by James Remmer
All Jost wanted was air and at that very moment he would have betrayed even Hitler for one last gasp of it. His evil, narrow eyes, wider than they’d ever been in his entire life, rolled slowly heavenwards, his struggling ceased and his body went limp. The hushed siren of death had beckoned. Von Menen stepped back and sank to his knees, Jost wilting to the floor, inert and lifeless.
Von Menen stared at the locked compartment door, asking himself if Jost had been alone and praying that what von Bauer had told him, almost three years ago, was true: ‘Works independently, doesn’t trust anyone and shuns camaraderie.’
Convinced or not, von Menen had to get rid of the body. Checking his watch, he calculated that the train had already passed through San Francisco and would soon be approaching the wide open spaces south of Laguna Mar Chiquita. He doused the light, eased up the privacy blind and peered through the window. Outside, the night was a wilderness of raven black, moonless, skyless and groundless, with no hint of the horizon.
Von Menen pulled down the blind, switched on the light and began the gruesome task of removing Jost’s clothes and personal effects. Allowing him the dignity of his “Fabricado en Argentina” underwear, he removed all else, including a watch and cheap ruby ring. He checked the entire body for tattoos, but found none.
Switching out the light, he lowered the carriage window, hoisted the body to its feet, heaved it onto his shoulders and fed it, head first, through the open window, like an ox shedding its yoke. Jost slipped silently into the night.
Von Menen did not know it, but at that very moment the train was passing over an elevated section of track, the body plunging down the incline and rolling to a halt at the edge of a thicket. Come dawn, the giant caracaras would be on the wing, scenting for breakfast. An hour after sunrise, Jost’s remains would be nothing more than picked bones.Dazed with exhaustion, von Menen slumped to the floor and rested awhile. Then he gathered up the clothes, the watch, the ring and the gun and stuffed them into Jost’s overnight case, knowing that he had to get rid of them.
When the train pulled in at Alta Córdoba, von Menen made for the station buffet, resolved that he would not go to the Gomez estancia after all. Jost was dead. There was no need to hide. He took a taxi to the city centre, bought a new bag, put Jost’s bag inside it, and returned to Córdoba Central Station in time to catch the daytime Pullman service back to Buenos Aires.
On Tuesday morning, he telephoned the Hospital de Urgencias at Córdoba and left a message for Maria’s father, cancelling his proposed visit. That same afternoon, he left Buenos Aires for the safe house.
By ten o’clock the next morning, Jost’s clothes were nothing more than a smouldering pile of ashes, the Beretta, watch and cheap ruby ring at the bottom of the River Plate.
Jost’s “disappearance” sparked little interest amongst his colleagues, especially Müller, who was interviewed at some length by the Ambassador.
Von Menen, meanwhile, stuck with the general consensus. ‘Evidently, he was a bit of a womaniser, sir… Been venturing south of the city for his pleasures, so I understand. Perhaps he’d ruffled the feathers of one irate husband too many. In La Boca and Avellaneda they have their own way of dealing with such matters.’
*
The Alvear Palace Hotel was scarcely eleven years old, yet the private dining room of the Presidential suite, with its soft shades of peach, russet and oyster, was the unequivocal reflection of timeless luxury: tulip wood furniture, gilded bronze mounts, neo-classical paintings and an exquisite Aubusson carpet that even the lavish and egocentric Marie Antoinette would have killed for.
Vidal was at his courtly, elegant best – sparkling black shoes, glistening black hair, a dinner suit with satin lapels and a crisp white shirt fastened with jet-stone buttons that winked in the light of a huge candelabra.
‘Forgive the presumption, Carl, but I’ve already ordered for you – oysters, poisson and crème brûlée; my usual champagne, an elegant Puligny-Montrachet and for a lazy conclusion, a fine Madeira. I do hope you approve.’
‘Sounds very nice.’
Vidal beckoned the waiter. ‘Please serve the first course, Luis, after which, you may leave. I’ll call you when I need you.’
The waiter drifted across the room, served the oysters and departed, secreting his gratuity with all the artistry of a magician. Vidal waited a moment, checked the door leading to the anteroom and locked it.
‘Well, Carl,’ he said, returning to the table. ‘Good of you to come at such short notice.’
‘Your note did express a degree of urgency, Filipe.’
‘Yes, I’ve a very important announcement to make. I am about to…’ Vidal paused, flicked open the lid of his cigarette case and snapped it shut again.
‘About to what, Filipe?’
‘Disclose to you something of the utmost secrecy, something I want you to communicate to your friends in Berlin. Under no circumstances are you to divulge it to anyone else, not even the Ambassador.’ He paused, a hint of conniving in his eyes. ‘I trust you can do that – I mean, you must have your own ciphers.’
‘Er…’
‘Carl, please,’ insisted Vidal, ‘this is no time for German subterfuge. The future of Argentina depends on it.’
‘Well, if it’s that important, I’m sure I could arrange something.’
‘Good, now we can proceed.’ Vidal inched his chair nearer the table. ‘As you know,’ he whispered, ‘President Castillo has endorsed the National Democratic Party’s nomination of Robustiano Costas as the next President.’
‘And he will be appointed. It’s inevitable, isn’t it?’
Vidal smiled. ‘My dear Carl, the word “inevitable” has no place in Argentine politics. Costas is a very wealthy land-owner and a committed Anglophile. His views are immeasurably at odds with the GOU. Believe me, his appointment would not, shall I say, be good for Argentina? It would not be good for Germany, either. By the end of next week, Argentina will have a new President, but it will not be Costas.’
Von Menen’s neck shot out from his shoulders, his voice low. ‘Filipe, are you saying that there’s going to be a coup, a revolution?’
‘That’s precisely what I’m saying. Come 4th June, the military will be in full control. Take my advice: a week tomorrow, keep off the streets of Buenos Aires.’
‘But if Costas isn’t going to be the new President, then…’
A smile broadened across Vidal’s face. ‘Some think it will be General Arturo Rawson. Even Rawson thinks so,’ he chuckled; ‘but I can tell you with absolute certainty that he will not. There’s an element of uncertainty about Rawson, you see. One minute he’s this and the next minute he’s that.’ The words almost sang from his lips. ‘The only real certainty about Rawson is that he’s in favour of this United Nations business, you know, “let’s all sit around a big table and agree to everything the Americans want”. He thinks Argentina should join. Not a chance. If we go down that route, the Americans will demand that we relinquish our stance on neutrality and that would be a complete disaster, not just for Argentina, but for Germany, too. Anyway, it’s all rather academic… The GOU would never allow it.’
‘Even at the expense of Argentina being barred from membership of the United Nations?’
‘Even that,’ replied Vidal, forcefully. ‘Neither our membership of the United Nations, nor the reversal of our policy on neutrality, will usurp Brazil’s position as America’s most favoured ally in South America.’
‘Meaning Argentina would have forfeited her prestige for nothing,’ suggested von Menen.
‘Exactly; leaving the Brazilians laughing all the way to the United States Federal Reserve Bank. You see, Carl, we don’t want a close relationship with the Americans, but we don’t want Brazil to have one either. Anyway, we’re losing the main thread of the debate, which is: we, the GOU, will decide who the next pres
ident of Argentina will be, not the Americans.’ Vidal countenanced a look that disposed von Menen to thinking that he was entirely privy to the precise order of play. ‘Carl,’ he said, pausing to glance at the locked door, ‘the next President of Argentina will be…’
Von Menen’s eyes were almost out of their sockets.
‘…General Pedro Ramírez.’ Vidal winked, reached across the table and patted the back of von Menen’s hand. ‘You see, Carl, where Germany is concerned, you have absolutely nothing to worry about.’
It was a little after midnight. Dinner was over and the small talk had finished. Von Menen made to his feet and was about to leave. ‘Oh, nearly forgot,’ said Vidal. ‘I hear you’re one down at the Embassy.’
‘One down?’
‘Yes, a fellow called Jost, the Gestapo attaché. Hasn’t been seen for over a month, so I’m told.’
Von Menen’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Er… yes, that’s right. Bit of a mystery, really.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘I knew of him, but I wouldn’t say I knew him, as such.’
‘Any idea what might have become of him? I mean, do you think he’s defected?’
‘Defected? No, some reckon his fate was a little more final than that.’
‘Meaning?’
‘He was a philanderer, having an affair with a married, fiery Italian woman – down in La Boca, so rumour has it.’
‘Naughty, naughty. He’s probably in bits and pieces at the bottom of the River Plate by now.’
‘Perhaps. Anyway, why do you ask?’
‘I’m merely curious, Carl, that’s all.’
I wonder.
Von Menen left for the safe house the very next morning. At eleven o’clock that evening, his encrypted signal was whizzing through the ether.
*
In Berlin, Günther Werner, a thick red folder beneath his arm, looked tired and worn.
‘Have we received confirmation from any other source?’ enquired a jubilant von Ribbentrop.
‘No, Minister, this is the very first we’ve heard of it.’
‘You’re saying that there’s been no word from the Abwehr or the SD, no word from anyone, other than von Menen?’
Werner shook his head. ‘Nothing, Minister, but that doesn’t surprise me. If I’m correct in my assumption, von Menen’s information is from his usual high-grade source, a reliable and well-placed informant who still wishes to remain anonymous. Von Menen has always respected that.’ Werner hunched his shoulders, held out his hands. ‘He’s never been wrong before Minister, not once.’
‘I don’t care if the source is a horseless, drunken, one-legged gaucho,’ contended von Ribbentrop, ‘as long as the information is accurate… I will not have the Foreign Office being made a laughing stock.’
‘With respect, Minister, I don’t think there’s any fear of that. I’ve studied all of von Menen’s recent reports and they all point to an event of this nature.’
‘A revolution? In Argentina? Next Friday?’ Von Ribbentrop was desperate to believe it.
‘That’s what von Menen has predicted, Minister, yes.’
‘And this Ramírez individual?’
‘Well, given his history, Minister, his elevation to President makes sense to me.’
Perceiving the almost certain acclaim of Hitler, von Ribbentrop sprang instantly from his chair, waving the signal in front of him. ‘I hope you’re right, Werner, because I’m leaving for the Führer’s HQ immediately. This is the kind of heartening news the Führer wants to hear.’ He paused, pressed a button on his intercom and barked out a string of commands. ‘Cancel all appointments… Tempelhof in thirty minutes. Phone my wife, and instruct my valet to pack enough clothes for three days.’
Cheeks flushed with anticipation, von Ribbentrop started across the room. ‘When the revolution has evidenced itself, send a wire of congratulations to von Menen,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘and be certain to include my signature. If there isn’t a revolution, tell him that he’ll be on the Eastern Front in double-quick time, even if I have to send a U-boat to bring him back! As for you, Werner,’ he added, nearing the door, ‘until next Friday, I suggest you sleep in your office! This information remains in-house, not a word to anyone, including Canaris, and especially that young upstart, Schellenberg.’
*
Von Menen arrived back in Buenos Aires the following Thursday afternoon. He called first at his apartment and then headed straight for the Clínicas Hospital to collect Maria.
They had planned a late-night cinema outing, followed by supper at the Pedemonte Restaurant on Avenida de Mayo, though in light of the bombshell that was about to rock Buenos Aires, he doubted the wisdom of it. Vidal had not said when the revolution would begin, but the Pedemonte was only two blocks from Government House, and Government House would assuredly be a hotspot. Feigning a stomach upset, von Menen convinced Maria that they should stay at home.
As the hours ticked by, the night remained surprisingly uneventful. By Friday morning, von Menen was beginning to think that Vidal had got it wrong. Then, just as Buenos Aires was coming to life…
‘What’s all that noise?’ asked Maria, her face full of alarm.
Von Menen opened the balcony doors and saw crowds of jubilant, flag-waving people in the street below, singing and dancing. ‘I tell you, it’s true,’ yelled a taxi driver, ‘I’ve just come from Rivadavia… There’s a lot of gunfire up there, soldiers everywhere.’
Maria leapt from her chair, tightened the cord of her dressing gown and rushed to join von Menen at the balcony.
‘From what I can make out,’ he related to her in his calmest tone, ‘it seems the army is involved in a gun battle, over at Rivadavia.’
‘Carl!’ she exclaimed. ‘What do you think’s happening?’
Von Menen saw the frightened look in her eyes. ‘I’m not quite sure,’ he said, biting on the lie. ‘Could be some form of an uprising – a military coup, maybe.’
‘Oh, no!’ cried Maria, hands clasped to her cheeks. ‘Do you really think so?’
Von Menen leaned over the hand-rail, a surging crowd below. ‘If the excitement down there is anything to go by, it certainly looks like it.’
Ashen-faced, Maria walked back into the lounge. ‘They’ve done it,’ she gasped, slumping back into her chair. ‘They’ve actually gone and done it.’
‘Done what?’
‘Taken over. After thirteen years, the generals are back, only this time it’ll be much worse, just like…’ She paused, remembering the taboo subject they’d agreed never to discuss.
‘You mean, just like Germany?’ he said, woefully aware of his bogus ignorance.
‘Since you mention it, yes… I don’t want that kind of existence in this country, or any other country for that matter. It isn’t right… It isn’t decent!’ She was almost shouting.
He listened, of course, but von Menen’s mind, already a warehouse crammed with remorse, was back at Zur Letzten Instanz tavern in Berlin, searching for the fading memory of Rudolph von Bauer’s “consoling” advice – ‘Just act out the part…’
What would you think now, Rudolph?
Von Menen knelt down beside her and took hold of her hand. ‘Maria, even if it is the military, there’s no reason to suspect that—’
‘That they won’t force their will upon the people, like the Nazis are doing in Germany? You’re being unusually naïve, Carl, aren’t you? Read the newspapers. They know what’s in store for us, even if no one else does. I’ll tell you something, if it is a military coup and Uncle Filipe has had a hand in it, Daddy will make sure that he never shows his face in Córdoba again, ever!’
She jumped to her feet and stormed towards the bathroom, leaving von Menen kneeling on the floor, wondering whether or not he’d sold his feigned integrity.
>
In Avenida de Mayo, a column of tanks and armoured cars made towards the Presidential Palace, led by the man who aspired to be President, General Arturo Rawson, escorted by General Pedro Ramírez.
At the Naval Mechanical Training School, the army encountered some serious opposition from a faction of naval cadets, unaware that a revolution was in the making. Some lost their lives, but eventually the guns fell silent and the ousted Castillo chugged his way to asylum across the River Plate.
Like Vidal had predicted, the blue and white sash of Argentina proved a temporary adornment for Rawson. Days later, in a farce of theatrical proportions, the hapless would-be President was spirited out of the tradesmen’s entrance of the Casa Rosada and replaced by the man the GOU wanted – Pedro Ramírez!
Watching the spectacle from Plaza de Mayo, von Menen likened it to the extravagant proclamation Hitler had made in 1933 and drew the same conclusion – the road to a New Jerusalem was still closed!
*
Vidal was already halfway through a bottle of his usual champagne when von Menen breezed into Café Tortoni.
‘You’re looking very triumphant, Filipe. Still celebrating, I see?’
‘I’ve been celebrating for some days, Carl.’
‘And deservedly so. You got it right; your prediction, I mean.’
‘Pleased, was he?’
‘Who?’
‘Von Ribbentrop.’ Vidal reached calmly for his glass, took a sip of champagne, raised his eyebrows and said calmly, ‘I imagine he felt very proud of himself, being able to give Hitler such high-grade political information.’
‘Well—’
‘The truth is, Carl,’ interrupted Vidal, ‘if we’re to compete with Brazil, and thus stand up against the Americans, we’re going to need lots of help, in the materialistic sense, you understand.’