A Quiet Flame

“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