A Quiet Flame

“I found out where Skorzeny is staying,” he said. “At a big ranch in a place called Wiederhold. It’s owned by a wealthy sugar farmer called Luis Freiburg. And when I say wealthy, I mean wealthy. He made millions in compensation when a couple of thousand acres of his estate were purchased by the government as part of the hydroelectric project. That land is due to be flooded when the dam at La Quiroga is finished.” Geller laughed. “Now, here’s the really interesting thing. It turns out that Freiburg is none other than that SS general you told me about.”

“Hans Kammler?”

“That’s right. According to Ricardo, Kammler is an engineer who oversaw all the major SS construction projects during the war. Like the Mittelwerk facility and all the extermination camps, like Auschwitz and Treblinka. Made himself a fortune in the process. Yes, he was quite a man, this Kammler. Ricardo told me that Himmler regarded Kammler as one of his most capable and talented men.”

“Ricardo told you all this?”

“He can get quite talkative when he’s had a few,” said Geller. “Yesterday evening, we were coming out of Capri’s technical branch office in Cadillal when we saw a big white American car driven by Skorzeny. Ricardo recognized Kammler immediately.”

“What did Kammler look like?”

“Thin, bony, hooked nose. Aged about fifty. Eagle-like, you might say. Had his wife and daughter with him. From Germany, I think. That’s one of the reasons Ricardo hates him. Because he’s got his wife and daughter with him. Although I rather think Ricardo’s jealous of anyone who got out of Germany with lots of money in his trouser pockets. That or anyone who’s made a better fist of life in Argentina than he has. You included.”

“Did Ricardo say why Skorzeny might be staying with Kammler?”

“Yes.”

Momentarily, Geller looked troubled. I offered him a cigarette. He took one, let me light it for him, and remained silent.

“Come on, Herbert,” I said, using his real name for once, and lighting one for myself.

Geller sighed. “This is top-secret stuff, Bernie. I mean even Ricardo looked a bit shifty when he told me.”

“Ricardo always looks shifty,” I said.

“Well, naturally he worries that his past will catch up with him. We all do. Even you, probably. But this isn’t past. This is now. Have you ever heard of Project Poplar?”

“Poplar? Like the tree?”

Geller nodded. “Apparently, Perón wants to build an atomic bomb. The scuttlebutt around Capri is that Kammler is the director of Perón’s nuclear-weapons program. Just like he was in Germany, at Riesengebirge and Ebensee. And that Skorzeny is his head of security.”

“You’d need a lot of money for something like that.” Even as I said it, I remembered that Perón already seemed to have access to hundreds of millions of dollars of Nazi money, and if Evita had her way, possibly billions more dollars in Switzerland. “You also need a lot of scientists,” I added. “Have you seen lots of scientists?”

“I don’t know. I don’t imagine they drive around wearing white coats and carrying slide rules, do you?”

“Good point.”

There was a map on the seat of the jeep, and a toolbox in the back. “Show me where Kammler’s ranch is,” I told Geller.

“Wiederhold?” Geller took the map and moved a finger southwest of Tucumán. “It’s here. Just a few miles north of the Dulce River. A few miles to the south and a little to the east, and the frosts make sugarcane impossible. Cane would be impossible in Tucumán, too, if it wasn’t for the Sierra del Aconquija.” He took a drag from his cigarette. “You’re not thinking of going there, are you?”

“No. I’m going here.” I pointed to one of the lagoons on the Dulce River. “Just north of Andalgalá. To a place called Dulce.”

“Never heard of it,” said Geller. “There’s the Dulce River, but I’ve not heard of a town of that name.”

Geller’s map was more detailed than the one I’d bought in Buenos Aires. But he was right: there was nowhere called Dulce. Just a couple of anonymous lagoons. All the same, I didn’t think Melville would have dared to mislead me again. Not after the threats I had made against his miserable life.

“How accurate is this map?” I asked.

“Very. It’s based on an old muleteers’ map. Up until the beginning of the century, mules were the only way to get around this whole area. As many as sixty thousand mules a year used to get sold in Santa, north of here. Nobody knew these trails better than those old muleteers.”

“May I borrow this?”

“Sure,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’ve found your top bastard. This murderer you’ve been after.”

“Something like that. It’s best I don’t tell you any more, Herbert. Not right now.”

Geller shrugged. “Not knowing won’t make me itch.” He grinned. “While you’re borrowing my jeep, I’m off to see a rather attractive girl who works for the Institute of Anthropology, here in Tucumán. I’m planning to let her study me in considerable detail.”

I TRIED TO PERSUADE Anna to stay behind, at the hotel, but she wasn’t having it.