W. Griffin - The shooters

Three minutes later, they had tied up to the wharf and were in the van, which started down the pier. As soon as the vehicle reached the foot of the pier, the floodlights went off.

It was a five-minute drive along a steep, curving, gravel road, and then they passed through a gate in a ten-foot-tall stone wall and came to a stop before an imposing house.

Pevsner led them all inside.

Anna and the boys and the girl-Elena, who is almost exactly as old as my son-said a polite good night.

Castillo looked around. There was an enormous room off the entrance foyer. A crystal chandelier hung from what was probably a thirty-foot-high ceiling, illuminating a wall on which hung probably fifty stuffed deer and stag heads. On either side of a desk, two stuffed, snarling pumas faced each other.

This is familiar.

Why do I recognize it?

The memory bank produced an image of a large, fat, jowly man standing at the entrance to the room, dressed in lederhosen and a Bavarian hat with a pheasant tail feather stuck in it, and holding a bow and arrow.

I'll be goddamned!

Pevsner said in Russian: "My people will take care of your bags, friend Charley. Does the boy-your communicator-have to be present while we talk?"

"No, but he has to be close," Castillo answered in Russian. "And he'll need some place to set up his radio."

"Will he require help?"

Castillo shook his head.

"Then let's go in there," Pevsner said, pointing to the enormous room and taking Castillo's arm.

Castillo switched to German and asked, "Are you sure it will be all right with the Reichsforst und Jagermeister?"

"You are amazing," Pevsner said in Russian. "How are you familiar with that, with Carinhall?"

Castillo continued to speak German: "My grandfather had a book-a large, leather-bound book-that Goring gave him when he was a guest. I used to look at it when I was a kid."

"Your grandfather was a Nazi?"

"He was an Army officer who was badly wounded at Stalingrad and evacuated just before it fell. With Billy Kocian, incidentally. He told me Goring used to receive busloads of wounded senior officers at the place, and everyone got a book. The first picture inside, so help me God, was of Goring in lederhosen holding a bow and arrow.

"But, no, to answer your question, my grandfather was not a Nazi. My mother told me-when she knew she was dying; she said she thought I should know-that he was on the SS's list of those officers known to be associated with Claus von Stauffenberg in the bomb plot, and they were looking for him until the end of the war."

"What kind of a senior officer, Karl?" Pevsner said, now speaking German.

"Infantry, detailed to Intelligence. He was a lieutenant colonel at Stalingrad; they promoted him to colonel while he was recuperating."

"And now the German senior officer's grandson is an American senior officer detailed to Intelligence, and the descendants of the SS, now in the employ of the Russians, are looking for him in order to kill him. Blood really does run deep, doesn't it, friend Charley?"

Castillo realized that Pevsner's observation made him uncomfortable and wondered why.

"I think you mean, 'History does repeat itself, doesn't it?'" Castillo said, then went on quickly before Pevsner could reply: "I had a couple of days off one time in Berlin and went to see Carinhall. It's in Brandenburg, in the Schorfheide Forest-was there; Goring had the place blown up to keep the Russians from getting it. They did a good job. The gates are still there, but aside from that not much else is left."

A maid rolled a cart loaded with spirits and the necessary accoutrements into the room, cutting off the conversation. After she had positioned the cart, she looked at Pevsner.

"That will be all, thank you," Pevsner said, and waited to continue speaking until she had left them alone.

"Would you have me serve you, friend Charley? Or…?"

"Wait on me, please. I find that flattering. Some of that Famous Grouse single-malt will do nicely, thank you very much."

Pevsner shook his head and turned to making the drinks.

Pevsner began: "The fellow who built this place-I bought it from his grandson-was German. Nothing much is known about him before he came here-and I have inquired and have had friends inquire. There is no record of a Heinrich Schmidt having ever lived in Dresden, which is where his Argentine Document of National Identity says he was born.

"Of course, the records may have been destroyed when Dresden was firebombed. What's interesting is that there is no record of his having immigrated to Argentina, or having been issued a DNI. Or of Herr Schmidt becoming an Argentine citizen. What I did learn was he bought this place-it was then four hundred sixteen hectares of forestland-and began construction of the house two months after it was alleged that a German submarine laden with cash and jewelry and gold had discharged its cargo near Mar del Plata and then scuttled itself at sea."

Pevsner handed Charley a glass, held his own up, and tapped rims.

"To friends you can really trust, friend Charley."

"Amen, brother. May their tribe increase."

"Unlikely, but a nice thought," Pevsner replied, took a sip, then went on: "Such a submarine was found eighteen months ago off Mar del Plata, incidentally. Probably just a coincidence."

"I know that story. There were three of them loaded with loot. One was known to have been sunk in the English Channel. The second is known to have made it here. I thought the third one just disappeared."

"It did. But-from what I have learned-only after it unloaded its cargo here in Argentina. Anyway, Herr Schmidt lived very quietly-one might say secretly-here with his family-a wife, a daughter, and a son-until his wife died. Then he passed on. Under Argentine law, property passes equally to children. The son-no one seems to know where he got the cash-bought out his sister's share, and she went to live in Buenos Aires, where she met and married an American, and subsequently moved to the United States.

"The son married an Argentine, and aside from shopping trips to Buenos Aires and Santiago, Chile-never to Europe, which I found interesting-lived here with his wife and their only son-the fellow from whom I bought the place-much as his father had done. I understand that the father-and, later, the son-were silent partners in a number of business enterprises here.

"When the son passed on, the widow did not want to live here alone, so she moved to Buenos Aires. The property sat unused for some years, until at her death it was finally put on the market and I bought it. Interestingly, they reduced the asking price considerably on condition I pay cash. More specifically, in gold. And that payment take place in the United Arab Emirates."

"What are you suggesting, Alek? That the guy who built this place was a Nazi?"

"I'm suggesting nothing, friend Charley. But I, too, noticed the architectural similarity to the reception hall at Carinhall, and went to some lengths to check that out. Between you and me, friend Charley, if Hermann Goring walked in the front door, he would think he was in Carinhall. I wouldn't be surprised if Herr Schmidt used the same architect. For that matter, the same drawings.

"That led me to look into which business associates of Goring-not party members or people like that-had gone missing during and after the war. No luck in making a connection with Herr Schmidt."

"What you are suggesting is that some Nazi big shot did in fact get away with running off to here."

"That has happened, you know. Just a year or so ago, they found that the owner of a hotel here in Bariloche, a man named Pribke, had been an SS officer deeply involved in the massacre at the Ardeatine Caves outside Rome. He was extradited to Italy. And actually, friend Charley, there is an interesting legend that one of the founders of this area was an American, from Texas, who was here because the authorities were looking for him at home."