by James Remmer
‘A small village north of Schwerin.’
‘Ah, Schwerin, seat of the ducal Court of Mecklenburg… until the end of the Great War, that is… and you’re an attaché at the German Embassy in Buenos Aires?’
‘Second Secretary, actually.’
‘Your first time out of Germany?’
‘With the Diplomatic Corps, yes.’
‘And what are your immediate impressions of Argentina?’
‘It’s a wonderful country. I like it very much.’
‘Good, I’m pleased to hear it.’ Vidal moved a little closer. ‘Mark my words,’ he muttered, ‘it’s going to get much better. One day it will be the equal of Germany.’
‘Have you visited Germany?’ enquired von Menen, knowing fine well that he had.
‘Yes, in 1935. I spent twelve months there; a kind of military fact-finding mission, if you like.’
‘You were impressed?’
‘Very. I came back with lots of new and interesting ideas.’
‘That’s very reassuring.’
‘And you, Carl? Ever do any soldiering?’
‘Yes, I served with the 8th Infantry Regiment.’
‘Interesting,’ mused Vidal. ‘Used to be commanded by Erwin von Witzleben, now one of your illustrious field marshals.’
‘Seems you know quite a lot about the German army, Filipe.’
‘It’s a passion of mine. I hold the German army in very high esteem,’ enthused Vidal.
The rarity I’ve been praying for?
They drifted towards the far side of the room, a swastika blazing eagerly in each of Vidal’s eyes. ‘Would you mind if we had a more meaningful talk, Carl?’ he asked, ushering von Menen into the seclusion of the library.
‘Of course not.’
‘Splendid.’
Vidal cast a furtive glance around and pushed the door closed. ‘Look,’ he said, laying a friendly hand on von Menen’s arm, ‘I’d like you to know, Carl, that I have a great deal of respect and admiration for Germany’s achievements. I and many of my colleagues find the current trend in your country very appealing. There’s a lot we can learn from Germany.’ He fixed a wary eye on the door and shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, Maria’s father doesn’t share my sentiments. He’s a nice enough man, but politically, he’s completely out of touch. And from the military point of view, well,’ Vidal shrugged and chuckled, ‘he’s got no idea at all.’
‘I don’t know where all this is leading, Filipe, but I’m afraid military matters in Germany are not my concern. I’m sure you appreciate that.’
‘Of course I do, but it’s not the military side of things I find important, not at the moment anyway. I’m more concerned with what drives the ideology, you know, the strategy, the general scheme of things.’ He walked over to the window, hands behind his back, stopped and turned. ‘When Hitler came to power, Germany was all but on her knees, but look at her now… the most triumphant army the world has seen, occupying, or influencing, practically the whole of Europe. She controls virtually every square mile of the North Atlantic and now she’s in the process of colonising Russia. And to think, Hitler has achieved all of that in less than nine years! How?’
‘Perhaps you should read the Führer’s book, Mein Kampf,’ suggested von Menen, hiding his cynicism.
‘I have, several times, but rather than read, I’d prefer to learn, from someone who has a genuine feel for the wider, conceptual scheme of things, someone who understands the… shall we say… long-term plan of the German leadership?’
‘Surely you don’t mean me?’ said von Menen, pointing a finger at himself.
‘Why not? You know what’s going on in Germany.’
‘Of course I do, and I’m happy to discuss the events as I see them, but you must understand I am not party to any wide-reaching ideas that the German leadership may, or may not, have.’
‘Yes, yes; but we shouldn’t suppose that we can’t mix and match a little, you know, meet now and again, exchange views and opinions.’
‘Well, I’d certainly have no objection to that.’
Vidal moved towards the door, then paused. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘But I think we should keep our little arrangement to ourselves. It would be most unwise of you to call me at the Ministry.’
Von Menen’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. ‘The… Ministry?’ he ventured.
‘Yes, the War Ministry… It would be prudent if my brother-in-law didn’t know about our meetings, either. Don’t you think?’
‘In that case, maybe Maria should remain unawares, too.’
‘Fond of her, are you?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
‘In that case, let’s keep it between the two of us. I’ll have a messenger deliver a personal note to you at the Embassy.’
‘And if I’m not there?’
Vidal smiled. ‘Simple; he’ll keep trying until you are.’
Von Menen returned to Buenos Aires the following Tuesday, feeling like the cat who’d just eaten the cream and was only a whisker away from catching the fattest pigeon in the park. His relationship with Maria was assured, her parents had accepted him and Colonel Filipe Vidal seemed the needle in the haystack he’d thought he would never find.
His immediate concern now was his need to establish a “safe” house. ‘Rent or buy, it doesn’t matter. Just make sure that nobody knows about it, not even the Ambassador.’ Werner’s directive had been playing on his mind since the moment he’d set foot in Argentina, von Menen’s disquiet heightening daily by the systematic vigilance of the Policia de la Capital, a lack of personal transport, the “scent” of Jost and the seemingly unfathomable question of – where?
Buenos Aires was a big city with fine thoroughfares and grand boulevards, but elsewhere in Argentina it was very different. Autobahns did not exist, paved highways were scarce and metalled secondary roads were as rare as sheep with wings, as he’d discovered to the base of his jolted spine along the daunting washboard dirt roads of rural Córdoba.
His search began at a bookstore on Florida.
‘Going somewhere interesting, señor?’ asked the young assistant.
‘Perhaps,’ replied von Menen, unfolding a linen-backed map he’d plucked from a shelf in the “travel” section. ‘This road,’ he said, leading the young man’s eye along a bold red line stretching from Buenos Aires. ‘Is it paved?’
‘All the way to the coast, señor.’
‘And this one?’ enquired von Menen, his finger on a thin black line.
‘A dirt road, señor.’
‘Passable by car?’
‘Sometimes, depends on the weather… After a heavy downpour, it turns into glutinous mud, and when that happens you have to take the coach. But it’s been fairly dry recently, so you might be lucky.’
‘You seem to know the area well.’
‘My grandfather lives nearby.’
‘Hotels?’
‘Some. But don’t expect too much.’
The next day, von Menen found a letter waiting for him at the Banco de la Nación.
My apologies, Carl, but I must postpone our next meeting – I’m needed at the University of La Plata.
Keep in touch. Franz.
Von Menen headed home, stopping at the vendor by the Hotel Plaza to buy an armful of newspapers, hoping that one of them might hold at least part of the solution to his “safe house” quandary.
Flicking through the newspapers in the safety of his apartment, the classified pages of the Buenos Aires Herald held a glimmer of hope:
Ford T 79 shooting brake. $750. Must sell. Owner returning to US. Please ring…
He got up and looked through the window. The Studebaker was back, parked overtly in Arenales. Von Menen cursed at its presence and cursed further at the hazy s
ilhouette beyond it. He fetched out his Zeiss binoculars, scanned the fringes of Plaza San Martín and sharpened up the image as the focus converged on the equestrian statue of General San Martín – a fat cigar, a slight frame and straw-coloured hair. Jost was “on duty” and he was as obvious as a Mexican red-headed parrot in Svalbard.
Von Menen’s doubts were stacking up, his meeting with Schröder at Il Pellicano and the professor’s suspicions playing heavily on his mind. Perhaps it hadn’t been the police outside the restaurant after all. Maybe he had been followed, by someone much smarter than he’d thought – Jost!
His thoughts turned to the handwritten note he’d collected from the Banco de la Nación, wondering if someone else had written it, knowing that he had nothing to compare it with; the scribbled note bearing the address of Il Pellicano which Schröder had given him on their first meeting long since burned in the kitchen sink.
An anxiety hung deep in his stomach. Had Schröder really gone to La Plata?
Grabbing a wad of dollars from the safe at the rear of the wardrobe, von Menen raced down the staircase, fled the block by the tradesmen’s entrance and headed straight for the telephone kiosk in the lobby of the Phoenix Hotel.
‘Faculty of Law, University of Buenos Aires.’
‘Sorry to bother you,’ said von Menen, ‘but I’ve missed a tutorial and I have a problem with some revision. Professor Schröder wouldn’t happen to be around, would he?’
‘Afraid not. He left for a meeting at the University of La Plata this morning and won’t be back until next Monday.’
Drained and exhausted, von Menen almost slid to the floor with relief. Gathering his thoughts, he rang off, then called the number he’d taken from the Buenos Aires Herald.
Two hours and $750 later, a friendly and relieved American handed von Menen the keys to a black Ford T79 shooting brake.
Von Menen turned out the lights and peered through the curtains. It had rained during the early hours, a full moon reflecting an eerie sheen across the silent streets of Buenos Aires. There was no sign of the Studebaker and it pleased him to think that there’d been no sign of it for the last forty-eight hours. He picked up his bag, crept slowly down the stairs and set off at a brisk pace along Esmeralda.
Fifteen minutes later, the black station wagon edged up the ramp from the parking lot, nosed into North Alem and headed for the southern reaches of the city.
Downtown Buenos Aires was still sleeping, but as von Menen crossed the Riachuelo River, the slaughterhouses and meat-packing factories of Avellaneda were at full tilt, throbbing to the tune of despair and misery. He grimaced at the sight of it, stamped on the throttle and left the poverty and stench behind him.
After three days of searching, a chance conversation led von Menen to a holiday cottage 300 kilometres from Buenos Aires and a short drive from the ocean. The cottage was a short distance from the main compound of a large estancia, the location of which was remote. There was no electricity, but the transceiver could be powered by a six-volt car battery.
The manager, a likeable man, explained that the owners, Señor and Señora Braganza, spent much of their time in Buenos Aires. They had been trying to let the place for months. It was copiously furnished, had a fully-equipped kitchen, and linen could be provided at extra cost. Von Menen agreed on a renewable six-month lease and drove back to Buenos Aires.
Two days later, he returned to the cottage and unpacked the necessities. He adjourned to the drawing room, lit a roaring log fire and settled down to encrypt his message, recalling what Werner had told him: ‘No extraneous rubbish. And remember the security code.’
Darkness closed in, the minutes ticking by, a fierce wind gusting through the trees. When the clock struck ten, von Menen closed the curtains, lit three oil lamps and took two of them upstairs, returning to fetch the radio and the six-volt battery he’d bought from a garage in Buenos Aires. Connecting the battery, he bailed out the antenna, fixed it around the picture rail, tuned in the aerial and watched excitedly as the needle on the aerial current meter flicked to full power.
His message was waiting beside the “send” key. He was waiting, too, listening to the strange gurgling sound of the hot water system, eyes riveted to his watch, the luminous minute hand almost talking to him. As it nudged towards the full hour, 23h00, he reached for the Morse key, not forgetting the security code.
Attention… General Call… This is MEC9… End of Transmission… Go Ahead.
Switching to the listening section, he swept for a response, ears straining for the faintest bleep. Nothing. He tried a second time, a third, a fourth and then…
At the German Foreign Office’s wireless relay station in Madrid, Albert Falk was in his sixth hour of duty when suddenly his hearing sharpened, his eyes narrowed and his pencil began dancing to the strained Morse bleeps of MEC9.
A moment later, relief swept across von Menen’s face, the feeble staccato sound of his own call sign singing in his ears. Albert Falk was “talking” to him.
Joy o’joy, the miracle of Samuel Morse.
Von Menen’s encrypted message was clear and concise:
SAFE HOUSE ESTABLISHED.
AKROBAT
By midnight, the transceiver and the rest of the radio equipment was lying beneath the kitchen floorboards, the encrypted message and expended one-time pad consigned to the fire.
The next day, von Menen was back in Buenos Aires, the shooting brake hidden in the basement lot on North Alem. The car and the cottage would remain an eternal secret. No one, not even Maria, would ever know about them.
6
The Embassy’s receptionist sounded very uneasy.
‘My apologies, Herr von Menen, but there’s a boy downstairs, says he must speak to you urgently, something about a letter. I did try—’
‘That’s okay, Ilsa, I’ll be right down.’
A young man in a reddish-purple tunic and matching pork pie hat was waiting in the foyer.
‘Looking for me?’ asked von Menen.
‘Si, señor, the man who looks like a boxer.’ Von Menen smiled as the young man handed him an envelope. ‘The señor at the Alvear Palace Hotel said to give it to no one but you.’
The note was short and precise:
Meet me at Café Tortoni, nine o’clock tonight. Use the entrance on Avenida 25 de Mayo and go straight to the last private alcove on the left, past the main bar. F.V.
Café Tortoni was pure Buenos Aires: lively and noisy, an ambience of marble columns, dark wood panels, elaborate mirrors, faded theatre-red, and the evocative sound of the tango, riding on a haze of tobacco smoke and loud conversation.
Von Menen found the alcove, tapped on the panel at the side and peeked through the curtain. Vidal was alone, immaculate in a sombre grey suit.
‘Welcome, Carl. Please, take a seat.’
Von Menen’s eyes fell upon the bottle of Dom Pérignon sprouting from an ice bucket.
‘Join me?’ asked Vidal, nodding at the bottle.
‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’
Vidal charged two glasses, watched the foam disperse and smiled as the bubbles swam to the surface. ‘Cheers, Carl… Champagne of the Greater German Reich.’
‘Greater German Reich?’
‘Joke of mine – you know, Germany’s defeat of France? Anyway, please excuse the manner in which I got you here, but this city is full of people who not only aspire to being English, but actually think they are English. It’s the same throughout Argentina.’
‘You’re referring to your brother-in-law?’
‘Not necessarily, but since you mentioned it, Javier does like everything British… The House of Windsor, Winston Churchill, the whole damn gamut.’
‘Whereas you…?’
‘Despise them?’ Vidal shook his head, his curious gaze softening to a weak smile. ‘A man shoul
d never bear hatred, Carl. Even if he does, he should never avow to it. Besides, we Argentinians have a great deal to thank the British for: commerce, banks, railroads, electric power, water… everything.’
‘But I suspect that you’d like to have a great deal to thank Germany for, too.’ Vidal’s sardonic chuckle incited von Menen further. ‘Well, wouldn’t you?’
‘Eventually I hope we’ll have every reason to thank Germany. This time next year, perhaps there won’t be a Britain to be thankful to.’
‘You think it will come to that?’
‘I’d say it’s a distinct possibility. Britain might be consoled by the thought of Germany’s apparent inactivity in Western Europe, but when Hitler is done with Russia, well, then it will be different. Anyway, we can talk about that later. For the moment, I’d like to be assured that you’re enjoying your stay here.’
‘Yes, very much.’
‘Especially now that you can move around more freely?’
The question sent a tingle up von Menen’s spine. The car? The cottage? ‘What do you mean, “more freely”?’
Vidal leaned forward, his finger beckoning von Menen’s ear. ‘Your two companions, in the blue Studebaker,’ he said. ‘This is Argentina, Carl. I’m a full colonel. I have influence. Besides, I want this little arrangement of ours to remain strictly private.’
‘It’s helpful that you should have such influence,’ said von Menen, hiding his surprise. ‘Being watched is one thing, being followed is positively predatory.’
The noise grew louder, the smoke denser, Vidal revealing a discerning, imaginative character: serious, but not lacking in humour. When he was serious, his voice sparkled with calculated reasoning, forceful ambition and strong opinion. When he was humorous, he was clever with it and while he was anything but self-effacing, he was not the egotist von Menen had labelled him following their meeting at the Gomez ranch.
But his obsession for all things German was infinite, his fanaticism passionate. Like Hitler, he wanted a regime of unfailing loyalty and unquestioned obedience, though strangely enough, he did not share Hitler’s obsession for the persecution of the Jews.