“Once the extradition request is received, two national newspapers in the states will run the story—not headlines, just half a column on page four or five. At that point, Sybilla will, with the help of forged documents provided by the CIA, flee into Mexico, specifically to a town called Reynosa on the Rio Grande. The CIA has a double agent there—let’s call him ‘Reyno’—who is in contact with a man called Stefan Huber of the Kameradenwerk organisation, one cell of which is located in Monterrey but accountable to Santiago Peralta, the Immigration Commissioner in Buenos Aries.
“This organisation has the responsibility for the collection and recruitment of disillusioned German refugees—mainly technologists, engineers and scientists who went to the USA after the war, but, finding now that they are of no further value, face the possibility of compulsory repatriation to Germany. The Peron government of Argentina, on the other hand, is desperate for such skills and welcomes these people with open arms.
“Reyno will make Huber aware of the newspaper article, and that he has seen the refugee in question, that being one of his tasks, and from there, gentlepeople, this whole elaborate plan could become a sack of bones! We will be very much, from then on, subject to kismet.
“Will Huber consider it important enough to inform Buenos Aires? Will Buenos Aires consider it worthwhile extracting a schoolteacher? If, after a decent interval, nothing has happened, the CIA will extract Sybilla and we will square things with the French judiciary in closed court. The CIA will be left with just a small amount of egg on their face, but they are willing to accept the risk. They are desperate to know whether or not Hitler is alive. I think they still believe he is.
“Does anyone have any comments, alternatives, objections?”
Farquharson was flicking through his notes. Finally, he shook his head. “Nothing, Brigadier, I think it’s worth a try.”
“Dan?”
Kelly shook his head. “I agree with Jamie, I think it’s worth a try, but I have to say I think it’s a long shot. However, I can’t think of anything better.”
“And most importantly,” said McFarlane, “Sybilla. Tell us we’re all mad and that you won’t play any part in such a hair-brained scheme.”
Sybilla laughed. “Well, it goes without saying that you’re all mad, but the scheme seems all right. It hinges on whether Huber thinks it worth bothering with a displaced teacher. I can only apologise that I’m not an engineer or a scientist, sorry boys!” she said, laughing again.
“Right!” said McFarlane. “Dan, you need to wait until Jamie and I get back to London and get Horst Manteufel on the books before you start. Sybilla, I will arrange with the Army Education Corps at Beaconsfield to second us a Spanish tutor for a month. I know you have some Spanish from your time in Cuba, but it needs to be better if you are to pick up any little titbits of information while in Argentina, assuming you get there. You’ll get intensive one-to-one tuition from morning to night, but be careful what you say to your instructor. They are security cleared but not to a very high level.
“Gentlepeople, let’s make this happen!”
Down the Line
“What’s your name?”
“You’ve asked me that already!” replied Kelly. The man he was speaking to looked out of sorts with his surroundings. They were sitting on crates at an old and dirty pine table in a barn on a farm forty kilometres east of Berlin, just south of Neu Zittau, to the west of Kesselberg, and surrounded by rolling countryside. The man wore a suit, complete with collar and tie, his black leather shoes and the cuffs of his trousers splattered with mud and other substances.
“So, I’m asking again. We like to be sure about things, especially the people we are dealing with.”
“My name is Dragan Novak,” said Kelly.
“Dragan? That’s a Serbian name, isn’t it?”
Kelly shrugged. “Croatian, Serbian, Slovenian, it’s Slavic. I can’t say I’m happy with it—Slavic names became unpopular during the struggle for liberation—but it’s what I was given, so I have to live with it.”
“Were you living in East Berlin?” asked the suit.
“West Berlin, it’s safer for Ustase in the west.”
“Where in West Berlin?”
“I’m not telling you that!” said Kelly gruffly. “It’s a safe house. You’ll have to ask Manteufel if you want to use it, but it will cost you!”
“You say you were Ustase, wha—”
Kelly interrupted him. “I am Ustase, not was! Once Ustase, always Ustase!”
The suit was quiet for a moment, scrutinising Kelly. “Of course,” he said, “I understand. I was just going to ask you which Ustase Brigade you were with.”
“I was what you call a Hauptmann in the First Ustase Brigade, initially under Colonel Francetić, then Major, later Colonel Boban.”
“The Black Legion?” asked the suit, clearly impressed.
“That was our nickname, yes,” said Kelly.
“Did you fight alongside any German troops?”
Kelly gave a roar and stood up. Leaning forward, he brought his face to within a few centimetres of the suit’s. “Why are you asking me all of these stupid questions? I don’t have anything to prove to you, you little shit!”
Kelly straightened up, still glowering down at the little man. He noted the two guards either side of the suit become alert and raise their machine pistols slightly. He also noticed Manteufel, who had been loitering near the door, suddenly become very alert, legs astride and braced, his right arm behind his back. Don’t draw your weapon, Horst! he screamed mentally. It’s only a bluff, don’t give the game away. Don’t draw your weapon!
Manteufel didn’t draw his weapon, but remained ‘ready’.
“Where was your precious German Army when we were pinned down at Kupres?” yelled Kelly belligerently. “One thousand men of the legion, surrounded by three thousand Serbian Untermenschen and their slavering Slavic cousins. Come
