The man made his way slowly across the room towards them, his progress hampered by his artificial leg and the walking stick he was perforce to use to maintain his balance. This was Hans Ulrich Rudel, the Stuka pilot who made von Richthofen and Göring seem like amateurs. After winning every medal available for bravery, the Führer himself personally designed and instigated an additional award, just for him, the grandly named ‘Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross with Golden Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds’. No other person, living or dead, had ever received the honour. Even after losing his leg in combat, it had taken him only ten weeks before he was able to climb back into the cockpit of a Stuka and continue combat operations.
The Russians hated him and had tried to have him transferred from US custody to Soviet. It is to the eternal credit of the US commanders that they quite simply refused, knowing what his fate would be if he were transferred. After all, he alone had been responsible for the destruction of 519 Soviet tanks.
To Sybilla’s complete surprise, he stopped directly in front of her, transferred his stick to the crook of his left arm and held out his right hand. “Good day, Frau Meyer, it is an honour to meet you.”
Sybilla was so surprised she only just managed to speak. “Herr Oberst, Herr Rudel, it is entirely my hon—”
Before she could finish, Rudel held up his hand. “Please, Frau Meyer, we are aware of what you did for the Reich during the last months of the war.” He glanced at Weber. “The hardships you endured, your tragic loss. We both admire you greatly.”
Before Sybilla could be self-deprecating, he had grabbed Weber’s arm for support and walked him a few yards away, calling over his shoulder, “Forgive us, Frau Meyer, I have urgent matters to discuss with Herwig.”
Weber glanced at her and raised his eyebrows. She smiled back and nodded in silent reassurance that she would manage.
The two were deep in animated conversation, inaudible to Sybilla over the general hubbub in the room. When the last two guests arrived, they were two men who couldn’t have looked more different. The first she recognised immediately as Erich Priebke, who had been involved in the massacre of over three hundred Italian civilians in retaliation for an attack by Italian partisans which killed thirty German soldiers. He was of medium height, slim, but clearly out of shape. He looked sixty, but Sybilla was fairly sure he was under forty. The other man stood a good six feet and was as broad as a bus. His face, which attested to his Latin American heritage, was as craggy as a rock outcrop on a mountain top. He was dressed in a tuxedo which had a marked bulge on the left side.
The two had spotted Weber deep in conversation but seemed reluctant to interrupt. Sybilla seized the initiative and strolled over to them, beckoning to Martina, who was holding the drinks tray, to follow.
“Good evening, gentlemen, my name is Frau Meyer and I am acting as your hostess this evening. Would you care for a drink?” She repeated the question twice, once in German and then again in Spanish.
Priebke muttered something and took a glass of sherry, moving away immediately without bothering to introduce himself. The big man was appraising Sybilla closely with a half-smile playing on his hard face. He spoke to Sybilla in German, making her feel slightly foolish.
“Hello, Frau Meyer,” he said, extending his hand. Sybilla took it and thought she had just placed hers in a metal vice. “My name is Valentino Garza—most people call me ‘Tino’ or ‘Tiny’. Nobody ever calls me ‘Val’, leastways, not twice.” He was smiling broadly as he spoke, but Sybilla nevertheless made a mental note not to call him ‘Val’!
Pointing to the drinks tray, he addressed himself to Martina. “Is that orange juice there, miss?”
“Yes, sir, freshly squeezed this morning, just for you,” she smiled.
Garza looked at her sternly, squinting at her through one half-closed eye. “No alcohol, right?”
Martina laughed. “No alcohol, I promise, we no play tricks.”
Garza took a glass of the orange juice and drained it in one draught. Placing the glass back down on the tray, he picked up another and half emptied that.
“Excuse me,” he said, smiling at Sybilla, “I was thirsty.”
Sybilla returned his smile. “So, what do I call you? Herr Garza? Señor Garza?
“I’d like you to call me sweetheart, but I don’t think that’s going to happen, so how about ‘Tiny’. It suits me, don’t you think?” he said, laughing.
Sybilla laughed with him. “Yes, I suppose it does, sort of. I’m guessing you’re a policeman?”
“You’re guessing wrong, but I am in security.” He suddenly frowned. “There’s Doctor Richter. I need a word with that gentleman. Excuse me, Frau Meyer.”
He left Sybilla feeling glad she wasn’t Doctor Richter.
“Thanks for looking after things,” said Weber when he rejoined her. “That’s everyone now. Let’s circulate. I’ll concentrate on the Argentinians so that they don’t feel left out, and perhaps you could look after our German comrades?”
Instinctively Sybilla made for Tiny and Richter. Inexplicably she felt comfortable with the big man. Despite his fearsome appearance, he reminded her of her own dear Gunnar, all those years before—big, bold and daft—only she guessed that this particular giant wasn’t as daft as he appeared.
Richter gave a polite nod as she approached, but Tiny beamed from ear to ear. “You don’t want to be seen with me, miss, what with you with your beauty and me with my charm and Hollywood good looks. People will talk!” He guffawed loudly, bringing his arm down heavily on Richter’s shoulder and nearly knocking him over.
Sybilla joined in the laughter, as much at Tiny’s tomfoolery as
