones.”
“Bormann’s alive!” exclaimed Slater, shocked at this news.
“What did they say?” enquired Perez trying to get back on topic.
“I heard the words ‘Führer’, ‘Bariloche’ and ‘Inalco House’ mentioned,” confirmed Camila, “I think that’s where they were taking him next.”
“I know of this house,” confirmed Perez excitedly, “I’ve a photo of it.”
“How long ago was this?” asked Slater, turning his attention back to the old lady.
“About a year ago,” replied Camila nervously, “that’s all I know, now you must go. I don’t want you to be seen here.”
“Why are you telling us this now?” enquired Slater suspiciously.
“Because I hate them and everything they stand for,” she uttered with indignation, “I saw that brute Hitler there and hate the fact that we are harbouring him.”
“Okay, we understand,” soothed Slater, trying to placate her.
He placed some money into her hand for her trouble, then the two men thanked Camila and made their way down to the jeep.
Back at Perez’s apartment they consulted the map. The Nazi hunter located Bariloche, then produced the photo. It was taken some distance away, presumably from a boat, and showed a large house set back a little from the shore and partially concealed by two small island clumps that appeared like two malignant growths on an otherwise calm lake.
“Have you got a magnifying glass?” Slater had noticed something on the right-hand side of the image.
Nodding, Perez returned with an eyepiece. Curious, he handed it to the CIA agent, who studied the photo intently.
“Look up the slope on the right, slightly hidden by trees,” declared Slater handing Perez the eyepiece, who in turn studied the picture.
“It looks like some kind of lookout tower, still under construction.”
“Exactly,” frowned Slater, “from that position they have the whole bay covered. Anyone trying to approach would be sitting ducks. When was this photo taken?”
“Oh – about five years ago,” guessed Perez, “a colleague of mine took it. He’s been missing for over two years, I’m just hoping that he’s not dead.”
They both po
red over the map, scouring the long narrow waterway which stretched from north to south.
“Look – here!” proclaimed Perez excitedly, “this must be the two islands in the photo.”
“That would put the house here,” confirmed Slater, pointing to the shore behind the islands.
“It has to be at least four hundred miles away.”
“We need to check it out,” sighed Slater, “but how?”
“I know someone with a seaplane,” Perez ventured, “perhaps we could persuade him to fly us there.”
Santino was proving to be very resourceful and Slater couldn’t help but be impressed.
“What about the Bormann sighting,” mused Perez, “do you believe her?”
“Well, like Hitler, there was no definitive identification,” mused Slater, “a body has never been found. At the Nuremburg trials several people were interviewed who were in the bunker at the time of Hitler’s death, but not one of them could say that they physically saw the body of Hitler – or Eva Brown. Their bodies were taken out wrapped in blankets to be cremated.”
Perez nodded and became pensive.
Slater sat back in his chair and thought. Then he asked,
“When can we see this pilot?”
“Tomorrow,” replied Perez succinctly.
***
During the drive out north of San Antonio Oeste in the bright red jeep the following morning, Slater looked around at the surroundings. Miles and miles of flat grassland and shrub grew for all the eye could see. Eventually a few buildings came into view, one small and one much larger. Perez turned off the road and headed straight for them. The jeep pulled up in front of the larger building that was being used as an aircraft hangar.
As they alighted from the jeep, both men noticed a slightly overweight, heavy-set man working on an amphibious biplane. He turned his head and viewed them suspiciously as they approached.
“What do you want?”
“My name is Santino Perez, and this is my friend Sean Slater,” announced Perez, “we want to hire your services.”
“Son of a gun,” exclaimed Slater, “it’s a Grumman Duck, I haven’t seen one of these in years. Where did you get it?”