Yes, thought Sybilla, and I’ll bet the looted treasure helps out as well!
Weber escorted her to the patio, where two ice-cold soft drinks suddenly appeared. “I hope you will excuse the lack of a feminine touch about the villa … like your husband, my wife was a victim of the war.” Sybilla expressed her commiseration, which Weber waved away. The two chatted for a while, Sybilla trying to appear open and forthcoming, but she was always on her guard against verbal slip-ups. She hoped this didn’t come across as reticence. If it did, Weber didn’t mention it.
“It is fortuitous you should arrive today. I have this get together tonight—just a few old friends—and it would help me greatly if you would act as hostess for the evening. I have to confess that I am like a fish out of water at such events, please …?” He was pleading with his eyes as well as his voice.
Sybilla smiled. “What makes you think I’m any better? But of course, I’ll be hostess. I promise I will do my very best.”
Weber beamed broadly. “You really are too kind. I have a feeling you will turn all heads.” Turning slightly towards the door he called, “Martina!”
A young girl appeared. “Martina will show you to your room and the facilities. If you require refreshments or indeed anything at all, you have only to ask Martina. She is my indispensable treasure. Now, if you will excuse me,” he said rising.
Sybilla also rose and extended her hand, which he took in his. “Herr Weber, I can’t thank you enough for your kindness and hospitality.”
“Nonsense!” he snorted as he walked away, but he was smiling broadly.
The full-length mirror in Sybilla’s bedroom revealed a slim, attractive woman wearing a simple, close-fitting, knee-length black dress which showed off her curves to best advantage. Her blonde, almost white hair reached to the base of her neck, turning inwards at the ends. The flawless skin on her face, arms and legs had been lightly tanned by the combination of sun and wind on her journey south.
Sybilla, she thought, I have to hand it to you, you look pretty good tonight.
She slipped on the black shoes, also bought at Gath and Chaves on Weber’s account, and made her way downstairs, to be met by Weber, dressed in black trousers and a white tuxedo. On seeing her he took an exaggerated step back and put a hand to his mouth.
“Heaven!” he exclaimed. “Can this be the little Texas teacher I picked up at the port this morning?”
“Oh, please,” said Sybilla laughing, but secretly she was pleased. This was exactly the response she had hoped for. To win the trust of these people, she had first to win their approval.
Sybilla dutifully stood by Weber’s side to welcome the guests as they arrived. He introduced her to each of them in turn: some she recognised from the mugshots she had studied at the CIA base; some she had never heard of or seen before, but they were clearly German or Austrian; others were Argentinians, presumably business associates of Weber. Some were accompanied by women—whether wives or escorts, Sybilla had no way of knowing; others were unattached.
She made a mental note of each of the more notorious so she could eventually report back her observations to the CIA.
Weber was introducing a little man in a crumpled suit who peered up at her through thick spectacles. “Frau Meyer, Herr Doctor Professor Ronald Richter.”
That’s a good start, thought Sybilla, I can’t remember seeing his picture, but the name …
As they shook hands Weber continued, “Herr Doctor is the first man to perfect nuclear cold fusion.” He smiled at Sybilla condescendingly. “Don’t worry about the technicalities, let’s just say he will make Argentina millions of US dollars!”
Sybilla remembered instantly. Richter had worked on the German nuclear energy programme with Heisenberg and Schumann. Many of his ideas had been discarded by other members of the team, but now he claimed he had perfected cold fusion. Scientists across the world were sceptical, but he had President Juan Peron’s complete backing. Sybilla’s knowledge of nuclear energy would have surprised Weber, but she held her peace.
The next guest she recognised immediately: Kurt Christmann. Tall and rangy and with an easy gait, he must be mid-forties now but still looked fit. Before the war, he had been an all-round athlete, top skier and an Olympic oarsman. He was a dyed-in-the-wool Nazi, who had taken part in the Munich Beer Hall Putsch with Hitler, Hess and Göring. During the war he had been head of the Gestapo in Salzburg before being appointed commander of Einsatzgruppe 10A, a reviled team of cold-blooded killers and assassins. He should, by any normal yardstick, have been one of the most wanted men in Europe, but bizarrely after the war he had worked for a while for British Intelligence, before things became too hot and he fled down the ratline to Argentina.
Sybilla needed extreme caution with the next guest, Fridolin Guth, another Gestapo man. He had at one time been a senior police commander in France, and would almost certainly have had, at some time or other, details of Sybilla and Hauptmann Jürgen Meyer’s activities during the time she had posed as a Nazi infiltrator. If he remembered her at all, she hoped it would be in a good light. However, Guth showed no sign of recognition when she was introduced as Frau Meyer.
Others arrived—Ludwig Lienhardt, August Siebrecht, Herbert Kuhlmann—all of whom she recognised from the CIA files. If the devil cast his net now, what a catch he’d get, she thought. That said, he’d probably take me as well!
The next guest required no introduction from anyone. As soon as she saw him, Sybilla’s heart skipped a beat. One of her all-time heroes. She had first become aware of him when ‘working’ with the Gestapo in France, and since the end of the war, she had devoured anything in print relating to
