Four men were standing nearby and discussing someone on the CIA’s ‘most wanted’ list, Adolf Eichmann. The group comprised Ludwig Lienhardt, Kurt Christmann, August Siebrecht and Herbert Kuhlmann—all of whom she had been introduced to earlier, and all of whom she recognised from their CIA mugshots.
“I came over with Eichmann,” Kuhlmann was saying. “Poor Dolphy, he was scared shitless then, and Weber tells me he’s even worse now. Best of it is, all he was, was an insignificant little clerk doing the paperwork for Heydrich and Müller. Like Priebke over there, a low-level Hauptmann carrying out Hitler’s legitimate order.”
Tiny leaned over and whispered in Sybilla’s ear. “Heard enough?”
She started and stared up at him, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open. Recovering quickly, she said, “Sorry, I was in the clouds, it’s been a long day.”
Tiny nodded and smiled.
As she was moving to another group, Priebke intercepted her. “Frau Meyer, I am Erich Priebke. We met earlier.”
Sybilla remembered his rudeness, but she smiled a greeting nevertheless.
“I understand from Herwig,” continued Priebke, “that you are looking for a teaching post in Argentina. I am the director of a school, Colegio Aleman, located in San Carlos de Bariloche. We have need of a German teacher.”
El Avión del Presidente
The intervening days between Weber’s soirée and the reception at the palace flew by for Sybilla, thanks in no short measure to the constant attention she received from Herwig Weber. Sybilla wondered what sort of job in aeronautics allowed him to take so much time away. She wasn’t complaining—she was glad of his company—however Priebke’s bombshell was constantly praying on her mind. She had been told by the CIA that she would be contacted by one of their agents in Buenos Aires, but so far nothing. She wondered if she should ask for immediate extraction if she eventually did make contact—there seemed absolutely no point in travelling to Bariloche—but time was running out.
Such was her state of mind as she sat on the patio of a café in Palermo Soho in one of her rare moments alone.
Her reverie was interrupted by a gruff voice asking in German, “Is this free?” It was Tiny, pointing to the chair beside her.
She tried to give him a smile which didn’t quite come off. “Of course, Tiny, please.”
Tiny gave her a searching look. “Everything alright?”
Sybilla shrugged. “I should be over the moon really,” she said, a trace of resignation in her voice, “a dream job, but I’m dreading the coach journey to Bariloche. Sixteen hundred kilometres. Imagine that!”
“Coach? Who said anything about a coach?” said the big man. “You’re travelling with Doctor Richter, and the Herr Doctor does not do coaches.”
“Doctor Richter is going to Bariloche?”
“You didn’t know?” asked Tiny. “That’s where he lives. His laboratory is on the island of Huemul, on Nahuel Huapi Lake, about seven or eight hundred metres offshore from Bariloche, so you’ll be travelling with him, Erich Priebke and best of all, me.” He laughed and held his hands up. “I know what you’re thinking … if this is first prize, please can I have second prize, right?”
Sybilla’s face lit up. “No, I wasn’t thinking that, Tiny, I’m glad I’m travelling with you. The thought of sixteen hundred kilometres on a coach with Erich Priebke, with all due respect for his kindness in offering this post, well, quite frankly it didn’t fill me with joyous anticipation.” Her smile turned to a frown as her brow creased in puzzlement. “If not by coach, then how?”
“By plane of course. Whenever Doctor Richter comes to Buenos Aires, Juan Peron, the president himself, lays on his private Argentinian Airforce plane to pick him up and return him to Bariloche. Nothing is too much for Herr Professor Doctor Richter,” said Tiny, smiling broadly, then almost as an afterthought added, “for the moment, at least.”
Sybilla and Herwig Weber joined the queue waiting on the grand staircase leading to the upper reception hall of the Presidential Palace. At the top of the stairs, the president, Juan Peron, stood shaking hands with each of the couples as they were introduced. His wife, Eva, was seated in a chair by his side.
When it came to their turn, Weber did a sharp German bow to the president and his wife. Sybilla curtsied; she wasn’t sure if that was required, but better to overdo it than to show disrespect. The president muttered some platitude which she didn’t quite catch as he shook hands. Sybilla then extended her hand to the first lady and was appalled by what she saw. Eva’s skin looked waxen, and heavy makeup failed to hide the pallor. The skin was stretched taut across her thin face, but loose flesh sagged around her neck. The hand that took hers was limp, cold and almost skeletal. She was smiling broadly, but her eyes were dead.
“Herwig,” she said in a cracked voice, “you look even more handsome than ever, doesn’t he, General?” She glanced up at her husband, who nodded absently. “And you, my dear”—turning to Sybilla—“we must get together for some girl talk sometime.”
With that, they were whisked away into the reception hall where hors d’oeuvres and aperitifs awaited. They spent only a short time in the reception hall before being ushered into the dining room where they were seated at a long table. Everyone stood as the president and his lady arrived and took their places at the top. Eva had to be almost carried to her chair by two strapping female attendants who were clearly well practised in moving the first lady around.
The meal was a simple and somewhat sparse affair; a modest fish starter followed surprisingly quickly by finely sliced Argentinian beef in a red wine sauce. The whole thing seemed to Sybilla
