by James Remmer
Von Menen guessed what was coming next. All he could see in Vidal’s eyes was brass and armour plating. ‘By help, I take it you mean—’
‘Field guns, tanks and half-tracks, heavy machine guns and thousands of machine pistols.’
‘That’s quite an order.’
‘Maybe, but it’s no more than Brazil’s getting from the Americans under their land-lease agreement.’ Vidal’s eyes were full of cunning.
‘There’s something else?’ asked von Menen.
Vidal gazed steadfastly at the ceiling. ‘Yes, one of those new electro U-boats you’re developing.’
Von Menen knew the square root of nothing about the development of the so-called electro U-boat, but he was not wont to reveal his ignorance. ‘Forgive my curiosity, Filipe, but why are you telling me this, when you should be talking to the military attaché?’
‘With the greatest respect, Carl, this matter requires an entirely different approach. Your military attaché, General Wolff, is a little too close to a man I don’t care for – Canaris. I need someone more removed, someone who appreciates what the GOU has achieved, someone who, shall we say, has been kept appraised of the delicate political situation in this country for the past two years, preferably someone who has the ear of Hitler.’
‘You mean, von Ribbentrop?’
Vidal bounced forward. ‘What a marvellous idea, Carl,’ he said, a note of cynicism in his voice. ‘How astute of you to suggest your Foreign Minister.’
Payback time.
Von Menen was on the back foot and he knew it. ‘You do appreciate that this will require very careful research, Filipe. Approval will have to come from the highest level. There’ll be lots of complications – payment, delivery; it could take several months to arrange.’
Vidal held up his hands in agreement. ‘Delivery will, inevitably, present some difficulties for you, but for us, payment isn’t a problem. Tell von Ribbentrop that Germany can have as much in export credits as she likes – wheat, beef, anything. We’ll also throw in something else you’re short of – gold! Bear in mind, though, that these negotiations are strictly a matter between you and me. I have the trust of a small, albeit very powerful, circle of colleagues; but even so, it would be in everyone’s interest, particularly your own, if this did not go any further. There are a few headstrong members of the GOU who would be more than happy to court the help of the SD, which is something I do not care to think about. The last thing we need is to raise the suspicions of the Americans.’
‘But if you take delivery of a U-boat, the whole world will know what you’ve been up to.’
‘Yes, but then it would be too late for the Americans to do anything about it. The fact is, Argentina is still a neutral country. We can trade with whom we like, including Germany.’ He paused, took a sip of champagne and shrugged. ‘You know what it is about the Americans, Carl. They have this anxiety about not having any influence in Argentina, and their anxiety has increased dramatically since Ramírez took over.’ A poker-face smile rose in his face. ‘Seemingly, they have this ridiculous notion that we’re hell-bent on subverting our neighbours – Paraguay, Bolivia and Chile.’
‘Well, aren’t you?’
A smile and silence.
After nearly two years, the deeply enigmatic Vidal had finally asked for something, though von Menen suspected that the real Vidal was still yet to emerge, quite possibly with a flush of aces up his sleeve.
8
Decrees poured out of the Presidential Palace like confetti. Congress remained in dissolution; the promise of Presidential elections sank to the level of a farcical joke. Industrial action was rife. In Avellaneda, the meat-packing industry ground to a halt.
Ramírez needed a miracle, but if Ramírez needed one miracle, Hitler was desperate for ten. The Italians had swapped Mussolini for Churchill and Roosevelt, and the once-invincible German army was in steady retreat through Italy. On the Eastern Front, the Russians pressed on remorselessly, while in the skies above Germany, the combined allied air offensive was hitting the very epicentre of Hitler’s Nazi empire – Berlin!
Von Menen needed a miracle, also. Vidal was impatient for his tanks and guns, his intolerance growing – ‘It’s been months, Carl. What’s happening? My colleagues are getting edgy. You must give me some assurance. When? When? When?’ Worse still, Maria’s increasingly hostile attitude towards the military regime was irritating Vidal. ‘She must keep her views to herself… I cannot be expected to provide protection for the entire Gomez family indefinitely!’
Then von Menen received an urgent note which took him to the phone booth at the Hotel Phoenix at break-neck speed.
‘It’s as well you phoned. I have some very grave news… We must speak, urgently. It’s vitally important.’ Vidal’s tone was brusque and frosty.
‘I could meet you this evening. Say eight o’clock at the Tortoni, your usual table?’
‘Make it seven-thirty. And don’t be late!’
Vidal had a face like an impoverished mortician. Not a hint of a smile.
‘What, exactly, is the situation with the arms shipment?’ he asked angrily.
‘No news yet, Filipe, I’m afraid. Berlin is preoccupied with other matters at the moment. I’m sure you know that.’
‘I might have damn well guessed,’ cursed Vidal, closing his eyes. ‘Berlin might be preoccupied with other matters, but we have other matters to contend with, too.’
‘We?’
Vidal regarded the question with some disdain. ‘Yes, we, you and me! One of my impetuous colleagues thinks we’ve waited long enough. He says he knows a quicker way. He’s…’ There was an awkward pause.
‘He’s what?’
‘Made contact with someone in your Foreign Intelligence outfit, someone who’s promised to speed things up. He thinks there’s a chance we might receive the first shipment before Christmas.’
Von Menen reeled back in his chair, a desperate look on his face. ‘I know how disappointed you are, Filipe, but if you follow that route, the only thing you’re likely to receive before Christmas is—’
‘Yes, yes,’ snapped Vidal, ‘the wrath of the Americans. I know that. But I did tell you… I’ve been warning you for weeks.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘Frankly, I feel very let down.’
‘I’m very sorry, Filipe. All the same, you need to be aware of the likely consequences.’
‘I am!’ said Vidal sharply. ‘The unfortunate thing is that this problem, which should never have arisen in the first place, has come at a time when we have more pressing matters to contend with at home!’
‘The growing civil unrest?’
‘Yes. Some measures introduced by Ramírez are causing widespread dissatisfaction.’
‘Even among the GOU membership, I hear.’
‘That too,’ confessed Vidal. ‘Some are already calling for changes.’
‘In the leadership?’
‘Possibly.’
‘They’ll have to be careful,’ warned von Menen. ‘If Ramírez finds himself threatened, he’ll turn to the Americans out of sheer desperation.’
‘Everything’s possible, but not even Ramírez has reached the stage of dependency on the Yankee dollar.’
‘Well, he would need to change public opinion first, which isn’t easy.’
‘Public opinion means nothing,’ retorted Vidal. ‘Eventually, you’ll understand that. In the meantime, perhaps your masters in Berlin might care to salvage something out of this mess. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go.’ Vidal rose from his chair and headed for the door, taking with him what remained of their friendship.
Now, it was solely business.
In spite of the late hour, Jose was frantically polishing the large brass number plaque at the entrance to the apartment block. He called out when von Menen was halfway through the door.
&nb
sp; ‘You had a couple of visitors earlier, señor.’
‘Visitors?’
‘Yes, two men, about three hours ago, went straight up to the seventh floor.’ Jose stroked his chin, a vague look on his face. ‘Come to think of it, I don’t recall seeing them leave.’
Von Menen made his way up the stairs, walked quietly along the corridor, and stopped at his door. The short length of matchwood, which he always wedged between the frame and the face of the door whenever he left the building, was lying on the carpet.
A ponderous weight crept into his stomach. Quietly, he inserted the key, eased back the latch bolt and slowly pushed open the door. The apartment’s hall was enveloped in darkness, the silence absolute.
Von Menen made for the sitting room, pushed open the door, groped for the light switch and flicked it. The room stayed black and silent. A prickly feeling crept across the back of his neck. Two paces forward and the door slammed shut behind him.
A standard lamp in the far corner came on, a face grinning beneath it.
Heinz Müller had a malevolent reputation and “a cut above the rest” was no idle figure of speech. Neither was his derisory nickname, “The Bavarian Meat Slicer”, which bore no relevance to his family’s delicatessen business in Munich. Müller dealt strictly in blood, mucus and sinews of the human kind.
Von Menen glanced over his shoulder, his suspicions confirmed. Wherever Müller was, Schmidt was never far away.
‘Evening, von Menen; nice of you to come home at last,’ drawled Müller, lazing comfortably in von Menen’s favourite armchair, his feet on a stool, his pistol waving menacingly before him.
Shoes creaking, Schmidt moved forward. Von Menen inched away, but Müller’s harsh command left no room for compromise.
‘Stay where you are!’ he barked. ‘We need to ask you a few questions.’
Von Menen looked calm, but his heart was almost in his mouth. ‘About what?’ he asked.
‘About a proposed arms shipment… and don’t give me that casual look. You know what I’m talking about.’
Von Menen shrugged in mock ignorance. ‘But I don’t.’
‘I think you do,’ insisted Müller, grinning like a well-fed hyena as he rose to his feet. ‘What’s more,’ he continued, ‘we’d like to know who told you about the coup last June. You see, we suspect it was you who informed Berlin, when it should have been… us! You’ll never know how embarrassing that was.’
‘I’m merely a Second Secretary, Müller. Such matters do not form part of my remit. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
Müller flashed a wide smile at Schmidt, revealing teeth that looked like two rows of blank dominoes. ‘Oh dear, Schmidt, he’s merely a Second Secretary,’ he sneered sarcastically, ‘and, would you believe, he doesn’t know what we’re talking about.’ Schmidt said nothing, but in his mind’s eye von Menen could see the ear-to-ear smirk across his face. Müller’s voice moved up an octave. ‘Perhaps we should stimulate your memory, then, Herr Second Secretary.’
Stashing his Walther beneath his belt, Müller pulled out a switchblade and moved forward, trailing the body odour of an overworked carthorse. Soon, the two men were no more than a foot apart, face to face, eyeball to eyeball. Alarm had found a new home in Buenos Aires, thought von Menen, confronting an image that ought to have been set in formaldehyde and donated to a museum of horror years ago, a face lined with terror, yet somehow tempered by a hideous, crinkly black hair that sprouted from Müller’s left nostril and curled up beneath the tip of his nose.
‘It’s never easy to psychoanalyse someone who has a gun,’ said von Menen, ‘but I’ll ask you, all the same: Do you believe in reincarnation?’
Müller reached hold of von Menen’s tie, yanked it down and sneered. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because you look as though you might have been something else.’
Müller, an inch or two shorter than von Menen, stood in arrogant pose, head held back, eyes blazing with malice, nostrils widening like an enraged bull, the distance between them closing to the width of a dinner plate.
Through the mirror on the far wall, von Menen could see that Schmidt was closing from behind. Any second now he would have a hold on von Menen’s arms, Müller carving a signature on his face that would need at least a dozen stitches.
His forehead covered the ten or so inches to Müller’s nose at what seemed like the speed of light, the switchblade falling to the floor. Müller’s gun sprang from his belt as von Menen’s right knee flashed up, catching Müller in the groin. He fell heavily to his knees, one hand clutching his face, the other, the most treasured part of his anatomy.
Von Menen spun round. Schmidt, caught unawares by the lightning speed of the incident, carelessly forgot to duck, a steam-hammer fist rocketing into his face. As he lifted his hands to cup the blood gushing from his nose, von Menen struck him a vicious blow to the kidneys. The hapless Schmidt dropped to the floor in a crumpled heap, blood everywhere. Von Menen snatched Schmidt’s pistol from its holster, stuffed it in his pocket and kicked Müller’s gun to the far side of the room.
Looking like a pilgrim facing Mecca, Müller, already contemplating the potential loss of fatherhood, felt the full force of von Menen’s fist crack against his jaw, stars sailing across his eyes. He was out. Von Menen retrieved the Walther, emptied the chamber, ejected the magazine and threw it across the room. Writhing on the floor like a snared animal, Schmidt raised a limp right hand in surrender. He’d had enough.
Coaxed by a litre of stagnant water from a vase of flowers, Müller began to stir. He dragged himself to the far side of the room and sat with his back against the wall, legs akimbo.
Von Menen leaned over him. ‘Müller, you’re about as subtle as the Devil in a monastery,’ he said calmly. ‘Regarding the events of last June, I think it is fair to say that I know rather less than you. As for the so-called “arms shipment” you mentioned, I’ve really no idea what you’re talking about. Maybe you could find a way of understanding that.’
Müller stayed mute, Schmidt likewise.
‘Obviously you don’t agree,’ said von Menen. ‘Well, have it your own way.’ He reached into his pocket, pulled out Schmidt’s pistol and jammed the muzzle into Müller’s ear. Müller snapped shut his eyes, his brow creasing in fright, his heart racing madly.
‘Heinz, for Christ’s sake!’ cried Schmidt. ‘Say something. He’s going to kill us!’
Müller opened his eyes. ‘Okay, okay!’ he screamed. ‘There’s…’ Müller’s tongue seemed riveted to the roof of his mouth. ‘There’s probably been a misunderstanding.’
‘Probably?’
‘Yes… I mean… definitely a misunderstanding. We… We got it wrong, didn’t we, Willie?’
‘Of course, of course,’ agreed Schmidt, spitting out the words without even a thought.
‘Good,’ said von Menen. ‘Now, as for this evening’s little incident, I’m sure we can come to some kind of private arrangement.’
‘Pri-vate?’ stuttered Schmidt.
‘Yes… You dismiss this arms shipment nonsense, allow me to get on with my real business as a Second Secretary, and I’ll forget about this little incident.’
‘And if we don’t?’ asked Müller.
Von Menen bent down to impart a fierce whisper. ‘If you don’t, I’ll see to it that Kaltenbrunner learns about your dismal performance tonight. It will not be you who’ll be embarrassed; it’ll be your boss, Walter Schellenberg. You can work out the rest for yourself.’
Müller glanced ruefully at Schmidt. ‘Okay,’ he nodded, ‘you have a deal. Can we go now?’
‘Of course. But first, the switchblade… Take it from your jacket pocket, slowly, and toss it to the far side of the room.’
Hauling himself painfully to his feet, Müller did as instructed. ‘And our guns?’ he asked.
>
‘Sorry,’ replied von Menen. ‘On that count, you will have some explaining to do.’
*
Vidal’s covert appeal for arms had finally boiled dry, yet the GOU would not give in. In a desperate petition for help, his more eager colleagues turned to Walter Schellenberg.
Arms or no arms, Argentina’s brazen offensiveness towards the United States had stretched Roosevelt’s patience to the limits. Von Menen knew that if the merest snippet of information about the GOU’s negotiations with the SD reached the American President’s ears, it would send him into an apoplectic spin: Argentina would be forced into isolation, Germany would lose another “friendly” state and von Ribbentrop would spit blood. If the dwindling empire of the German Foreign Office was to avoid another diplomatic door being slammed in its face, Schellenberg would have to be stopped. But von Menen sensed that Schellenberg would fail, anyway, like von Ribbentrop had failed, and for the very same reason – Hitler needed every tank, gun and artillery shell for himself.
Von Menen cleaned up his apartment, snatched a couple of hours’ sleep and left for the safe house at three o’clock in the morning.
After two years, the journey to his secret retreat had become almost second nature. Usually, it took five to six hours, but on that crisp spring morning the weather was fine and dry, and when the shooting break turned off the metalled highway, it cracked along the dirt track road at a blistering pace.
A sliver of amber fringed the eastern skyline. As dawn came up, a heavenly blue sky revealed an endless vista of quagmires, ditches and lagoons, a place where the wind blew ceaselessly and the vegetation rarely exceeded a blade of grass or a spear of marshland reed. It wasn’t exactly Mecklenburg, but von Menen had found an affinity with the lonely, desolate and silent Pampa, a place where motorised transport was as rare as a three-legged horse and the trappings of modern-day life ended at the dirt track highway.
He arrived at the cottage at eight o’clock, encoded his message, retrieved the transceiver from beneath the floorboards, changed the crystal arrangement and radioed his signal.