“That’s a relief,” I said. “Most of the nurses have been quite pretty up until now.”
He chuckled. “So I noticed. Maybe I should check in here myself. I’m still plagued with an old war wound I got in ’forty-one. I was blown up with a Katyusha rocket and buried alive for a while.”
“I hear that’s the best way, in the long run.”
He chuckled again. It sounded like a drain emptying.
“What can I do for you, Otto?” I called him Otto because all three buttons were done up on his jacket and there was something bulging under his right armpit. I didn’t think it was his thyroid.
“I heard you were asking questions about me.” He smiled, but it was more a way of stretching his face than anything pleasant.
“Oh?”
“At the Casa Rosada.”
“Maybe one or two.”
“That might not be a healthy thing to do, my friend. Especially for a man in your position.” He tapped the jaws of the pliers together meaningfully. “What are these things for, anyway?”
I thought it better not to tell him in any detail. “They’re surgical pliers.”
“You mean for pulling out ingrown toenails and things like that?”
“I imagine so.”
“I saw a man have all his fingernails pulled out by the Gestapo once. That was in Russia.”
“I’ve heard it’s a fascinating country.”
“Those bloody Russians can take pain like no one else,” he said with real admiration in his voice. “Once, I saw a Russian soldier, both of whose arms had been taken off at the elbow just an hour or two earlier, get up from his mattress and take himself to the latrine.”
“Must have been some pair of pliers.”
“Anyway, I’m here now. So what did you want to know? And don’t give me that phony passport story. A good-conduct pass, or whatever it is. What do you really want to know?”
“I’m looking for a killer.”
“Is that all?” Skorzeny shrugged. “We’re all of us that, I imagine.” He put out his cigarette in the ashtray on my bedside cabinet. “Otherwise we’d hardly be here, in Argentina.”
“True. But this man has killed children. Young girls, anyway. Gutted them like pigs. In the beginning, I thought one of our old comrades might have developed a taste for psychopathic murder. Now I know it’s something else altogether. Also there’s a missing girl who may or may not be connected with any of this. She might be dead. Or abducted.”
“And you thought I might have had something to do with all this?”
“Abduction used to be your main claim to fame, as I recall.”
“You mean Mussolini?” Skorzeny grinned. “That was a rescue mission. There’s a hell of a difference between pulling the Duce’s eggs out of the fire and kidnapping a bloody schoolgirl.”
“I know that. All the same, I felt obliged to look under every stone. Those are my orders, anyway.”
“Who’s giving them?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“I like you, Hausner. You’ve got guts. Unlike most of our old comrades. Here I am, quietly intimidating you—”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
“—and you refuse to be intimidated, damn you.”
“So far.”
“I could go to work on those clips with these pliers,” he said. “I bet that’s what they’re for, as a matter of fact. But it occurs to me that I’d rather have a man like you on my side. Allies, men you can rely on, are rather thin on the ground in this country.”
He nodded, as if agreeing with himself. From the look of him, and the reputation he had, it was probably the safest thing to do.
“Yes, I could use a good man on my side, in Argentina.”
“Sounds like you’re offering me a job, Otto.”
“Maybe I am, at that.”
“Everyone wants me to work for them. At this rate, I’ll make employee of the year.”
“So long as you stay alive you might.”
“Meaning?”
“I wouldn’t want you shooting off your mouth about my business,” he said. “If you did, I’d have to shoot off your mouth.”
He said it in a way that made me think he believed it sounded cute. Only I didn’t doubt that he was serious about it. From what I knew about Otto Skorzeny—Waffen-SS colonel, Knight’s Cross, hero of the eastern front, the man who rescued Mussolini from British custody—it would have been a grave mistake not to take him seriously. An unmarked-grave mistake.
“I can keep my mouth shut,” I said.
“Everyone can keep their mouths shut,” Skorzeny said. “The trick is to do it and stay alive at the same time.”
That was cute, too. The scars, the Knight’s Cross, the reputation for ruthlessness, all of it was starting to make a lot of sense. The man who put Otto Skorzeny’s nose out of joint wasn’t about to get the loan of his collection of pressed wildflowers. He was a killer. Maybe not the kind of killer who enjoyed killing for killing’s sake, but certainly the kind who killed without even the least idea of how anyone could lose any sleep over it.
“All right. I’ll help you out if I can, Otto. I’m not awful busy right now. So go ahead. Pretend I’m your priest or your doctor. Tell me something confidential.”
“I’m looking for some money.”
I tried to stifle a yawn. “Small world,” I said.
“Not that sort of money,” he snarled.
“There’s a kind I don’t know about?”
“Yeah. The kind you can’t count because there’s so bloody much of it. Serious money.”
“Oh. That kind of money.”
“Here in Argentina, about two hundred million U.S. dollars.”
“Well, I can understand why you would be looking for that kind of money, Otto.”
“Maybe twice that. I don’t know for sure.”
This time I stayed silent. Four hundred million dollars is the kind of figure that commands a lot of respectful silence.
“During the war, two, maybe three or four U-boats came to Argentina with gold, diamonds, and foreign currency. Jew money, mostly. From the camps. On arrival, the Monte Cristo was handled by five German bankers. German-Argentines who were supposed to be financing the war effort on this side of the Atlantic.” He shrugged. “I don’t have to tell you how successful they were at that. And most of the money remained unspent. Safely tucked up in vaults at the Banco Germánico and the Banco Tourquist.”
“That’s a nice little legacy for someone,” I said.
“Now you’re getting it,” said Skorzeny. “After the war, the Peróns had the same thought as you. The greasy general and his bitch blonde started putting a little pressure on these five bankers. Suggesting that they might like to make a generous campaign contribution in return for all the traditional Argentine hospitality that was being shown to our old comrades. So the bankers anted up and hoped that was the end of it. Of course it wasn’t. It’s expensive, being a dictator. Especially one without the same line of Jewish credit that Hitler enjoyed. So the Peróns, bless their black shirts, asked for another contribution. And this time the bankers demurred. As bankers do. Big mistake. The president started to apply a little pressure. One of the bankers, the eldest, Ludwig Freude, was charged with espionage and fraud. Freude made a deal with Perón, and in return for turning over the control of a nice chunk of change, his son Rodolfo Freude was made the head of security police.”
“That’s a nice quid pro quo,” I said.
“Isn’t it? Heinrich Dorge, who was formerly an aide to Hjalmar Schacht, was less cooperative. He didn’t have a son like Rodolfo. Which was too bad for him. The Peróns had him murdered. To encourage the other three bankers: von Leute, von Bader, and Staudt. And they were encouraged. They handed over the lot. The whole Monte Cristo. Since then they have remained effectively under house arrest.”
“Why? If the Peróns have the loot, then what’s the point of that?”
“Because there’s a lot more to it than the money th
at walked down the gangplank of a couple of U-boats. A lot more money, anyway. You see, the Peróns have got this foundation going. For the last five years Eva’s been giving Reichsbank money away to just about every Argie bastard who can spin her a hard-luck story. They’ve been buying the loyalty of the people. The trouble is, at the rate they’re spending the U-boat cash, they’re going to run out. And so, to stay in power for another ten, maybe twenty years, they would dearly like to get their hands on the real prize. The big prize. The motherlode.”
“You mean your four hundred million dollars isn’t it?”
“We didn’t lose the war for lack of money, my friend. At the end of the war, there was so much money held in the Reichsbank’s Swiss accounts it made what was in German banks here look like small change. There are billions of Nazi dollars in Zurich. And it’s all of it, every last cent, under the control of those three remaining bankers here in Buenos Aires. At least, it is so long as they remain alive.”
“I see.”
“For the Peróns, the question is how to get their hands on it. To exercise control of the Zurich accounts requires the physical presence in Switzerland of at least one of those bankers, accompanied by the signed letters of the other two. But which one of them can be trusted to go? Trusted by the Peróns. Trusted by the other bankers. Naturally, there’s no guarantee that the one who goes to Zurich is ever going to come back again. Nor any guarantee that he will do what the Peróns want him to do when he’s there. Which is, of course, to sign control of the money over to them. It leaves these three in a bit of a tight spot. And that’s where I come in.”
“Oh? Are you a banker now, Otto?”
I tried to look and to sound like all this was news to me. But my meeting with the von Baders and the disappearance of their daughter, Fabienne, left me in no doubt that the money and her disappearance were somehow connected.
“More of a banking regulator, you might say,” said Skorzeny. “You see, I’m here to make sure the Peróns never see a pfennig of that money. To this end I’ve managed to become quite close to Eva. Largely on account of how I managed to foil an attempt on her life. Well, it was easy enough.” He chuckled. “Especially since it was me who set her up. Anyway, she’s come to rely on me, rather.”
“Otto,” I said, grinning. “You don’t mean—”
“We’re not lovers, exactly,” he admitted. “But like I said, she’s come to rely on me. So who knows what might happen? Especially as the president is off fucking young girls.”
“Oh? How young?”
“Thirteen. Fourteen. Sometimes younger, according to Eva.”
“And how is this trust in you going to manifest itself in a way that’s relevant to the money in Switzerland?” I asked carefully.
“By making sure I can be in a position to find out if ever she manages to send one of these bankers to Zurich. Because then I should have to act to prevent that from happening.”
“You mean kill someone. One of the bankers. Maybe all three of them.”
“Probably. As I said, the trust won’t be under their control forever. Eventually, the money will be dispersed to certain organizations throughout Germany. You see, it’s our plan to use the money to rebuild the cause of European fascism.”
“ ‘Our plan’? You mean the Old Comrades plan, don’t you, Otto? The Nazi plan.”
“Of course.”
“And double-crossing the Peróns? It sounds dangerous, Otto.”
“It is.” He grinned. “Which is why I need someone in the secret police watching my back. Someone like you.”
“Suppose that I’m the nervous type. Suppose that I don’t want to be involved.”
“That would be a shame. For one thing, it would mean you’d have no one watching your back. Besides, Eva trusts me. You, she hardly knows. If you denounce me, you’ll be the one who disappears, not me. Think it over.”
“How long have I got?”
“Time’s up.”
“I can hardly say no, can I?”
“That’s the way I see it, too. You and me. We’re two of a kind. You see, it was Eva who told me about you. About that little speech you made to her and the greaseball. How you used to be a cop. Stuff like that. That took a boxful of eggs. Perón appreciated that. So do I. We’re both mavericks, you and I. Loners. Outsiders. We can help each other out. A phone call here. A phone call there. And depend on it. We never forget our friends.” He produced a business card and placed it carefully on my bedside table. “On the other hand.”
“On the other hand.”
He glanced at the picture of the British king that was hanging on the wall beside my bed. For a moment, he just stared at it with something like malevolence. Then he punched it hard. Hard enough to smash the glass and knock the picture off the wall. The picture fell on the floor. Small pieces of glass showered my chest and legs. Skorzeny ignored them, preferring to concentrate on allowing a small trickle of blood to run off his lacerated knuckles and onto my head. He smiled, but his meaning was less than companionable.
“On the other hand, the next time we meet this could be your blood we’re looking at, not mine.”
“That’s a nasty cut you’ve got there, Otto. You should get it seen to. I believe there’s a good veterinary hospital over on Viamonte. Maybe they’ll even give you a rabies shot while they’re fixing your paw.”
“This?” Skorzeny lifted his hand and let the blood drip onto my face. For a moment, he seemed fascinated by the sight of it. Maybe he was, at that. There were plenty of people in the SS who’d been fascinated by bloodshed. Most of them seemed to be living in Argentina. “This is just a scratch.”
“You know, it might be a good idea if you were to leave now, Otto. After what you did to their king. This is the British Hospital, after all.”
Otto spat on the fallen picture. “I always hated that bastard,” he said.
“No need to explain. No need at all.” I was humoring him now. Anxious for him to be gone. “Not from a man who once met Adolf Hitler.”
“More than once,” he said quietly.
“Really?” I said, feigning interest. “The next time we see each other, you must tell me all about it. In fact, I’ll look forward to it.”
“Then we’re partners.”
“Sure, Otto, sure.”
He held out his bloody hand for me to shake. I took it and felt the strength in his forearm and, closer to him now, saw the dirty ice in his blue eyes and breathed the rank odor of his decaying breath. There was a little gold star in his lapel. I didn’t know what it was, but I wondered whether he would grind to a halt if I removed it, like the murderous creature in Gustav Meyrink’s The Golem.
If only life were that simple.
15
BUENOS AIRES, 1950
IT WAS A SHORT CONVALESCENCE. But not so short that I wasn’t able to lie in bed and do nothing but think. And after a while, I managed to put some of the bits together in my mind. Unfortunately, it was the kind of puzzle where the jigsaw was still moving, and if I wasn’t very careful, the narrow vertical blade might slice off my fingers while I was trying to arrange the interlocking pieces. Or worse than that. Living long enough to see the whole picture might prove to be difficult. Yet I could hardly just put it all down and walk away. I don’t care for a word like “retirement,” but that was what I wanted. I was tired of solving puzzles. Argentina was a beautiful country. I wanted to sit on the beach at Mar del Plata, to see the regattas at Tigre, or visit the lakes at Nahuel Hupi. Unfortunately, nobody wanted me to do what I wanted. What they wanted was for me to do what they wanted. And much as I wished things to be different, I couldn’t see a way around any of this. I did, however, decide to attend to things according to my own idea of precedence.
Contrary to what I’d told Colonel Montalbán, I did hate loose ends. It had always bothered me that I’d never arrested Anita Schwarz’s killer. Not just for the sake of my professional pride but for the sake of Paul Herzefelde’s professional pride, too. So the first thing
I did when I got out of the hospital was drive to the house of Helmut Gregor. By now I had a pretty shrewd idea of who and what he was, but I wanted to make sure before I threw it back in the colonel’s face.
Helmut Gregor lived in the nicest part of Florida. The house, at Calle Arenales 2460, was a handsome, spacious, colonial-type white stucco mansion owned by a wealthy Argentine businessman called Gerard Malbranc. There was a pillared veranda out front and, chained to the balustrade, a medium-sized dog that was doing its best to ignore the tantalizing proximity of a long-haired cat that seemed to have the run of the place.
I staked out the house. I had a flask of coffee, some cognac, one or two newspapers, and several books in German from the Dürer Haus bookshop. I had even borrowed a small telescope. It was a nice, quiet street and, despite my best intentions, I left the books and the papers alone and slept, with one eye half open. One time I sat up and saw a rather handsome couple ride by on even more handsome horses. They wore normal clothes and used English saddles. Florida wasn’t the kind of neighborhood to see anything more picturesque. On Calle Arenales a gaucho would have looked about as inconspicuous as a football on a cathedral altar. Another time I looked up to see a van from Gath & Chaves delivering a bed to a woman wearing a pink silk dressing gown. From the way she was dressed, I had the idea she was probably planning to sleep on it the minute the two apes lifting it into her home were back in their van. I wouldn’t have minded joining her.
In the late afternoon, after I’d been there several hours, a police car showed up. A policeman and a girl of about fourteen got out of the car. The policeman looked old enough to be her grandfather. He might have been her caballero blanco, which was what porteños called a sugar daddy, but uniformed cops don’t usually make enough to spend it on anyone other than their fat wives and their ugly children. Of course, he might actually have been a father taking his stunningly attractive young daughter to an appointment with the family doctor. But for the fact that most fathers don’t usually put their daughters in handcuffs. Not unless they’ve been very bad indeed. The dog started to bark as they mounted the steps to the front door. The cop patted the dog’s head. It stopped barking.