The QE2 Is Missing

He passed over the envelope which was instantly seized and opened. “Do you know who they are? In the photographs,” Diaz asked.

“Sorry, no. I hope you do.”

Rivelles dug into the food with a happy sigh while Diaz, and two others, spread the pictures on the table and examined them closely. There were loud comments and differences of opinion and one of them went to fetch a magnifying glass. Rivelles had a beaker of Spanish wine to hold down the food and was resting comatosely when Diaz turned from the table.

“Unhappily, they are unknown to us as well. Did you speak with them or hear them talk at all?”

“No. I was with this unusual woman the entire time. I didn’t even see them go by. Why?”

“Just a guess. Come look through the glass. At this picture here, the man looking into the camera with the frown.”

“The photographer was pretty good. He set off the flash to draw their attention so he could photograph them full in the face as well as profile. I see him, ugly devil — what about it?”

“Look at his cheek, there. Could that be a scar?”

Rivelles looked close and grunted agreement. “Could be. Why do you ask?”

“Because he could be German. That could be a saber scar. He’s old enough to have gone to school in the twenties when saber scars were almost a requirement for graduation. They had these fencing clubs in the universities where they used sharpened sabers and masks that only covered part of their faces. Apparently the idea was to cut the other man up and get cut a bit your-self.”

“That sounds sort of stupid. What did it prove?”

“That one had plenty of macho. We don’t have a monopoly on machismo, you know.”

“No, I’m sure we don’t. Stupid ideas travel widely. But looking at him, at the others, they all could be German. But what does that prove.”

“For the young ones, nothing. But the old ones, scars, the military, more than old enough to have fought in World War II____”

“Nazis!”

Diaz nodded. “Very possibly. But how do we find out?”

“We have some in Argentina, but small fry for the most part. You have them in Paraguay, don’t you?”

“A few. Military advisors they call them. But as far as we know small fry like yours. But — wait! — not too far down the river is…. “

“Uruguay! Where they all are! The concentration camp commanders, the SS bullies, the mass murderers. They are everywhere there, in the government and out, like filthy roaches.”

“Just a few kilometers down the river,” Diaz said quietly. “If what we think is true, we may have established the link we are looking for. But we must find out who these men are.”

“The Tupamaros might know. Do you have contacts with them?”

Diaz shook his head. “Not any more. Most of them were killed in 1974, then the movement collapsed. But I can make enquiries. But that will take time. The QE2 has left Cape Town and will be in Australia in a few days. We must find out at once who those men are. Who would know?”

“The Jews!” Rivelles said. “The Israelis must know who and where the escaped Nazis are. They could identify them. But how do we contact them? You can’t just walk into the Israeli Embassy and ask for help.”

“Why not?” Diaz said, putting the photographs back into the envelope. “If we have information they want, they’ll talk to us. And we have nothing to lose by trying.”

“It sounds a wild idea — but it might work. But for God’s sake call a taxi so I can take it too and go home and fall into bed. And get ready to face my uncle in the morning.”

“Did you tell him you were ill?”

“No, he wouldn’t believe a simple story like that. He’s a most suspicious man — he would want a letter from the doctor. I’m going to keep it simple. I’ll tell him I’m in love and went away with the woman to Brighton.”

“Why should he believe that?”

“I’ll tell him it’s a married woman. He’s so afraid of scandal that he’ll worry about that and not my taking off the time. I can also use the idea again if there is an emergency and I need the time.”

“I’ll get the taxi. Someone look in the phone book and get me the address of the Israeli Embassy.”

Diaz got out of the taxi on Bayswater Road and walked down Kensington Palace Gardens. One of the last private roads in London — with a guard at both ends. Discreet, quiet, a good place for the Israelis. The Arab terrorists wouldn’t find it easy to get in here. A policeman at the front door looked him over closely as he went in and a very solid young man stopped him as he stepped inside.

“Would you mind opening your coat please, just a formality.” He frisked Diaz quickly and efficiently, then moved away. “Thank you. Reception is right through there, please.”

Diaz had difficulties at once with the steely-eyed young lady behind the desk.

“Just who would you like to see?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps your military attache.”

“Would you state your business, please?”

“I would like to tell him.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have a military attache. If you would tell me what you wanted I am sure I could find someone to help.”